I am not a singlespeeder

Moving House

2010-12-07T09:07:00.002Z

My waffle is moving... from now on, you'll be able to find blog posts here:

http://www.aidanharding.com/

Yes, it seems incredibly vain to have my own domain. Suitably, I'll explain in a later blog post but, for now, go have a look. You can read about Mistakes not to make on the Iditarod Trail.

Nice

2010-11-23T21:56:00.002Z

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

2010-11-18T14:54:00.003Z

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.

Training Philosophy

2010-09-29T18:35:00.003+01:00

Entering back into training, and I'm thinking about it. About how much is enough, and what I'm really aiming for.

I seem to do less than other people with similar goals. I seem to do too much to have any time outside training. I seem to do enough to get by and go the places I want to go when the event rolls around.

But what is it that I'm aiming for at this point? Can I ever put my finger on a single goal and say, "When I can do that, I will be ready"? The answer is no. I might think that doing regular 12 hour rides every weekend is about where it's at, but I didn't get that far before the Tour Divide. I only got up to 10 hours.

What I had instead of the 12 hour rides was more important. What I had was belief. Belief that I would finish under anything other than the most extreme circumstances. It wasn't gung-ho over-confidence, but an underlying sense that I had physical resources to draw on and a knowledge of my body.

For these multi-day things, I think it comes down to the trail moulding you. My aim is to shape myself into something like what the trail needs me to be. To also be flexible enough to adapt myself to its mould when I'm out there.

That is the goal of my training. At all sports, I lope. I don't sprint. But I keep loping. Tonight's run was 10km in about 45 minutes. Little bits of pain in my legs to begin with. Toast wanting to come back up part way through. But at ease in the last 5 minutes. In the rain and encroaching darkness, that's what I'm looking for.

Must eat fewer pies

2010-09-24T22:18:00.003+01:00

I am a bit over racing weight at the moment. In fact, until his drug habit was revealed, I was feeling like the MTB Ricky Hatton. It's the luxury of only doing one big race a year - I can lay off for a while and do other stuff.

But I'm back on the training now. Unfortunately, my cranks weren't ready for it:

That's not really what you want to happen on a solo night ride, but I wasn't hurt when they broke so I managed to get plenty more practise with the one-leg drills riding home.

Full Circle

2010-08-27T21:08:00.004+01:00

Way back in 2000, I was sitting on a train out of central Birmingham. I saw a free newspaper and, flicking through, I saw an advert: "Ride from London to Paris for the NDCS".

Back then, I was did no sport. I was crazy about music, my friends were all crazy about music, and I even played in a band. When I read that advert, I wished that I could do something like that ride. I had recently finished my degree and was trying to take a positive attitude to life. It was the commitment to positivity that made me question my immediate reaction: Why wish I could do it? Why couldn't I do it?

Soon after, I had signed up to do the ride and bought what I thought was a nice bike. I couldn't understand why the shop had tried to convince me to buy the lighter one. The lighter one was a bit cheaper, but it didn't have a suspension fork and the steering felt too fast. The shop said it was better, but I wanted stability and that suspension looked cool.

So it was a mountain bike-shaped-object that I propped up against the wall of the lab. And it was the same bike-shaped-object that prompted a fellow student to invite me mountain biking.

We went to Coed-Y-Brenin. Packing the bike into the car, I deflated my tyres to get them past the brake blocks. When we got there, I thought my friend looked ridiculous in his purple cycling jacket and tights. I thought that there couldn't be that big a difference between his suspension fork and mine. They looked pretty similar. I thought that the Race Face sticker on his bike was pretty funny... What a stupid name.

It was raining, but we set off into with me dressed in heavy cotton clothes. I could not believe how tough this was. My head span and the stupid gears wouldn't change, especially when I was pedalling hard and really needed them. I wanted to take short cuts, but my friend wasn't having it. We'd driven for hours to get here.

When the impossible climbing was over, we turned to riding along terrifyingly thin trails. Everything was pointy rocks, and built up so that I felt like I'd stumbled into Kickstart. It wasn't so bad - if I kept looking right down at my tyre, I could make sure it was on-line but stuff kept surprising me as I hit it. Then, at the end of the narrow bit, the track dropped down vertically to a gravel road. I just hit the brakes hard. "You can't ride that on a bike", I said. When my friend rode it and it looked much less vertical, but I pushed down to be on the safe side.

The rain just kept coming, and my clothes were heavy with it. My trousers kept catching on the saddle. Somehow, though, this was the most fun I'd had in years.

More downhill narrow stuff, and there was a serious guy behind me. He started shouting abuse at me and I wanted to get out of the way, but I was braking as hard as I could manage and just hanging on. I wished I wasn't holding him up.

We let a load of people past before my friend and I made our way down to the end of the trail. It ended with a confusing maze of roots. Every one looked slippery, but my perspective had changed since we set out. People could ride bikes on this stuff. So I tried.

And I failed. The pointy bar-ends caught me on the inside of my thigh as I crashed over them. I was OK-ish. It hurt to walk, and I needed a cup of tea, but I would be OK.

Before London to Paris came around, I had dumped the bike-shaped-object and laid down £500 on a Specialized. Again, it felt like it had twitchy handling, but I realised that it was a good thing. It was precision, and soon it was natural.

I kept riding off-road and trying to learn about this sport. Crashing on every ride, making friends to ride with, and generally having a fine old time. I couldn't believe how fast my mind had to work on the bike, and how much technique there was to all this.

So, I rode out of London as a "mountain biker". I arrived in Paris with another new idea of what bikes could do and how they could bring people together.

10 years later, and just last weekend I travelled from London to Paris again. This time working as a guide with a fair bit of cycling experience behind me. And I had the privilege to see people exceeding their expectations and extending their boundaries. I had the pleasure of Northern France and their farmer's hay-sculpture.

It's good to look back and seen how transforming cycling has been for me. To remember how many things seem natural now, but were alien then. I'm lucky to have the chance to share people's discovery of cycling. I just try to share the enthusiasm without all the crap we think is necessary. And it's great.

Weirdly, I'll soon be going back to Birmingham for the kind of music that drove my life back then. Swan, Godflesh, and Napalm Death all together at the Supersonic Festival. Moving forward, but not forgetting where I came from (until beer intervenes).

I'm crap at pedalling

2010-08-07T20:56:00.004+01:00

It's that in-between time now where I don't have any big adventures sufficiently close to have to be training. Usually, this means a bit more time away from bikes and spending what biking time I have playing about - trying to improve technique and just have fun. Essentially, falling off a lot.

Weirdly, it hasn't been like that this time. A combination of Emily being away, and me working from home has resulted in all-day-eating and my mind being stuck in a very small rut. The answer? Keeping up with somewhat big miles until Emily is back :)

Technique-wise, I have been looking at my pedalling, though. I've always suspected it wasn't good but I finally took Adam's suggestion and tried some 1-legged time on the turbo-trainer. It was even worse than I'd imagined. With one leg against the resistance of the machine, I could feel how little of the time I was actually driving the pedal. I jerked and clanked against the cleats. My left leg was way weaker than my right. I felt like a cheap puppet being operated by a drunk.

Turbo-training in the shed... yes the puddle is sweat!

And that's how I pedal... terribly.

It's easy to take for granted that there is no technique to the pedalling part of mountain biking. With all the corners and the mud and the stuff to jump over. The only comparison I can make is to swimming. I can spot a poor swimmer, even if they're moving quicker than average, by their lack of economy. You can see lots of unnecessary movement and splashing rather than efficient forward motion. So swimmers go and do drills. In the last couple of years, I've even done some of these drills. And suddenly it challenged the individual parts of my stroke, bringing improvements when I put things back together.

I don't expect such a dramatic change from pedalling drills, but the thought of "free speed" is mighty appealing. Maybe I don't just have to mash up and down on those pedals like a dumb singlespeeder. Turbo training, riding without a camelbak, tubeless tyres. What next road bikes, gears, and leg shaving? No!

Alone

2010-08-02T20:00:00.002+01:00

2700 miles. Canada to Mexico. Alone.

That's the strapline for the Ride The Divide film. It's easy to focus on the first part of that statement, but the gravity of the final word is not apparent until you go there.

Alone.

No-one to support you, no-one to love, no-one to share with. At times on the Divide, there's only dust and wind. And there's no help in screaming at the wind... I tried that and it neither f**ked off or turned around. The land can extend to all horizons with no features giving you either beautiful solitude or mind-eating vastness.

For a long time during the race, it wasn't a burden to be alone. It was a change from normal life and allowed me to have a Singular (subtle branding!) purpose. I could get on with just riding and being. But the burden crept up on me. By the final miles of the Divide, I decided to ride it out and get to Antelope Wells. Largely so that I could arrive that night and sooner be with people again.

While I was riding, I would sometimes imagine being at home, or out to dinner. Sharing the day and the night; some food and some drink. It would be so great to really live in a moment and not in the continuum of the race. I wanted the ease of the understanding and the bright thoughts of others.

And I wanted to ride with others. I wanted to chase and race for no reason. Face the bad weather with humour, face the dry and fast trails with anticipation. To have someone laugh at me when I fell off. Have someone to goad through the corners if they backed off.

But in the first couple of weeks of being back, the "alone" has continued to pile up. In riding I've missed people with good excuses (training for national champs) and bad excuses (feeling a bit tired) but it meant that even after being home for two weeks I hadn't shared a single ride.

So my return to the UK was plodding round the same old places. Not fast, not training. Just feeling like a ghost who didn't know any better.

Thank goodness Sam asked me to race for Singular: a weekend of bikes, beer, and hanging out? Yes, please.

We had a team of 5 for the 24 hour race at Bontrager 24/12 and it was fantastic to meet the guys. It wasn't a group ride, but it was something just as good. There is some common thread connecting those of us who race solo endurance events and it was a fun change for us to work together. They spurred me on harder than I have raced in a long time. To the point of riding that fine line between success and disaster, to the point of effort that I can only just sustain crank up towards the finish so that I collapse straight after crossing the line.

Part of the reason I want to do things like the Tour Divide is because they do make you appreciate what you've got. I appreciated that I was able to be there, in those beautiful places and travelling huge distances. But more than that, I appreciated what is here at home. It looks like I won't be writing a blow-by-blow account of riding the Divide, but bits and pieces like this will probably escape along the way...

Post Tour Divide Answers

2010-07-06T17:32:00.002+01:00

Well, the Tour Divide is over for me in 2010. It was an outstanding experience. From meeting other riders in Banff, to the varied environments of the trail, to the many people in businesses along the trail who encouraged me despite the smell and the voracious appetite, it was great. I'm going to try to tie some thoughts together more coherently over the next few days, but first some answers to questions people asked on here or elsewhere while I was riding:

What the heck happened in the first few days?

As a few people guessed, I forgot how to set up the SPOT in tracking mode. My brain was pretty addled, and they're not super accurate in some situations anyway so the track the SPOT showed didn't really reflect where I had gone.

My rear tyre, a Kenda Small Block 8 tore away from the bead about 15 miles out from Elkford. It had been a very tight fit on Stans 355 rims (tyre levers required to fit it) and just went bang on a flat gravel trail. I bodged it with gaffer tape and toothpaste tube to get to Elkford but when I got there I was told there was no bike shop. In the words of the woman at a campsite, "We have to go out of town to buy underwear". As it turned out, there is some bike servicing there from Shem at Elkford Bikes. He didn't have any 29er tyres, though (he will for next time!) so I had to stop early for the night and he gave me a ride to Fernie in the morning. I managed to get a Maxxis Crossmark which fitted much better and I was back on the road from Elkford by 12.00pm.

It was frustrating sitting in Fernie, waiting for the bike shop to open but it was great to meet Shem and being at the back gave me a chance to meet lots of other riders and I made my way up the TD.

Why didn't I call in much?

To begin with, I just wanted to get going and get into the race. After that, I was finding it difficult even when I wanted to. Thinking about what to say on a call-in was something that passed the time on some boring sections, but then it would be ages before I could manage to call and I would forget everything. I think it's one of the difficulties of not being American when you're doing this. I don't automatically know where to look for phones and I didn't have a US mobile phone to call in from.

I know that the call-ins add to the race, but I just found it hard to do!

The bike and the recovery drink

I took about 2.5kg of recovery drink with me because I've found it makes a big difference in training. It was good to hear from Matthew Lee in Banff that you can't really train for the Divide, but the first week adapts your body to the demands of the trail. That had been my thought with the recovery drink, and that's why I carried it. It was also handy to be able to sup a few hundred calories straight away to keep the stomach-beast at bay before going on to find real food. I was using chocolate orange Torq Recovery, which usually seems quite thick but just seemed like a normal drink on the Divide :) I did ask them for freebies and they said no, but you can't deny, it's good stuff!

The bike was an absolute joy. The Singular Swift is a well finished, lightweight, lovely handling steel frame. The EBB performed perfectly, I tightened the chain once during the race (and it was getting a bit slack again by the end). Tyres aside, that was all of the maintenance I did. To be on the safe side, I got Orange Peel Bikes in Steamboat to replace the drivetrain and I absolutely needed a new rear tyre by then. The full spec was:

Singular Swift frame w/ Phil Wood EBB (standard on the frame)
On One rigid carbon forks
Hope Pro 2/Stans 355 29er wheels
Kenda Small Block 8 tyres, then Maxxis Crossmark, then WTB Vulpine. Crossmarks were the best
Chris King headset
Hope 90mm stem
Easton EA90 bars
Cane Creek Ergo bar-ends
Thomson post
Flite Saddle
XT disc brakes with 160mm Ashima rotors and Ashima pads
Hope BB
Shimno XT cranks
Shimano M520 pedals
On One 32t steel chainring (swapped for Salsa 32t at Steamboat)
On One 18t cog (swapped for Surly 18t at Steamboat)
SRAM 9spd chain

Tyres aside (again!), there's nothing I'd really change from that. Money-no-object, I could shave off a few grams with lighter cranks, pedals, and brakes. Tyres-wise, I'd start with Crossmarks or maybe Nanoraptors. The Vulpine is too much of an XC race tyre and didn't have enough grip for the odd bit of steep dusty/gravelly climb on a SS. The Small Block 8, clearly let me down badly but maybe I was just unlucky.

That's it for now... Thanks for all the encouragement!

Yippee he's done it!

2010-07-01T09:21:00.002+01:00

Aidan has just called and he has finished!

He sounds pretty good and has just had a massive cooked breakfast plus huge pancakes with whipped cream!

Now he is going to get some rest before catching a bus to LA where he is going to spend his remaining time with his buddies.

What an amazing job 2796 miles in 19 days 14 hours and 12 minutes!

Apparently New Mexico was a tough part to ride through, lots of straight, flat featureless miles.

Anyway I am thrilled that he is done and I can't wait to see him next week.

Maybe the next update will be Aidan as I have to shoot to work now!

Well Done Aidan you are a super star! xxx

Hurrah! It's the final countdown!

2010-06-30T13:39:00.002+01:00

I am so excited that Aidan is nearly at the finish! I have butterflies flapping wildly around in my stomach.

He stopped last night 48.76 miles from Silver City (his last check point!)It looks as though he is still there but I reckon we will see signs of movement in half an hour or so.

Once he has reached Silver City he then has the last 133 miles to go!!!! Wahoo that is less than what he has been clocking up each day! The prediction chart thinks that he will make it in on the 20th day and 5 hours. The single speed record is 19 days and 16 mins and so Aidan may just miss that but who cares!

