At 4pm, I was “working” but already thinking about the ride. The . . . → Read More: When it’s good, it’s good]]> It was one of those rides where everything came together. A ride where the little things that make you question the time and effort you put into riding are burnt away by the fire and intensity of it just being flat out fun.

At 4pm, I was “working” but already thinking about the ride. The sun was out, and it had been out for over a week. Trail conditions were bound to be good. I was actually due to meet my riding buddy Adam for the first time in a long time. I’d had a long fun ride at the weekend. The stage was set for a cracking ride.

5pm and I dropped the pretence of working, eating a light dinner so that I’d feel good on the bike. Tonight was a Cross bike night – no need to get in the car, and the new trails at Swinley Forest are so smooth that grip isn’t an issue. You just have to get your feet right.

The sun was adding a golden hue to the roads as I sliced through the traffic of outer London and onto quieter roads. As I approached the turn-off for the first uphill, I saw a couple of roadies coming from the opposite direction. They took my turn ahead of me. “I’ll show them who’s boss with my knobbly tyres.” Big-ring, sat-down, dribbling a little, I chase them up the hill. Harder than I expected, goalposts move. Now I’m thinking that maybe I’ll just get a tow up the climb. I get on the back and say “Hi!”. The two roadies are friendly and working together, taking turns on the front and we get up there faster than I ever have with CX tyres.

Soon enough, they’re turning off again on their own route and I’m still bound for the forest.

In Swinley Forest, it smells of pine and dust hangs in the air. Newly developed trails now rollercoaster over the hills. I meet Adam and he goes into the first trail fast. Shockingly fast. I thought he hadn’t been riding much recently. Riding with my hands in the drops and the saddle tucked down from its normal position, it takes some concentration to hold his wheel through the first few hundred metres. When I hit the berms too low, I can hear the brake pads rubbing as lateral forces deform the wheels.

Before long, I’m in front of him, and pedalling everywhere to make sure it stays that way. Where a few weeks ago, I’d been searching around at the back of the cupboard for some power, it was now at my command. Where there had been uphills, there were just brief surges on the pedals and into the next corner. I was picking what he called my “Cross lines”. That one inch wide smooth line between the roots, that dainty hop over the gravel. Pitching into corners for the sake of friendly rivalry and throwing sparks off my pedals as I got my feet wrong and grounded them on the exit of corners.

No messing – it was an incredible ride. The pure joy of singletrack in the right company – it can’t be beat. That’s why this sport never gets old.

It never gets easier, you just go faster – Greg LeMond

When you watch a rider who is that little bit faster than you, it seems like magic. Some sort of effortless, inevitable power is driving them on. Meanwhile, every pedal stroke of yours is dredged up from your guts. It’s tempting to think . . . → Read More: The Hard Road]]>

It never gets easier, you just go faster – Greg LeMond

When you watch a rider who is that little bit faster than you, it seems like magic. Some sort of effortless, inevitable power is driving them on. Meanwhile, every pedal stroke of yours is dredged up from your guts. It’s tempting to think how lucky they are to be so strong. But the truth is that behind every such performance, many miles have been put in. And there are so many strata of riders that this supreme athlete in front of you will know someone who makes them feel the same way you just did.

Strava is a many faceted beast, but there are two things that it very definitely reveals:

• The fast riders ride a lot. They get that way because they love riding and they do it often.
• That singletrack of “yours” that you rule and the race whippet brigade wouldn’t stand a chance on? They just stole your KOM.

No one gets a fast for free. And if you don’t keep moving, you pretty soon get slow.

I’m currently digging myself out of that fitness hole. A few weeks ago, most of riding wasn’t fun. The weather was awful and every time I went out, I had hand cramps, a sore back, and empty legs. I’m turning a corner now (and the weather is turning with me so far). I can start to enjoy it more again.

One of the main motivations of being able to ride fast is the sheer enjoyment of wielding those skills and that fitness that you’ve been honing. Getting into that perfect flow: where you barely touch the trail, you supply a surge of power when you need to, you let it run without brakes.

It’s a hard road back to that state. A road paved with rides so hard that you want to crash just to have a lie down. A road where you ought not to measure absolutes, but only to concentrate on improvements and enjoyments. Sometimes it has to be lonely on this road, but I’ve been lucky enough to have plenty of company this Easter weekend. So the only trial has been feeding myself enough each evening. The trails and laughs have taken care of themselves.

