Aidan Harding

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  • WHW – Postmortem

    Well that didn’t go quite the way I expected. This will be a tale in two parts: the story; then the geeky bike stuff.

    The Story

    The epic began with a mammoth drive from London to Glasgow. Start time: after work. Objective: get there before midnight! We had booked into the cheapest hotel I could find (£28 for the pair of us) on the basis that it would be nothing more than a sleep-stop. We arrived around midnight and I still had the fog of the road still swirling in my head. Ice was dropping off the front of the car and I read this as a good sign: frozen trails would be much easier riding than wet ones.

    In the morning, we discovered that Glasgow motorways are probably very efficient if you know where you’re going, but very confusing if you don’t. We didn’t know them, and duly arrived late at Milngavie. We had a quick breakfast and I was on my way by 10.30, leaving Emily to attempt to shadow the trail by car.

    Riding through a town park, I encountered the usual reaction to pushing/riding a fat bike. Pushing up steps: “Aren’t you supposed to ride those things?”. Riding past another cyclist “THOSE are the tyres you want! Ha-ha!”. Soon it was all behind me, and I was spinning down flat avenues of white. Crystals of frost grew on every branch, the sun shone in a blue sky and it seemed like an entirely pleasant day for a ride. However, the slight stress of the late start and the general anticipation had me pushing on a bit, trying to keep a decent pace when I could.

    Gate-gate. Gate-gate. Gate-gate. Gate-gate. Gate-gate. Gate-gate. Gate-gate. Gate-gate.

    There were a lot of double gates.

    The first of the real mountain riding was Conic Hill and it wasn’t long before I was pushing. The steep gradient and large rocks wouldn’t have been ride-able on an unloaded bike. I had expected this, but what I hadn’t expected was glassy ice flowing down over the rocks. I had to pick my way up the trail, switching from one side to the other to get any kind of grip. As pushing goes, it wasn’t bad pushing but did raise doubts about riding downhill on this stuff later. At the top, I was rewarded by a beautiful view down to the mist covering Loch Lomond.

    [singlepic id=63 w=320 h=240 float=]

    It turned out to be ride-able on the way down, but with tight constraints: I was heavy on the brakes, switching across the track or occasionally off-piste to keep the rubber-side down. It worked, though, and soon I was down by the Loch.

    For a while, the trail was fiddly but not too bad. Up and down along the water’s edge. One bit of riding along a beach caused open-mouthed amazement from a walker. In places, the trail shadowed the road closely, being within a few metres of the black stuff. Just as I was thinking how easy it would be to cheat, I had to really muscle the bike around a rocky step. Heavy on the front brake, I tried to swing the back around and was rewarded with a loud crack: a broken spoke. If any rim can handle being a spoke down, it’s a Large Marge so I didn’t worry too much.

    Before the ride, I hadn’t realised quite how little this trail is aimed at bikers. It is what it is, but that meant you had to ride very much within what you could see. Sometimes what you can’t see would be a huge drop or a set of steep steps into a 90 deg corner. For a moment, I let the brakes relax and the bike flow underneath me. I could see a bridge, but the transition onto it was smooth. As I hit the wood, I realised that the other end of the bridge fell away sharply to ground level. I braked, but both wheels slipped on the untreated wet surface. In a moment, I knew I had to get off the brakes and just get ready for the drop: I think it was 2 or 3 feet to flat. Not ideal on a loaded bike, but I got away with it.

    Things got worse around the edge of the Loch and soon I was carrying most of it. Hauling the bike over large steps. Dangling the bike over the water as I walked along a narrow section. There was no ice here, but progress was slow and it was using muscles that I hadn’t trained well.

    [singlepic id=66 w=320 h=240 float=]

    I forget where Inversnaid came in this mess, but I was half-expecting to see Emily there to top up water. We hadn’t really looked at the roads, so I didn’t know that she couldn’t get there without having to make a massive detour to get to the far end of the Loch. I was getting a bit hungry and running out of water. I made the wrong call, not taking water from the Loch and deciding to eat little until I could get water from her.