I think we can all say that he has done such an amazing job out there, To be in 4th place and only a tad behind the single speed record for your first time at this Epic journey is pretty darn impressive.

I am wondering whether he is going to keep his head down and try to do the whole 181.76 miles in a day, I wouldn't put it past him as I suppose he doesn't have to save himself for any more days of riding! We will just have to wait and see. Personally I think he will get in somewhere in the 19 day mark.

For anyone who hasn't seen Aidan as a film star take a look at this link:

http://vimeo.com/12875148

I had to chuckle as I have written Aidan some letters that he can open along the way, for the letter at the finish there is something else inside the envelope that will be of use to him after one of the comments made by him on the video. I will not put the answer yet as I am aware that Aidan has had internet access and so I'd hate to ruin the surprise but I will reveal all tomo when he finishes!

Anyway let us all think of Aidan give him some shouts of encouragement and see him to the finish line!!!

GO ON Aidan you can do it!!!!

Podium finish?

2010-06-25T20:30:00.002+01:00

Ok so i've just listened to people calling in. Aidan is saying that he is going to up the pace now and push into the night a bit more.

Eric who is in 3rd place called into say that he is going to slow the pace as he is going to burn out if he continues at the pace that he has been doing.

Aidan is exactly 1 day behind him, can he push into the the night and catch him....... I reckon so. This week could prove rather exciting.

GO on Aidan you can do it!

Sad times

2010-06-25T00:16:00.003+01:00

Hi All

Firstly Aidan is fine and doing well. He is in 4th position and heading towards Salida.

I felt that I should update the blog as Aidan has been riding alongside Dave Blumenthal for a good part of the race. Yesterday however Aidan went on ahead. I am so relieved that he did as Dave had a head on collision with a car/truck and sadly died today in hospital. It is one of those times that life seems circumstantial and I thank God that Aidan was not caught up in the accident.

I can't imagine what Dave's family must be going through, but my thoughts as i'm sure yours and many others are with his wife and daughter.

I never met Dave but it seems so surreal but it also highlights what a major event this is and how all the racers are taking a level of risk to fulfil their dreams.

May everyone remain safe for the remainder of this event and I hope that this terrible news spurs the racers on in Daves memory rather than wearing them down.

Aidan is on track to finish next Wednesday, I'll be glad when he's at the end. If you would like to see some pictures of Aidan and other riders use this link:

http://www.mountainflyer.com/news.cfm?itemid=397

For those who chase dreams xxx

Two more states to go!

2010-06-22T22:08:00.002+01:00

Hello!

Well, how exciting is this race?! I could barely get enough signal on my phone whilst I was away camping at the weekend to follow Aidan, but when I could I was so happy to see him still eating up the miles. Now I have regular access again, it is truly amazing to see him moving up to 6th/7th place. Damn he's doing well! The first half is over and he is about to leave Wyoming and enter Colorado then hopefully it is all downhill from there into New Mexico!

I haven't heard from him since last week and so it was great to hear his voice on the online call in that the racers ring to say that all is ok. He was very upbeat and still had a good sense of humour as he asked if it was the tour divide complaint line as he would like to make a complaint.......... The race is way too long!!!!! He also commented that everyone is really nice to ride with, the scenery is amazing and he also said thanks to all of those who have sent him texts of encouragement!

I bet he makes it to Steamboat Springs by the time I wake up in the morning.

I have to admit that I have been doing a small tour divide of my own, in fact tour of Richmond borough! I am trying to get fit for this coast to coast that I have roped Aidan into doing with me in Scotland this September, he will find the 47 mile bike ride and other stuff through the highlands a piece of cake. So as to not make him have to walk pushing his bike beside me as I cycle at my fastest I have been going on 20 mile bike rides and they are killing me! There is one hill in Richmond Park that is frankly quite rude and results in bad language and puffing! I already had a lot of respect for all these crazy riders that are happy to go 130-140 miles a day, day in, day out but now I have the utmost respect for them although I think it is still highly insane!

So carry on pedalling Aidan, it is getting to the point now where I really can't wait to see him, if I could stretch my arm all that way, I would and give him a gentle push so that I could speak to him sooner when he finishes.

Hopefully this time next week I can report back that he has finished or is on his last day!

For those in the UK, enjoy this wonderful sunshine!

Adios Emily

Speeding up!

2010-06-19T00:14:00.002+01:00

Ok just a quick update as I am away this weekend and so will not be able to forward any info on.

Aidans last text was a couple of days ago and he mentioned that the tough part was "wet and nasty at the end". He has however managed to grab a chance to get some laundry done! Maybe the Mexicans won't be able to smell him coming after all!

He is now on a stretch in which he said he was going to start bivvying. This is helping him to cover a good amount of ground as he's starting the day nice and early. At the moment he has managed to move himself up to 8th place and has got a mention in the race up dates for the fact that he is making impressive progress and on a single speed!

Thanks for all your messages, I have been passing them on in texts, I have a funny feeling that he is going to get bombarded with about 8 from me when he next turns his phone on.

Taylor I have texted him, asking him to call in and I have given him the number on the website, for the rest of you, if he calls in, we can finally hear how he is sounding!

Anyway, if have more news I will update on Monday.

TTFN and have a good weekend!

Tough cruising

2010-06-16T22:29:00.003+01:00

Hi

Just a quick update to say that I have heard from Aidan. He confirmed that the spot wasn't working but he was too tired to work it out, however he is loving the riding, generally cruising well and no complaints about sore knees or tummy upsets (others are complaining of these things when you read the race updates).

He said that yesterday was tough but everyone was finding this. Looking at the groups progress today, it looks as though it is another tough day and taking a closer look at the terrain confirms this.

He is doing so well though as he has climbed to about 11th place, 10 people have scratched already and he should be at Butte, the fourth check point by the end of the day!

Our thoughts are with you Aidan! Just keep pedalling like you tell me to just keep swimming!

He's moving!

2010-06-14T08:57:00.002+01:00

Hurrah Aidan is on the move and it would seem that he has been for quite a while as he has made it across the American border and is now in the town of Whitefish!

Whitefish is the 3rd checkpoint and has taken 2 days 12 hours and 21 minutes to get there and is 367.3 miles into the journey. I'm thinking the spot decided to have a break from reporting back!

Its great to know that he is well on his way, we can all relax and enjoy the ride!!!

Go Aidan!

Tour divide so far....

2010-06-13T22:02:00.002+01:00

Hello!

Whilst Aidan is away I am updating his blog with information that I know.

So far things are quite varied.

He started well, he was in 5th place for most of the first day (Friday) and then he began to drop back a few places. He then stopped at Elkford. I thought nothing of this stop as Aidan had mentioned that he may stay in towns/accomodation for the first 3 days due to these areas being known for bears. However, Aidan was slow to set off which is unlike him. Usually he is up at daybreak so as to maximise the number of hours that he can travel in daylight. I did begin to wonder even more as to what was going on by the time that I realised that it was 9am and still no action. I then recieved a text from Aidan saying that he was experiencing his first technical problem.....his tyre gave out! This happened before he reached Elkford, he bodged it and limped the rest of the way.

Saturday therefore started with hitching a lift to the next town, Fernie, so as to get a new one. This set him back by half a day, then he was on his way.

With the problem dealt with, Aidan raced on and making good progress, overtaking people and covering good ground. From what I can tell is that he kept going into the night until about 2 am. If the spot is accurate he has taken some interesting deviations off of the suggested route, they look like short cuts however from a satelite view it appears as though he has decided to leave the trail and bump his way down the sides of steep mountains covered in trees! If his route for Sarn Helen is anything to go by, then this would be about right for Aidan!

Now though, Aidan hasn't moved for the past 12 hours 23 minutes and looking in more detail it took him 6 hours to cover the last stretch which should have taken 1 -1.5 hours tops. I am not sure what is going on. I can only imagine that there maybe issues with the tyres again? These were bought out there as the particular 29" ones he wanted and had been recommended were trickier to get in the UK and so he has not had a chance to test them properly.

I have sent a text in the small hope that he will pick it up and let me know what's going on, but it does appear that he is in a rather remote area. One positive thing is that there are still racers passing through the area and so I suppose if help is needed for whatever reason, it is there.

If i'm honest it is pretty stressful not knowing but I am know that Aidan is more than capable and so I am only hoping that when I wake up tommorow, there will be movement and a technical reason for this stop and that Aidan is safe, well and happy (maybe a bit miffed about bike issues).

I'll keep you updated.

TTFN

Emily

The Tour Divide Approaches!

2010-06-09T16:20:00.003+01:00

Well, it's been a successful few days in Canada for me. It turned out that the guy I sat next to on the plane from London lives in Canmore (about 20km from Banff), and he was good enough to offer me his sofa to sleep on for a few days. He's a nice guy and awesomely kind to help me so much. That seems to have set the tone for the other folks I've met here too...

I went for a ride yesterday with another local and it was rough going. I loaded up my bike since I should be getting used to the weight right now, but the local trails in Canmore are not very bike-packing singlespeed friendly. Steep ups and rooty singletrack awaited us. But before we even got to the singletrack, I had to have a little sit down from the climbing. And I'm supposed to be riding the Tour Divide? Oh, dear. I'm hoping it's the altitude and I'll get over it. I'm hoping that the trail itself won't involve gravelly granny-ring climbs. I'm just hoping. After a brutal 6 mile loop, we stopped back in the town and I ditched all the gear. With my bike feeling insanely light, we rode on the other side of the valley and it was fun to have more of a normal ride. The trails were flowy and fast with the odd steep rock slab. Lovely.

So now there are just a handful of things left to do other than wait. I'm going to head over to Banff later on today. Hopefully, there will be some other racers about. Then it all kicks off on Friday. I can't wait to have the first 100 miles behind me and know that I'm on my way. The weather forecast looks promising but I'll take whatever I get for the next 3 weeks.

Conwy to Swansea In Pictures

2010-06-01T17:41:00.011+01:00

On Monday 24 May, I set out to ride the length of Wales off-road. It was to be fun; a test of kit for the Tour Divide; and a bit of a confidence-builder in respect of the big event. I largely followed the Sarn Helen route published by Mountain Bike Routes UK, but diverged to get in more off-road and where I couldn't understand the instructions. I had a deadline of being back in London by 8.20 on Friday morning to get a train to a stag do in Edinburgh. Easy.

Things went pretty swimmingly overall. The bike, my new Singular Swift, was absolutely flawless. No mechanicals, long legged, and comfortable. My actual legs also worked pretty well. They powered along every day and didn't have too much trouble with getting up to do the same again the next day. My food selection was fine. No stove and various snacks kept me pecking into my feedbag and somewhat topped up. I did appreciate buying hot food in Brecon, but this will be possible on the TD as well. My GPS worked perfectly, eating 1 set of AAs in just over a day. My kit-packing didn't work so well, but I learned a couple of things:

You have to pack the Epic Designs rear bag carefully. I kind of knew this, but this ride emphasised it. Unless you have some good solid stuff at the nose of the bag, putting your food at the back can make it slop down annoyingly. It worked really well on the last day when I had things sorted out.

The "drybag round the bars" is difficult to achieve with a big bag. My 40L bag was consistently buzzing the front tyre until I ran out of gaffa tape for repairs. It was an ongoing source of frustration and caused me to have to stop repeatedly. My plans are twofold. I will reduce the amount of total kit (in the light of the Welsh ride) and I will use an Alpkit drybag with guides for the straps holding it to the bars.

Overall, I made the ride from Conwy to Swansea successfully, though I had intended to go to Gower and back. Unfortunately, train failures on day 1 meant that I couldn't set off from Conwy until evening and the deadline of being back in London for the stag do made me ditch going over to Gower. I'm writing a proper story to be sent to whichever magazine might want to print it so on here it'll just be photos. Enjoy...

The route:

Conwy Castle at the start!

There were no sheep around and no sign of sheep poo, so this sheepfold was bed for the night.

Sunrise over a misty valley - this felt really special.

Fancy wedging your bike through that lot? I didn't either, but I managed to drag through to the point where I eventually found the right trail: 20m up the hill, where they hadn't felled all the trees. Doh!

The trails I saw at Coed Y Brenin were all coming towards me, so instead of riding against the flow it was time for fast forest roads.

At this point, I thought I'd blinked and turned up in NZ.

Standard bike + golden sunrise shot.

That post is a trail marker. Don't fancy it much.

I knew there was something funny going on with that trail. After over an hour of knee-deep pushing, you have to laugh.

Beautiful scenery between Brecon and Swansea. The trails themselves were fun too. Too fun to stop and take photos :)

I was on the Sarn Helen Roman Road repeatedly during the trip but this was one of the few signs.

It's not all forest roads. This descent was properly properly GRRR!

The final stats from the GPS and, in the background, some idea of how much drybag repair was going on(!)

Swift!

2010-05-22T08:50:00.003+01:00

A single picture for now, but here's my Swift:

Sam sorted me out with this after the Voodoo died again and I needed something pronto to ride the Tour Divide. It's light, fast, and lovely!

When your teeth hurt... you know it was a proper crash!

2010-05-21T09:44:00.002+01:00

One of the things I really appreciate about mountain biking is that there's nowhere to hide if you're not up to it. If you get things wrong, there's no "deferred success", no letting you down gently. You don't "not pass", you fail and there's just the smack of you hitting the dirt. That was how last night went:

Work had slipped into the way again, and I set off late. I had deliberately eaten a light dinner in the hope that I could ride light, but that was too long ago. Even on the way to the woods, I was thinking that it could have been better to stay home. But it felt like a ride that had to be done. Even in the first corner, my bike felt like a sack of spanners. Rattling over bumps, dropping the chain, spanging over the roots, everything was disjointed. With my new bike expected the next day (today!), I resented this machine. I lacked flow, and it responded in kind.

I was here to ride though, so I hit the Full 9 Yards as hard as I could. It has some great fast sweeping corners that can usually flatter your riding. They mocked mine. I wasn't as fast as fast or as precise as tidy. I carelessly jumped into a left-hander, and my back wheel clipped a small tree-stump mid-air. In the next moment, I was on the ground. My bike tumbled down towards my back and I redirected its fall into the bushes. I was dusty and hoping that I hadn't broken ribs again. As I sat there, my teeth hurt. So I must have hit my face on the ground. Everything seemed to work ok though: some grazes and a bruised thigh. The bike was fine. So I got back on and limped up the hill.

The rest of the ride was taken at a jog and that's not something I've done recently at Swinley. Suddenly, I could see all kinds of things off the trail: the trees and the deer, the sinking sun and the needles on the ground. It was nice to really feel the corners without trying to go quickly. It reminded me of that feeling you get when trying something new at swimming. I could feel the trails as I could sometimes feel water caught under my hand.

And as I rode, my iPod shuffled up some reminders of the near future. Both Josh Ritter's "Other Side" and Steve Earl's "Fort Worth Blues" mention The Great Divide. As if I don't spend enough time brooding on it already!

All the usual troubles (and some success!)

2010-05-15T19:36:00.006+01:00

I hate whiny blogs. So there were no posts for a while as I tried to sort things out...

Trying to do a big event always seems to push everything else harder. It takes so much time and energy that wrinkles in everyday life seem like mountains. And holes in the plan for the event seem like dark chasms. So while my attempts to reduce my load at work are still coming to nothing and I often have to work until midnight after training; and while the frame that I was going to use for the race is broken; and while my knee has been hurting again; these things are not insurmountable.

