Aidan Harding

Category: biking

  • A couple of stories published

    I’ve put together two different stories in two different sports recently.

    First, biking the Iditarod Trail Invitational, for Sidetracked. Fantastic photos from RJ Sauer, great layout from the Sidetracked guys, and words that I spent a long time agonising over. It was hard to choose what to include and what to leave out from such a long journey, hard to keep the writing plain enough to be readable, but not lose the feeling of being there.

    http://www.sidetracked.com/iditarod-trail-invitational/

    Second, trail running on the Southwest Coast Path for the Strava blog. Andy Waterman and his girlfriend Laura came down to North Devon for a big trail run. He took amazing photos, and words just splurged out from me.

    http://blog.strava.com/coastal-drifters-9492/

    I’ll write something for this blog soon!

  • Some Things I Have Learned From Bikepacking

    End of Cairngorms Loop
    End of Cairngorms Loop

    I’m somewhat looking back at bikepacking. But also looking at other adventures (canoeing, hill walking, running) and trying to figure out what I’ve learned. A lot of it is pretty transferable amongst any activities “out there”. Hope you find it interesting. I’m certainly interested to know what other people have learned.

    Learn the right lessons

    Just because things went right, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you did the right thing. Equally, just because things went wrong, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you did the wrong thing. Every day is a school day, so make sure you learn from it.

    Sometimes you might get away with very light kit or very little food. You might ride into the high-country storm and not get hit by lightning. You might cross the waist deep river and not get swept away. But your approach may be an accident waiting to happen. The more trips you go on, the more willing you will be to carry key items just in case. Personally, if I can’t walk out of wherever I’ve ridden my bike into (possibly with some level of discomfort), then I don’t think I have enough gear. If someone credible questions my decisions, even after a successful trip, I’ll take that on-board.

    On the other side of things, nature can serve you up impossible situations. Just because you didn’t finish the route (today), get to the summit, or ride through the night, that doesn’t mean you failed. In a race, some other rider might roll the dice where you played it safe. Just because they got away with it, that still doesn’t mean you were wrong.

    It’s hard, but the end results are an imperfect guide to the quality of your decisions.

    Moderate your effort

    Do not underestimate the control that you have over your effort. If it’s wet, humid, and changeable, slowing down to avoid sweat is an option, don’t ignore it. It could work better than stopping to take off your jacket, getting chilled when the wind picks up, and then having to stop once more to put it back on. If you’re riding in extreme heat, riding a fraction slower can reduce your sweat and help your progress. If you’re not going to ride all day at 100% (you’re not), then take the natural opportunities to slow things down when they occur.

    Equally, do not be afraid to put the hammer down when it makes sense.

    If you need to outrun the weather, or put some fright into competitors in a race, or just hit some trail hard for your own satisfaction, it might be time to ride well beyond your all-day pace.

    It’s easy to think that riding long distances is all done at one lolling “endurance” pace, but let it ebb and flow.

    Be comfortable out there

    Nowhere, Wales
    Nowhere, Wales

    It’s pretty easy for mountain biking to be no more wild than a trip to the park. That’s how I used to do things: I’d go ride my bike for a few hours, and be home soon afterwards.

    If my waterproof setup didn’t really keep me dry (realistically: didn’t keep me warm), it didn’t matter: I could dry out (warm up) afterwards.

    If I couldn’t navigate, it didn’t matter. I’d always be in familiar places, riding with people who knew the way, or (once they started to appear) I could follow the trail centre arrows.

    If I got cold and grumpy and neglected to eat, that would be OK. Anyone can ride for few hours without the need to eat.

    Many decisions and attitudes were oriented around mountain biking being short-duration and close to help. So, when I first started training for self-supported and multi-day trips, the first aim was to be out all day. It didn’t really matter how many miles I rode, just as long as I kept moving forwards and found some sort of mental balance out there.

    One you adopt that approach, you start to deal with niggles early. If clothing is rubbing, or something sounds wrong with the bike, then now is the best time to fix it. You choose different kit: if you really can’t stay dry, you bring things that work when wet. You learn about your environment, so that you can use natural navigation to get out of a tight spot, you recognise changing weather patterns, you know first aid. Essentially, you become competent to be allowed out in the mountains.

    All this gives the confidence to go further and/or faster, knowing that you can work with the land to take care of yourself. Without that, it’s a dash back to civilisation.

    Be efficient

    Get your technique on the bike right. Poor techniques are eventually going to show up show as injuries. So keep your upper body relaxed, keep you limbs aligned, keep things easy. What hurts after an all-day ride? What can you do to eliminate that pain? If your muscles are pounded and your contact points are a little sore, then you’re on the right track. Anything else (knees, ankles etc.) is a sign that you need to address conditioning and/or technique.

    On the Yukon 1000 canoe race, I finally put together a decent paddle stroke because there was no other way to keep paddling for the required number of hours. Every dumb thing that I did caused a problem. Eventually, I found myself doing more and more of what coaches had told me to do. It felt natural because it relieved the pain. I was lucky to finish without injury. Only experience from biking really saved me. I knew to play around with my technique before the pain became unbearable. That way, I blundered into doing it right. Do yourself a favour and figure this out before your big trip.