    Lots of time and pushing passed before I left Loch Lomond. But even when I did, the singletrack was frequently iced over. Steady on the brakes, checking that I could stop in time to avoid a slippery accident, my progress was still slow. The signs said that there was a campsite in 2 miles. Surely there would be water there and I could eat plenty with it!

    It was getting dark now and I had had 2L of water in 6 hours, accompanied by little food. Still making bad decisions, I didn’t take surface water, pushing on to the campsite. When I finally arrived, Emily wasn’t there and the campsite said their taps were frozen. Damnit! I was definitely on energy reserves now, but I could do the needed 5 miles to meet Emily.

    The distance was OK, and eventually I saw the car! I topped up water and ate from my on-bike supplies. I was feeling pretty down by this point, but at least heading in the right direction food-wise. It was good to finally catch up with Emily, but too soon I had to press on into the darkness.

    The food began to cheer me up, and I felt more like I was riding instead of dragging my bike around. The trail was still challenging with plenty of ice to catch the unwary, but I was enjoying myself. I’d see Emily again in Tyndrum, and this period flew by with the frost twinkling in my LED light.

    I met Emily and topped up on water again. I had been drinking plenty to compensate for the earlier dehydration so it was time to keep plenty with me. I was warm but not feeling very positive about the trail. I could move along it but enjoyment seemed out of the question. I headed on up into the mist on the trail.

    The trail ran along the contour of a grass bank with solid ice along the track itself. Frozen flows came down the hill, crossing the trail and this was the first time I fell. Nothing too serious but, again, progress was slow. I appreciated every moment of rideable trail.

    [singlepic id=67 w=320 h=240 float=]

    The fog was getting crazy, now. For extended periods, visibility was down to around 2m. The moisture was freezing onto the trail and I was struggling to find enough traction to climb up what would have been a reasonable gradient. I had to chuckle a bit on the switchbacks, but I was getting impatient. Then, when the trail turned downwards, I really started to worry: It was a good-looking surface but I had to stay on the brakes because of the short visibility. All of a sudden, I was sideways. I tried to stand, but even my massive Neos overshoes wouldn’t grip. Every single part of the trail was devilish, so I was reduced to clomping through the heather. The trail was clearly a fast descent and I could only walk along the edge of it.

    I ride in a very calculated way. On “adventure” rides, there may be risks, but ones that I feel confident to manage. On jumps and drops, I’ll only do them when I know I can and I’m ready to accept the consequences of failure. Out there, on that trail, the risk was beyond where I wanted to be. Worse than a 7ft drop. Worse than 45 mph on the South Downs Way at night. Worse than shouting bears away on the Tour Divide. If I hurt myself now, then I might have to pull out of the Iditarod. If I knocked myself out, the consequences could be severe. I could not honestly say that continuing was an acceptable risk.

    Unfortunately, there was no option to bail yet. Eventually, I slipped and trudged my way out of the fog.

    The climb up the Glencoe Drove Road was a beautifully easy section. It rose above the fog and I could enjoy the moonlight as I spun away. A line of faint lights danced up and down the ridgeline ahead of me and I thought to myself that those riders had some pretty dim lights. A few minutes later, I realised that they must have been deer with their eyes reflecting in my lights. Hmm… not hallucination, but not the sign of a full-speed brain.

    I could see the far-off headlights below me on the A82 and fog over the loch. The riding was good and I was debating how bad the previous section had been. Should I bail or not?

    It was a fun ride down to the ski centre and I was comfortable when I arrived there. With the Devil’s Staircase to come, though, I decided to end the ride. If the worst of the foggy conditions returned, I could be walking most of the way to Fort William and that was a long walk. I had ridden for around 13 hours, 7 of which were in the dark. I wasn’t prepared to risk going further on that night so, when I met Emily, we packed everything back into the car and bailed out. The mud had frozen the frame bag’s velcro and as I stopped my activity, the cold came in. We got it done, though, and managed to bag a last minute room in a hotel.

    Geeky Bike Stuff/Introspection

    It’s easy to look back now and think that I should have done more. Going into the ride, my minimum expected effort was to spend 24 hours on the trail. I didn’t make it that far and the reasons came down to Scottish weather and commitment.