The work will do what it does and if some things fall by the wayside, I'm going to try to accept that I can't do it all.

The frame will be replaced by something different and better, but more on that when it's done!

And the knee still feels odd but doesn't hurt today. I've taken some rest, moved my cleats about 1mm - it felt better, and I've been riding with flats for commuting. It'll get there.

The fortunate side of the knee is that it has given me time to nail down those last few bits of gear (aside from the new bike!). I got myself a new 500g tarp recently which isn't ultra-ultra-light, but it's light enough for my budget. With the tarp and my bivvy bag, I'm ready for anything. If it's dry and warm, then I can just use a sleeping bag. If it's wet and warm and I can find a way to pitch it, I can use the tarp and sleeping bag. If it's wet and cold and I can find a way to pitch it, I can use the tarp and bivvy. And if it's wet and cold and there's no tarp possible, I can survive a cold wet night in just the bivvy.

So, today I cut a slot into a carbon pole that I had lying around and tried pitching the tarp using just the bike and that one pole:

Pretty successful (the funny wrinkle in the side is due to only partly pegging that side in). It's wide enough to lie under with gear. It's high enough not to be right in my face. And if I can find co-operative branches or trees, it could be even better. The pole can easily attach to the bike with velcro cable ties, and the same ties can be used to run a guy rope across the bar-ends. Sweet!

So it's back on the bike tomorrow and crossed fingers that the frame damage won't damage me!

Creating a new normal

2010-04-23T21:51:00.003+01:00

I often think of training as being a process that shifts my idea of what's normal. At the moment, going out and doing 70-100 mile rides every weekend seems normal. "Normally", that's not normal.

The new normal I'm going for now is doing the same rides, but on a loaded bike. I'm working towards getting my Tour Divide setup ready and it's now close enough to be riding with the full weight every time. My plan this time is to use a big drybag under the handlebars and an Epic Designs saddlebag out back. And that's it - no hefty pannier racks, no frame bag.

It's been worrying me a lot that I won't have the legs to singlespeed a loaded bike with a reasonable gear ratio. For the Alaska Ultrasport, I had a 22t ring up front. That's OK for snow, but it's not going to get you anywhere on the Tour Divide. And I might be able to do 100 miles without being too trashed on my 32:18 XC bike, but what if it weighs twice as much?

Today (swapping work days around since I have to work Saturday... boo!), I found out. With 12 kg of extra stuff on my bike, I set off into the Chilterns again. I tried not to put any pressure on myself - I expected it to be slow and difficult. I expected descending to be sketchy. So I thought I'd have a go at 6 hours, maybe 8 tops.

Throughout the whole ride, though, I felt that burden. If I couldn't do this, the Tour Divide was a pipedream. I had to keep deliberately relaxing my upper body - not letting tension sap my energy or cause injury. The sun shone and the first hour and a half passed incredibly quickly. I was eating up the miles way faster than expected, averaging over 11 mph in hilly terrain. I was winching up climbs when I would usually try to dash up them, but that wasn't a problem. The top is the top, and the GPS wasn't lying about my speed.

It's a funny thing riding with a big saddlebag. It feels like being a dog with a massive wagging tail. Occasionally, it can get too excited and the tail starts to wag you. Then you're in trouble. But part of the point was to learn these things. Climbs were steady, keeping any side-to-side movement out of the equation. Descents were interesting until I learned to keep the saddle pressing gently on my thigh. This seemed to dampen the wagging and keep me where I wanted to go.

By the end of the ride, I'd reached 30 mph on a descent and felt comfortable with the handling. I'd carried all the food and water I'd needed for the day. And most importantly, I wasn't broken. Maybe this Tour Divide thing will work out...

What to eat?

2010-04-19T22:32:00.005+01:00

Food is pretty vital to riding. In the Alaska Ultrasport last year, I made a bit of a mess of it. As people pointed out (too late for me, unfortunately!), I had gone too far down the path of the spreadsheet. I calculated calories per gram, and stocked up with large bulks of the foods I thought best fit that criteria. Taste was a factor, but I got lazy and just bought a limited range of food.

On the trail, that sucked. I didn't want to eat my high calorie food. I wanted someone else's high calorie food (luckily I could trade with other racers now and then). So the lesson was learned. Variety! I spent lots of time reading the backs of packets of food that could work on the trail. I'll take all kinds of stuff next time.

Back in the "real" world, training in normal temperatures still needs a lot of food. I had always avoided energy products: they were expensive and, somehow, just as suspect as using gears. Like I wrote before, though, things changed and I started using powders.

Initially just Maxim, since we had some from Emily's swims. Then, Torq, since it's tasty and well-regarded among cycling people. Suddenly, I could get a lot more energy into me during a ride and felt a lot less soreness on the long ones. I could keep pounding out miles with less deterioration on the bike and quicker recovery afterwards. So energy drinks are effective, but are they expensive?

This calls for a table!

	Calories/g	p/calorie	normalised p/calorie	%fat
Malt loaf (large BOGOF)	3.1	0.07	1.43	2
Torq Energy (1.5kg)	3.6	0.29	5.86	0
9-bar (3 pack)	5.5	0.14	2.79	40
Torq Recovery (1.5 kg)	3.48	0.59	11.8	1.1
Panda licorice comfits (132g)	3.7	0.27	5.49	0.2
Mars bar (3 pack)	4.46	0.13	2.6	17.4
Hovis Granary Bread (2 for£2)	2.5	0.05	1	2.4
Nairns Oat Cakes (250g)	4.18	0.09	1.7	16.3
Beer (average)	0.43	0.88	17.58	0

So, Torq Energy is nearly 6x as expensive as bread and Torq Recovery is 12x. But while this table is interesting (hmm) it doesn't tell anything like the whole story. The energy products are easy to get in you, and well balanced to have their positive effects. I can say quite categorically from my experience that they help. I'd just suspected that they weren't so much more expensive than normal food. It turns out I was kind of wrong on that point (unless you drink beer as your recovery drink - that makes Torq seem cheap).

I'm going to carry on using them, for sure. But now I know I'm paying for the privileged. For the record, my last 10 hour ride took 2 bottles (750ml) of Maxim, 3 bottles of Torq, a malt loaf, a pack of oat cakes, and a 9-bar. Immediately after finishing, I swigged down a dose of Torq recovery. End result? I felt pretty good despite doing nearly 100 miles, having two punctures and one other mechanical. And I took a photo:

Not suitable for motors, definitely suitable for bikes.

Seasons

2010-04-12T21:45:00.006+01:00

The makers of the mountain bike video, Seasons, probably didn't think of me slogging around The Chilterns when they came up with their concept but I did think of them as I photographed the same corner in a succession of seasons. To me, it says a lot about riding in the UK. We go out whatever the conditions, and the conditions give use plenty to get our heads round. The mud and the water grind away at bikes and wear through clothing, but give us beautiful green land to play in. They make stolen late-Autumn dust feel precious and the creep of Spring feel like a blessing. So here's an unremarkable corner of the Chilterns as I keep visiting it...

Big smoke, big ride

2010-04-02T22:06:00.003+01:00

When I was asked if I would teach a course in East Ham, it did seem like the ideal opportunity to get some base fitness going again after NZ. The ride over there is 25 miles and gets interesting at Battersea as it ploughs through central London, crossing Tower Bridge, before heading out via Tower Hamlets and Stratford.

Now, I've been regularly commuting by bike for 10 years but never somewhere like central London, and it's a bit of a shock. As you head in, and the traffic starts to clog, there is no point whatsoever in waiting in line. Those cars are going to be nose-to-tail for the next 15 miles. So, you want to duck inside or out and get through. But it's not so easy, the place is swarming with motorbikes, scooters, and other cyclists trying to do the same.

Much looking over the shoulder is required, but it's fun cruising past the cars on the wrong side of the road. The sheer number of cyclists is completely alien to me, but normal to them. There are no nods of acknowledgement. People pull up in front of you at traffic lights (if they stop at all). Riders take offence if you overtake, and ramp up speed to try to hang on behind you. I took away a sense of hostility from the week of riding across London, and most of it came from the cyclists.

Still, it was strange how compelling the dance of the other traffic was every morning. The miles would fly by, the sights would be unnoticed. I would take risks that I could control (overtaking on the right) and shy away from those I couldn't (overtaking moving traffic on the left). It had a kind of buzz, and day-by-day my times for the ride went down.

The evenings were better, though. I left the school by 3.30, so the traffic hadn't hit its peak. I didn't have a deadline to get home (except the increasing debt that I owed my stomach), so I could finally look around. The Gherkin would rise up ahead of me MIND THAT BENDY-BUS! and I would cruise off down a quieter road. The blue supports on Tower Bridge would embrace me and I would watch the tourists spin around, whirring their cameras as I whirred my pedals. Hospitals and hair-dressers, I could glance at little scenes all over the city. Harlequins Rugby Club would always be busy and signal that I was nearly at Kingston and from there, nearly home.

In the middle of it all, there were surprising moments. Cars giving way without need (people outside of London may find that unremarkable, it can make your day down here), and just when I was tired and jaded, another cyclist. He set off up Kingston Hill in front of me, and I tucked in behind. I hoped he wouldn't get annoyed about towing me up the hill, but as he pointed out a pot-hole, I knew he wasn't cursing me. Both being red-light stoppers, we had a good chat about riding. Where we'd been (on the same road for more than 10 miles), and where we were going.

Where I was going was back to ploughing my usual furrows and to speculate on whether more cyclists is really a good thing. In the outer boroughs of London, I see almost no other fast-moving bikes. If we get the change we're trying to bring about, and more people do cycle, I hope the combativeness of the centre doesn't set the tone for all cycling in London.

The Kepler Track

2010-02-18T21:22:00.004Z

There are a number of "Great Walks" in New Zealand, and it had been our plan to take in a couple while we're out here. The Kepler Track (yes, physics fans, that Kepler) is a 60 km track in the Fjordland area of NZ that starts near Te Anau and takes in lakesides, forests, rivers, and alpine areas. It climbs from sea-level up to 1472 m at the top of Mount Luxmore. Here in NZ they call hill-walking, "tramping". Which still tickles me. Tramping has 3 association with me, only one of which is remotely appropriate: homeless people drinker super-strength cider under bridges; Supertramp, the band my knowledge of which comes exclusively from The Simpsons; and Alexander Supertramp, the name taken by Christopher McCandless in Into The Wild.

What's strange to someone like me is that you must make reservations at the official campsites (and pay for them) before setting out. I tend to side with Ray Jardine on this topic - minimal impact camping is best achieved by responsible wild/stealth camping. Official campsites make you pitch on bare hard ground that's had hundreds of tents on before. They put you shoulder-to-shoulder with people who pack beer and noise into the wild. They almost encourage littering by giving the impression that someone will pick-up after campers. And they concentrate toilet usage, causing a larger impact. Camping alone and leaving no trace seems infinitely superior for those who can, but this time we went along with the grain and paid our fees ($15 each per night!).

Rant over, we took to the trail mid-afternoon at "Rainbow Reach" - a swing-bridge access to the trail that gave us ambitious but achievable mileage targets each day. It's a lot of fun to set off with everything you need for the next 2.5 days on your back, and we whizzed along happily. The trail was very well groomed and marked, following along the river but taking ups and downs now and again. We walked in the gentle green light that filtered through the trees and were glad of the protection from the sun. Despite NZ's reputation we have had weeks of unbroken heat and sunshine!

I'd packed my gear pretty light with no changes of clothes, only a few extras to put on top if the weather did come in. Food-wise, however, we'd gone for luxury. On the Alaska Ultrasport I had made the mistake of judging food too much by calories per gram and not enough by variety and taste. This time I was going to use the relatively short trip and kind weather to experiment with going the other way. We packed pre-cooked flavoured rice with seeds to be added, tortellini in sauce (rubbish calories per gram, great taste so great for improving your mood). I had muesli bars, corn chips, and licorice (vegetarian alternative to outdoor staples such as Jelly Babies or Haribo) as snacks. So meal times were fun and pack-weight-shedding.

Our first camp-site was Brod Bay, on the shores of Lake Te Anau. We were glad to dump our food-heavy packs and cool our feet in the water. This was, however, our first introduction to sand flies as a scourge rather than a nuisance. They are stupid weak little creatures that can drive you completely mad. They fly so slowly that they can't keep up with walking, or overcome anything more than a gentle breeze but, when they do catch up with you, the bites swell up and itch for days. They'll go for any exposed flesh: hands, feet, face, lower back if you're sat leaning forward. Complete buggers.

Despite the sand flies, though, we had our tasty dinner and soon dropped into conversation various other "trampers" at the camp-site. It turned out that there is only really one schedule around the Kepler Track if you want to stay in camp sites instead of huts (expensive). So, we had our first of many meetings with (I'm terrible at names the first time) French-Canadian Couple, their French Friend, and Super-Speedy Guy. All of which we'd see in camp and on the trail for the next few days. I had to admire French-Canadian Couple's tarp skills, and they turned out to be very friendly.

Tent-wise, Emily and I were back in my 1+ racing tent i.e. practically on top of each other. As I started to put it up, though, a problem emerged. Some essential stitching had come out and one end of the fly was unsupported. To make matters worse, for once in my life, I had no gaffa tape! Eventually, I figured out how to bodge the tent, leaving one end of the fly open, but the rest of it reasonably secure. Getting in, we performed what was to be the nightly ritual on Great Walks - lie down and relax while squashing all the sand flies that came in while you did. Mmm... romantic!

Day 2 took us all the way into the Alpine section of the Walk and up to the top of Mount Luxmore. We set off pretty early with minimal faff and it was a blessing to get a good deal of the 1000m of climbing out of the way before the full heat of the day. Switchback followed switchback, and the effort spent in building this track was clear as we crossed bridges over high drops and occasional steps up the rock faces. Emerging from the trees onto open dusty landscape of the tops, we could see scenic bush-plane flights below us and Te Anau far away. Seeing the trail wind ahead, it was like I had been transported back to the PCT but this time with more knowledge and no crippling knee pain.

We wound around the peaks and ridges, along the heat of the day. Things were going well and we dumped our packs for the diversion to the summit of Mount Luxmore where we found Super-Speedy Guy making a cup of tea. We're English, that's our job! Continuing along the trail, we were to follow the tops for a while before descending down to camp by the river at Iris Burn. I experienced the slow magic of walking once more as the far off features sneaked forward imperceptibly. These slow movements would be punctuated by sudden transitions, as I realised that I was standing on the far-off peak which had seemed so distant.

Coming down, the construction of the trail was, once again, apparent. Steps took us down quickly and easily, only to hand over to an unbelievable number of switchbacks down to ground-level. By camp-time we were both well-finished for the day, and had a nice dinner with French-Canadian Couple. Early nights are easy when you're walking all day and we were in bed before nightfall.

Day 3 was back out along the river and aptly summed up by a Korean tramper we met. We asked him if he was enjoying the trail, and replied "Here it is boring and too long". To tell the truth, it kind of was. The river-following terrain was just as in Day 1 and our tired feet really just wanted rest but had 6 hours of walking to beat out. As we got closer to Rainbow Reach, though, we started to see fresh-faced day-trippers with small packs. This was a good sign, but I carefully managed my expectations. If someone who has just come from their car says it's 5 minutes away, don't believe them. You're not there until you're there, and I didn't let my feet anticipate release until I could see that final swing-bridge. It did come, though, and we had made it round 60km in about 2.5 days of tramping. We hadn't seen an awful lot of animals, but we had met some characters and seen some views.