Ready or not, I start The Highland Trail on May 25. I start canoeing the Great Glen on May 28. And I guide a 200 mile-in-a-day road ride on June 1.

It’s time to start earning those trips…

I think that one of the most important things when bikepacking, snow-racing, or being in the outdoors at all is to be mindful. Be mindful of your . . . → Read More: How to pack a sleeping bag 10ms faster]]> In an effort to stop the sleep of this blog, I’m going to start with some shorter posts and try to get back into the swing of things.

I think that one of the most important things when bikepacking, snow-racing, or being in the outdoors at all is to be mindful. Be mindful of your surroundings, and be mindful of your actions. Appreciate where you are and, at the same time, think about what you’re doing.

A very pedestrian example of this is to make stuffing your sleeping bag easier with a single knot:

Having an extra knot on the cord means that the toggle stops before the end of the cord. When you go to put the sleeping bag away, it’s much easier to grab the end of the cord with one hand in one hand and the toggle in the other.

That might seem like a pointless saving of a fraction of a second, but consider doing it at -30C on the Iditarod trail. If you’ve put this extra knot in, you can do it with your mitts on. If you haven’t, you’ll need to take your mitts off to be able to hold the end of the cord.

Simple. Free. Thinking about what you’re doing.

The only comfort in putting my wet kit back on was to hit the trail as soon as possible and start generating heat. . . . → Read More: EWE Day 2]]> Rain was falling. It wasn’t hard rain, but it was remorseless. In the pre-dawn gloom, there was no chance of staying in the garage and waiting for the weather to blow over.

The only comfort in putting my wet kit back on was to hit the trail as soon as possible and start generating heat. Rocky descents ran with braided water as Steve and I set off together. There was little to say to each other. The riding was sometimes great, but the cold and the wet crowded out almost every other thought. Visions of tea rooms danced in our heads.

We followed a bridleway along a river for a while. The roots were so thick and the natural steps so large that it was hard to know whether hiking the bike or riding between the pushing parts would be faster. Out of stubbornness, I rode and pushed and rode and pushed. The landscape was beautifully free. Untamed paths and boiling water. Rubble and mystery. It felt special but there was no doubt – the miles were coming slowly.

A long section of bog came as a severe test of patience. Little manuals and kicks kept the front wheel aloft sometimes but it was tiring work. Trudges bridged the gaps. Hunting around for a driest line was like trying to pick the shortest queue at the supermarket – every other one looked better.

The descent off Dunkery Beacon was outstanding. No time to let the tyres touch any ground between the rocks, just skimming over them and drawing broad strokes across the trail. The turns tightened and the angle steepened until the trail finally stopped going down. With that reminder of what it’s all about ringing in my legs and hands, I slowly wound back up the inevitable climb. It felt more populated, like we were off the moor and maybe in range of breakfast.

Zooming and twisting the GPS, I tried to check the coffee and cake possibilities: Dunster.

Steve and I rolled up dripping mud onto the, already wet, pavement. Shedding waterproof shorts and jackets to keep the worst of the mud outside, we were finally rewarded with breakfast. It turned out that ordering coffee got you some scalding milk with a hint of brown. I took satisfaction from the progress made so far in the face of deeply unpleasant conditions. Other people in the tearoom politely avoided commenting on the smell emanating from our table.

The hills from here to the Quantocks were positively Sisyphean. On occasions, singletrack would tease along a contour providing reasons to smile. But more often the trail would slog straight at the contours. With feet sucking into brick-red mud, one hill would simply trudge into another with walls of brambles and nettles holding us back. And I knew that I had made the actual Quantocks route from a loop that, maddeningly, nearly touched back on itself.

There is good riding to be had in those hills and there were moments of brilliance, but the hurt in the legs and the need to make miles was more important in my mind than fun. When we passed within a few metres of where the trail would return to in an hour, I had one route-change for next year planned already.

With dark clouds in the sky, the thick woods made it hard to pick out the trail. And the trail seemed to zig-zag across a river repeatedly. Fortunately, we couldn’t get any wetter. By the time we finally left the Quantocks and pushed over the last hill, the soles of my feet were pounding. My stomach was grumbling. And my head was spinning to adjust to new goals of how many miles could be made per day.