    I normally enter an event with complete certainty that I won’t give up unless there is grave danger. Which means, one way or another, I’ll finish. I didn’t go into the WHW with this certainty. Partly because training had become too much based on constant power on the turbo. That kind of riding is useful but doesn’t provide the grit to ride all day or the brute force to ride singlespeed in real hills all day. I think the ideal for me is to mix both turbo training and full days in the hills. The two can complement each other.

    The other major factor was keeping the eyes on the prize: the main goal for the moment is Alaska – WHW was just a stepping stone and not a place to risk failure on the main project.

    To anyone planning to attempt a WHW double, I would say this: Go light, and go in summer. Singlespeed is OK, but gears would be easier. A fat bike isn’t really much help, a light good bike would be better. I’m pretty sure I didn’t need a stove for the conditions I had, maybe if there was going to be lying snow, it would have been useful. I would have preferred bottles as they’re easier for collecting surface water (but more prone to freezing than a camelbak). If you’re going to have support, figure out your strategy beforehand!

  • WHW – Preparations

    My West Highland Way attempt got delayed, but it’s now all systems go! It took an extra week to get over being ill at the start of January, but that may have worked out for the best.

    Last weekend was the Strathpuffer 24 hour solo race close to the northern end of the WHW. My friend Mike Hall won (go, Mike!) and the conditions were pretty wet. I was supposed to be on the WHW that weekend and it would have been a brake-pad destroying mess. Thankfully, though, the forecast this weekend is good: cold and dry, maybe some fog and light rain. By Scotland-in-January standards, that’s pretty awesome.

    So, the bike is finally built up as I want it:

    [singlepic id=60 w=320 h=240 float=]

    [singlepic id=61 w=320 h=240 float=]

    It looks nearly the same but has had many time-consuming changes:

    • New pawls + springs in the front wheels to replace ones borrowed for another bike
    • New bars/stem to get a decent width (685mm)
    • Bar ends (with risers, hah!)
    • New BB. These DH 100mm bottom brackets don’t like going distance in mud!
    • New chainring/cog. Switched to 28:22 for Iditarod. I think it will be a bit under-geared for WHW, but it’ll keep things steady
    • Mechanical disc brakes with 160mm rotors instead of 180mm hydraulics. Hydraulics don’t do well with severe cold and I don’t need whopping big rotors

    All in all, it feels pretty good. The fat tyres should be good for the really rocky bits in the northern section (the only bit of the WHW I know) and for any snow/ice that might be around.

    Kit-wise, I’ve gone for emergency bivvy kit on top of normal distance riding equipment. I’ve got about 12000 calories of food, plus usual spares and stuff, and then a big synthetic sleeping bag + bivvy bag. If I have to sleep the night up there, it probably won’t be a good night’s sleep, but it will be survivable. I’ve managed to cram everything into the frame bag (borrowed from Shaggy – I’m not sponsored by Alpkit, Bonty, or Snow + Rock – thanks, Shaggy!).

    So, the plan is to drive up tonight. Stay in Glasgow overnight, and I’ll set off at 9.00am on Friday morning. Updates on my Satellite Tracking page and on Twitter. Emily will be around in the car, but not to provide assistance unless in an emergency.

    I’m pretty excited about this. I’ve had to put a lot of planning into the trip, and things are coming together nicely.

  • Sick

    Since I’m “down with the kids”, I get to hear all the current playground phrases. In North-West London, at least, “Sick!” is a favourite. e.g. Upon seeing a road bike, “That’s one of those bikes like in the Olympics… Sick!” or when seeing SPD pedals, “Look at those tiny pedals… Sick!”.

    Stan being sick

    I’ve had a big dose of the bad sick recently. After clunking my knee before Christmas, I was determined to do some some non-intrusive training over the holiday. I say non-intrusive because I think that training up to go on adventures is a pretty selfish pursuit. The least I can do for the people who put up with me is to take a couple of days off the bike to be with them. While there is a school of thought that you can get an edge by training on Christmas Day, I think that’s selfish rubbish. Everyone needs rest days now and again, why not make them Christmas?