To put some humbling perspective onto it, consider The Kepler Challenge. An ultra-marathon around the same track that we walked where (locals tell me) the record is 4 hours. Unreal.

Like Wales, but bigger

2010-01-28T21:14:00.006Z

A few days into New Zealand and we're getting things done. We bought a van...

We had a swim...

And I did some kayaking...

It's odd being in a foreign country with our own Queen on the banknotes and where cars still drive on the left. Kiwi hospitality has been just as exceptional as people say it is: from the hostel (Kiwi Basecamp) owner in Christchurch helping us to choose the van, to the kayak rental shop (Captain Hector's, Akaroa) giving us a great deal on the kayak in order to help Emily's swim, to friends welcoming us in at Dunedin.

The van is a Toyata Previa. A people carrier. And I don't have 7 children. Oh, well. It has the back converted into a comfy bed, and it goes when it's supposed to so I can't complain. NZ has a real campervan culture - there are loads of them out here. Rentals, tourist-owned, and local-owned. So many people want them for touring here that there's a whole market of buying cheap vans for a few weeks or months then selling them on. We plugged into that market to get ours, and will hopefully sell it in Auckland before we go.

Our first stop was Akaroa, a small town on the volcanic Banks Penninsula. It sits on an outrageously blue harbour and serves pastries under the Tricolore, proud of its French heritage. As we drove down through the clouds, the whole area had a low grey ceiling. The harbour looked more like a large lake than a sea, and a 6 hour swim for Emily was on the agenda.

Jetlag and necessity had us up early and into the water for 7.30. The swim began with a walk across the silt left shallow by the tide. Eventually, we could swim though and the cold was enough to tweak at a few muscles. Not enough to numb my face though, so maybe 15C. We swam across the harbour and around a little cove where a boat had anchored. On this side, the land dropped steeply to the water and trees hung onto the green slopes.

The plan was to swim back to the car, then I could go pick up a kayak and join Emily for the rest of her swim. So, I loaded up, thanked the guys at Captain Hector's and headed out. We plotted a route around the harbour and the cloud finally lifted the lid on the day. With peaks and ridges all round us, and blue water underneath us, it was great day to be out and the wet bum caused by the "self bailing" (for which, read, self-filling) kayak didn't seem like too big a problem. The swim flew by pretty easily, punctuated by the sight of rare Hector Dolphins at on stage. Their fins did cause a brief heart-stopping moment, but I quickly recognised that they were the local dolphins not sharks.

Our next plan is to hit the Kepler Trail for some hiking, and then Doubtful Sound for some more kayaking. No bikes :)

It's bike failure season, so lets sleep out

2010-01-21T20:43:00.005Z

There's always a time of year when my bikes all start falling to pieces. It's come now, just as I was getting over a Christmas-acquired cold and disrupted my plans to get some good training in for the TD.

The current bike casualty list is:

Stuck front brake piston on Pugsley
Worn out BB on Pugsley
Worn out rear wheel bearings on Karate Monkey
Worn out freewheel on Karate Monkey
Worn out rear tyre on Karate Monkey
Worn out pedal bearings on Karate Monkey
Broken cranks on Balfa
Worn out pedal bearings on Balfa
Torn (but patched with toothpaste tube!) tyre on Voodoo
Worn bushings, and associated gouged stanchions on Voodoo's forks
Worn out pedal mechanism on Voodoo
Mangled LH crank-arm on Voodoo
Broken saddle (might be fixabled) that I use on Voodoo/Pugsley

Woe is me! I'm sure I can beg, and ebay my way out of that lot eventually.

Fortunately, this weekend is time to go to NZ for Emily's swim which means a break from bikes. We're going to buy a camper van (and sell it before we go) to tour around the country swimming, kayaking, hiking, (maybe a bit of biking), and having a fine old time. So with this and other camping adventures in mind, we've been testing out various combinations of gear...

Where some people see -5C in London as a problem, we saw an opportunity for Emily to test a potential new sleeping bag and for me to push the envelope with minimal gear. Camping out on the grass by the pool where she works was an odd experience. We headed out from home at around 9pm (just when we were warm and settled for the night), and picked our spot on the grass. Somewhere without frozen footprints so that we could make our own smooth ground. Up with my tent for her, and down with my bivvy bag for me.

My aim was to see how my +7C rated summer bag would perform when wearing cold-weather clothing that I might take on the TD. For the uninitiated, a bivvy bag is a breathable waterproof outer shell to put a sleeping bag in. It looks like a green body-bag, but gives you an acceptable level of protection for just 300g. Point number 1 was that my sleeping bag zips up on the opposite side to the bivvy. Tricky, but not insurmountable. Point number 2 was that when it's cold, you need to do it pretty much all the way up which is pretty claustrophobic, but that's something to get used to.

To be honest, I don't think I slept at all that night. City noise and uncomfortable (but not dangerous feeling) cold added together to keep me restless. I knew that I wasn't warm enough and doubts nagged about whether it would do any harm. My mind jumbled and circled possibilities, but wouldn't rest. I suppose the conclusion is that if -5C is the extreme end of what I could expect on a trip, then the kit is just enough.

Camping out like that probably seems even more insane to some people than going to the great outdoors, but it's a great way to test stuff with no real risk and a way to get a tiny slice of being in the wilds without having to drive way out of London.

It was the same mentality that I took to Wales at the weekend. The plan was to ride all the trails at Afan in one go, then sleep out and head to Barry for a meeting on Monday morning.

Starting from Glyncorrwg Ponds, the trail is 4 miles of twisty climbing. It was immediately obvious that lots of time on a turbo trainer is good for sitting down on moderate inclines and not that helpful for hauling up a proper hill with one gear. My arms were still attached at the top, though, so I made it to the fire-roads.

I had known that snow was a risk, particularly on the more remote Skyline trail and as soon as I dipped away from the main valley, I was on a mix of snow and ice. Wet snow ploughed my tyres sideways. Polished ice drifted me around with disdain. Pretty soon, I was walking through ankle-deep snow in my summer shoes. Frustrating as it might have been, I had my long-ride head on and this could easily be replicated in the Rockies in June so I took it for what it was.

After some getting lost, I eventually found the trail markers again only to find the trail gone. Logging by the forest owners had obliterated sections of trail completely, forcing me to carry over and around. Still could happen in the Rockies. I spied another rider ahead and he turned out to be a local who had worked on the trails. We dragged some of the more manageable stuff out of the way and he took note of what needed tackling with a saw. When I got back onto the mission, I had covered few miles and a lot of time, but I was coming back around to the trail centre.

With fresh supplies, I headed out to tackle that silly climb again. As soon as I reached the top again, I noticed my crank-arm: still bolted tight but the spline had worn round and it was pretty close to going round without the axle. The only safe thing to do was to pick a safe way down and abort the ride. Damn.

With the ride aborted, I had time to think about where to sleep. Either a cheap hotel (below) or a bivvy.

The beach at Barry turned out to be a great place for a bivvy. Quiet, dry, and with the chance of a nice sunrise in the morning. So, I settled down and watched the stars. As I lay there, they flew back away from the sea. Hang on... stars don't move. My head churned, but the stars kept moving. I'm sure stars don't move. I don't look at stars often enough, but I'm sure they don't move. Finally, my brain caught up and realised that it was the clouds moving. Shifting gear, I could suddenly make out a sensible perspective where banks of cloud drifted overhead. Shooting stars popped across my view now and again as I lay snug in my bag. This certainly beat TV in the hotel, and a perfectly restful night enveloped me.

Why eat malt loaf?

2009-12-21T22:19:00.002Z

Why eat malt loaf when you're riding? Because it makes your spit brown, so you can pretend you're a tobacco-chewing cowboy without having to chew tobacco. Now, where's that spittoon? Zp-ting!

Motivation and the lack thereof

2009-12-20T10:03:00.002Z

Well, the Voodoo is back. A new frame under warranty and no questions asked, so that's pretty good of them. It's weird to have the same bike but shinier and with the logos intact. The first ride back was incredible: suddenly, I could pick lines that required some precision rather than leaving huge margins for error. Every landing was like Tigger, bounding back up for more. Awesome fun.

But that was a few weeks ago now and now my motivation has mysteriously taken leave. Generally, I take it for granted that I want to ride. For fun, with friends, or in training for future goals. Occasionally, people ask me where it comes from or how I don't get bored. There's so much depth to mountain biking in making yourself strong enough for an event, in reading terrain, in understanding the dynamics of moving weight to get the effect you need, in all kinds of ways. But it is demanding. And sitting on the sofa today, as yesterday, that demand seems like an unnecessary hassle.

My last ride "ended" with a fall that hurt my knee a fair bit, leaving me without the strength in it to keep my leg in line as I pedalled. From there, I had to limp home with my tail between my legs and the snow in my face. I hadn't felt like going out in the first place and had forced myself, expecting to wrap up warm, crank up the iPod, and find some rhythm once I was out there. My iPod wasn't working (it's not great to rely on such things!), and my riding was laboured until the fall, then it was just slow.

So, I've been indulging in doing nothing. Newspapers, TV, and tea. Feeling that little ball of steel forming inside me, waiting for the will to go out and ride like I need to in order to have the legs for the Tour Divide. It is coming, but today I'll be cranking up the heating and keeping it lazy. Mmm... croissants!

2009-11-21T09:14:00.004Z

So that's another bike down. My bike-breaking history is not as bad as some: two aluminium, and now one titanium.

I've never really got that excited about the bikes, it's always been about the riding. Last year, I happened to be in Portland at the time of the North American Handmade Bike Show and it was just about the most boring thing ever. Wow, lugs. Tidy welds... super. But what made them better than my 1x1? Lighter, and more niche but well up the slope of diminishing returns. I'm kind of glad that beardy frame-builders exist, but I don't think I want to go hang out at a convention centre with them.

So, I've tried to pick bikes on the basis of functionality. The label and the finery does too much damage to the wallet when decent geometry shouldn't cost the earth. And what makes me deserve a multi-thousand pound frame? And that's pretty much how I look after my bikes. They're the vehicle to a world of singletrack and fun, not an end in themselves. So clean them when you have to, and chuck them in the shed when you don't.

The Voodoo was my most expensive bike yet. £1500 complete from Halfords, it's still 4.5 times less expensive than a top-of-the-range "race" bike. My first ride on it was beset by problems. The head-tube badge popped off after less than half an hour. The slidey dropouts kept sliding up, so the chain kept coming off. There was no honeymoon period, but it sprinkled gold dust over the descents and whipped up the climbs. I could sort the dropouts and bollocks to the head-badge.

Since then it's been ridden and crashed, scratched and left caked in mud, hosed down and ridden through rivers. And the mantra has been "forget about the bike" - if it's good enough to get me there and back with a grin, then it's good enough. This summer I rode other bikes for a while as the rear wheel from the Voodoo was away for serious repairs. When it came back, I hated that bike. Too whippy and unstable. Too big to crouch low. But I settled back in and the ride came back. I knew how far I could lean forwards, how much I could grab an edge from the tyres, how to flick my hips over jumps and drops.

So, I'm sad that I can't have those ride experiences right now. The Voodoo is with Halfords while they decide whether I'm a fat ape who runs his seatpost too high or a victim of a dodgy weld. Part of me hopes that they don't send a new frame, then I can go choose something else. But that ignores the money and the important thing:

The ride.

For now, it's fun time on the Pug. I don't know what I'm going to end up riding next week, but as long as the trails offer up challenges with one hand and fun with their, it doesn't matter. I suppose I'll want a new bike for the Divide, though :)

Damn

2009-11-13T20:39:00.003Z

I'm old

2009-11-12T20:31:00.004Z

And late with posting about it. But the festivities were pretty good.

It was an early start so that Emily could go swimming with her club and I could sneak in a ride. As I pulled into the Look Out car-park, it was remarkably quiet but it was also 7.30am. I hadn't ridden off-road in about a week and every time that happens, I revert a bit to being an indoors person. The air felt cold and I wanted to start out wearing a jacket. In fact, part of me didn't want to start at all. But as soon as I turned those cranks, a massive weight left my shoulders and a massive grin slapped me in the face. Oh, yeah - bikes are awesome! Everything felt good: the bike felt lively underneath me, the trails were in good shape, and I was loving it. No time to ponder age, there was singletrack to go for!

There's a trail we know as "the rooty trail of death", and it has claimed victims. I came into it having pedalled and pumped and ragged my way from the car-park. My iPod was thumping and images from last night's Earthed DVD danced around in my brain. You know the rest. All speed and no plan, my front tyre went diagonally along a root, bounced off a mound of earth, and back into a tree. I tipped over the bars in semi slow motion, seeing the tree stump that I was going to land on. There was only time to go loose before I hit the ground.

At first, I couldn't move at all. Then I could get up, but the pain was all-consuming. Slowly it faded to the point where I could think. I'd kinda spoiled a good ride and set myself up for a painful birthday. Damnit. The dead leg meant that I couldn't ride back up the other side of the hollow I'd flapped into. The graze on my hip was sore under my jersey. I kept up the ride, though, knowing that these things fade.

My style was cramped now, and never as free as the first 1/2 hour. Still, it was a ride and you can't knock it. One patch of crash damage below...

The next part of the day was present-from-Emily time. Heelys! Ever since they came out, I've been jealous of todays kids growing up in a world with wheely trainers. It turns out that they come in adult sizes, so now I have my own. We went down to Hyde Park to give them a spin. With my battered legs, it was hard to balance on the wheels but I got there in the end. Emily's roller-blades were much quicker, but the Heelys got the attention (possibly in amusement/sympathy, but they were fun).

And in-between, there was time for Anish Kapoor's very playful works at The Royal Academy of Art. From sort of woven concrete in forms that echo industrial manufacturing, caves, and primitive art to huge mirrors that put the whole building into a snow-globe, to a giant block of wax that travelled through the gallery, it was fun. And then there was Homer's giant belly-button.

So, older and still none-the-wiser.

Maybe I am a singlespeeder?

2009-10-27T17:30:00.003Z

After an annoying session of fixing bikes (broken cranks on the Balfa, snapped rack mounts on the Karate Monkey, buckled wheel on the Voodoo, Rockhopper built as stand-in for KM), I took my frustrations out on the Voodoo's gear hanger.

Now I have a nice Ti gear-hanger key fob. Take that bike maintenance!

This might make me a singlespeeder, though...

Porky Panniers

2009-10-12T21:09:00.004+01:00

A few weeks ago, I broke an eyelet off of the back of my Karate Monkey. It's my work bike so I frequently have to carry loads of stuff in the panniers, and one day it was just too much. The bottom of the rack broke free of the frame and made a horrendous noise as it jammed into the rear cog/chain.

Keeping it real, I took the bike to my local garage and they brazed the eyelet back on. Hooray for steel frames! But the cheers were premature... today one side failed due to incompetence, then the other side (the recently fixed one) broke off again leaving me with over 5 miles to get home. Doh!

The incompetence was hearing that something was loose on my way to work and deciding to fix it when I got there. The number one thing I've learned about riding bikes a long way in various places is "fix it now, it can only get worse if you leave it." But, like an idiot, I left it anyway. I went round a corner, and suddenly the back of the bike went crazy as a bolt fell out and my load got jiggy. I paced up and down near the site of the wobble, but I couldn't find the bolt. Nearly 10 miles to get to work and 5 miles back. Time to improvise and (would you believe it?!), no cable ties.