Finally arriving in Bridgwater, it was time to stock up on the usual suspects. Chocolate milk, an apple (trying to mitigate the feeling of unhealth), toffee waffles, pretzels, coke. It was a big heap of empty calories, but exactly what was required.

Steve and I had our hot meal from a chip shop and it was clear that neither of us would race away today. We cruised away from Bridgewater, looking out for a covered spot to bivi. It wasn’t raining now, and the chance to hang up our wet gear would be glorious. Unfortunately, we’d hit the Somerset Levels where everything was flat and agricultural. With no woods in sight, we started looking for an urban bivi.

In a small village, we found it. An “industrial” estate where the entrance was a 3ft gate had a couple of shipping containers for their recycling. One was empty, the other filled with cardboard. Hobo bed! Grabbing some ironic bike boxes, we lay them out in the empty container to make beds. Our gear could be unpacked, bikes inspected, and hopefully things would be drier in the morning…

The correct resolve is a pre-requisite before a big event. With the right resolve, all struggles pass, all obstacles are hopped, skipped, or torn asunder. With resolve comes patience. Always moving forward, there . . . → Read More: Resolve and EWE Day 1]]> Resolve. A dedication to the task at hand and an unrelenting motion toward achieving the goal. A certain hardness, selfishness, and determination.

The correct resolve is a pre-requisite before a big event. With the right resolve, all struggles pass, all obstacles are hopped, skipped, or torn asunder. With resolve comes patience. Always moving forward, there will be no questions of failure. By the time the event starts, it should be the most important thing in the world. That sounds selfish, but for all the sacrifices that others have made to get you there, all the sacrifices that you’ve made to get you there, the best thing to do on the start line is to give it your absolute all.

I started EWE without the correct resolve. And since then, I’ve been trying to make sense of a year that feels like failure. I’ve composed in my head lists of all the people who let me down and contributed to that unpreparedness. But it’s foolish to blame the things and people you can’t control. Liars and loudmouths only have the power that you give them. While I fretted and sulked at Mountain Biking, I forgot how much fun mountain biking was. I threw myself at work. Suddenly, I cared about getting a fancy Samsung Galaxy S3, I got some new headphones with great sound quality but too much sound insulation for riding. My priorities had swung away from what would work on a wind-swept hillside and onto more civilised things. Eventually, though, the actual riding brought things back into perspective. Mountain biking had saved me again. With lessons learned, its time to move forward. And to begin with, that means looking back to EWE.

Many thanks are due for creating what we did this year… All of the route scouts: Jase Billet, Ian Barrington, Stuart Wright, Cy Turner, Ben Haworth, Tom Levell, Stu and Nicola from the Dales Bike Centre. Matthew Lee and Scott Morris for Trackleaders coverage. Routebuddy for providing the mapping software that allowed me to create the route.

Day 1

Along with Steve Heading and Rob Dean, I stayed the night before in Plymouth University halls. It had all the hallmarks of a pre-event get together. Like-minded people. Nerves. A couple of pints. And the last comfortable bed for, well, who knew how long? It felt unreal. These guys had put their trust and their time into an event that I’d made up. We didn’t really know what trails would face us. We only knew that the trails conditions were certain to be ghastly, and the forecast was for sun tomorrow.

The route out of Plymouth was on lovely Sustrans trails. Easy miles, pleasant surroundings and chatting with the guys. No-one was going to sprint out of the gate. When we hit Dartmoor, things got more fun, but also wetter. Some early pushing left us with damp feet, but undaunted spirits. Dark soils and moorland were serving up some real climbs and I was starting to pull away with a pace forced by singlespeeding. Each time I pulled away, though, there would be some gate or some flat section where Rob and Steve would catch up.