    Recognise spirals and lemons

    An ounce of prevention...
    An ounce of prevention…

    When things go wrong, they tend to go wrong in one of two ways:

    1. A series of random events that would not, by themselves, be a big problem. Like a fruit-machine, when they all line up together, you suddenly hit the jackpot (of woe).

    These are often preventable with little correct decisions. Take the food you need, plus a bit. Take spares (and the tools to use them). Know the weather forecast. All these things could prevent you from ending up stranded with an unfixable bike and no food in a hailstorm. The walk home on a summer’s day might have been fine, but if you expose yourself to too many lemons, you could get caught out.

    2. A spiral of events where poor decisions leads to more poor decisions and, gradually, you find yourself in a bad way.

    Again, this is preventable, if you keep your head straight. An example would be when you blow through a potential resupply in order to get further down the trail (bizarrely, this is easier to do when you’re hungry, grumpy, and belligerent). As the light is falling you postpone putting on your lights to save batteries. You reach a snowline, but press on to get through the pass and back down again before camping. The trail forks, but one way is clearly more used so you take it. You find yourself off-route, in snow, with little food, fumbling around for your light. You don’t have the camping equipment for snow. This could continue to spiral to the point where you need rescue, or you could start making the right decisions.

    Summing up

    Just some thoughts… I don’t know everything. It is illustrative, though, of how different this riding can be to normal mountain biking. In a great way, though. It engages more skill and craft. It takes more time to hone. And it never stops teaching lessons.

  • “What’s the matter? Your bike broken?” – Running Onwards

    I never thought that I would enjoy running as much as I do. I never really thought that I see my love of riding wane. But both of those things seem to have happened.

    Right now, I don’t have a “Next Challenge”. The Iditarod Trail Invitational in February (story to appear in the next Sidetracked Magazine) and the Yukon 1000 in July were fantastic, but costly. Having recently moving house (and had the standard shafting from the bank), I’m pretty cleaned out financially. So there is no next adventure (yet).

    It was always “easy” to train for bike adventures because I loved riding. Sometimes it was difficult to get out of the door and onto the bike. Sometimes it sucked to put on my wet shoes, or hose down my clothes in the dark and the rain. But I always knew that, not long into the ride, the outright fun of riding bikes would make it all better. Now, though, the faff and the expense seem to outweigh the outright fun.

    It’s not time to sell all the bikes and sack it all off, but it is time to do what seems like the most fun. Pursue the kind of drives that made mountain biking so much fun in the first place: getting outdoors, pushing yourself, having those shared secret moments of boundless enjoyment in your own little world.

    So paddling (canoe and sea kayak, mainly), climbing, and running seem pretty legit. All activities that I have been unable to commit to in the past, due to riding. Now’s the time to see what they can offer when I give them the time and effort to reap their rewards.

    Which is why I ended up setting out on Trentishoe Down this morning to run a section of the Southwest Coast Path. Regular running with the dog had got me the fitness, now it was time to go on a more adventurous trip. (Note: Anuk is awesome, see here. But he has a cut on his paw, so he’s off running for a few days)

    SW Coast Path, near Trentishoe Down

    A photo posted by Aidan Harding (@aidan.harding) on

    In the car, moments before setting out, I felt the nervousness and uncertainty that had accompanied early mountain bike rides. Could I really make this run? What if things went wrong? It seems cold out. One use for my experience of other adventures is that I know which of these thoughts to listen to: at that moment, none of them needed to be listened to.

    The wind was blowing hard, chilling me before I had had chance to warm up. The rolling green hills of the approach to the coastal path were lost on me. I was keen to be moving, and be warm. I wanted to start ticking off distance so that this would feel more real. Almost immediately, I was sliding around in the mud. Aforementioned financial reasons (and knowing nearby bits of the path to be gravelly rather than muddy) meant that I was running in my regular road shoes. I trotted. If I were riding a bike the way I was running, I’d be that guy with both brakes on hard. Limbs all tense. Probably dragging a skid the whole way down the descent. As the trail flattened and did turn more to gravel, I could appreciate the cliffs laid out ahead of me. It was a special place and it was mine. This was simple, it was flow and smell and sound and being. The morning sun was still too low to reach much of the path, but when I turned up Heddon’s Mouth Cleave, it lit the mist and bracken with gold.

    SW Coast Path, Heddon’s Mouth Cleave A photo posted by Aidan Harding (@aidan.harding) on

    Coming down steep steps and across some scree, I thought back to the runner I had seen on Ben Nevis years back. I did not resemble them, but maybe one day I could. The low-down woods and the babble of the river were a different, quieter world. They were warm and inviting. Some easy going on the flat to stretch out my stride again.

    Climbing out was remarkably like climbing on a singlespeed. No way to make it easier, just tap it out like the top is 100 miles away. Hard, but sustained effort. Sun tipping onto a few outcrops and Wales sitting in the far distance.

    This was cool. This would actually be fun to ride. But on a bike, the drop to Woody Bay would be over in a flash. On foot, I try to read a mosaic of leaf, rock and root. It was fine, fleet, going.

    Coming out at the water’s edge, I felt good. But I had just been going downhill for nearly a mile.