The one thing I did have was my cable lock, so I worked it around the frame, rack, and pannier itself. Pulling it as tight as I could, I had low expectations. But bodge-tastically, it held. I got all the way to work without as much as a rattle. Sweet.

Then, on the way home, I hulked the bike around on the way up a bridge (they pass for hills in London). There was the hideous noise again as the non-bodged side of my panniers snapped off the frame again. OK, now it's more than 5 miles with a bike lock holding one side of my panniers and nothing holding the other. I jammed the free side into a convenient bit of dropout and thought smooth thoughts all the way home.

Luck of luck, I made it. Adding to my luck, it was only a few days ago that I got my new saddle bag from Epic Designs. The perfect replacement for my panniers (at least for now). I think I'm going to be in the market for a steel frame with tougher drop-outs now. And I'm going to loctite the damn things into place!

Still Not Loud Enough, Still Not Fast Enough

2009-10-04T20:37:00.004+01:00

Well, last weekend was Maxx Exposure and once again the sun shone on me (at least until it went down). I'd imagine that 75 miles of chalk and dark would be quite intimidating in the wet, but when I arrived at Beachy Head it was all dust and ice-cream vans.

I was pretty motivated for this one. No racing in a while had given over to a month or so of proper training rides where I cranked out single rides over 70 miles every weekend. If I was going to get back in a competition, I wanted to go well. The only hitch in my preparation had been a slip-up at work that meant I'd had to race up to Harrow (the far end, 18 miles) at high speed to pick something up from a school and zip over to another school (6 miles away) before everyone went home, and then a 15 miles return trip. It had felt good to zip around London on fresh legs, but I knew that it wasn't the right preparation for the weekend.

Nonetheless, the good weather meant that my plan of riding the race, sleeping for a few hours and then riding back again seemed like it could fly. My kit list looked like this:

Outbound:
2x 1.5 L bottles Maxim
Malt loaf
9 bar

Back:
12 scoops dry Maxim
Lemon squash
Malt loaf
9 bar
Fresh riding top
ipod

Camping:
Muesli
Spork
Torq Recovery
Tent
Sleeping bag
Thermarest
Socks
Underwear
Fleece
Pegs!

Lights:
2x Ay Up
2x 6h batteries
3x 3h batteries
Extension lead
Petzl

I was being pretty safe about taking loads of kit. I was hoping to finish the race in 7 to 7.5 hours but carrying 9 hours of food and light, plus a spare light and extra battery. I wasn't expecting to change from a short-sleeve top on the bike, but took a jacket anyway. Fortunately, my camping/return gear was shipped to the end for me. Even so, I wasn't ultra-light but I wasn't going to be rescued by anyone.

The safety briefing was more amusing than these things usually manage. Apparently, a rider had run into the back of a sleeping cow last year and complained when he got covered in cow poo. Mind the cows, then.

Soon enough, we were off though, and I was spinning like a fool. I know these races are long, but getting caught behind people in the first hour is really frustrating so I tried to push on without being an arsey racer. It was great to see the green landscape stretching and rolling ahead, with cliffs standing tall to the sea. I flowed and cranked and hoped that the lactic pain from yesterday's London riding would dissipate.

Things thinned out pretty quickly and I soon found myself behind a sponsored but not very elite rider. In typical style, he shut a gate in my face when I was only 2 bike lengths away. Charming. There are some fast chalk descents in this first section and I cruised up behind him with my hands loose and my brain mellow. I could carry way more speed than him, but decided not to overtake and risk a pinch-flat on the rougher line. Backing off, I followed him down to another gate. At least he held this one, but as I slowed I could feel my back tyre bouncing too much... I had pinched anyway.

I stuck in a new tube as quickly as I could with many riders going by. So much for not getting held up in the early stages. Making double-sure I hadn't been lazy about reinflating, I was off again. Up to checkpoint 1 was a steady stream of overtaking and jolly riders. Everyone was enjoying our high-speed ribbon of South Downs. I knew the approach to CP1 from riding that area with Emily a few weeks ago, so I could remember our sunny cow-herding antics as I hurtled through the dark descent and kept a sharp look-out for them cows.

The checkpoint was fairy-lit, but only the briefest of stops for me. I hoped to refill on water once later, but otherwise stay self-sufficient. The climb out of there is tough. It is steep enough to be a bit too hard to fully attack, but not steep enough for a slow grind. So a slow grind attack got me there, and straight down the other side only pausing to offer help to a rider with an uncooperative light-mount.

I was feeling pretty strong, only about 2 hours in and just closing down each red-lit bike in front of me. Passing people in the open terrain, the red rear would turn to white front light and seem to follow me forever. Eventually, I'd look back though and see the source was dropping back but the modern beams cast huge distances. I hadn't run both of my Ay Ups together in a while and it was turning out to be fantastic. The bar mount gave me shadows to pick out rocks and holes, the helmet mount let me look round corners. I could look where I wanted to go and let peripheral vision take care of the immediate trail - just like in the day.

Most of the rest of the race was a blur. The white trail glowed like an imagined thing, and I just kept going, deliberately pressuring myself towards speed. I came across one racer who seemed to be a local and pretty friendly but singlespeed necessity dropped him on a climb. I came across another who was taking things pretty seriously but got away when I had puncture number 2. With the second puncture, I gave up any calculations of where I would finish. I just wanted to push hard and see what happened.

So it was a great surprise to see Mr Serious with about 5 miles to go. I could see he was suffering and tried to chat, but it wasn't going anywhere. And then he tried to race me up every rise. Still keeping it chatty, I turned the screw. My pace turned up and up, I used my attempts to cheer him as a way of showing that I wasn't out of breath. It wasn't nice, but he'd been rude and was acting for all the world like he was going to try to out-sprint me to the line. Then, with 3 miles to go, he stopped. It took me a distance to notice and, looking back, he seemed ok. I debated going back to help, but decided that he would have said something if he was in real trouble.

So I rode on, and into QE park. As I was riding, I could remember how this stage felt last time. I had been suffering badly then, but now I was cruising. Good. I crossed the line and that was it. About 7.5 hours for 75 miles, and a pretty enjoyable ride.

It was time to refuel, pitch my tent and get some sleep before heading back. Sandwich, Torq recovery, dry clothes, bed. Nice.

Through the night, I could hear other riders coming in. The last guy took about 12 hours, ouch. By morning, I lay in my tent wondering if there was a way out of riding back. Unable to think of one, I went about the necessities. Breakfast, loo, pack up tent. I had my camping kit in a big Camelbak and last night's kit in a normal Camelbak. With no space to spare, I rode out of the campsite with my little bag strapped to the outside of my big one. As I left, an organiser asked where I was riding back to. I told him Eastborne, and he thought I was joking.

It was tough to get going, and I felt further disheartened as someone out for a normal ride cruised past my rolling trudge. The day was still beginning though, and I hoped that the stiffness would evapourate with the mist.

On the way back, I was using the public taps described on the SDD site and it wasn't too long before I reached the first. I dropped my pack on the ground and made no hurry to refill my bottles. This was going to be a long day and I hate carrying loads on my back. It is really good that a national trail like this has the taps. They open up all kinds of independent travel along it. For walkers, bikers, or horse-riders carrying food is OK but carrying enough water would be an absolute killer.

The stop had helped and I could appreciate unwinding the route in reverse, this time with views. Postcard sights of rolling hills and trees connected me to the sea in the distance. The trail was busy with other users and it was nice to see them out. I had very small reserves, though, and any kind of real hill was pushing me off the bike and into a depressing push-fest. As soon as I got to the top, my good mood would be back and the miles would fly by. So, I tried to settle into doing this all day and knowing that arriving would take care of itself.

Unfortunately, it was hot... baking hot. And I wasn't drinking enough. The day wore on and I wore out until 25 miles from the end I just lay down near a tap and considered bail-out options. I knew I didn't have the legs to ride up the remaining hills so it was going to be a long pushing session with aching shoulders and no real rewards. So, I did bail. I caught a train from Lewes to Eastborne and finished off pushing up the tarmac to Beachy Head.

Looking back on the weekend it was fun, but disappointing. Matt Page had beaten me by an hour in the race, and I'd bailed on the ride home. It's hard to know how to react to the race... averaging 10mph despite 2 punctures is pretty good by the standard of what I was aiming for, but a world away from the top riders. So what's the point of training hard and spending so much time if I'm still in the second division? I've either got to be faster or riding for another reason. Iditarod this year and Great Divide next year are for their own reasons - they're days in the mountains, they have their own beauty and rewards, the race is just a pretext. But UK races are usually another matter. As a piece of riding, they mostly suck. The competition is what makes them and the closer you get to the front, the harder it is to take the next step.

So maybe I should ride for fun and ride for epic and skip the race part. Or maybe it's just winter coming on :)

Max!

2009-09-14T15:50:00.002+01:00

Hooray for things beginning with "Max". Not "Maxed out! Stoked!" like some sort of Californian, but Max for Maxxis, Maxim, and Maxx Exposure.

First there were tyres. I've been running Racing Ralphs for the last few months. They're light, fast-rolling, and all-round grippy. But they're expensive and fragile in rocky environments. So with one set of them shredded beyond use, it was time to get another set (for racing, duh!) and something for everyday riding. Being a magazine-skeptic and a cheapskate (and stealing the idea from Tim B), I went for Maxxis High Rollers. By picking them up in an actual shop, I was able to get my hands on their zillion different versions and go for 2.35, 60a, wire. Big, cheap, not too sticky.

Now until I read an article in the one good magazine, Dirt, I thought tyre were somewhat simple. Then, I saw a WTB tyre designer saying that their Weirwolf tyres weren't very popular because there's a big gap between the central knobs and the side ones. So as you lean over, you get grip at the vertical, slip in-between, and then more grip when you get leaned all the way over. With my old (lesser) skills, I hated that tyre. High Rollers look kind of similar and ride as he described. They brake and accelerate with gobs of traction in a straight line. They carve amazingly if you give it some. But if you only lean a bit, then they drift. Since I've been working my skills upwards recently, the aggressive carve has come into force and I love it. I jammed my weight down so hard in one corner this weekend that the bike hopped itself out of the exit. The weight shift had given me the grip to snap around the corner and a giggle-inducing jump/acceleration out of it. Fantastic.

On your left, High Rollers. Big aggressive middle bit, big aggressive sides, big gap in between. (the picture must be from a small size, it's more noticable on the real tyre). On your right, Racing Ralphs. Lots of little knobs mean similar traction the whole way round and not much drag.

Then there was Maxim. I've been riding on a diet of Malt Loaf, Oat Cakes, nuts, potatoes, and water. It has worked and I've been able to feel smug about not putting expensive sports-crap in my body. But I've also been comprehensively out-ridden by top riders who do use all that stuff. So I did a little experiment. Convention among these sport drink sellers seems to be that you need 1 g of carbs per kilo of body weight per hour. Looking at the back of my Malt Loaf, that's 1.5 loaves per hour. Crikey! I usually eat 1 loaf over about 4 hours. Since Emily has a big tub of Maxim from her swims, I used some on my big weekend ride. 3 scoops (180 g of carbs) per bottle with some lemon squash for taste. I rode for 2 hours with 1/4 bottle per half hour. Then two hours with 1/2 a malt loaf per hour. Then two more hours on the carbs. Then 1 more hour with nothing (should have planned that better). Now, I know that it's dry around here at the moment and that I'm getting back into training so feeling pretty good, but that was the longest time that I've ever felt that powerful on a bike. It was unbelievable, 6 hours in and I was still playing around. Still smiling. And still making more than 10 mph average in hilly terrain. The bonk when I ran out of food was pretty gruelling but, if I take plenty with me, this could be a new source of speed and freshness.

And finally, there's Maxx Exposure. Named after Exposure Lights (which often seem to have Maxx in the name but aren't as nice as Ay Ups), it's an 85 mile night race along the South Downs way. You get to see the white cliffs of the South Coast at sunset and then the night is yours in a big point-to-point race with fairy-lit, sofa-equipped checkpoints. I haven't done this one in a while, but I'm planning a South Downs Double, so it seems like a fun way to ride the route in the meantime. Ordinarily, you set up your tent at the end, they bus you to the start, and you ride back to the campsite. With my eyes on an upcoming double, I'm going to drop my tent at the end, and drive to the start. I'll ride the race, sleep a bit, then turn round and ride 85 miles back to the car again. Or something like that. It'll be silly fun.

Flip flops and big drops

2009-09-03T14:52:00.008+01:00

Some photos that summarise the summer.

Bike-wise it's been about progression, taking it easy on the training front, fiddling with different bikes and set-ups, and lots of riding with flats. The pedal choice was first brought on by frostbite making my toes too big for cycling shoes, but I enjoyed it so much that I've stuck with them. I like the bigger platform, the extra control (when I twist, the bike comes with me rather than rotating in the cleats), and the changed attitude. For fast XC, I'm back on SPDs now but it's nice to appreciate both.

Welsh Ride Thing: Spread across 3 days and mid-Wales, it was the chance for some wild camping and epic riding. Our first choice of camping spot wasn't that wild, but it was chosen with darkness well and truly falling (photo from the next morning).

Welsh Ride Thing: Some good views!
Welsh Ride Thing: We're not obsessed by cows (honest).
Welsh Ride Thing: Not a bad view from your canvas bedroom.
Zorbing:
Just before the start of Emily's swim of Lake Zurich:
During the Lake Zurich swim:

Northern France in a The Mystery Machine (unknown cyclist):
Bringing gourmet cooking (and tea) to le froggies. Mmm... beanfeast:
Cow pretending not to be interested in farmer carrying food near campervan parking spot number 2 (not obsessed by cows, remember):
Monet's garden in Giverny:
For some people the hippy van may have caused them to wear flowers in their hair, not me:
The aforementioned flip flops. Not performance footwear, not a performance summer:
Faux free-rider contemplation (while Adam finds his focus with the camera):
The aforementioned big drop:

So that's some of it. Fingers crossed for an Indian summer, but the one we've had so far hasn't been too bad.

Iditarod 2009 Part 5

2009-08-06T19:31:00.004+01:00

Damn. I'm way behind. It's August and I still haven't put down everything that happened out in Alaska. That very fact has been stopping me from writing about all the other stuff that's happened this summer. Maybe I'll get there eventually. I've been on a CTC Mountain Bike Leader course, Emily's swum the length of Lake Zurich (that's 26.4 km! photos here), we both swam across Lake Geneva, and the riding's been laid back fun. All of which deserves some words, but may only get photos, if that. So, time to get the snowy monkey off my back, then I can resume the normal waffle.

Buffalo Camp is a hunting outpost that doesn't get many hunters these days, but Bill pays them to keep the camp there for us riders. Coming in an area that is often the coldest part of the race, it is a massive relief to get there. What happened to me when I got there, I'm not too sure about. I was so tired that my mind was in and out. I had planned to have something to eat before I slept but I don't remember if I managed much. I do remember trying to make some couscous but being defeated by the wood stove and not managing to get the water hot enough. Poking the logs ineffectually, I reflected on how un-Ray Mears I was. The darkness was swallowing up my mind and the water wasn't getting any hotter, so I dumped a bag of cold water and couscous into the pot on top of the stove and lay down. I half-convinced myself that I was just going to wait for the re-arranged wood to get moving, but in reality I knew I was going to sleep.