    I took the turbo trainer with me, and used it on the days between Christmas and New Year to keep things ticking over. It was actually quite nice to bust out of the shed and into someone else’s garage on the turbo. The only down side is that I’m running out of podcasts. A steady hour at 250W was pretty good, but didn’t get me out of watching Mama Mia afterwards.

    So, it felt like I could go well into the New Year and be on track for West Highland Way. Until food started coming out of both ends early this week. At first, I would have passed the £5 test (wouldn’t have got out of bed to pick up a £5 on the floor). Then I could move about but not eat. Then, I could eat but not EAT and not think very well.

    Now I can eat and do proper turbo sessions. Later, I’m going to go out a ride a bike in the real world. Still a bit fragile, but getting there. At least, I spent the downtime ordering up the bike parts I need. Hundreds of pounds on boring replacements, but it’s got to be done. Once the Pugsley has moved from just working to being fighting-fit, I’ll post the set-up.

    Significantly, all this has lead to me moving the date of my West Highland Way ride. I’m now going to go on the weekend of 22 January. I’ve not only lost a week, but also gone backwards in fitness so it’s a necessity. At least I have the choice, though.

    Being ill has reminded me of the importance of health and the luck of it. I try to appreciate what I have. Some people, though no fault of their own, can’t ride a bike at all. Can’t even enjoy the outdoors as they would wish to. There are things I take for granted while I grumble about having to replace another chain, or having to ride through more mud. Those things can come around any time they want to poke me with a stick. Make sure you’re getting the most out of what health and luck you have!

  • Small Margins

    I went out riding in the snow last night. I rode a trail that we know as “bastard corners”. It’s a good one to see how well you’re riding as there is a whole sequence of open rooty corners. Some with adverse camber, some of which tighten.

    Up until that trail, I’d been riding pretty well. The snow was wet and slippery, half turning back into water. But the Pugsley was doing a fine job of keeping rolling. On the last of the bastard corners, though, I went in somewhat fast, leaned the bike way over, and got my weight on the front tyre. The tyre took the entire surface of snow off and slapped my knee into the stem before an awkward dismount.

    I knew it was kind of bad. I wanted to sit, but I was surrounded by wet snow. I was making involuntary noises as I waited for the brightest lights of pain to recede. And it didn’t just hurt on my knee, it hurt on the muscle surrounding it. It felt wet and hot and messed up.

    Eventually, I tried to walk a bit. Not very well, so I tried to pedal a bit. I couldn’t do that at all. So I trudged. I thought about the narrowest margins that can lead to success or failure. I couldn’t yet tell if this was going to be a serious injury – I thought probably not. But then I thought about Shaggy busting his knee on the West Highland Way. And I thought about Billy busting his knee on the Iditarod in 2009. During an event, this might be game over. And yet I was riding within what I considered a safe margin. So much rides on belief. You have to believe that you will be OK when you go into a section. And you have to believe that you can deal with the consequences if it goes wrong.

    My consequences were that I was hobbling through the snow by myself at 9pm at the furthest point from the car. I had a spare jacket, but no certainty that I could do any more pedalling. After 10 minutes or so, I could manage on the bike but not on hills. I cruised back trance-like in the pool of my helmet-light.

    In reality, the injury is not too bad. I can walk, but stairs are a problem. I’ll probably be able to ride a bike soon. And I was far from immobile at the time. But it was a reminder of what plans can be ruined by small mistakes.

  • An Older One – The Sarn Helen Trail

    Here’s something I wrote back in May about The Sarn Helen Trail in Wales. Not to be confused with some other Welsh C2C routes, I just kinda made this one up as training for the Tour Divide. I kept this story back as I had sent it to a magazine, but after a bit of a run-around, it’s safe to say they probably aren’t going to publish it.

    Photos are in the Gallery

    Wales is the home of my mountain biking. Way back when I went for my first mountain bike ride, it was at Coed Y Brenin and I had to re-evaluate my ideas of what a bike was capable of. Ever since then, my ideas have continued to evolve. Sometimes the evolution has just been my own, sometimes it has been as the sport has progressed.
    In the past couple of years, my personal progression has been on the adventure side of things. Travelling further, and taking the spirit of independence out to see how far I could go. Riding the length of Wales was an attempt to tie these strands together. I wanted to link up the country and join the dots between the trail centres. Trips out West can be like a tourist visiting London: you only see small circles around the trail centres, just as a London tourist only sees small circles around the tube stations. Now I’d get more of a local’s view, get a feel for what happens between Penmachno and Coed Y Brenin, what lives between Mach and Nant Yr Arian.

    So I set out to ride a route somewhat based on the Sarn Helen Trail. The plan was to get a train from London to Conwy, and finish by train from Swansea back to London. Most of the riding would be off-road and I had little idea what quality of trail to expect. Experience told me that some rights-of-way on the map were going to be just that, a right-of-way but not necessarily a trail. I’d later find out how true that was. But at the planning stage, I was left to estimate how long it would take to complete. Roughly following a published route that took an 8 day itinerary, I hoped that 3 days would not be assuming too much of my abilities.

    As I set out from Conwy, I felt very alone. There was no-one else riding this with me, and nothing I could do to make myself feel like the journey was real. I could still turn around and call the whole thing off, but I wasn’t going to do that. So, I enjoyed the sunshine of the late afternoon and the speedy progress I could make along the country lanes.

    Things didn’t stay with country lanes for long. I pushed up loose rocky climbs and let the wheels take their course over rocky descents. Occasionally, a big drop or rock would be beyond me for a laden bike and I would straggle down on foot. It took concentration and with that concentration, my mind was sent out to where I wanted it to be. What looked like a slight rut in the track, actually swallowed half of my wheel and flipped me over the bars. The lake refilled my water bottles. The sheep scampered away as I approached.

    All too soon, the light was fading and I watched the world lose colour. My head-torch was foolishly packed away too deep so I persevered through the gloom. MX torn trails were crossed with bright white roots and stinking dark water lurked in every depression. I couldn’t camp in this boggy ground, but I could barely see my way. I knew I could find my light without being able to see, though, and the moon was full so I kept riding/pushing/squelching along.

    From nowhere, a ribbon of manicured stone singletrack appeared. I followed it for a way, its light grey stone was a glowing trail in the forest. But the GPS said no. This wasn’t my route. Maybe next time, but stick with the plan for now. Doubling back, I hit a fireroad and, soon, a tarmac road. Roads meant houses and houses meant nowhere to bivvy.

    I buzzed along in complete moonlight now. When a car came, I stopped on the verge aware of how foolish it was to ride unlit at night. Villages and streetlights passed and still no place to sleep. Finally, I branched off onto a track. A slate sheepfold stood disused some 30m from the track. It was dark, I was going to be up early, there was no sign of sheep or even sheep poo, so this would be my bed.

    The sheepfold was a fine bed and I rose early to get on with the day. Malt loaf for breakfast and pushing up the hill. Riding up the hill, and pushing along no trail. A tiny mistake in plotting the GPS route sent me into the forest on a very vague track. As it became increasingly boggy and headed away from where I wanted to be, I tried to cut across through the trees. They closed in around me and the bike became an anchor. When I found a substantial path, it was a joy. I could ride! A tree fallen across the path seemed like bad luck. Two seemed worse. By the third, I got the impression that this path had been closed off. I had little choice but to press on, though, as the area around was so thick as to need a destructive and exhausting effort if I attempted to move off the “trail”. So I lifted, crawled, and dragged my way through while the path seemed safe and my passage harmless. At the end, I could see the correct path, a mere 20m further up the hill. Frustrating, but there was a whole day more to ride, and I was still going in the right direcion.

    The trees grew thicker and taller – I began to recognise Coed Y Brenin. This was good progress and gravel passed quickly underneath me as sun cut down in shafts. This quiet beauty gave way to a Sustrans effort – a railway line reclaimed as a bike path. Spinny. I soon slunk past Cadair Idris. No riding up there for me this time, just a fine backdrop to my journey south.