    SW Coast Path, Woody Bay

    A photo posted by Aidan Harding (@aidan.harding) on

    Reassured that I was going to finish my planned route, I headed back up the hill. More light was coming over the cliffs now, and I could feel the presence of the climb back up Heddon’s Mouth Cleave looming ahead of me. Strava has it a > 40% gradient and that doesn’t seem too far wrong.

    SW Coast Path, out of the valley and into the light

    A photo posted by Aidan Harding (@aidan.harding) on

    As the trail kicked up for the final time, I had nothing left to kick back with. I was walking briskly, but still moving. Wondering if my legs would come back to life when the trail gave me a chance. The dilemma of running clothing meant that I would be pretty cold if they didn’t. Of course they did, and the final miles were just a job of closing out.

    I don’t think this run will go down as an epic adventure. But, it was a chance to taste uncertainty. It was another beautiful bit of Devon. And maybe this is where more adventures may lie. Cheap, local, directly connected with the ground.

    http://www.strava.com/activities/214133199

  • Look North

    Not that North, further.

    So far North that the lakes and rivers are frozen hard. Where omnipresent snow has 100 different kinds of crunch under your feet. Where the nights are savagely, beautifully cold and accompanied by the dance of the aurora growling across the sky. Where wolves run and bears sleep. Where it can get so lonely that the wind is your only companion, leaning hard on your shoulders; chasing clouds on and off the stage.

    Pulling into Unalakleet
    Pulling into Unalakleet

    The Iditarod Trail Invitational always looms large. It’s the race. The one I rode the Divide to train for. It haunts me, waiting for me to come back find out if I have learned anything since last time. There can be no better motivation for getting out in the wet Autumn weather than the fear of ending up on the desolate ice thinking, “If only I’d trained a bit harder”.

    You will never appreciate a sunrise as much as the morning after pulling an all-nighter on the Iditarod Trail. When the temperature is so low that there is no way to breath without a face-mask. The moisture from your breath forms long icicles on the mask, and they poke your chest every time you look down. If you let the pace get too high and start to sweat, condensation forms on your goggles and freezes. You must balance clothing and effort against an ever-changing environment.

    The night-time view through tinted goggles and a tiny head-torch is just a small patch of snow. Sometimes you can’t tell whether you are going up or down. There is no horizon to be seen. Your effort changes as the snow changes, and your fully-encased head is missing its normal cues about orientation.

    So, as the invisible mountains become shadows, you want dawn to hurry along. Purple is drawn in vivid strokes, bringing hints of gold. But the shadows are still upon you. Sunlight is all around, but not a drop to warm your skin. And finally, it comes. A couple of degrees of heat. A boot to the black thoughts of the night. The gold seems to go on forever before the day becomes whole, and there seems to be no finer place in the world.

    That is just part of the reason why.

    The strategy of racing against people over days; the camaraderie with the other riders; the mushers and their dogs; the people who live in the remotest places with the warmest welcomes; the self reliance of bivying out on the ice with everything you need on the bike. So many reasons to go back.

    The wherefore is coming together now. A different bike – A Singular Puffin with fun handling and 100mm rims. Different kit setup – just bikepacking bags (from Wildcat Gear), and no racks. A whole new level of experience with sleep deprivation (see the final day of the Highland Trail). The experience of having been to Nome once already. Lessons learned about how to take care of myself out there.

    Playing on the Puffin - Brecon Beacons
    Playing on the Puffin – Brecon Beacons

    With a thousand things to do other than train for the race, choosing what to do is going to be crucial. My “plan” is long road rides to maximise time on the bike vs. travel time (although getting moved in to North Devon should solve that problem). Regular MTB, because it’s more fun and better for upper body strength. The MTB will be a mix of the Swift and the Puffin. It’s important to ride the bike with the wide BB plenty to acclimatise your knees – I suffered badly from knee pain in Iditarod 2011 because I hadn’t ridden the Pugsley enough. And regular running to make sure that joints and muscles are ready for spending time on my feet, dragging through snow.

    There is a ton of work to do on my fitness before February, but fitness is never the whole story over 1000 miles. The certainty of my drive to finish, and to push hard is the most important thing. Alaska can through a so many things at you. Only the motivated and adaptable will flourish. So that’s what I’m aiming to be.

  • Singular Puffin – first impressions

    I picked up my Singular Puffin fat bike yesterday, and went straight into two test rides with a nominal amount of work in-between.

    Puffin
    Puffin

    First impressions are that it has a very lively ride: easy to manual and throw about. Geometry also works well for climbing, but it’s not exactly a rocket up the hills. That said, the dusty loose bits of Swinley can now be approached with a “Straight up the middle” rather than a “Desperately seeking grip” approach. I’ve currently got On One tubes weighing in at 700g each, so it’ll probably climb better without 2kg of rubber around each wheel(!).

    The top tube is pretty dropped which is great for the aforementioned throwing about and also for snow. A common Iditarod scenario is failing to float on some mushy snow; having to put a foot down; said foot going straight through the snow; and balls getting whacked on the top tube. The Puffin allows a bit more space before you get whacked.

    The cornering performance is great, encouraging you to get over the front and aggressive in the turns. As with any fat bike, there is some initial resistance as the tyres push against the turn, but you have frame geometry in your favour. Pretty soon the Puffin has you cornering hard and wondering if there is any limit to the grip offered by those massive tyres.

    I still need to mess around with tyre pressures a bit more as tiny changes make a big difference when the tyres are so big. Can’t wait to go bash it into some rocks in Wales next week!

    The build is:

    • Singular Puffin prototype frame
    • Surly Clown Shoe 100mm rims with Hope Fatsno hubs (built by Just Riding Along)
    • Surly Larry front / 45 North Husker Du rear tyres
    • On One fat tubes
    • Surly Mr Whirly cranks
    • USE Atom carbon bars
    • USE Race stem
    • USE Sumo Carbon seatpost
    • Avid BB7 brakes
    Swinley Forest Singletrack

    More pictures on Facebook: https://t.co/NoBp5J1cNp

    Sam’s going to be doing pre-orders for the production version, so contact Singular if you want in on the action!

  • EWE 2013

    So what the heck is happening with EWE in 2013?

    Well, it is still happening but more quietly this year.

    Last year, I had to try to make a song + dance about it to make sure it happened: to make sure I kept pushing it ahead, and to make sure there was enough momentum to get people to help with the route. In the end, we got out there and rode but the wet weather caused a lot of wear + tear on us as riders. There were some amazing trails, and some trails that would more usefully have been on roads. In the end, though, we weren’t able to finish the route

    So this year, the route has been updated and the sun has been shining. The main updates to the route are:

    • New route through the Lakes including local knowledge (tracks that are on the ground but not on the map! Tracks that are known to be fun!)
    • Use of the C2C route to get from Penrith to Newcastle
    • New route from Machynlleth to the Kerry Way (avoiding where there are tracks on the map, but not on the ground!)
    • Numerous small changes to avoid:
      • Crazy-steep overgrown climbs in Somerset
      • Slurry strewn, electric fence blocked, nasty, nasty track on Wenlock Edge
      • Riding round in circle looking for missing tracks before Cannock Chase
      • Bits of private land
      • And more low points from 2012 🙂
    • Total distance down to 1180 miles, software-estimated 124,274 ft of climbing

    It looks like the only riders taking up the challenge will be myself and Lydia Gould. So less of a race, more of a ride. But it’s going to be a heck of a ride. And with no Steve Heading breathing down my neck, maybe the chance to take photos.

    I’m excited about it. Some parts will be completely new to me. Time to plunge into England and Wales!

    The new route is available to view here:

    The race starts on:

    • 28 July, 8.00 am

  • “MyProtein” Recovery Drink

    The nice folks at ProBikeKit contacted me to see whether I would be interested in trying out their MyProtein Recovery drink and a couple of MyProtein bars. Of course you say “yes” to free food!

    A few years back, I had thought that sports nutrition products were a waste of time and money. Then, I won some Torq Recovery drink at a race. Not only was it tasty, but it definitely seemed to let me ride harder, get stronger, and recover faster. I was pretty hooked on the stuff. So much so, I started the Tour Divide with 1.5kg of recovery drink powder in order to have some each night.

    Recovery drink is intended to be used after particularly intense rides to help refuel your body. In that 20 minutes after you stop, you are most ready to get some energy back in. So a drink that you can prepare and drink right away is really useful. On top of the simple fuelling, various additives can also help the repair/rebuilding process.

    I’m no sports scientist, but I do ride a lot and use recovery drink regularly (including the occasional slip where I run out and am reminded of how beneficial it is). So, I’m going to take the concept of having a recovery drinks at all as a given. I’m convinced they work. The best way I can assess the MyProtein drink, is by comparison to the Torq Recovery that I have used in the past.

    First up, price: MyProtein Recovery is about 1/2 the cost of Torq Recovery and the recommended use requires less powder per drink.

    Taste-wise, the Torq drinks are very milky and thick. I find their milkshake angle very comforting after a long ride, but less gluttonous folks like Emily find them a bit rich. MyProtein Recovery is closer to orange squash in its taste, with a distinct saltiness to it. I note that it claims to have electrolytes, which is actually a good selling point to me as I often end up finishing rides slightly dehydrated. The saltiness in the taste reminds me of what a nurse told me when I asked her about sports drinks compared to the rehydration sachets that you get from the pharmacy. She said that the pleasant taste of sports drinks was a good indicator that they don’t have enough electrolytes to rehydrate as effectively as the nasty-tasting sachets. So, although the My Protein drink tastes a bit odd, maybe that’s because it’s actually doing its job. Having been using it for a while, I quite like it now; and when I shared it around the team at Mountain Mayhem, the feedback on taste was positive.

    Performance-wise, I can’t really tell the difference between Torq and MyProtein. Both feel good after a ride. With so many variables and no sports science lab, all I can conclude is that they both work well enough to choose between them on the other factors.

    So it seems like My Protein has price and electrolytes on its side, and Torq has milkshakey goodness. It was great to see that there are alternatives out there.

    As for the bars, well, I only had a couple and they tasted pretty nice. Again, actual scientific benefit is impossible for one person to measure. The night before the Highland Trail Race, I didn’t actually manage to get any proper dinner (ever tried to buy vegetarian food from Scottish service stations? Impossible!) so I made do with some carbohydratey stuff that I’d bought to eat on the trail and one of these protein bars. The race went pretty well, so I can’t complain.