The next thing I knew I was surrounded by other racers. I had dropped off with only Billy, Lou, and Eric around. I had no idea where my gear was or how long I'd slept for. This wasn't my finest hour. As we got ourselves ready to go, Billy was pretty cheerful. He'd piled up my strewn out stuff and we were going to fuel up before getting back on the bikes. My couscous had cooked (and the bag had melted to the pot a bit, but I got away with it) and Billy had lentil curry. We stuffed down our butter laden food, sharing the meals between us. As I left Bison Camp, I actually felt good. I'd borrowed Lou's pump to sort out my tyres and topped up Billy's front as well. Soon we'd be at Nikolai and within striking distance of the finish.

The trail was similar to what we'd come in on - well packed snow-machine trail swooping up and down over little hills. Billy kept falling back and eventually we decided to just take it at our own paces. I was attacking each rise and fall of the trail with eagerness born of knowing I was going to make it to McGrath. After a while, I saw a pair of eyes up ahead on the trail. They hovered above the shadows of long legs and I thought it was strange to see someone with completely unreflective clothing. Then I realised it was a moose. I stopped way short of the beast - they have a reputation that I didn't want to mess with. It turned and carried on down the trail, with me rolling after, still keeping a distance. Eventually it turned off the trail to go on its way and I could get back into my groove.

Spinning through the night, I felt acutely alone. Having been with Billy for the last few days, I missed his company and doubted whether I should have left him when he was struggling for speed. We'd made our choices though and he'd seemed happy with it so there was nothing to do but pedal. Ghostly cracks rang out around me as the top layer of encrusted ice on the surrounding snow shifted. Each noise jolted me with adrenaline and awareness, but each time I settled back into making progress.

After a few hours, I needed to poo. A featureless tundra is not the ideal place to have that need, but I knew there were occasional trees so I just had to wait. Eventually, I saw one and pulled to a stop. Down jacket on, I stomped off the trail to a lone tree. Unhooking bib-longs is awkward at the best of times, and had to be done super-fast out here. I did my business, buried it and moved along with no new frostbite.

I had been moving at a high pace and effort for hours and there was still no daylight. I started to feel fatigued in mind and body - I knew I could keep going but I had an intense longing for the sun. The picture below was taken to see if I looked as bad as I felt, which I pretty much did. I was riding robotically in my down jacket, generating little heat but still approaching Nikolai and that was all I could do.

As it always does, the sun came up. I kept moving and expected nothing else. I could keep this up and get there when I got there. In the end, I was so patient and unexpectant that it was a surprise to see a power line across the frozen river that I reached mid-morning. I had made it to Nikolai!

Once again, the welcome was warm. I grabbed some food and water, could have slept, but I just wanted to get to McGrath now. Whether it was going to take a bivvy or not, I wanted to move on and see things though. Before I left, though, Kathi phoned to find out if I expected to be at McGrath for breakfast. The word was that the trail was good so, perplexed, I said yes and was soon back on the trail.

Riding in the mid-day sun, it was so warm that I even rode without a jacket for a while. I felt light and free. I could walk the last 50 miles if it came to it, so if I kept my head the finish was in the bag. My happiness (and lack of coat) didn't last long, though. Any breath of wind was chilling without an outer layer, and back on it went. More worryingly, the trail was mush. It was far too warm and the snow was too soft to ride. I could see John Ross' tracks and he had been able to ride this stuff earlier, rubbing salt into my frustration.

After a brief hissy fit, I just got on with it. I would have been better sleeping at the checkpoint and joining the trail by night, but there was nothing I could do about it other than walk. I left my GPS on and in front of me so that I could see my crawling progress. After a few hours, Tim and Tom strode past on their snow shoes. They were sympathetic, but annoyingly jolly before they made off into the horizon. The day wore on and I'd walked over 15 miles dragging the useless lump of my bike. My GPS was said that I was approaching 26 miles to go and that meant there was only a marathon left - easy. Not long after that, I saw a signpost: 35 miles to McGrath.

My will was broken. I was going to sleep before I got there and I might as well sleep now. I could sleep until it got cold and dark, then have the chance to ride a firmer trail. This called for a luxury bivvy. I waited until I reached a little copse that looked good to set myself up in. I stomped down a trench of snow wide enough and long enough for my sleeping bag, then widened the head end to make space for my stove. I gathered thin branches from the trees and lay them down with my thermarest on top. With food, stove, and other bits brought over from the bike, I lay down in my big comfy sleeping bag. Before sleeping, I had to melt snow and used the opportunity to boil the water for hot water bottles in my bag. One bottle right down by my feet - they weren't going to get more frostbitten tonight! I ate muesli and eventually went to sleep. No alarm, I'd sleep until my body was ready to go on, whenever that was. Thinking "race" had got me sleeping here instead of the checkpoint, so I wasn't messing around again.

I awoke hot and claustrophobic. A mummy sleeping bag and the blackout sleep of the exhausted make for a confusing moment on waking. Sticking my head out a bit, I could feel it was colder now, and things looked good. Back up the trail, I could see a pair of riders. Probably Eric and Lou. I packed up and hung around for a minute to chat.

They told me Billy had set off as well and was making good progress. With their non-snow tyres, though, Eric and Lou were having to push a lot. It was good to see them, but time to move on and make my fat tyres work. I dropped the pressure and pedalled off, leaving them to their push.

Once more it was cold and lonely riding through the night. I hoped to catch up with Billy again and cross the line together, but all I saw was endless winding rivers and his tyre tracks. It was iPod time. In that moment of cold, of alone, and of dark some things stood out. Aesop Rock's convoluted lyrics and beats kept me positive. Mayhem finally made sense. Bad Religion seemed a little out of their depth.

I could ride the trail, but it was pocked with moose tracks. They had walked through during the day and left lots of tiny deep holes with their tracks. Each one sent reverberations right though me. After miles of this frustration, I came across a snow bank with "F**KING MOOSE!" written in it. Obviously, Billy was thinking the same thing as me. I was getting closer, but the night was getting colder. The air in my rear tyre was contracting to dangerously low pressure. I had to weigh it up: try to use my faulty pump and risk losing what pressure I had, or just keep going. I decided to try to warm the pump up under my jacket for a while then try pumping.

I attached the pump and pumped it for all I was worth, immediately popping it off when my arms gave out. The tyre seemed, if anything, flatter than before. I tried again, still no big change. I gave up. If the tyre gave up too, Eric and Lou would catch me up and I could use their pump. If not, I might chance my way to the finish on a squidge of air.

Riding gingerly, I came out of the little clump of trees where I'd stopped. Only to find Billy bivvied around the corner. His bike and bag had been thrown down in a hurry. I wanted to see if he was ok (and, yes, I wanted to see if he had a pump) so I woke him up. Fortunately, he was glad I did. So I pumped my tyres, and we set off to ride out the remainder. Billy had fallen asleep while riding and decided to bivvy right then and there. It seemed unbelievable, but following him now, I was just about holding my lids open.

If we could make it to day-break, we'd make it to McGrath. Eventually, the day came and the sleepiness receded. We'd made some miles and started to look forward to gorging ourselves at McGrath. Now it was time to go with all the speed we could. Unfortunately, that speed was too much and we missed a cardboard sign that had got folded over. We went into McGrath along the river, where the sign had directed us off onto the road. With only the hint of a trail, the river was hard work. Tens of metres, then sinking into the snow. Every section done on the bike was on the limit of being able to ride. After about 40 minutes, we saw a snow machiner and he told us that we had taken a wrong turn but it was about the same distance to carry on now. So carry on we did. An hour later, the GPS said we were no closer to McGrath and we cursed the guy. For the next few hours, we cursed the snow, the river, the sky, the earth, the snow machiner as we battled on.

It was a horrible and deflating end to the event, but we overcame it and eventually rode down the main street of McGrath. We got to Peter and Tracy's house together to find a massive table of food and a room full of racers relaxing. It was done.

I chatted and ate, and eventually went upstairs to see Kathi. When I got there, I saw a pile of my clothes. I asked her about it, but she pretty much ran away. Back downstairs, I saw Emily's boots. I thought those two must have got on well and traded boots. Then it dawned on me, Emily must have been in McGrath. It wasn't long before she walked through the door and our hug marked the real end. It was a moment I had been looking forward to for days. She had been out looking for me and Billy as we had been so overdue with our river diversion. But everyone was together now and I had finished my journey.

Iditarod was spectacular and tough. It taught me how far I could go on willpower and preparation. It taught me how fantastic some people in this world are (and how those who push themselves to extremes tend to be in that number). I will be back for Nome.

Iditarod 2009 Part 4

2009-06-16T22:33:00.000+01:00

The checkpoint at Rohn is tiny. Just a wall-tent to hold as many racers as arrive at once. We were lucky enough to coincide with a few guys leaving, so Billy and I could get our sleeping bags down without having to head back outside - others were not always as fortunate.

Getting to the food was a case of stepping over and around many prone bodies. Feeling drunk with exhaustion, it was a hard job to not just fall right on someone. I ate a couple of tins of lentil soup and sat down to get ready for sleep. As I took off my socks, my feet looked horrific. They had been wet all day from snow falling into my boots, so even without the frostbite they would have looked gross. They were unrecognisably white and puffy, like I'd been clopping through the Somne for the past 24 hours. The more worrying part was the stinking and oozing from the frostbite blisters on my toes. There wasn't much I could do about them, so I just hid them away at the bottom of my bag and went to sleep. I'd get my socks dry on the stove and have another look at the toes when I wasn't so deliriously tired.

As I "slept", I heard others come in and out. A bunch of walkers arrived, some of whom couldn't find anywhere to sleep and had to bivvy outside. That must have been frustrating, but there was nothing to be done about it. After a while one of the walkers who had been able stay in the tent shook me awake, "Your buddy is snoring". Frankly, I had no idea what to say to this. You're taking part in a wilderness race, deal with it. What am I supposed to do about it anyway? He went away and I went back to sleep. Billy was snoring pretty loud, but if you couldn't sleep through that, you weren't trying hard enough on the trail.

We only took about 3 hours rest and then it was time to asses the toes. They were blistered, but there was no black skin. I wasn't going to give up because of them, so I just dressed and started to pack up. As soon as they were in my boots, I could ignore my feet and get on with the task in hand. The first job was finding the outhouse. Billy had used the outhouse last time he'd done the race and near-frozen his ass off on the ceramic seat. His complaints had got him kicked out of the cabin, but now, years later, he had been vindicated. A polystyrene seat awaited me... Aaah!

With all the camp stuff done, we headed out to the trail. It was nice and early so the trail was cold and hard. Perfect to get some miles done on the bikes. We dropped air pressure and rolled well, watching the story of previous passage unfold in front of us. The distinctive tracks were there: endomorph tyres on one side and foot-prints on the other. We were riding where others had had to push. Awesome.

The trail climbed as steeply as I was prepared to ride, but I was glad to make steady progress. We crossed more exposed frozen lakes and just seconds after commenting about how much I enjoyed riding this stuff, I was suddenly on my arse and elbow. There is no magic to riding ice out there - you just can't turn or brake more than the tiniest amount. Having hit the ice, I watched my bike spiral away gently. Prising myself up like Bambi in Neos, I tried to fetch it. My boots had come with studs for grip on ice but I'd taken them out so that I wouldn't have to worry about damaging people's wooden floors at checkpoints. Right now, that seemed like a bad idea. Slowly, though, I managed to retrieve my bike and get over to a small patch of snow. From there, I could re-start and try not to make any sudden movements.

The day turned out to be glorious. As the sun came up, it blazed across pristine ice, snow and pine. It lay out the mountains we had just crossed as a beautiful backdrop to our lake crossing. The very particular weather eventually gave us a very particular trail. The snow had melted a little at the surface, refrozen, and cracked again. It was just like riding on North Wales slate. Up to 12 inch plates of ice skidded and clattered underneath our wheels as we hared down singletrack. Suddenly, I was in a white Betws Y Coed cruising along the trail for fun and I even had Billy's company to enjoy it with. For hours, it could have been any given Sunday.

As we got closer to Bison camp, I knew we were approaching the coldest part of the trail. On this side of the mountains, we got weather from Alaska's interior. Fortunately, it was quite a warm year and there were only odd occasions when the cold really bit. One such occasion was crossing a huge lake. Even in daylight, I couldn't see the other side. After 20 metres or so, the wind was so savage that I knew I had to take action. My face was being battered by the wind, my ears deafened by the roar, and I could feel my whole body cooling. Despite being so exposed, I stopped to get out my down jacket. It felt crazy having to go fiddling with my bike to detatch the jacket, but as soon as I had it on I knew I had made the right decision. From deep inside its hood, warmth and quiet descended over me. It was like I'd gone from being in Alaska to watching a video about it from under the duvet. Insulated from the sound and the cold, my bike seemed unreal as I got back on and set off to catch up with Billy.

We to-ed and fro-ed a bit with Eric and Lou again as the miles went by, eventually reaching the Farewell Burn. A major fire had destroyed many of the trees in this area years ago, but Billy didn't recognise it as so much had grown back since last time he was here. The day was getting long again and our tiredness started to be compounded by tyre problems. Big drops in temperature were causing big drops in tyre pressure and it turned out that my pump leaked air almost as fast as I could pump. Between us, we managed to get enough air in to limp along but the fear of a pinch flat or torn tyre followed us all along the trail. If a tube failed, it would be impossible to re-inflate a new one. If a tyre failed, I'd be walking to McGrath. Tense times, but it was all the sweeter to see Bison Camp up ahead.

Iditarod 2009 Part 3

2009-04-23T17:19:00.013+01:00

Another big gap between instalments. In the unlikely event that anyone is holding their breath - sorry. I've been looking for a new job, enjoying the dusty trails and still ploughing around on the Pugsley. My normal bike is just about ready to go again, but there was one more outing for the Pug this weekend. The Dyfi Enduro - short distance for an enduro, but it's all either up or down and the downs are fearsome. Fortunately, I didn't have to ride the bit that claimed some of my skin last year as another rider was spread across that bit of trail. I just helped him to his feet and was thankful to get through there unscathed. It's still my favourite "race" in the UK. You get the most technical course out there, bands, cheerleaders, a gorilla suit, and people riding all sorts from lightweight XC bikes to full on freeride. I had pretty good ride with the silly bike choice removing any pressure I may have put on myself. I tried to flow where I could on the descents, but fully rigid on trail that allows you to get a ton of speed before throwing up a pile of pointy off-camber rocks did force me to take things steady. And then at the end of it Nick Craig wanted a go on my bike. He lived up to his reputation of being about the nicest professional sportsman you could meet, which is always good to see. Some pics of the event here.

Back to Alaska..

At Puntilla, we heard that the lead group had already gone into Rainy Pass but no-one had heard from Bill Merchant for a few days. Bill was supposed to be breaking trail for us, so that was worrying. Fortunately, there wasn't much need to worry about Bill's safety - if anyone can look after themself out there, it's him. Given the lack of trail, the fact that I'd been tortoise/hare-ing with Billy for the whole way up to Puntilla, and that Billy's a fun guy to hang out with I decided to ride with him through the pass (Billy Koitzsch, not Bill Merchant. Too many Bills).

Billy, Rob, and myself set off into the darkness expecting to push a lot and probably bivvy before Rhone. We rode steadily to begin with - Billy's dynamo LED casting massive shadows despite our slow progress. Pretty soon, Rob dropped back. I wasn't too worried about letting him go, expecting another sneaky gear-related move from him later in the day. With relatively ride-able trails, my single gear necessitated that I move ahead of Billy. This was my first view of the tripod trail markers: 8ft high tripods made of large logs with reflectors on them. They gave us a rough path up the valley but it was another case of looking with your feet. This part of the trail had been bedded in so the trick was to search for relatively solid ground and use that. Bunched up together again, Billy and I would occasionally fan out to find something we could ride rather than needlessly hurting ourselves by pushing through deep snow only a few feet from the real trail.

I knew it was going to be pretty much uphill all day and looking out into the mountains, I tried to pick out where Rainy Pass lay. Unfortunately, the twists and turns of the trail made it hard to figure exactly where we were really headed. We whacked through the brush and frequently laughed our way through adversity. As we got closer to the mountains, though, the trail got hard to even push on. We were on a very recent snow machine track and our feet would frequently punch straight through, sinking to the knee. Having set ourselves mentally for this kind of treatment, we didn't mind. We just kept on plugging and resolved to have a hot lunch on the trail.

Whilst pushing our bikes kept us very warm, as soon as we stopped to get out the stoves, it was time for the serious clothing. In my puff trousers and down jacket, I was pretty toasty. It was a good feeling to be completely comfortable so far from civilisation and in such cold conditions. I had to be quick with fiddly tasks before getting my big gloves back on, but that was all. Our lunch stop was twice interrupted though - once by a former trail breaker (sorry - I forget your name) who was out to rescue Bill, and once by John Ross. John declined the invitation to join us for lunch... could he be racing again? :)

From the state of the trail and the information we'd learned from the trail breaker, it was clear we weren't going to be riding for a while. Billy took his pedals off to stop them from bashing into his legs as he pushed along the narrow trail, but I stubbornly carried on with mine. It would be more than a day before he'd put them back on. The trudge went on and on. We passed Bill's abandoned snow machine and carried on until we reached a frozen lake. I was looking with my feet again and the trail seemed to veer off to the right. I followed it, and I saw a snow machine approaching. It was Bill, with his rescuer. He told me that the snow was too deep and the light too flat to do much trail breaking. The snow machines just kept sinking and the flat light made it impossible to read the snow. From here there were untold miles before we'd see trail again. But, in the abandoned cabin by the lake Lou Kobin and Eric Warkentin had holed up to wait for the trail breakers.

The cabin had no roof, but Bill had christened it The Rainy Pass Hilton. It may not stop the snow, but the 4 walls did stop most of the wind. Billy and I headed up there to talk to Lou and Eric. We wanted to press on and bivvy in the pass, but after some wavering we decided to stay. We would head out as a group of 4 in the morning. Hanging out with them and Bill for the night seemed much more appealing than a storm-whipped bivvy in the unknown.

During the night Tim and Tom arrived. They are incredible walkers and were eating up the distance as we struggled with the deep snow. Bill must have recognised them - their arrival prompted some classic dry humour, "If you shine that light in my face, I'll shoot you!" It's a good job we all know him well enough to get the joke. As morning came, we all filled up with hot water and faffed. Even more snow had fallen and no-one was in a hurry to get out there.

Eventually we did, though and things soon became comically hard. I was at the front to begin with and thought I had taken a bad turn when the snow was knee deep. Leaving the bike for a moment, I tried some other directions: they were waist deep. We tried to guess which of the utterly exhausting directions would be the least gruelling, but it was impossible to tell. Each step would take tens of seconds as it would involve the same procedure: step forwards, sink (sometimes up to your waist), stumble, reach up to you bike (now above your head) and drag it forward a bit, climb out of the hole you're in, sink again. Just trying to progress at all once you'd sunk was like being in a children's ball pit. Everything you could reach would collapse under your weight.

We rotated like a peloton. Being at the back of the group was more like walking along a trench and much easier. And through it all, we had chat from biking stories to Napa Valley wine. Surreal, but it kept us going and it was particularly good for me to hear from the veterans that these conditions really were extraordinary. Every directional decision was tough. If we wanted to head for higher ground, it would take an age to get there and might not be any better than our current position. The only sure thing was that if we kept moving through the pass, eventually we'd come out.

As we got higher, the terrain got steeper but rockier. The wind was so strong into our backs that the hair exposed under the back of my hat froze solid. It felt pretty crazy, pretty epic, and pretty good to have this place and moment for ourselves. That was the high point, though. Sooner than we were ready, it was over the top and into more waist-deep slogging. Here, we were zig-zagging down the valley and in places we could see open water from the river. Getting wet, particularly on this section would have been seriously bad news so every crossing was tense. Thick willows forced us to keep doing it though, sometimes edging along a narrow ledge dragging/carrying our massive bikes. One memorable section had us 10 feet above the water on a scree slope with varying depths of snow. Each step could be shallow or deep, it could slip or hold and the way was too narrow for a bike to be anything but a clumsy anchor.

In my mind, I had hoped that we would be out of the pass by nightfall. The hours went by, though, and the sun dipped as we lifted and grunted our way through a maze of willows. And then, we could hear engines. The trail breakers had made it through to us. I was so relieved, I could hardly stand. Lou ran up and hugged the first snow machiner. The trail wouldn't be packed enough to ride until the night had frozen it, but at least we had something to follow.

So, it was back to sinking in the snow but now only up to our knees and with a straight line to follow. Moving at our own speeds, our little group broke up. Eric and Lou moved off ahead while Billy and I progressed more slowly. Darkness fell and we were still pushing. Hunger and tiredness were beginning to take their toll so I was swearing at everything: the snow, the dark, the stupid bike, and eventually at Billy stopping to put his pedals back on. At that point, it was definitely food time. I was hating my trail mix (yeah, Pete Basinger was right) and Billy was sick of sweet energy food. A quick food-trade had us both in a better mood for what turned out to be a long way to Rohn.

We saw the ghostly traces of the lead group who were still having to make their own trail at this point. Deep furrows through soft snow. I knew the pain involved in that kind of progress and could only marvel at how they'd pushed so far. Then as we finally got close, there was the first exposed ice. The wind had blow parts of the frozen lake clear and it was like entering a different world. The ever-present crunch of snow was gone, along with the accompanying drag. My light was much less effective as the black ice soaked it up, only the cracks showing up bright. Those cracks were re-assuring though, as they highlighted just how much ice there was underneath us. Tiredness, silence, legs used to a day of pushing, a slippery surface, and a heavily weighted front tyre made it a strange, beautiful experience.

Longer and longer we went, my strength dipping and Billy pulling ahead. Until, at last, I heard a whoop from him. We were at Rohn and had cracked the hardest part of the ride.

Iditarod 2009 Part 2

2009-04-05T09:26:00.005+01:00

It's beautiful and sunny in England at the moment and, due to my lack of other working bikes, I've been bulldozering around on the Pug. It was the North Downs yesterday for dusty trails and the constant accompaniment of people's muttered comments. Usually I'd be able to make out only a single word, "tyres", in the middle of whatever else they had to say. It's all good, though. Riding fully rigid (ok, fat tyre's worth of suspension) and flat pedals is helping me to flow with the trail.

Back to the story...

When I got up at Shell Lake, I notice a couple of changes to my physical conditions. First, my eye had sorted itself out - maybe it just needed some real sleep. Second my toes had come up in big yellow blisters. I knew that these weren't like normal blisters, but put some Compeed patches on anyway. They probably wouldn't do any harm and have always helped me with real blisters.

Patched up, it was a quick trip to the freezing outhouse (Puntilla has the best outhouse, but more on that later) before Rob and I set off for Winterlake Lodge. The lady at the bar had given us some directions the night before but all I could remember was that we would end up at some homesteader's place if we went wrong and it would cost us miles. You can probably see where this is going.

A funny thing about riding with Rob was that I warmed up much quicker than he did. So we set off together, and let our individual paces run their course - me leaving him behind for a few hours, then him catching me later in the day. The terrain was more flat tundra and straight lines but the trail conditions were pretty rideable so I set my mind to "mulling" and watched the relatively fresh bike tracks in front of me. Eventually, the trail split and I followed the tracks to the left.

The riding conditions got worse and I was having to use speed to keep me afloat on the narrow track of a snow-machine ski. It was exhausting and as I saw a "Private Property" sign, I began to wonder if it was all in vain. With tyre tracks still ahead of me, I decided to continue and find out where I'd get to. If I turned round now, I still wouldn't know which way was correct. When I saw a bike ahead, it seemed like good news until I could make out that it was heading straight towards me. This was the route to the homesteaders and some other racers had been there. So we set off back, a drop in the 350-mile ocean of the whole trail.

I saw Rob again as I backtracked and he was getting warmer but still not on a pace that we'd ride together so I plugged on alone. A few hours later, I came to another branch. This time I was going to make a decision not just unthinkingly follow the tyres. Checking my GPS, one direction was clearly right. As I wandered up the trail a bit (GPS can't tell which way you're facing unless you are moving) I saw promising looking tyre-tracks to confirm my decision. Before resuming, I paused for chocolate coffee beans and a wee break. The latter is not a simple thing in bib shorts and bib longs. You have to unhook them from your shoulders and still end up crouched over during the act. I still think it's worth it for the riding comfort, but it feels silly every time you have to go.

As I faffed, Rob caught me up. The cleat had come loose on his shoes so he couldn't unclip. We rode together for a bit but eventually his pedal troubles caused him to fall back. I knew it wasn't far to the checkpoint now and it was a great to joy to see across the last frozen lake up to the Winterlake Lodge. Such a joy, that I stopped to take the photo below (you'll have to look pretty close to see the buildings). And Rob nearly ran into the back of my. He'd snuck up with his sneaky gears as I was spinning out.

Lunch at Winterlake was amazing. Some kind of black bean plate with fried eggs - so good. And this was the first re-supply drop. I opened up my bag to see what Billy had packed for me. Lots of quaker oats bars, peanut butter ritz crackers, some soups and curries, hand-warmers, and a condom. Nice work Billy.

I wanted to make it to Puntilla that night so the stop at Winterlake was short. Just enough time to make sure Rob had his shoes sorted out and get my head together. I'd seen John Ross again and, I'll admit it - I wanted to beat the other English singlespeed rider. The next section of trail was even better than coming into Shell Lake. It twisted and flowed, and I twisted and flowed with it. I pumped the bike over little jumps, drifted round corners with both wheels sliding and one foot out. It took the slightest amounts of subtle braking to keep things going but the rewards were like riding the switchbacks at Afan. Fun and grins, and why can't this last forever? The last part of this section is (I think) known as the steps and got to the point where I was finding the trail steep for the conditions. I wonder at how a dog team can ever cope with this. All too soon it was over, though, and down onto a frozen lake. I saw Cory on his skis - I'd gained 10 minutes back on him pretty quickly which should have been a clue but I couldn't help asking how he'd enjoyed that last bit. Apparently, it's tough for skiers.

And then I saw the trail that took us up off the lake... So steep that it would take hands and feet to get up. It was maybe 12 feet up and I know I'm not that strong at anything but riding, so I stripped all my gear off the bike and threw it to the top. Then, bike on back, I climbed up the wobbly steep trail. I reloaded, had a snack and it was straight back to pushing. All the height I'd lost on the fun stuff would have be regained as we were heading for the Alaska Range. The pushing was a case of shoving the bike forwards, putting on the brakes, walking up to the bars, and shoving again. Repeat until the hill is over. I wasn't going to be catching Cory again for a while.

When the trail levelled out, the views into the mountains were spectacular. The sun shone down and the perfect air was a beautiful place to be. When I caught sight of John Ross off to the side of the trail, I was glad of someone to share it with. Just as I slowed down Rob nearly ran into the back of me. Once again, he'd snuck up on a flat bit of trail. The three of us were just happy and privileged to be out there. John even claimed to have given up on racing for position. The competitive streak in me told me two things... (1) Good, maybe that's my chance to beat him (2) He's a racer, he'll be back on it later.

Regardless, the three of us rode more-or-less together towards Puntilla. There was more of the narrow stuff, but this time John and I were floundering. There seemed to be even less grip and putting a foot down off the trail would result in sinking to knee or even thigh level. My riding was a bit slapstick, but it was still getting me closer.

The final hours into Puntilla were horrible. The twists of the trail were frustrating me again and I was mentally done for the day - walking sections that didn't need walking just because I was fried. Again, over-reliance on GPS made it worse. I could tell that I was at 90deg from where I wanted to go and the stupid damn trail wasn't going there. The drive to finish was there, though, and I kept moving however low I felt. As day turned to night, I got closer and closer. When I finally saw a head-torch bobbing around near the checkpoint I was ready to drop through the door. Fortunately, I composed myself at least a little before saying hi to the collection of racers inside...

Iditarod 2009 Part 1

2009-04-04T10:53:00.000+01:00

Wow, it's been a month now since I set off on my big adventure. Time's flown for various reasons but here it finally is: the first instalment of my Iditarod story...

Alaska is an amazingly beautiful place - just looking at it from the window of the plane filled me with excitement and anticipation. And, as before, my time there was filled with extraordinary people adding to the experience.

It seems wrong to call the Iditarod Invitational a race. Leading up to the event, it was "The Race" - needing no further qualification. During the adventure, though, thinking of it as a race tended to result in making stupid mistakes. So leave the racing to veteran nutters like Jeff Oatley. I'll probably keep using the word "race" by accident though :)

As I had said in earlier blog posts, the lead-up to the race was far from perfect but it was fantastic to meet some familiar faces at the Speedway Cycles pre-race party. Nerves and jet lag kept me from sleep the night before we started, though, and as I arrived at Knik, I felt numb and a little bit queasy. The sun shone down on us and the other racers seemed to be going through similar thoughts as we stuffed down a last fatty meal. A few tweaks to the bike and I was ready to say good-bye to Emily for a few days. There was, literally, a mountain to climb before I'd see her again.

Time unwound quickly and soon we were riding across the first frozen lake through an inch or two of snow. I tried to stay calm and settle into the ride. The trail helped by quickly becoming firm, swooping, packed snowmachine-singletrack. I chatted to John Ross and the time sped past in the sun. I was feeling overdressed and grateful for a bit of easy mileage.

There is no real set course for the race. There are checkpoints, and there is the Iditarod trail, but we don't have to follow it. This adds to the adventure but makes the first section from Knik to the Susitna river a confusing place for newbies... so John and I duly got lost. After a certain amount of casting around in knee-deep snow, we eventually made it to the river but south of where we wanted to be. Heading north, I could see other racers coming in along Flathorn Lake and saving miles compared to us. Doh! Thinking like it was a race, I upped the effort and soon the back of my jacket was a frozen sweaty husk. There was still a long was to Yentna Station.

A lot of the following section was very marginal riding. You'd progress a hundred metres, then sink into the snow. Casting around across a wide possibility of trails, I'd eventually settle on one and ride another hundred metres or so before sinking again. In the dim light of my head-torch this process went on and on. At least running into Billy was a nice diversion. He was setting a steady "Nome pace" so I said hi and carried on at my own (too fast) speed.

It was in this first section that I learned not to put too much stock in the GPS. Straight line distance to a checkpoint means nothing on a winding river, it just frustrates a tired body. The frequency of my stops increased the further I went and every time I saw a cabin I hoped it was the checkpoint. As the wind picked up, I stopped to swap my normal hat for the one with the pull-up balaclava bit. This simple task was complicated by only having one source of light - my head-torch - and that source being frozen to the hat. Finally, I swapped hats and was able to carry on. The sweaty first hat remained a frozen lump all the way to McGrath.