    Rocky doubletrack occupied me now. The weight of a loaded bike pressing onto the big wheels gave me massive traction going up. The movement of my bags on the bike had me picking the smoothest lines down. There hadn’t been a soul in hours and I thought of my friends at work. I thought of them gathering for the Tuesday night ride later that day. And I thought about how those two hours from 7.30 to 9.30 would go for me. They would be a steady flow, not an adrenalin rush. They would be solitary and without the laughs of pointless racing. I thought fondly of that other ride going on, but not for me today.

    Pretty soon, I recognised Nant Yr Arian. Pulling up to the bench at the empty car park, I took a dinner of peanuts and chocolate. It was another satisfying milestone and confirmation that the miles were falling under my wheels. Time to push on, though. There were a few hours to make progress before dark and I knew Devil’s Bridge would involve a fun steep descent followed by a not-so-fun steep push up the other side of the valley. I spun some road, weaved the singletrack down to the river, and hauled back up on the push to another road. It was definitely time for another bivvy, but once again I was in too much civilisation.

    In the faded light, I finally found a spot that was secluded and (more importantly) ready to use right now. My sleeping bag was still damp with condensation from the previous night so I wanted to use the tarp and sleeping bag alone. Unfortunately, figuring out a pitch that worked for the tarp in the required space was beyond my tired mind, so after an aborted, flappy, effort I fell back on the bivvy bag. It was a comfortable enough place to sleep, but the proximity of standing water brought its challenges. These revealed themselves during the night, as a reached up to move the edge of the sleeping bag near my mouth and felt a cold slimy surface. I couldn’t have dribbled that much… No. I peeled a slug off and cast it away. More slugs were around the back of the bag too and I sent them all back to the grass. Making a better choice of campsite was a lesson well learned (but hard to effect when you’re pushing on the miles each day).

    The morning brought me to a remote section of trail. At first with solid ground, but later things started to get increasingly wet. Frequent bogs sucked at wheels and, more often, feet. I made slow, frustrating progress with no sign of a solid path, just a line on the GPS and the odd post. Dragging and cursing the bike, being knee-deep become common enough. I railed against the MXers who had torn up this sensitive land, I railed against whoever had even called this a bridleway, I railed against my clumsy progress and the miles it would leave me to do. And as things finally began to firm up, I was greeted by a sign “This post has been errected for the purpose of historical investigations only – and [does] not represent any safe route.” You can only laugh.

    My sagging will caused the frustration to continue all the way to the River Elan. I was happy to meet tarmac there and happier to enjoy a fine descent into Rhayader. The sun was out, I’d hit another good goal, and my childish tantrums were behind me. Time to crack on to Builth!

    Criss-crossing the river Wye and some hills familiar from the Mountain Marathon series, it felt like going to visit an old friend. My first race from Builth had been back in 2002 and it stands as a frequently used venue today. Another two dots were joined together. And the cruising continued. Not easily, but steadily, all the way to Brecon.

    In order to save weight, I had taken no cooking equipment and, as I hit Brecon, the smell of hot food was a strong lure. I picked a kebab shop, and ordered up some hot grub. But as I munched chips, the rain came down outside. Should I stay or should I go? I opted to stay. A bed in Brecon and the chance to dry my gear seemed much more appealing than a potentially wet ride followed by a potentially wet night. It was a tough call to make and questioned why I was here: to get from end to end fast? Just for the hell of it? Really, a bit of both and to shake down my bike ready for the next adventure. I knew I would reach Swansea the next day, and that was that.

    It was a strange sort of come-down to be standing in the hallway of a B&B. Suddenly lycra doesn’t seem so clever, and bathing doesn’t seem so optional. But the owner was friendly and didn’t comment on either my appearance or my smell. Soon, I was washed and headed out to buy some more food. Being a less than serious athlete, I picked up a single beer with my food. It was outrageously effective – only half a bottle and my head spun enough crazily. I watched TV and enjoyed a preview of the return to comforts of civilisation. Mmmm… bed.