I had planned this section myself with simply a guide book and an OS map. I had known that stepping stones on Dartmoor were a well-known feature so I had deliberate chosen some bridleways with river crossings. What greeted us now was a river in high flow. 20 metres across and with a good few inches of water flowing over the stepping stones. I didn’t fancy my chances on the wet stones, so I strode across the river bed. My grasp on the laden bike was wobbly and my feet were unsure. The water was up to thigh-deep and beyond what could have been safe in a more remote situation. Nonetheless, I continued, receiving water all the way up to my nuts. Steve was wobbling around on the stepping stones. Rob was following my path. A branch hung down to water level and I had to climb it before reaching the bank. Wedging my bike onto the branch, I freed my hands to climb over, then drag myself and my bike out of the cold water. Rob soon followed and seemed to be enjoying himself. Steve was not. I felt responsible for putting him there. I lurked and watched his progress. Which was, currently, backwards to get off the stones. I thought about asking him if he was OK, but took one look at his expression and figured that it wouldn’t be received well (he later told me that this was definitely the right decision). Eventually, we were all up and ready to squelch out of there.

It may seem odd that I didn’t just race away from that river. But I it won’t seem odd to anyone who has raced like this. The rules say self-supported, but there are moral lines to draw. If it were a puncture, and conditions were fair, I would have left. But a fast flowing river is not a game and we support each other through such things. Let the racing come down to the riding.

As Dartmoor wore on, Steve and I were pushing (foolishly) hard. Rob had dropped back a bit and it turned out that mechanical troubles would mean I wouldn’t see him again until after the event. Riding on, I was hungry, but damned if I was going to let Steve have an early lead. I was thirsty, too, but toughing it out. At some stage, he did slip into the lead and out of my sight. I forced myself to be wise. To eat and be ready for the long haul. I intended to get something to drink in Okehampton, and then chase Steve up the road/Sustrans trails to Barnstaple. The road section was an ideal place to eat on the move. Having starved myself a bit on Dartmoor, I shovelled down food and water now. Riding and shovelling, I eventually saw Steve – stopped on the side of the trail to do something or other. He was fine, I was pleased, and motored on.

It wasn’t long before Steve and his gears caught me up. We were riding back to riding at a pace that was costing me a little. I spun and spun on the flat, trying not to lose him. I just about hung on for our eventual arrival at a kebab shop. I carried extra bivi water and a fully belly into the post-dinner bonus miles. My legs were flagging now. Recovering from illness and tired out from the previous month’s riding, I didn’t have the strength to still be hammering the hills. I’d walk bits, Steve riding past, then get back on and be forced by gearing to power so hard that I’d grunt past him again.

The rain and the darkness came together. I plugged in my dynamo light (thanks, Exposure!) for the first time, and suited up with waterproofs. On Exmoor now, the earth was red, the vegetation more heavily watered and densely holding us back. The rain was setting in for the night and finding shelter would be a big win.

These hours are a blur. I recall squelching mud, gates, tractor ruts and the vaguest of paths. But eventually, there was an abandoned farmhouse with an open garage. Perfect.

I travel without a sleeping mat, usually making a natural, soft bed. So the concrete was harsh. But you can’t beat having dry sleeping kit in the morning.

The event is 750 miles down the old border between East and West Germany. It’s a revised route . . . → Read More: Ready for Grenzsteintrophy]]> All the usual chaos getting ready (full day’s work, fixing my car tyre, rescuing the cat from a fight, …) but the bike’s in the box and I’m ready to go over to Germany for the Grenzsteintrophy.

The event is 750 miles down the old border between East and West Germany. It’s a revised route for 2012, so something of an unknown. Now that all the inconvenient planning/packing business it out of the way, the good bit can start: riding!

I’ll be riding with Andy Waterman of Privateer Magazine, so we’ll be taking plenty of photos and writing an article afterwards.

You can follow the race here:

http://www.gps-live-tracking.com/

(but that looks like another event as of 14 June)

And my individual SPOT tracker here:

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0Wymo8JmF4SoemX99HULZpF3WpgEYP3nt

Great atmosphere. The race was fun. Then it was boring. Then it was painful. Then it was fun again. Then it was painful with fun bits. Then . . . → Read More: Bristol Bikefest 2012]]>

It’s hard to write interesting things about this kind of racing, so here’s the summary of my race in the 12hr solo at Bristol Bikefest:

Great atmosphere. The race was fun. Then it was boring. Then it was painful. Then it was fun again. Then it was painful with fun bits. Then it was over.

The support made it all the better so thanks to Singular (as always), Dan + Jo Treby for doing my bottles, Dave Buchanan for encouragement/heckling, and everyone else who said hi on the way round.

In the end I was 1st solo singlespeed, 5th overall in solo. Quite pleased with that!

More photos here

Two things to look at at magazine sites: