You've gone to far this time, has been said to me on more than one occasion, and likewise, sometimes you chomp off more than you can chew, and I think that this weekend was one of those occasions.
Back in the winter, when it was dark and grey and I had a few spare minutes, (alright I was supposed to be working), one of my endless searches for new adventures threw up the Warwickshire ring canal race. 111 miles of scenic (and not so) canal running, through the heart of the Midlands. Handily, being a ring, it also started and finished from Coventry, meaning logistically for a long race, it shouldn't be too much of a problem. So, before you could say "Bob's your uncle" or "isn't that a stupid idea?" I'd added my name to the start list. Fast forward 6 months and I'm sat in the van in Coventry on Friday night, thinking "What the hell am I doing here", not only has most of my training been on the bike this year, with just a bit of running thrown in to keep the legs going, but I hate running on Canals. They're too flat, too hard on the feet, and apart from the odd scenic bit, tend to be a bit like running down a tunnel, enclosed by either trees or buildings, meaning there's not even anything to look at. Oh' well, too late to back out now.
And so it was, that I found myself stood in Coventry Canal Basin, slap bang in the heart of the city, on what looked like a pleasant morning, (with a forecast of rain later, how does that work, that's 2 weekends on the trot when it's been gorgeous all week and then rained on Saturday!), with 70 or so other like minded idiots, getting ready for what was undoubtable going to be a long day out.
Bang on 08:00, the nice man from the Canal and River Trust, who was acting as honorary starter, said go, and we were off. Ok, what actually happened is he said "ready, steady" and then had to start again as the photographer had accidently closed his phone down. And when he did finally say "Go" we all did that strange thing that only seems to happen at the start of long races and Audax's, where everyone just stands looking at each other, waiting for someone else to go first. Eventually though we got going, heading out of the city, along the Coventry Canal Towpath, past the remnants of this once industrial city. Now, like so much of the UK, turned over to flats, coffee shops and wasteland. The tarmacked path, led to a faster pace than I would have liked considering the distance to be covered, but once the front runners disappeared into the distance, never to be seen again, I settled into what felt like an easy, and manageable pace, although considering the distance, still probably rather too fast.
Plodding effortlessly along on the pan flat, smooth tarmac, made a real change from my normal route choices, and the first few miles passed amicably enough, sociably chatting to those around me and generally taking in what there was to see. The Coventry Canal, and indeed all of the canals that make up the ring, are significantly different to my normal haunt on the Basingstoke Canal, being far more built up, industrialised and open, and whilst I may be somewhat biased, in my opinion nowhere near as picturesque.
There was still more than enough to keep things interesting though. The pretty canal boats that now act as pleasure craft, their original purpose and important role in the industrial revolution long lost in the mists of time. A Heron stood patiently waiting for it's breakfast to arrive in the shallows, the odd fisherman, eagerly watching the float in front of him, just like the Heron, and a plethora of other little things that catch your attention as you move silently through the landscape.
A touch over 4 hours since setting off, and just in time to enjoy the full force of a heavy rain shower, I arrived at the first checkpoint at 26.5 miles. As I said, way to fast for what was planned to be the first of 4 marathons today, and a time that most people would be over the moon with if they could achieve it just once. Oh well, no point dwelling, I was still feeling good and felt the the pace was easy enough on the flat, hard, ground, so I wasn't too worried.
A quick stop for water, a brief chat with the marvellous marshals, and off again, bound for Birmingham, or the Venice of the North as I've often heard it referred to due to the number of canals that run through it. By now the sun was shining and the temperatures had steadily risen throughout the morning, despite the rain shower earlier doing it's best to put a dampener on proceedings, and I was conscious of making sure to be getting enough water on board to stave of the dreaded cramp, which seems to be the first sign of dehydration in my case.
Eat, drink, plod, became the mantra for the next couple of hours as I made my way steadily towards Birmingham. The tower blocks and old gasometers, visible on the skyline for many miles, providing an indication of progress. Typically, having said drinking needs to be a priority in the heat, I'd not seen a tap for a while to refill my bottles and just as I reached the outskirts of Birmingham my water ran out. Not to worry though, there's bound to be a tap at the next set of locks or a canal side shop to solve that problem.
Wrong! No taps and no shops, just mile after mile of enclosed concrete pathway, with industrial units to either side, all adorned with graffiti (although I must admit that some of it is very good, and a group of youths working on a wall as I passed looked to be doing an admirable job, and said a very polite hello!). With cramp twinging in my calves and a mouth like a camels backside (dry) I was starting to wonder how much longer I could hold out, when wonder of wonders, I spotted a shop on the other side of the railings. A quick bit of mountaineering later to get off the towpath and my problem was solved, at least for the time being. Which brings me neatly on to the next issue, constantly throwing water down your throat to avoid dehydration, pretty soon starts to make you feel sick. Or it does me anyway, and by this time I must have got through at least 4 or 5 litres. The majority of which had sloshed around in my belly for a while, before disappearing back out again as sweat, leaving a nice salty crust on my face and shirt. On a long hot day it becomes quite a game of drinking as much as I can to avoid the dreaded cramps, without making myself sick. Not the best game ever, I will admit, but if nothing else it helps to pass the time. It's not all sunshine and flowers this running lark I can tell you!
Onward though, through the 40 mile mark and heading steadily towards 50 and the next checkpoint, which arrived before the 10 hour mark. This certainly wasn't going to plan, 2 marathons through the heat of the day in under 10 hours, possibly not the best move on my part, but I still felt pretty good, considering the distance covered.
Another quick stop (only the second time I'd actually stopped all day, if you don't include running into the shop in Birmingham, which hardly counts). A clean pair of socks, refill the water bottles again, replenish my snack supply and scoff a slice of Quiche with beans, which had prepared to near fine dining standards, whilst I did other stuff, by the lovely marshals who couldn't have been more helpful and waited on my every need. And then off again, heading out into the evening sun less than 20 minutes later, for the start of the 3rd marathon of the day
Unsurprisingly, by now my pace was dropping off significantly. The first 10 miles of this leg, managed at a steady jog, didn't seem to bad, but coming to a long downhill flight of locks was a different matter and muscles, unused for most of the day, instantly started screaming in protest. Slow to a walk and struggle down the hill, then back on the flat sections resume the slow jog.
Another mile and I'm back to walking pace for a couple of meters, just to give the legs a break. Then back to the slow jog again, but as the miles slowly increase so do the frequency of the walking breaks. Until by mile 67, I'm just walking and just maintaining 3 MPH. It's not a problem as I'm well ahead of the cut off times, with plenty of time in hand, but walking's hard, it uses different muscles to running and my legs don't like it. Whilst I'm walking, I take the opportunity to get the last of the snacks I'm carrying down me. I've got to be into a significant calorie deficit by now and as the miles slowly increase, so does my fatigue levels, probably not helped by last weekends 400Km Audax, and those of the weekends before! By mile 70 I'm really struggling, I'm down to 2 MPH now, I feel sick and dizzy and my right Quadricep (that muscle at the top of your leg) is really hurting and I'm starting to limp. Hobbling on, I'm in a bad way, I should have been at the next checkpoint before 22:00 at the pace I was going so I didn't pick up my torch, and now it's starting to get dark too. I stop a few times and try to stretch my legs off, but it's to no avail, I'm done, totally spent and barely functioning. Eventually, a couple of runners catch up from behind. The first I've seen for most of the day, and it's taken them a while, so there must have been quite a gap. A few quick words as they pass and I'm back wallowing in my own misery and self doubt. At mile 73 the tow path is closed and we have to divert off onto the road for a mile or so. At this point I'm totally broken as I hobble up the short incline to gain the road and start along the tarmac. It's dark now and I'm conscious of being on the road with no lights, but luckily it's a deserted county road. I say luckily as I'm struggling to walk in a straight line, having to stop and take a knee a couple of time before I fall down, too tired, fatigued and weak to stay upright. I know I'm done, I know I won't be getting to the end today, but I've got to cover those last couple of miles to the next checkpoint before I can stop, and I push slowly, ever so slowly, on. The clock in the village is striking 23:00 as I stand dry retching by the roadside as my body tries ot get rid of the invisible toxins that it thinks it's been poisoned with. So tired, so Hungry, so Fatigued. Push on. Those last 2 miles take an eternity (I'm guessing 40+ minutes) but eventually I arrive at the checkpoint where the same volunteer crew, sit me down, cover me with a blanket, grab my bag and get me some food, whilst trying to convince me that once I've eaten I'll be good to go again. And there probably right, but deep down my hearts not in it, I know that if I push on it will be 35 miles at walking pace and that's likely to lead to some serious injuries, injuries that I can't afford right now, with a packed running and cycling schedule and this isn't a priority race for me this year, there's bigger things still to come. They're right too, by the time I've sat down for 30 minutes, had a couple of cups of tea with extra sugar and a bacon sandwich, I feel considerably better. But I still know that my hearts not in it now, and stopping here is a better option than injury or having to stop out on the course, so I make the sensible decision and join the other 22 retirements from the day.
With some warm, dry clothes on, and some food inside me, I felt considerably better and sat watching the dawn slowly break, as those still out running come and go, whilst I waited for the checkpoint to close, so I could get a lift back to the start with a couple of other retirees.
Back at the van for 06:00, after my second Saturday in a row without sleep, I had a brew and reflected on the day. I felt awful, and still do, as I sit here writing this on Sunday afternoon, having had some sleep, multiple brews, at least 3 breakfasts and 2 lunches. I've done a 600, 300 and 400 Km Audax's on consecutive weekends, and I just think that this one was one step to far. I ran well until 65'ish miles, but when it started to fall apart, it fell apart fast, and it fell apart big time, and my body just couldn't cope with that. Likewise my legs suffered on the hard, flat, unforgiving tarmac, for mile after mile. I also know that I went out too fast, 4 and 5 hour marathons aren't the way to cover 100 miles and I know that, but for those first 50 miles it felt good, the pace felt easy and I didn't feel like I was working particularly hard. In fact before my watch died and I couldn't get it to charge again I'd covered 54.85 miles in 9:44 (including the two checkpoint stops) which to be honest is just stupid! For those last few miles (and on plenty of other occasions throughout the day) I swore that I was never going to try this distance, over this type of route again. But, you know how it is, in the cold light of day, having had some sleep. There's unfinished business here. It's not going to be any time soon, that's for sure, as most of this year is already full. But maybe I'll get some good miles in along the Basingstoke canal over the winter, take what I learned Saturday (which was a lot) and come back next year for another go. Who knows? Oh, and as a postscript, 22 of the original 68 starters failed to finish. That's nearly a third, which I would think is a pretty high drop out rate, so maybe I don't feel quite so bad about my performance after all!
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I’ve said it before and I’ll no doubt say it again, but what a difference a day makes, or in the case of this weekend’s adventures, what a difference a few hours makes!
Friday evening saw me in the van travelling up to Stevenage ready for Saturday’s Audaxing fun, which wasn’t much fun I can tell you. With the outside temperature gauge showing 30 degrees as I crawled around the M25 in the normal traffic congestion (oh to be on my bike) it was a touch on the warm side! Things improved with a couple of hours sat watching the sun going down with a cold beer. But a stuffy, sweaty, night in the van, where even with the roof vent fully open it was still uncomfortably warm, wasn’t the best start to what was going to be a long day out. By Saturday morning things hadn’t really cooled down, and the thunderstorms and heavy rain that I’d been watching on the weather forecast for most of the week seemed like an unlikely outcome. Was this going to be the day when the forecasters got it really wrong, or did they know something that I didn’t? By the time 09:00 arrived and I’d wandered down to the start point for the Jelly Fish Legs 400km Audax, having had a leisurely breakfast and an extra brew sat outside the van enjoying the summer, it looked like it was going to be another scorcher. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d rather be over prepared than underprepared and I’m currently making final adjustments to my kit list ready for a real adventure in a few months’ time, I might have thought twice about packing my waterproofs and Down jacket. Surely, I wasn’t going to need those, it was only 09:00 and it must have been in the high 20’s already, what sort of an idiot lugs a Down jacket round with them for 400km in the middle of a heat wave? Looking around my fellow riders at the start, it looked like the majority had gone for the stripped down, lightweight approach, possibly making me the odd man out, with my bulky saddle bag packed with extra layers, hats and gloves. Oh well, if nothing else it will give the old legs a bit of a workout, and if the weather forecast is right, who will be laughing then?
Departing Stevenage old town on the stoke of 09:00 we were immediately out into open, rolling (read lumpy) countryside, heading West, traveling through pretty country villages, rolling along quiet county lanes, as the world sat stifling in the hot, humid air, and we in turn sweated up the hills and enjoyed the cooling breeze on the downhill sections.
Strangely, by the time I arrived at Aldbury for the first control a couple of hours later, the temperature had dropped a few degrees, the sky clouded over, and the wind had started to pick up. Not enough to cause any concerns, but enough for me to pull the sleeves back down on my thin cycling top and a short while later stop again, to put on my thin summer gilet. As I worked my way steadily westwards the skies continued to darken and the wind, now blowing strongly in my face, continued to strengthen. By 11:00, only 3 short hours after setting off in near tropical temperatures, I felt the first spots of rain landing on my face, followed immediately by that evocative smell of rain on hot tarmac, as the first fat drops landed heavily on the road around me. Almost immediately, those first spots became a downpour and I hastily found a convenient spot to stop and pull my waterproof jacket from my saddlebag, fighting against my cycling mitts which seemed to fat to fit through the sleeves and the wind that appeared determined to stop me finding the other sleeve, whilst the rain did it’s best to soak into my top. Jacket donned and the first battle of the day won, I pushed on. Arriving at the second control just as the rain abated, where I briefly considered taking my jacket back off whilst I gathered the information required as proof of passage.
Having decided it was too much hassle getting my gloves back off again to remove my jacket, I pushed on for the long leg across the Cotswolds, bound for Stow-on-the-Wold, via yet more undulations.
A couple more, brief showers and a far longer, heavier, bout of rain, just before Stow, did little to dampen my spirits and I arrived somewhat damp, but still enjoying myself a couple of hours later. A brief chat with a fellow rider, whilst stood outside a supermarket in Stow-on-the-Wold stuffing my face with yet more of the ubiquitous supermarket sandwiches, proved that maybe my preparations for the day had been better than some. Not only was he cold and wet but had also lost the mount for his new front light, which would no doubt cause him problems in the hours to come, and we stood chatting for a few minutes whilst he investigated options for getting back home from what was possibly the furthest point away of the entire route. That to me is one of the joys of Audax. You’re on your own, and its solely up to you to traverse the route, or if you fail to do so, get yourself back home again. No rescue parties, no back up vehicles and no help, apart from what you can gather on the road. Obviously, I’d always help someone in distress or with problems if I could and would likewise hope that that would be a mutual situation but would never count or rely on it. It’s just you against the terrain, weather, roads and route, and good preparation is key to making what can be an unpleasant situation far better.
Pushing on for the next checkpoint the rain was back with a vengeance, and the next few miles as I climbed steadily towards the highpoint at Winchcombe and traversed the highest, most exposed, parts of the route were as much a battle against the conditions as the leg sapping climbing. It’s a shame too as this is a lovely part of the country, with far reaching views out across the Vale of Evesham and the flatter ground to the North, none of which could be seen today. Just sheets of rain to keep me company and the rivers running down the roads to avoid as I steadily made my way upwards and then turned, bringing the rain out of my face for the first time, to start heading back East (via a bit of a detour Northwards).
Apart from a brief interlude, during which I stopped to put on my leg warmers and wring my socks out, I think it rained steadily for the next few hours and I finally arrived at Towcester services, sodden, cold, and not quite as happy as I had been when I set off, just as darkness started to descend. A few brief words with the rider just in front of me who was getting ready to set off again, confirmed that it looked like the rain was set to stay for another few hours yet, and as he set off back into the growing darkness, I slunk into the services to grab some food and sort myself out ready for the night section. Trying to look inconspicuous whilst you slip off your shoes, tip the water out of them, and put on dry socks, adding some plastic bags in the process, in the hope that your feet may stay dry for a while (and even if they don’t the bags make a massive difference to how warm your toes stay) isn’t easy. But if I’m honest I don’t think that the little bit of water from my shoes made much of a difference to the puddle that was slowly spreading around me as dirty rainwater and road grime dripped from every orifice, but did make a massive difference to how my feet felt and almost certainly helped with getting through the night! Fed, watered and resupplied, the rain continued to teem down outside the windows and darkness had by now fully engulfed the roads. There were only 2 choices though, sit here all night, or get back outside and carry on. Donning my Down jacket (glad I bought it now), hat, and refitting my waterproof jacket with the hood pulled right up, I ventured back outside, pausing briefly to confirm to a coach party on their way back from some event or another, all dressed in their finery, that, yes, I was going back outside on my bike, and that yes, they had heard correctly, and I did say I had another 100 miles still to go! As I emerged back into the darkness and the rain hit me again, so did the drop in temperature and within seconds my teeth were chattering and my fingers numb, despite the extra layers and waterproofs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ As I headed out of Towcester, I was just in time to catch a supermarket before it closed for the night and in a moment of clear thinking, I dived in and grabbed a pair of washing up gloves. Despite the strange looks from the cashier, as I stood dripping, shivering, and struggling to get my card out with wet, numb fingers, this was a genius move on my part. Dry and warm hands for the first time in hours made a massive difference to both my morale and body temperature, and I suspect made the difference between me getting through the night and giving up. Bright yellow washing up gloves tucked into the sleeves of my jacket, hood snugged down under my helmet, with a hat beneath that, Down jacket kept dry by my waterproof jacket, 2 base layers, leg warmers, and with temporarily dry socks, protected by my newly fitted plastic bags, I was as well prepared for whatever else the weather threw at me as I could be, and as I set off again, soon warmed up to a more comfortable level. Considering it is mid-June and Friday was 30 degrees, I was now wearing far more than I would on the average January day and despite working as hard as I could, with tired legs and a long day already behind me, I was still only just managing to maintain my body temperature. Thank god, I’d packed a full set of kit and not scrimped despite the hot start to the day, or I’d have been in real trouble!
By the time I reached Market Harborough the rain had finally stopped, and as I departed, heading for the final control point at St Neots the skies slowly started clearing behind me, bringing with them a further temperature drop and a clear, star laden, sky.
Slowly progressing through the night, by 03:00 the very first signs of the approaching day started to change the colour of the eastern sky. First just the hint of a colour change, almost imperceptible from the glow from the towns and cities off on the skyline. But then a slow, but definite shift from black to grey, followed by a slight blue tint creeping into the sky. Eventually trees and buildings on the horizon started to become visible, growing from the darkness, as day slowly drove the night away and the world around me expanded back out from the small circle of light created by my lights, into the full panoramic view. Bringing with it a return of birdsong, as the birds in turn heralded the return of another day, and a feeling of relief as the sun slowly rose and started to warm the cold dawn air. ------------------------------------------------------ Arriving in St Neots just after 04:00, bar staff were just sweeping away the detritus from another night’s partying, and the police were busy dealing with the few remaining stragglers who feel their night isn’t complete without a fight or some destruction. Pondering how different my night had been to theirs, I pushed on for the final leg, tiredness now starting to rapidly catch up with me as my brain suddenly realised that I hadn’t slept since yesterday and had been on the bike for coming up for 20 hours. Eventually, as the sun grew bigger in the sky, I could overcome the tiredness in my eyes no longer and was starting to realise that if I didn’t do something about it soon, I was going to fall asleep on my bike and end up in a ditch. Spotting a handy field gate, I pulled up and leaning my bike against the gate, I in turn sat leaning against it, feeling the sun on my face and closing my eyes for the first time since Saturday morning. Seconds, or maybe minutes later, I woke with a start, still sat with my back resting on my bike, with the sun still shining on my face, but feeling a million times better. I can only have been asleep for 5- or ten-minutes tops but felt a million times better. The overwhelming tiredness was gone, and I wearily pulled myself back to my feet, treated myself to the last cookie that I’d be saving for just this occasion and pushed on, heading steadily back towards Stevenage and the finish. ------------------------------------------------------------------- By 06:30 I was back on the outskirts of Stevenage and minutes later rolled wearily to a stop, back at the same place I had started from 22 ½ hours before, to be greeted cheerily by the welcoming committee, (one man, hiding under a tree). 259 miles, 22.5 hours, hills, views, rain, too hot, too cold, pretty countryside villages, Owls in the night, quiet country lanes, busy towns wrapping up after a night’s partying, coach parties, clear skies, daybreak, an Ostrich in someone’s garden at dawn (or did I imagine that?) and did I mention rain? I’ll happily admit that this was a hard one, in some testing conditions. I’m not sure how many started, I’d be guessing at 20, but only 9 of us completed the route within the timeframe. If we’re generous and say that half the starters finished, all of whom would be experienced and competent long distance Randonneurs it gives a pretty good indication of how tough the night was.
If nothing else this was a good test of my kit choices and I feel everything proved it’s value, some many times over. My waterproof jacket was actually bought for running, and despite being stupidly expensive, kept me dry throughout the entire time. Likewise, my Down jacket kept me warm enough once the temperature dropped. Wet feet go with the territory, but the old plastic bag trick did the job admirably. Likewise, that cheap pair of washing up gloves proved a saving grace, keeping my hands warm and dry through the coldest, wettest hours.
My old-fashioned saddlebag effortlessly swallowed all that kit when it wasn’t required. With plenty of room to spare for extra rations and chocolate bars. Which helped maintain my morale and keep my energy levels up when all the shops were closed overnight and more surprisingly kept everything dry and easily accessible. Most importantly, I still had a lightweight sleeping bag and waterproof bivvy bag in reserve, strapped securely to my handlebars, taking up no space, and adding little weight, but providing the ultimate insurance policy if required. Yes, I’d agree that it wouldn’t have been a pleasant night out if I had stopped, but I could have found somewhere dryish, stripped off my wet layers and got into a warm and dry sleeping bag and survived the night with no problems. Good, sensible, kit choices, can, and do, make a massive difference to any event and are often the difference between enjoying a day out and suffering through it, and I can honestly say that despite the conditions I still had a good day out. I’ll grant you there were a few moments when I thought “what the hell am I doing here” but they were few and far between, and occur on any long ride. Likewise, the sense of satisfaction and achievement in completing any epic undertaking, especially when it’s that grim, is immeasurable, as is the knowledge gained from getting through a difficult night unscathed and still coming out the other side with a smile on your face. So, will I do another 400 or has this experience scared me off for life, and would I do anything different next time. Well, that’s a pretty easy one to answer, with a “hell yes” and a “certainly not”. Roll on the next one is all I can say!
Good news everyone, this week’s going to be short and sweet. Not because there’s nothing to talk about, there’s always something going on, but because what there is, is more of the same, and if I’m not careful I’m going to get behind again!
The main event for the weekend was the Hailsham Venta 300km Audax and not just a bog standard Audax, but a special one in to commemorate 100 years since the first official 300km Audax! Alright, it was hardly a celebration, but we did have special edition Brevet cards in recognition of the originals and did get a nice little memento to lug around the route with me.
There’s not a great deal to say about the day to be honest, the sun shone, the wind picked up in the afternoon, but by that time I was over halfway round and enjoyed a tail wind for most of the way back. The route was pretty flat for the first and last sections, with just a few lumps in the middle to slow proceedings down slightly, but certainly enough to cause any problems. And with the ideal conditions, great route choices and pretty scenery to occupy my mind, it turned out to be a fast day with the entire 300Km knocked off in exactly 14 hours, which is pretty fast for me!
I suppose it’s worth mentioning the incredulous look and baffled questioning from the service station cashier at the final checkpoint (approximately 170 miles), who’s innocent “Been far”, question earned the response of “Just 170 miles, with a few more to go yet”. Prompting a few rounds of “How far?”, “Miles?”, “That’s nuts” etc. And a similar brief conversation with someone else whilst I sat in the sun having an ice cream at the halfway point. Oh, and despite having said there’s not much to tell you about the ride, I can’t let it pass without mention of the warm welcome, great catering and outstanding cake selection at the 200km control point courtesy of the organiser’s wife. Outstanding doesn’t actually do their efforts justice!
Sunday was just a non-descript too. By the time I’d got home, gone shopping, had a couple of hours on the allotment catching up with the watering, made some jam from the first of the Strawberries and raspberries (strawberry/raspberry jam isn’t recommended, but it will be Ok in my morning porridge) and generally pottered around for a bit, that was the day done.
See, I told you, all pretty unexciting in the big scheme of things. I’m off to pastures new next weekend for a 400 km Audax which will hopefully give me something more interesting to talk about. Until them though you’ll just have to amuse yourself with a few pictures from the garden and a little bit of bodgery, making a new garden seat from an old one which was just fit for firewood.
Carrying on from my week of adventures, Thursday morning saw me in Cardiff bright and early for the start of the Au Pied De Cochon - Fruits De Mer 600 Km Audax, and when I say early, an 06:00 start is pretty early, even when all you've got to do is drag yourself out of bed, turn your bike up the right way and roll the 100 meters to the start.
600Km is also a surprisingly long way, but more surprising was the fact that I wasn't the only idiot stood on the start line, with there being a reasonable turn out for such an epic undertaking. Brevet card collected, first control point noted, GPS track loaded and on the stoke of 06:00 we were off, heading through the still quiet streets of Cardiff, bound for Sennybridge, via the Taff Valley and Brecon Beacons. With the sun shining from a cloudless sky, it wasn't long before the day started warming up and that coupled with the generally uphill gradient, as we climbed towards the Brecon Beacons, saw me stopped a couple of times shedding layers, whilst getting into the swing of things. Through the old mining villages that line the edge of the Taff, now redeveloped into technology parks and shopping centres we climbed, until the industrial scenery of our past gave way to the open moor land and dramatic hills of the Brecon beacons. The climb up to the Devils Elbow gave the old legs the first of what would be many good workouts, as the day progressed, resulting in a pause at the top of the climb to take in the scenery and catch my breath, again a theme that would be repeated throughout the day, as the climbs got steadily steeper, the views more dramatic and my legs more weary!
The briefest of stops at a roadside garage in Sennybridge provided the required Proof of Passage receipt, and then onwards, steadily climbing and descending through mile after mile of beautiful Welsh countryside, along smooth, traffic free (ish) roads, in the late spring sunshine. If there was a better way to spend your bank holiday weekend, I wasn't aware of it at the time and I was fully enjoying myself.
A long steady climb, followed by a longer, faster descent, saw Lampeter come and go, with just a quick stop to grab the first of what would be many, supermarket sandwiches, before the climbing started again as we headed for the coast and the first turn around point at Aberaeron. An ice cream sat in the sun at the coast with the tourists on a bank holiday, does an adventure get any more British than that? All I needed to do was replace my cycling helmet with a knotted hankie and I'd have been in full on tourist mode. There's not much time to take in the sights of this pretty little coastal village today though, as I'm only a ¼ of the way through this adventure and there's still the small matter of an awful lot of climbing to be dispatched before I can start to relax.
Having reached the Sea and gone as far as we can in one direction, it's a case of turn around and start heading in the other. The long steady gradients and flowing descents of the route up are replaced with shorter, sharper, leg sapping, hilly roads, as we cross the picturesque valleys, going against the grain of the land for the next couple of hours as I make my way steadily towards the next checkpoint at Llanybydder, where another brief pause sees that chance to refill empty water bottles and stretch tired muscles, before pushing on again into the afternoon sun.
As the afternoon wears on, so the miles continue to build. A short detour through a farmers field and across a style to avoid a road closure, due to what looks like a serious traffic accident on a fast bit of road, provides an unwelcome distraction and a reminder of the need for care on these roads. Roads that weren't designed for motor cars, let alone the speed we all insist on traveling at. Whilst all the while, the ongoing climbing and descending continues too keep my legs and lungs occupied. Eventually though Ammanford rolls into view and the chance for yet more supermarket sandwiches. This time augmented with a Danish pastry, in an attempt to get a few more calories into my now rapidly tiring legs. Whilst eating I exchange a few quick words with a couple of other riders, both in front and slightly behind, as we each replenish supplies and obtain the required proof of passage receipts, before heading on our own way, each riding our own adventures at our own pace. It's surprising though how closely grouped we still are after all this time!
Onward then, next stop Aberdare where we will re-join the route out for the final few miles back into Cardiff and the half way point. But first there's the small matter of re-crossing the edge of the Brecon Beacons again! Yet more miles of long climbs reduce my forward momentum to a crawl at times, as the days fatigue (not helped by an ultra marathon 3 days before), starts to tell it's toll. Tired legs, seemingly endless climbing and the days heat are telling on me and my morale takes a bit of a nose dive for a while.
Try as I might I'm finding it hard to stay focused and the last hour or so into Aberdare turns into a real mental battle and a horrible slog, gone are the joys of being outside and feeling the road under my wheels, to be replaced by a dread of the miles still to go, and a desire to get this over with. Eventually though Aberdare arrives and I find a Subway as I make my way through town. A 12” chicken sub with extra cheese and all the trimmings washed down with a chocolate cookie and bottle of pop works wonders for my well being, and I roll out of Aberdare shortly after arriving with a totally different frame of mind. Having got off the bike a shaking wreck just minutes before, drained, fatigued, tired and ready to quit, here I am 20 minutes later feeling, strong, refreshed and ready for the challenges ahead again. It's amazing the difference getting a few decent calories on board makes!
Reconnecting with the Taff valley for the run back to Cardiff makes for some fast, easy miles, as the route follows the flow of the river on it's gradual descent to the sea. By 21:00 I'm picking my way back through the streets of Cardiff, taking care to avoid the bank holiday party goers, as they make their way from one beer garden to the next party, enjoying their own bank holiday's, and making use, as I am, of the light evenings and warmer temperatures.
Half way then, and only slightly behind what I had as a rough schedule in my mind. I've got a choice now though. I can either take advantage of being back at the van and grab a couple of hours sleep, or push on, see how I feel later, and if need be, grab an hour in my bivvy bag at the roadside somewhere along the route. More food, whilst I get dressed into some warmer kit for the night section, replenish my water and weigh up my options. It's only 22:00 now and whilst I'm tied, (a really bad nights sleep Wednesday night, isn't helping matters) it's really too early to stop now, so I decide to push on for a couple of hours and see how things go.
By 22:30 I'm back on the road, joining the endless stream of taxi's transporting their cargos of tired party goers between Cardiff and Newport, as I in turn, head for Chepstow and the Seven bridge to take us back into England and more familiar territory for me.
My legs are feeling surprisingly good considering the days efforts so far, but the leg to the bridge seems much longer than I imagined it would be, and that starts playing tricks with my mind. Eventually though the bridge arrives and I make my way across the cycle path, with it's precipitous drop, into the invisible, fast flowing river hidden by the darkness far below. A quick check of the water situation shows that I've probably got enough without stopping at the services on the M48, and I push on, into the darkness, heading for Yate. By now it's coming up for 02:00 and I've covered another 40 miles since leaving Cardiff for the second time, bringing the days total up to approximately 220 miles. Coming to a grinding halt up a hill that isn't actually steep enough to normally cause me any problems forces my hand, and I decide I need to stop and get an hours sleep. A small patch of waste land just off the road, yields enough space to roll out my Bivvy bag between the nettles and brambles, and I slip on my down jacket, take of my shoes and wiggle myself into my sleeping bag, threading myself around the lumps in the ground! A couple of hours later I wake with a start and realise that it's light already. Crikey, I must have been tireder than I thought, as I've been out cold for 2 and a half hours and I don't think I've moved in all that time. Dragging myself back out of my warm Bivvy bag, into the cold dawn air, takes some will power. But I'm quickly packed up and back on the road again. Mind you that's not exactly hard when all you've got to do is put your shoes on, roll up your Bivvy bag and go! A supermarket cash point provides the required proof of passage just before 05:00, well ahead of the 06:30 control back stop time, and I push on, next planned stop Faringdon, to the West of Oxford.
I'll happily admit that this next leg very nearly broke me and took me to some pretty dark places in the never ending battle of mind over fatigue. I don't know why, but I was just so tired for the next couple of hours. So tired that it became a constant battle to keep my eyes open. As soon as I relaxed even slightly I could feel my eyes closing, and all I wanted to do was crawl off the bike and sleep. In fact I'm pretty certain that there were actually moments whilst I was still peddling that I was asleep!
Despite the pretty countryside villages, all decked in bunting ready for the Queens Jubilee celebrations, the beautiful early morning light, the birds flitting around ahead of me, as I passed slowly along the little country lanes that the route was following, I just couldn't shake the feeling of despondency, tiredness and overall fatigue that was dragging me down. Eventually at around 07:30 I found an open shop in a small village which yielded a bottle of water and a couple of warm pastry's, which I hungrily devoured sat on a bench on the village green, whilst considering my next move. I only had 2 options though, push on and finish this ride, or work out a way to slink back to Cardiff and the sanctity of the van, having not finished what I'd set out to achieve. There was 2 problems with option B, firstly that would involve quitting, and secondly, I was in the middle of nowhere and I'd guess that the closest train station was Swindon or Oxford, both of which were probably further away than Faringdon, so I might as well just push on! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As I finally approached Faringdon the sun started to work it's magic and warm up my tired body. Arriving just after 09:00 (26 hours after leaving Cardiff for the first time) I grabbed a sandwich and a can of pop, and slumped dejectedly on the floor to eat and lick my wounds. 12 miles to Burford for the next leg seemed achievable even in my tired state, and knowing this bit of road I knew it was fairly flat. Lets just do this and see how we go? Leg warmers off, shedding the final layers from the night section, and push off again, climbing slowly up the short hill to take me out of town. Well what do you know? That feels better. Gone is the overwhelming tiredness and the all consuming fatigue. That can of pop and bit of food seems to have done the trick again. My legs feel strong again, my mind feels clear and I'm picking up speed on the flatter roads. Was the whole problem a lack of calories and early morning caffeine? Either way, who cares, I'm back in the game! I'm in Burford less than an hour later enjoying an ice cream and chatting briefly to a passing American Tourist, who asks if I'm having a good day out. I reply with “any day on your bikes a good day” to which she smiles and agrees. There's no point in elaborating and telling her that this is actually day 2 and I'm nearly 280 miles into my ride with another 90 still to go. I mean, who's going to believe that? -------------------------------------------- Just three more 30 mile legs to go then, and the next one to Malmesbury shouldn't be too taxing. Flat, fast county roads, in the sun, what's not to like about that? Nothing it would appear, and a couple of hours later I'm sat in the town centre watching the world go by, whilst continuing my diet of supermarket sandwiches and fizzy pop! Onward then, the ends in sight now, next stop the services back at the Severn bridge that I'd gone past late last night. Pushing slowly on I'm soon back on the route from this morning, passing my overnight Bivvy spot in the afternoon sunshine, which now transpires to be on a busy A road. So unbelievably different from last night and early this morning when I passed this way. Just as I start to drop into Olveston, which is in the middle of a massive tea party on the village green, I'm distracted by the sound of Rolls Royce Merlin Aero engines and look skywards just in time to see a fly past of the Battle Of Britain Memorial Flight Lancaster, accompanied by a Spitfire and Hurricane on each wing tip, something that's always guaranteed to bring a smile to my face. I'm further amused as I arrive at the M48 services for my final checkpoint, on the tail end of a vintage tractor convoy. Not what you ever expect at a motorway services (like a cyclist is) but this is the second time I've been in this situation at these services over the years, and it's not like I come here often. Strange! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Right, just 30 miles more to push, and my legs are feeling it now, as I crawl up and over the hump of the Severn Bridge again and start the long slog back along the A48 to Cardiff. A road sign telling me that it's still 13 miles to Newport causes my heart to sink a little and I'll admit that this was another tough bit of riding. Not as tough as that early morning leg, but pretty hard going, along a busy A road with some fast traffic and not a great deal to take my mind of the slog. The miles slowly pass though and eventually Newport arrives where I make my way through the traffic laden streets, suffering the stench of exhaust fumes for the first time in 2 days, and putting up with shouted comments from a couple of idiots in their chav mobiles! Nothing out of the ordinary there though, and nothing to slow me down, just a last few miles to go and I'm home. Back on the A48 for the last stretch and the road surface is rough and unrelenting, as is the traffic speeding past on my right hand side. Spotting a petrol station ahead, I pull in for one final break and treat myself to a final chocolate bar (or maybe 2 just to see me though those last few miles) then push on. Back in Cardiff, I pick up the traffic again, as the shoppers start heading for home. No chance to relax now, as I thread my way along the busy streets, using every ounce of my limited road craft to keep myself safe amongst the distracted drivers, all busy chatting to their fellow car occupants, playing on their phones, or otherwise daydreaming, paying little attention to the tired cyclist making their way alongside them. But finally, 379 miles and 36 and a half hours since setting off from this very spot, the van looms into view, still sat patiently waiting for my return, exactly where I left it (I was a bit worried about that as it wasn't exactly a safe parking location!). Triumph, jubilation, a victory of perseverance, despite some pretty bleak moments, and most importantly the chance to have a brew and take my shoes off. Job done!
Having had a chance to sit down, get some much deserved sleep, generally sort my life out, and reflect on this weeks ride, I can only really say, BRILLIANT! It was fantastic route, across some testing terrain (especially the first half) which, without a doubt, tested me to my limits. A situation which probably wasn't helped by my little run on the Monday. But most importantly, I came out on top, having learned a little bit more about what I'm capable of and what can be achieved with a little bit of perseverance and mind over matter.
More surprisingly, I felt pretty good after a good nights sleep, certainly capable of getting back on the bike and pushing out a few more miles if I needed to, which is a promising sign and proof that if you look after your body correctly and take care, you can do some pretty amazing feats of endurance. I think my text to “The Emma” to let her know I was safe at the end sums it up pretty well; “Safe. Today was hard and yesterday just plain brutal, totally knackered. -------- When's the next one”? Surprisingly, after a good nights sleep and a good stretch, my legs didn't feel too bad on Tuesday morning. There was a time when 40 miles would have finished me off for a week, so I must be getting better at this running lark as the years go by. Mind you, there was a time when running 50 yards to catch a bus seemed like a stupid idea, let alone a marathon or more! Amongst other things though, the whole point of being down in Welsh Wales was to take advantage of the scenery, and today's plan involved Pen y Fan amongst other things. There's a nice route that takes you up to the summit the long way from the less visited side, and also picks up Corn Du and a couple of other peaks whilst it's at it, making for a good day out, and adding a few more miles to my legs (as if they need that!) Another early start and a short drive, saw me ready to go just before 9, on what looked to be a changeable sort of day, with a strong, cold, wind blowing down the valley as I set off. Cold and windy on the valley floor, never bodes well for the higher ground and I doubled back to grab an extra couple of layers from the van, just in case, before setting off proper. An easy mile along the valley floor to warm my legs up and then it's straight up the side of the valley to gain the ridge for the ascent up to Pen y Fan. That certainly woke my legs up and reminded me that those 40 miles yesterday weren't for free, no matter how good my legs felt! A couple of pauses on the way up to take in the view, and keeping a steady (slow) pace, soon saw the top hove into view, and with it the first of many opportunities to stand, mouth agape, and take in the majesty of the views around me. Gaining the valley top, sees the gradient level off and with it the full force of that cold wind came into play, whipping across the rim, whistling round my walking poles and sending the sheep looking for cover behind anything they could find on the windswept barren landscape. A brief stop on the summit of Corn Du, where a few T shirt wearing day trippers stood shivering in the full force of the wind, having made their way up the more direct approach, showed how easy it could be to get caught out in these unforgiving landscapes if your not fully prepared! Dropping back off the summit, heading for Pen y Fan, provided a sharp reminder of how much easier going uphill is to downhill, as muscles still tired from yesterdays efforts, screamed in protest. A quick reminder to my legs that they could moan all they want, “at some point we were going to have to go down hill", and "it only hurts for a bit anyway", soon did the trick, and with frequent stops to take in the never ending vista's I made my way along the steep escarpment to pick up the opposite valley side and head back towards the van. A brief rain shower did little to dampen my spirits as I climbed the final ascent for the day, although it did delay my lunch stop for a few minutes. There's not many things in life worse than trying to eat your sandwiches when the winds trying to whip the filling out of the middle and the rains filling your flask back up with cold water faster than you can drink the hot tea out of it! Eventually though, like all good things the days adventures had to draw to a close, and with one final glance at the view I turned to put the wind on my back and head back towards the van, where a hot brew and a chance to sit in the sun for a couple of hours beckoned. Not a bad day out then and another 11 miles added to the years meagre walking total. I'm going to have to come back at some point in the future and run this route though, as it's a cracker and I must admit that a runner coming past and heading off down the steep North side on his own adventure had me staring wistfully after him and considering throwing off my walking boots and joining him. Tired legs and sore knees or not, there's something magical about running that you just can't replicate with walking!
Hello again. For those of you that noticed there wasn't a blog entry last week, I'm back. And for everyone else, why didn't you notice? In case you were wondering, there's no blog entry for last week because I've been having a 9 day weekend, and that means that I've been busy trying to fill those 9 days up with adventures, and other really useful and exciting stuff! With it being the Jubilee and having 2 bank holidays in a row, it seemed like a good idea to just stick an extra couple of days leave on the start and take advantage of the free time off, so that's exactly what I did. So what have I been up to with my time off? Well, for a starters I've been running, walking and playing bikes, I've spent a few hours on the allotment, done a bit of gardening at home, and generally pottered around, doing nothing much. But of the bits that are worth talking about, lets start with a bit of trail running. Now, in one of my customary moments of stupidity I'd signed up for a 600K Audax over the bank holiday, which started in Cardiff (more of which later). Never one to turn down an opportunity though, that seemed like a good excuse to both go and see “The Boy” and get a bit of running and walking in, in the Brecon Beacons, at the same time. As such I took the van down to Abergavenny for a starters, with a loose plan to pick up The Beast of the Blacks route, which I'd run and enjoyed last year, from there, having made a few alterations to the original route in order to knock a few miles off. An early start Tuesday morning, saw me making my way slowly up the stupidly steep side of the Sugar Loaf mountain, long before most normal people were even awake, let alone out running, on what was a chilly morning with a forecast for rain later in the day (hence the early start). Well wrapped up against the cold May wind (it's not very often that you get to say that), it was definitely worth dragging myself out of bed for though. The Skylarks were singing their hearts out, off in the distance a Cuckoo was calling, Sheep, with their rapidly growing Lambs in tow, made way for me on the track, and coming to the top the view opened out into a spectacular vista. The biggest problem with this part of the world is that if you stopped for every breath-taking view you would never get anywhere, so a quick pause for a photo and push on, following the path down the other side and setting the scene for what would be a repeating theme throughout the day, climb, admire the view, descend, whilst admiring the view, and repeat, ad infinitum, or at least until my legs said enough! From the peak of the Sugar Loaf it's a good few miles of pleasant downhill running before the spectre of Crug Hywel (Table mountain) rears it's head from amongst the pleasant wooded lanes of the valley floor and the climbing starts again. Gently at first, but soon enough, the inclines taken your breath away, and your reduced back to a fast walk, or as fast as my little legs can manage. Ever so slowly though I inch my way through the green fields at the bottom of the climb and move into open moorland, Bracken gives way to low laying heather as the height increases, and as I get higher still, so the footpath disappears, to be replaced by making my way in the general direction along sheep tracks and through the peaty moorland. The route I'm roughly following, reaches the top and then descends again to pick up Macnmaras passs, but I elect to divert and hold the higher ground, making my way along yet more sheep tracks and along random dead ends to hold the high ground, following the ridge round to eventually meet back up with the track as it climbs Waun Fach, with it's far off views towards Pen y Fan, and lung busting gradient. From here things get a bit easier for a few miles as I track along the Hay escarpment, where after nearly 3 hours on the move I see the first other people, in the form of a group of youngsters out on a Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme adventure. No time to stand chatting though, as despite the sun shining brightly there's a cold wind whipping over the ridge and it's too chilly to stop. And why would I want to stop when there's an ever better view around every corner! Crossing the Gospel Pass I make my way back onto the higher ground again, and follow the path along the hill tops. Working steadily along a path that's been paved with flagstones to avoid the thick muddy ooze below and limit the erosion from hundreds of feet, which makes for some easier running. A couple of miles later I have a choice to make, drop off the high ground to go into Longtown, with another leg burning climb afterwards, or stay high up, dropping off the high ground later to descend into Llanthony, with it's ruined Abbey. It's not a hard choice to make and I elect to stay on the high ground, making my way slowly along the well surfaced track, stopping briefly to chat with a couple of walkers and diverting slightly to avoid a group of ponies, each with a young foal in tow who have made the path their home for the day. The precipitous and knee killing descent into Llanthony gives a different set of muscles a work out and it's with relief that I reach the flatter ground in front of the Abbey, where I take advantage of a clear, fresh, fast flowing stream of fresh mountainside water to refill my water bottle, whilst I sit for a few minutes on the bank side, taking in the view and getting some calories on board. Calories that will be much needed in the next few minutes as I need to regain all the height that I've just lost getting down here, in order to regain the Hatterrall Ridge for the next leg. Lunch (if you can call 5 minutes getting as much food down your neck as you can, lunch) over and I'm back on my feet again, pushing as hard as I can back up the steep valley side. Steadily making my way through the trees that manage to cling to existence at this slightly lower level, before breaking back out onto the open hillside and resuming my steady plod. I'm on the last stretch now and I can see the Sugar Loaf, looming large on the horizon in front of me, I suspect though that it's further away than it looks and there's at least 1, if not 2 more valley crossings to go yet. Descending off the Hatterrall Ridge for the final time, the scenery gets less dramatic, the open moor land and far off views being replaced with wooded valleys and small, neatly hedged and fenced fields of lush green grass, winter pasture for the hardy moor land sheep who are currently away grazing on the young sweet heather and bracken tops, helping in their own way to maintain this pristine landscape. A steep descent, followed immediately by an even steeper and longer climb signals that the end is in sight, but the climb takes it's final toll on my already tired legs, and having slogged relentlessly through the steepest section, once the gradient lessens I still can't summon the strength, either physical or mental, to resume running. Knowing that I need to keep something in the bank for the real focus of my efforts later in the week I'm happy to walk the last couple of miles, and maintain a fast walk for the remaining distance as I slowly make my way back onto the Sugar Loaf and home. And to be honest, in the late afternoon sun, with the birds still singing, the views to occupy my mind and not having to watch my every footfall, it's a pleasant few miles.
No more rubbing back pack, no more jarring feet and knees, no more heavy breathing, just peace, solitude and the wind in my ears. A touch under 40 miles then, across some pretty hilly terrain, self supported and just for a change I didn't get lost. That's not a bad day out by my reckoning, and with a time of 9:22 it wasn't an overly long day out either, leaving plenty of time to sort my life out, ready for tomorrows adventure! |
Paul PerrattOld enough to know better, young enough to still feel invincible, stupid enough to keep on trying the same thing again and again. Cyclist, Gardener, Runner, Hiker, Cook, Woodworker, Engineer, Jack of all trades and master of none, Anti social old git and all round miserable bugger. Archives
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