    The trail across the Brecon Beacons National Park was absolutely stunning. Fun, rocky, beautiful. The sun was up and it was the very finest day for riding. Today I’d finish my trip, and the trails were sending me off in style. The black sheep count was 3, and time flew by. It didn’t take much zooming out to see Swansea on my GPS screen, so I was happy to keep the pedals turning.

    I could see the signs as I headed from a road section to off road. When I was close enough to read them, I found out that the bridleway was shut. There was going to be a lot of road from here to Swansea. I took off along the roads, hoping to pick up my original route later. I spun through mining villages that look charming in the sun but seemed now to offer little to their residents now other than housing and beer. I spun along busy roads and, eventually, rejoined my original route. On the road section. Damnit.

    Civilisation was picking up: an Audi had just blared its horn at me for being there. Fat exhausts accompanied small engines. The national cycle network was making me take minutes to travel 10 metres with all their light-controlled crossings. My destination was within my grasp and the real world was invading my adventure. It felt like an anti-climax. Things were not helped at the train station by being told that I had to book my bike on the train yesterday. I’ll just get my time machine…

    It wasn’t long before I was back in London, riding from Paddington to Waterloo in the late afternoon sun. A lady on a city bike overtook me, and red-raced commuters thronged around, jumping red lights. I was super-cool, though. Not ready to let the city take me back to its level yet. I cruised and sometimes walked, biding my time until it was late enough to take a full-sized bike on with me.

    And then I was home, riding up the alley to my back gate. With clean skin, a sofa, and a proper cup of tea, I could look back on a ride well done. The bike had been flawless, my legs had held up, my camping and navigation had worked. It had been a satisfying few days of old-school mountain biking.

  • West Highland Way – The Intention

    OK, it’s time to ‘fess up.

    When Rob Lee made an unsuccessful attempt at the West Highland Way Double, it piqued my interest a little. It’s always interesting to read about what people are up to in the world of riding bikes a long way. It’s rare to have such a candid account when the goals are not achieved. And yet, the small, mean, and competitive part of me thought, “Hey, I should give that ride a try!” Making firsts is good ego boost.

    Now, I like John “Shaggy” Ross. He’s a good man and always fun to talk to. But, it did grate a bit after Iditarod 2009 when everyone who found out I did it said, “That’s the one Shaggy did!” Not his fault, but you can imagine my thoughts when John also had an incomplete ride on the West Highland Way Double.

    So, I have decided to repeat my method for the Tour Divide by doing a UK ride as preparation. For The Divide, I rode The Sarn Helen Trail (the length of Wales) over a couple of days. It was as much a test of gear and food as it was a test of my fitness but it really helped me to go into The Divide with confidence.

    On January 15 or thereabouts, I’ll set off from Milngavie (Glasgow, to you and me) bound for Fort William. I will be fully kitted up to deal with deep snow, camping overnight if it comes to it, and generally looking after myself in a Iditarod style. If it turns out to be possible, I’ll turn around at Fort William and ride back to complete the double. I’m highly doubtful that this will be possible. If conditions are bad, I could have to walk large sections of the trail. It will be good preparation for Alaska, and if I make the double that would be just dandy.

    PS Thanks to Shaggy for lending me pogies to use on this trip after mine were stolen at the weekend. See… we are friends 🙂

  • Mistakes

    I’ve been making stupid school-boy errors recently.

    First, I happily advised someone I was going riding with that Camelbaks are OK below freezing as long as you blow the water back into the bladder to stop the pipe from freezing. I then forgot to do so myself and ended up having mine freeze solid. Doh!