    Thanks to http://www.probikekit.com for sending me stuff!

  • Highland Trail Race – Day 3

    See also:

    The alarm buzzed into my exhausted mind. It had a few layers to dig through, but eventually it found some kindling inside my head. A spark, and consciousness started to spread. I could feel the wet sleeping bag against my face – I had been too tired to actually pull it into the bivi bag the night before. Loch-side and pine trees were painted in muted colours, and I felt wretched. I had to smile a little, though. This was why I had brought the warm clothes. I was going to put all of them on, and after a couple of hours of riding, things were bound to look up.

    The difficult part was getting from lying cold, tired, and hungry in a wet sleeping bag to being dressed and on the bike. Not only had I not zipped up the bivi, but I’d also forgotten to set some food within reach of my head for breakfast. Like a giant wet, sweary caterpillar, I hopped over to the bike and retrieved some carmel waffles. All too soon, I’d eaten them, and had nothing left to do but dress.

    The moment I was out of the sleeping bag, the shivers took over my body. Hands, feet, teeth and chest were buzzing and clattering away as I methodically added layers. Everything I had worn in the night was soaked, but adding a fleece jersey, wool socks, and thermal longs made it more bearable. Squashing away my gear, and clipping it back onto the bike, purpose was returning to my bones.

    Wind and rain met me as I finished the off-road from the night before. All the while, I was scanning for tyre marks in the mud. I had slept – what had the others done? Had they got the jump on me? I couldn’t see anything conclusive. On tarmac, I pedalled hard to devour the easy miles. I was happy to overheat a little now – the sweat wasn’t going to make me any wetter. Mile by mile, I was waking up and closing in on Torridon. I passed shelters that could have made for a better bivi last night, and worked my way around the mass of Beinn Eighe, feeling its gaze track my ant-like progress.

    Soon enough, it was back to pushing the bike up over rock and water. Brief bursts on the pedals would surge me upwards, but there was too much trail still ahead to attack like that. The sun was finally breaking through, bringing the glen I had just ridden into a sharp foreground. Mountains sat out behind the glen, with snow and crag. Each one representing another adventure for another day. I looked back along the road, trying to catch a glimpse of following riders. Nothing. For now, the task was simple – push on.

    I was more than ready to ride when the gradient finally relented. With legs ready to work at a different motion, I powered into a fierce wind. The glen was far behind now, and high country ruled. Up here, someone had dumped a mountain bike playground. Granite moulded into little bowls and curves was an invitation to throw the bike around and have some fun. Pumping the bike through dips and jabbing on power up little climbs, the fun was back in a big way. The wind that pushed weeds to one end of the loch up here was making me improvise lines, but there was space to play with. Skirting a second loch and still climbing, I could see the summit on my GPS but it still seemed far away on the ground.

    Finally, the descent. But not rideable enough. Not right here, not right now. The trail had an unnerving habit of being fine, and still fine, and then suddenly pointy and deadly. Controlled and cautious, I worked down where I had hoped to fly down. With an easing gradient and better sight lines, I could risk more rolling and speed. Occasional stoppers meant I had to stay sharp, but progress was coming.

    With that last bite, the savagery of this section was over. Miles rolled by uneventfully until Dornie and the chance to buy some real food. I scoured shelves laden with meat pies and rolls and sandwiches until I finally found something veggie and some chocolate milk. Staggering and stinking, I paid for the food. Outside, some guy in a hat was taking photos of my bike. Steve Heading – my rival in The Cairngorms Loop and EWE, a friend from hard miles and similar ambitions was here to see the racers come in. We chatted and I ate, fiddling with a few things that needed attention on the bike. Steve wouldn’t tell me how I was positioned in the race as that might give me an undue advantage. Eventually, he did say that I had been the first rider he had seen in Dornie and he had been there for a while.

    [singlepic id=203 w=320 h=240 float=]

    Happy to think I was in the lead, satisfied with some real food, and on the final miles (in truth, there were still 100 miles to go!), I started to climb out of Dornie feeling great. Andy Heading was a short way up the road, and I couldn’t pass without stopping to chat. Andy had been one of the first people I had read about on the Iditarod Trail. We had never met before, but he had been part of the inspiration that had taken me out there and, eventually, brought me here.

    The head of Glen Lichd was an extraordinary push. Extend you arms, brakes on, take a step. Repeat. Golden light, and folded terrain were at my back as I toiled. My mind was slipping into maintenance mode, the afternoon wore on with no urgency at all. Any progress was enough. When I misjudged a rain-bar and pinch-punctured my tubeless tyre, it was repaired from a seated position but only after taking time to eat. When my brakes pads felt worn, I took an age to swap in new ones. Rudderless, but creeping forwards, I longed for the trail to Fort Augustus to be easy.

    It wasn’t. The trail surfaces were good and generally rideable, but the climbs often exceeded my strength. To make matters worse, I had started to see tyre tracks in the dirt. Two sets of tracks, one with Ikons, one with what could be Racing Ralphs. Maybe Mark Goldie and Phil Simcock had teamed up. Maybe they had ridden through Dornie while I was eating. The tracks didn’t wobble, and they weren’t accompanied by footprints in places where I was walking. Through fiery coloured mud and thick moss, across rivers, up forest roads, their tracks didn’t wobble as I failed to find the strength to ride continuously.