    Then, I forget to check my chainring bolts at all for ages and this happens:

    [singlepic id=31 w=320 h=240 float=]

    With thoughts turning toward Alaska again, I thought it was time to review the mistakes that I shouldn’t make in an unforgiving environment:

    Mistakes not to make again on the Iditarod Trail Invitational

    • Take plenty of socks! They weigh hardly anything and the frostbite from last time was largely attributable to my wet socks.
    • Don’t set off from a checkpoint in wet socks (especially if it’s -30C out there) – you’ll get frostbite.
    • Take sensible food i.e. varied and tasty. Last time I took a mix of salty and sweet for eating during the day. I thought that nuts would be good because they pack a lot of calories and will replace salt. I ate some nuts on day 1, the rest were dead weight. I’ve got a sweet tooth during rides, so I should know better and pack for it (at least I got this right on the Divide).
    • Don’t get too excited (another one I got right on the Divide)
      • I tore away from the line on day 1 with no real idea of where I was going. John Ross and I got kind of lost. We rejoined the pack only after wasting a load of time and effort.
      • I barely slept before the race and on the first night of the race itself. If you’re going to lie down and do nothing else, you might as well sleep.
    • Don’t bother with hydraulic brakes. I really wanted them for UK riding, but should have gone straight to cables on my snow bike. They were more noisy than really draggy in the end, but if it had been colder, I could have been in trouble.
    • Don’t rely on post from the UK to Alaska being half-way reasonable. Send it really early, or take it with you.
    • When veteran racers are putting on extra clothes before they drop down to ride the frozen river, they really do know better than you.
    • Don’t use an old pump. The seals on mine shrank from OK in normal temperatures to completely useless on the Trail. I had to rely on others and had some dodgy moments when the temperature drop brought my tyres down with it.
    • Take some energy drink. I know it freezes faster, but it encourages me to drink more (the taste and the knowledge that I need to drink it soon).
    • Don’t listen to snow machiners (or snow mobilers, or whatever you call them). Bill told me not to, but I didn’t listen to him. If they’ve got motorised transport, they’ve got a whole different idea of distance than you have (I got this right in the Nokia Coast 2 Coast re: motorbikes).

    I’m sure I’ll have a whole load of new mistakes to make this time around 🙂

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    This website is new and undergoing lots of growth, so please don’t be too disappointed if there are incomplete descriptions… they’re coming soon!

  • Nice

    I just had a “nice” ride tonight. Nice people, relaxed pace, nice time.

    I’m not so sure about mountain biking being nice. At its best, it should be about fire in your belly, blood pounding in your head, and a dance through the trail. Or, it should be about epic places and worn out legs pushing worn out tyres around on a trail that goes to the horizon.

    But nice seems like a hobby, not a passion. Nice has its place, but doesn’t scratch the itch.

  • Training Actuality

    Not been blogging much, but I have been training much.

    Getting my head down and doing some substantial rides in The Chilterns, riding to work every day, shed-based turbo training, and running a bit.

    The good news is that I’ve caught up on Fighting Talk podcasts while in the shed. Unfortunately, that means 1 hour a week of brilliant podcast and the rest on not quite so brilliant podcasts. Ho-hum, my power output on the bike is creeping upwards and it does seem to have genuine real-world speed benefits. Not to mention the easy bike cleaning side of things.

    These are testing times for mountain biking round here. Getting up in the dark, finishing a ride in the dark. Everything is filthy and wet. But these are the conditions that make British mountain bikers tough. When you spend eye-popping effort dragging yourself up a muddy hill, only to get your ass handed to you by wet roots on the way down, and then go home and hose your shoes off, there is no answer but to laugh.

    I have noticed a worrying trend recently, and I know I’ve been guilty of it in the past: descending into myself when it gets really foul. Retreating inside yourself and letting your body take care of keeping the bike moving is a somewhat viable tactic for shorter rides. But I really can’t keep letting myself do it if I want stay well day-after-day. It leads to not eating enough, not drinking enough, ignoring cold when it would be more prudent to add more clothing. All kinds of ills. I need to embrace the world and work with it, not just scurry around the hills until I can go home to get warm and dry. That, more than 10W extra power, is my main goal in the run-up to Christmas. All I need is some bad weather to play in, and I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

    No photos as the moment as I lost my camera on the Divide. Instead, a couple of interesting altitude profiles (ft on the y-axis, miles on the x-axis). First, a recent run:


    Yes, that’s down to The Thames, and then along it. Looks quite hilly until you see the scale!

    And then a recent training ride:


    And people say we don’t have hills in the south.