    My mind was churning. Hours of thinking that I was going to win this race were shattered. I still had to get to the end in time for my canoe trip, but this was going right to the pit of my mental and physical reserves. Why couldn’t Steve have told me straight-out that they had gone through? Next time I got to civilisation, I would get Trackleaders up on my phone and check the positions.

    The tracks tormented me all the way through gravel climbs on service roads. I could only alternately between trudging on foot and heaving on the pedals. Looking back at the forest and mountains, the beauty of The Highlands was becoming emotional. Looking forwards, the task still appeared endless. Brake-cooking descents were the reward. Eventually, and after dark, the trail proved that it was not infinite. I rolled into Fort Augustus, picking up water from the tap outside the (closed) petrol station.

    I phoned Emily to let her know that I wasn’t going to make the start of the canoe trip in the morning. Maybe I would bivi before Tyndrum, but probably only for a couple of hours. When she told me I was doing well, I dismissed it. Third place wasn’t enough. She told me that I was miles ahead and the tracks I had been following were from people who had cut the ride short and returned along the final leg. Remotivated, I hit the Great Glen Trail fast.

    It was late and fully dark. The trail here posed no challenge other than the miles, but my brain was beginning to play tricks. All kinds of things were flying towards me out of the darkness. Fruit, stars, animals, toys. They tumbled past me. They tumbled right through me. Nothing seemed to be keeping my mind together and, as it unravelled, all I could do was pedal faster. The quicker I got off this canal and onto some engaging riding, the safer I would be. I was making good speed, but time ticked to the beat of hallucinatory camels rather than seconds on a watch.

    Banavie came into view. Somewhere here, Emily was sleeping. A cat dodged across the road. I held my arms out and stretched my back. My stomach hungered for the 24hr petrol station in Fort William.

    Whoever invented macaroni and cheese pies is a carbo-genius. I bought two of them from the petrol station, with some milk and some snack bars. All I needed was dinner and a few hours supplies to make it to the end. The shivers came back as I ate the pies on the forecourt. But I had a chance to look at the blue in the night sky. Up here, at this hour, light is not far away.

    I planned to ride into the forest on the first section of the West Highland Way and see. Bivi if I needed to, or push on if it felt right.

    It felt right.

    I felt OK, I had a canoe trip to get to, and my sleeping bag was soaked anyway, so I rode. The sun rose as I climbed through the forest. Out of Fort William on fairly easy trails. I was disappointed to be pushing the bike when it looked rideable, but the legs said no. Not stopping was the main thing. Descending into Kinlochleven, I was heavy on the brakes and medium on the safety-first walking.

    I knew that pushing over The Devil’s Staircase was the last big challenge of the ride. I’d done it before, and there was no doubt that pushing was the only way. As I pushed, I saw two riders in full-face helmets sat back-to-back on the side of the trail. They had Go-Pro cameras on their helmets. They were going to have fun riding what I’d just pushed up. As I got closer, I smiled in their direction, then realised that they were actually a pile of rocks. Daylight hallucinations were coming in.

    I glimpsed Glencoe and blue skies through my peripheral vision, but  the twisting trail down the Devil’s Staircase took my full attention. A point of the hips was the only way to make the bike turn around the rocky switchbacks. Braking hard, rolling the rough stuff, it was 100% focus up here. Before long, the height was gone and all that was left was the jaunt back over what I remembered as rolling hills.

    A guy in chinos and a white shirt was pushing an ice-cream cart through the heather on my right. He was going to sell a lot to the West Highland Way walkers. It was another daylight hallucination and there were more hills than I remembered between here and Tyndrum.

    A burnt-out car lay on the left of the old drover’s road. How did that get up here? Again, it was a pile of rocks and my mind was rebelling. The going was good on the trail, but I was easily distracted. The end was close enough to want to just teleport there. It felt like I had all the time in the world, and I was faffing around constantly. But little-by-little, I got there.

    On the final trail into Tyndrum, there was no ceremony, no people at all. I rolled into town, cruising around a bit but finding no familiar faces. So it was straight to the Real Food Cafe. I was bewildered by being able to choose food that didn’t come out of my frame bag. As I struggled with the decisions, I said to the man at the till, “Do you remember all those mountain bikers from Saturday morning? I’m the first one back.” It was more of an apology for the lycra and the smell than a boast. “You’ll be hungry, then,” he replied. No arguments there. Just a big serving of curry and chips that started me back on the road to re-entry.

    Full results here

    Thanks to:

    • Alan Goldsmith and all the reconnaissance riders for putting together the route
    • Steve Heading for the photos and still coming up when he was too injured to ride the event
    • All the companies that help me out with kit. It’s all good stuff, I wouldn’t venture out on rides like this with anything less.

  • Highland Trail Race – Day 2

    See also:

    As soon as I woke, I started to wonder whether Mark had ridden past in the night. Phil was right here, and sorting himself out for departure. I ran through my morning routine. Eat, pack away the sleeping gear, get some snacks to-hand for the day, check my water situation. While Phil repacked, I headed down the hill to get water (he had told me about an off-trail tap he knew from the Strathpuffer). By the time I got back up, Phil was gone. I hit the trail as fast as I could, trying to catch him. My legs were neither sprightly nor defeated, they just worked. Before long, I saw Phil with a mechanical. Checking that he wasn’t stranded or injured, I rolled on by.

    With moderate gradients and the power he has, it was no surprise that Phil caught me back up. We settled into a rhythm through the beautiful country.

    Widely spaced and ancient-looking trees in Strathgarve Forest put me in mind of the Cairngorms. Powerful deer herded and ran as we worked our way along glens and over braes. Trail conditions were good – uphills were often rewarded with high-speed downhills, culminating in 10 miles of fast-going along Glen Achall. This was more like riding on the Great Divide, big skies and simple miles. A civilised morning ride, with the promise of real food at Ullapool.

    In town, the goal was simple. Find the public toilets, get some food, then get out before getting too comfortable. Despite our appearance and odour, the tea room was hospitable and served excellent soup. Avoiding the temptation of an ice-cream and a sit-down in the sun, it was back onto the bike for Phil and me.

    I had an inkling that things were going to be pretty hard out of Ullapool. But I wasn’t quite ready for 1000ft of climbing in 1 mile. That was an hour of pushing with heels dug into the turf. An hour where predictions of an arrival time in Poolewe vanished beyond our grasp. There was no mile-munching contoured descent from the top. Another loch, and then steeply back down on rutted trails. The gradient and the tightness of the downhill lines forced me into a careful pace, only riding within the bounds of what I could see. With this much caution, it was confusing that Phil wasn’t right on my tail. At a gate, I couldn’t see him and waited a little. I got that sinking sensation. It wasn’t my role here to shepherd him, and he didn’t need me to do that anyway. But the delay was so long, it could mean a rider down. Just as I started to push back up the hill, he came into sight. His rear derailleur had caught on the side of the trail and was damaged.

    At the bottom, Phil pulled off the trail to attempt to deal with the damaged derailleur. His bike had sliding dropouts, so he proposed to singlespeed it. Weighing up where we were (on a road) and the kit he had with him, I decided that Phil was perfectly capable of looking after himself from here. It was time to go and get on down the trail.

    There was some riding, but pretty soon the climb became pushing again and brought me up to Carn Na Canaich where white rock lay down a fun trail. Afternoon was creeping across the sky and, as the wind picked up, I stopped to put on a jacket. In that pause, I took in the sight of lochs below me, mountains above, rock and heather at my feet. It was the perfect time in the perfect place. Miles were coming slowly, but they came wrapped in rich experience.

    This philosophical satisfaction didn’t last long, though. The downhill turned to steep, and cut down a sheer valley to Shenavall. In fact, cursing punctuated nearly every step. I didn’t even have room on the trail to walk with my bike. It had to be carried. Bike shoes skidded over the grass and tantrums boiled. I barely looked up at all as I carefully planted each foot, the bike a useless anchor.

    From the bottom, plenty of bog provided a squelchy skirt to the crossing of the river Abhainn Srath na Sealga. The river flowed into a dark loch that had its own pebble beach way up here between the mountains. At the GPS-indicated crossing, the water was clear, wide, and lazy. Looking up and down the bank, this seemed like the best place, so I waded in. Shins, knees, mid-thigh, creeping more. The water really was flowing slowly and I was making good progress, able to see my feet. In the end, no dramas and my feet were no wetter than they had been from the bogs.

    It was feeling dusky as I headed up out of this valley. I had heard that all this pushing was for the sake of a fun descent and a 6 mile singletrack, so my goal now was to hit that singletrack with some daylight. Pretty soon, though, the climb became another grinding push. Walkers were jaunty as they pointed out how silly it was to push a bike up here. I could not disagree. And when the descent started with steep switchbacks and steps cut into the trail, I began to think we were about to lose 1700 feet of height in one arm-pumping shot. The trail widened, though, and it was possible to have some fun heading down. Fairly steep, as wide as a road, and pocked with steps and exposed rocks, the trail gave no time to ponder the sun setting over a loch so big that it might as well have been a sound.

    The gradient levelled out and a skirmish of rain came in with the wind. I plugged in my dynamo light and zipped up my jacket a bit. It felt like the forecast rain was approaching and a cold wet night was due. On the plus side, my tyres sat on singletrack and this may be what had been promised. The lazy devil in me cursed the twists and turns and pumps and flow. A nice forest road would be quicker. But, if you give a mountain biker singletrack, they’ll be happy. I didn’t even look at the GPS, this was the only trail and I rode it as fast as I could. Like a Tuesday night dust-up, not an adventure race, it was time to get all over the front of the bike and stuff it into the corners. My flooded rear hub was silent and the only sound was tyres on dirt.

    The previous 30 miles had taken more than 8 hours. It had felt like an adventure in itself. It was around midnight now, and I had finally reached Poolewe. The town offered nothing helpful at this hour, but it was a milestone that had been hard won. I put a fleece on under my jacket to counter the rain that was now steady and unflinching. It was time to keep moving and put pressure onto anyone who was still chasing. If Phil had managed to singlespeed his bike, he wouldn’t be far behind. Mark was riding so strong that he might have already passed Phil. The midnight hour was for making tough miles and not backing down.

    Before long, I was pushing up another hill. Rideable stretches passed quickly, but heaving the bike over boulders and seeing sheets of rain catch in my helmet light, I started to regret coming onto another exposed hill. The downhill was even worse. This was no manicured bike trail, it was boulders and cut rock. It was streams and braiding tracks. It was heading down the hill so sharply that I couldn’t see beyond each rock outcrop until I was on it. Tired and cautious, I would creep forwards, checking everything before I rode it. Can I ride that line? Where can I stop if the next section is unrideable? Often, a creep and a look over the lip of a rocky section would reveal trail that was unrideable that night. I wondered what the trail would be like in daylight, without bikepacking kit, and with a downhill bike. I walked. It was just too dangerous to risk rolling into the jaws this rocky trail. I hopped back on, I hopped back off. I walked some more. I screamed into the night. Frustrated at being unable to ride this. Cold, wet, losing focus, and just wanting to find somewhere to lay my head.

    When I finally reached the forest that I had seen on the map as a possible bivi spot, the rain was coming through the trees almost as fast as on open ground. All I could determine from the GPS was that there was a car park and toilet coming up. Maybe there would be shelter down there. Maybe I would end up sleeping on a concrete floor that stank of urine. My body was shutting down, failing to maintain heat, and my mind was clouding. If the car park didn’t work out, I was no shape to press on and look for somewhere else. I went for what I had here, a soft bed of wet pine needles and whatever cover the trees could provide.

     

  • Highland Trail Race – Day 1

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    See also:

    When I rolled up to the start line, I was still munching a bagel. After a traffic-delayed journey the day before, I had hastily thrown my kit together that morning. Now it was a relief to see so many friendly faces. Our little world of dirt-bag racing had hit Tyndrum and a bunch of guys (sadly the only two women entered for the race had to pull out before the start) with tales to tell were nervously chatting away.

    People seemed surprised by the amount I was carrying. I was acutely aware that I didn’t have the legs to just romp away with this, and my only chance to win would be through relentlessness. I was planning to be more aggressive than usual with the sleeping side of things and that often means losing the ability to maintain body heat. So I took plenty of clothes.

    As usual, the start was just a shout of “Go!”. The blue skies and sunshine were a surreal contrast to the worst-case scenarios and the weather forecast that boded ill for later on. For this moment, bleak mountains, raging winds, and snow seemed like they belonged to another planet.

    The riding tempo out of the start was a little too high as we headed out on the West Highland Way. When the sun shines and the trail is good, it’s nice to make the best of it. Nonetheless, I was huffing and puffing a bit in a loose lead group. The rattly drove road zipped lightly under our wheels. Fast-paced climbing became a fun descent towards the driveway for Glencoe Mountain Resort. Easy rocks and corners made for a flattering trail and an enjoyable introduction to the route.

    The Devil’s Staircase saw the effort of the lead group maintained. On foot, we pushed hard towards the summit and a rocky descent into Kinlochleven. I gave way to the first couple in the lead group, wanting to keep the descent controlled and not hold them up. There was little to be gained by hurtling down the rock steps, and a there was a high chance of walkers on this popular route. Even so, with tough tyres and the benefit of a suspension fork, it was a lot of fun working the trail back down off the mountain.

    Pretty soon, the lead group was established as a four. Phil Simcock, Mark Goldie, Phil Richmond and myself. I could see that Phil S and Mark had me out-powered on the climbs. This was just what I had feared. Phil R was a bit of an unknown: riding strong, but claiming that he was just making hay while the sun shone and wouldn’t be keeping up the pace after today.

    I let Phil S romp away without trying to come back at him. For hours, I couldn’t see him, and then he would be back in my sights. Since we were both on singlespeeds, I felt annoyed at myself whenever Mark got in front of me, but I didn’t always have the strength to reel him back in. I was going to have to get lucky, sleep less, or just out-tough the pair of them.

    When we rode as a group, it was sociable and miles were passing smoothly. Splits formed, and were later eaten up. I tried to keep a wise head on things and enjoy where we were. It was pretty easy to find that joy on fast-running trails with fine weather and mountains all around.

    We reached Fort Augustus just before 8pm having made 100 miles in 10 hours despite some pushing sections. It was time to rehydrate, and I mostly ate food from my bike. I had carried that food 100 miles, I was going to make damn sure I ate it. While the others had spread their gear around a bit during the stop, I was constantly occupied: eating, emptying rubbish, refilling water, repacking. And I rode out of there ahead of the other guys. A little bit rude, but the stops are part of this kind of racing.

    It was no surprise that Phil S and Mark caught me later on, and we travelled together into the twilight. Circling a loch on its pebble shore, spinning hard on the tarmac, zig-zagging along flooded trails, we passed the time with stories. Eventually, I realised it was only Phil I was talking to. I could see Mark’s light way back on the hill, and moving like he was still riding. Maybe it was his asthma, or some stop to fiddle with his bike, but the lead group was down to two.

    Around 4am, we took a bivi in the woods that play host to the Strathpuffer 24 hour race. I like to ride late and get up after the sun has had chance to warm things up a little. 150 miles in Day 1 felt like a very good total, and everything on the bike + body was in working order. With my alarm set for 4 hours, there was no difficulty in getting to sleep.