I was really struggling to set my mind to the speed that I was moving. Every GPS-led estimate of when I would arrive came and went. I wanted to stop, but that wouldn't help, so I carried on. I scolded myself for making promises to my body that I couldn't keep. Promises like, I'll be there in an hour. Eventually I accepted the one truth: if I keep moving I'll get there so keep moving. At around 2am I got there.

Yentna Station was the busiest checkpoint as the field had yet to spread out fully. I rolled up, signed in, and tried to stuff down food. My plan was to sleep for 4 hours and get back out there. So I set my soggy socks and shoes in front of the stove and went to try to sleep.

But sleep wasn't happening. Too much excitement, too many nerves, and my eye was itching, hurting, and watering. As the time came to get up I was glad to be "doing" instead of just lying there. By the time I reached the next checkpoint, I was bound to be so tired I'd sleep like the dead.

Heading downstairs, I found Jill Homer. She was hesitating to put any weight on her feet. Frostbite had got to them after overflow had doused them. I was too spaced out to talk to her properly, but I felt her pain and hoped that she would be able to continue. I gathered up my socks and shoes to find them soaked. They had been lying in a puddle while I'd been lying in bed. "Well, my boots are waterproof anyway so I'll just go," I thought. Mistake.

The word was that it was cold outside, but as I loaded up my bike it didn't seem too severe. Of course, the temperature on the river, in the wind, is a lot colder than up at the checkpoint but that didn't occur to me. I set off into (if anecdotes be true) -30C heading for Skwentna.

Now I was more attuned to things taking absolutely ages. Not quite zen yet, but I could at least appreciate the sunrise and the cold as I pedalled away. Occasionally my feet felt cold so I walked a bit. My eye was watering a lot and freezing up. But, on the whole, things were good. I was doing it, actually feeling like part of the event. At one point, I got off to walk and it felt like my toenail was being torn up by something. I took off my boots to check it out - the toe of my sock was frozen solid and the nail had been pushing against ice. I crunched it around and decided to ride as it was more comfortable. Mistake.

The rest of the ride to Skwentna was uneventful. Jay and Tracy Petervary overtook me; I chugged along. Eventually I reached what I expected to be the driveway for the checkpoint and turned in. No cabin in sight. In fact, it must have been a mile of extra riding through what would have been pleasant surroundings. Sadly, I was squinting at every tree, thinking it was a cabin in disguise. I still didn't have all the patience I would need, but eventually the checkpoint did come into view - heading inside I found a bunch of other racers...

It was great to see James Leavesley looking so cheerful and preparing to go even as I had only just arrived. Already, there were stories swapping around from the first day of travel and, even through my excessive tiredness, the glow of other people was as welcoming as the warmth of the stove. Which is not to exclude the warm welcome of Bonnie and her family into their home. They're lovely people!

It was still only about mid-day so my plan was to warm up, eat, and head on down the trail. As my feet warmed up, though, they started to burn. Taking off my socks, I saw that the flesh of both big toes had turned grey and I couldn't feel anything as I pressed concerned fingers into them. As other people noticed them, I was advised to massage them a bit and try to warm them up in front of the stove. This turned out to be something I could only do in short bursts as the warming hurt quite badly. Eventually, though, my toes felt a normal temperature (but still numb and grey) and I had eaten enough to relax a little. It was getting awfully tempting to sleep for a while.

After some near-dozing on the sofa I decided to head out and try to get to Shell Lake - halfway to the next real checkpoint, but somewhere we could sleep indoors. Rob May thinks I talked him into riding out with me... I'd say the mere suggestion of having someone heading out now was enough. Either way, we set of into the warm afternoon with dry clothes and full bellies.

The ride to Shell Lake was a revelation. Almost all of the pictures I have seen of the trail (including the ones I took) show a single straight like heading across flat tundra to infinity. In fact, there are long section of fun riding out there and the only explanations I can come up with for the lack of photos are: 1) We're having too much fun and making too good time to stop (2) If you want to see those fun bits, you'll have to go do it for yourself and earn them. So, Rob and I swooped along snow-machine singletrack under a golden afternoon sky. It was a breath of fresh air after so much slogging along frozen rivers. I had a chance to get out of the saddle and let the bike flow a little - a strange feeling indeed on such a weighty beast.

We talked about riding, racing, and training for the event and the miles slipped by easily. It almost felt like cheating, but I knew I had to sleep at Shell Lake and catch up on all the missed zzzs since leaving England. Rob was happy with that idea so we rode like a Sunday afternoon saunter until we could see the cabins ahead of us on the lake.

The bar at Shell Lake is a weird place. The kind of place you'd expect to see at the start of a horror movie, it was quiet and very slightly strange. I could just picture some horrible secret in the basement. That didn't stop me ordering food though. And here is one of the sad parts of my race - my bean soup had bits of sausage in it and I just ate up the lot. I could rationalise it by saying that it had already been cooked and probably would have been wasted anyway if I'd have sent it back. But the truth is that it was expensive, I was hungry, and the only alternative was my own food so I just didn't care.

Sleep here was the best I'd had in a long while. I don't recall how long I was out... Maybe 6 hours. But It was perfect and I woke ready to take on the next stage of the adventure...

Getting back on the horse

2009-03-25T17:46:00.004Z

It's been ages since Iditarod, and I'm finally back onto bikes and blogging...

The briefest possible story of my experience is that I finished in McGrath after 6 days 22 hours; it was spectacular and difficult; I'd love to do it again.

Some of my photos are on Facebook. Bill Merchant's video is here. Lou Kobin (one of our group of four that took on Rainy Pass together) has her account on her blog.

I will be writing about the race in more detail over the next few days, but one event from the race is worth mentioning now - as a reason for my absence from bikes and lack of motivation to blog. Like an idiot, I managed to get frostbite on my feet. So the week after I got back from Alaska was spent immobile and in pain. I can ride again now, but I still need to bandage my toes and they still make a mess when I do so. It's not really something to dwell on - especially since I'm back in action now.

Music to get me pedalling again

2009-02-25T20:53:00.005Z

Well, things are coming together for the race. My injured leg is hurting less (but still hurting - under ice at this very moment), my food is going to be there in time for me to pick it up, and the bike's all packed for flying. Without using drops, I'm going to have to carry about 8kg of food beyond what I'd originally planned, but at least the bike will get lighter as I go along!

My bike loading has had to change to accommodate the extra food. I only wanted a front rack, but now I've had to put a rear on. This involved bending and cutting the mounting kit to fit those funny offset chainstays. With that done, I've now got my thermarest wrapped around my sleeping bag and my down jacket out back with the extra food panniers. The thermarest looks untidy, but it seems secure. As on the training camp, bungie nets are holding stuff onto the tops of the racks i.e. the sleeping bag and down jacket. The one new trick is to fix one side of them with cable ties so that I don't loose the nets in the snow.

And I've finalised my iPod playlist. I don't plan to use it all the time, but if I need a mental lift it's only a few grams. Here's the playlist...

Aesop Rock Labor Days
Aesop Rock None Shall Pass
Asian Dub Foundation Facts And Fictions
At The Gates Terminal Spirit Disease
Bad Religion New Maps of Hell
Bad Religion The Process Of Belief
Converge No Heroes
DJ Shadow Endtroducing....
Give Up the Ghost Year One
Heartless Bastards All This Time
Heartless Bastards The Mountain
Ignite Our Darkest Days
Integrity To Die for
Joe Pug Nation of Heat EP
John Coltrane A Love Supreme Deluxe Edition [Disc 1]
Josh Ritter Golden Age Of Radio
Massive Attack Mezzanine
Massive Attack Protection
Mayhem De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas
Minor Threat Out of Step
Mogwai The Hawk Is Howling
The Pogues If I Should Fall From Grace With God
Propagandhi Less Talk, More Rock
Propagandhi Potemkin City Limits
Propagandhi Today's Empires, Tomorow's Ashes
Shai Hulud Hearts Once Nourished With Hope And Compassion
Shai Hulud Misanthropy Pure
Shai Hulud A Profound Hatred of Man
Shai Hulud That Within Blood Ill-Tempered
Sick Of It All Life On The Ropes
Steve Earle El Corazón
Supersuckers Devil's Food
Zombie Apocalypse This Is A Spark Of Life

Finnish Winter Swimming Champs

2009-02-23T19:51:00.006Z

It was a couple of weeks ago now, but back on February 7, I went out to Imatra for the Finnish Winter Swimming Championships. It was a completely ridiculous distance to travel in order to swim two 25m races but I'd always wanted to go to Finland and their competition was the inspiration for Tooting to start the UK champs. It was really another trip lead by Emily's swimming, but one that I could get into and one that gave me the chance for a cheeky snow ride too.

The venue was at the leisure centre in Imatra where a pontoon had been put into the river before it froze. The "pool" was then the 25m inside the pontoon which had been kept clear of ice by constantly agitating the water. During the competition, however, there was a man going around with a net. Normally, you might expect him to be fishing out leaves. Actually, he was taking out small lumps of ice. Icicles hung off the lane ropes, and the steps (insulated with pipe lagging) were encrusted - crunching under your hands as you got in or out. And to add the icing (ho-ho) to the whole thing, just outside the bounds of the pontoon were some guys ice-fishing with their little holes and little chairs.

There was a great atmosphere from the start. Even though we went straight to the pool and missed the opening ceremony, there were plenty of other people on the grandstand. It was a long wait until we got our turn to swim, but it was fun to be in such a supportive crowd and we did get the chance to witness a Swimtrek cap-wearing, thong-sporting nut-case.

Unlike Tooting, the pre-race preparation was indoors. For some reason, it's always really hot in Finnish buildings. Far warmer than I'd keep my house in an English winter (16C for me). So, as I waited, I couldn't bear to have my coat on and was even sweating a bit. Maybe some of that was anticipation. I'm not that great a swimmer and a terrible sprinter at any sport, but I can't avoid feeling competitive. I was nervously trying to remind myself to go fast, not just the loping pace I normally do things at. Knowing that you're about to get into the cold does always bring a lump to the stomach, but it just as surely brings a buzz afterwards.

The race itself was breaststroke. The Finns have traditionally used head-up breaststroke for cold water because putting your head under takes your breath away. And with head-up you can wear silly hats. But, this time they experimented with normal breaststroke. Until a masters session a couple of weeks ago, I hadn't done breaststroke since I was a kid so it wasn't an ideal choice. Into the water I went, though, eyeing the others for clues about when to do what as the instruction were in Finnish. Once everyone's shoulders were under, we were off. Seconds later, we were out again. It was a fleeting series of images: brown tinged water, another swimmer out of the corner of my eye, my breath bursting a bit, no real time to feel conventionally cold. At least I'd remembered to try to go fast.

Impressively, and stylishly in her flowery hat, Emily took first place in the international category. Sadly, I couldn't see the race as it was only minutes after mine.

The evenings are one of the main reasons to go cold water swimming. Everyone parties and has a good time. It was organised fun here though. A few dancers and entertainers before the band started; then there was the Finnish approach to dancing. Everything in a Waltz style, whatever the music. I'm not the greatest or most enthusiastic dancer, but it was a weird sight and a weird dance-floor to share. At some point during the night, we met the other member of our relay team. It was thong-man, Nigel.

The relay was very much more of the same, except this time with team spirit. So the racing was more fun, the swimming experience was pretty much the same, and I had the surprise sight of a steward taking my clothes away thinking they should be at the other end for a team-mate. Fortunately, I stopped them!

After the swimming, we headed up to Ruka - where the Finns go for skiing and I was hoping to ride my bike a bit. Having carried it with me this far, I was going to make sure it saw some snow action. I set off for their snowmobile trails with high hopes. The first section was on snow-covered roads which whizzed by until I saw the distinctive "two skis and a caterpillar" track that I was looking for. Checking behind, I swung off the road and onto the trail.

It started with a little 2ft hump, and stopped immediately after. As I came down the hump, my front wheel sank way down into the snow, pitching me over the bars. Arms outstretched, I flew and landed face down with both arms sunk up to the shoulders. Huh - I wasn't expecting that. I had noticed that the snow was too powdery for snowballs but I had hoped the trail would pack down. I was dead wrong. Every time I tried to ride, my rear wheel just dug a little hole. Even pushing, my feet would occasionally go straight through the tracks and up to my thighs. The "ride" was a 5 hour push. Objectives were made though: it was nice and remote, the trail mix went down well, and I got back exactly on time with a little water and a little food left. For scenery, though, Alaska's better :)

Stumbling towards the start line

2009-02-21T19:50:00.005Z

One week until the Iditarod and things aren't looking as organised as they were a while ago...

First my seatpost bolt snaps on a training ride so I have to go home and swap seatposts before carrying on. At least I managed to do that and fight the gremlins saying "Go home now, eat cake now." I went back out and earned the eventual cake. No luck in sourcing a new bolt, though... how hard can it be?!

Then the effect of knackered shoes gets to my feet again. The soles are so worn out and flexy that the pedals stick through into my feet and roll them outwards. Some sort of suspected tendon pain makes it hard to walk and impossible to run (even across the road).

Having got sick of having the scrape ten tons of sticky mud off my bike after every ride I decided to have a road-heavy week. I set off for some big commutes: 30 miles each way with panniers stuffed to the gills. 10 minutes into my ride home, my freewheel dies, taking me from singlespeed to no speed. I swap it round to fixed (a harder ratio) and carry on home. It was quite nice doing two 60 mile days sandwiching two 30 mile days with nice (ish) weather and no mud. But by the end of all that my shins are seriously painful. I can't point my toes out or up and it really hurts to walk.

After a day of ice and rest, I set off for my last big ride before the race. It should be about 9 hours and the sun is shining. Trail conditions were still pretty sticky, but the descents had some grip so there was chance to let fly a bit. Four hours into that, the shin pain is back so I plan to cut that ride short. Then I'm nearly home and the freehub on my xc bike jams, going from singlespeed to fixed. Fixed off road might be fun, but not when any failure to keep up with the pedals will further mash the internals of an expensive hub so I limp home and and end the ride on a low.

And of course, I get home to find that my drop bags for the race haven't made it to Alaska. They were supposed to take 5 days so they're 13 days overdue. Which may mean I have to carry all my food with no drops. Crap.

At this point, there's no stopping me but I just wish the little branches and brambles pulling back my progress towards McGrath would give me a break. I'll just have to keep reading books about people who've done harder things and overcome bigger obstacles. It's just a bike race so I just need to turn the pedals or trudge my feet for a few days. Injuries or lack of food aren't necessarily the end of that. Look at the scenery, have a laugh.

More help for the race... Goodridge

2009-02-12T20:34:00.005Z

Another lovely company has been nice enough to help me out with training for and riding the Iditarod... Goodridge! They make steel braided brake hoses and brake pads. Since brake pads are one of my biggest training costs and Goodridge are my first choice brand that's great news. I had already specced their hoses for the Pugsley to avoid cracking at low temperatures or worrying about crash damage causing a leak so I was very glad that they were willing to help.

Hooray for them!

Food

2009-02-04T16:05:00.005Z

To quote Bill Merchant, nutrition on the Iditarod trail is about "Fat, fat, and more fat". A reasonable estimate of expenditure on the trail is 8000 calories per day (an adult male's recommended intake is 2500 per day in normal conditions), so high fat and calorie dense foods are needed. Roughly speaking: fat is 9 calories per gram, protein and carbs are 4, and alcohol is 7.

This makes for a weird food shopping experience and a new stat-counting measure. I've never been that much of a weight weenie on my bikes, but I have definitely become a calorie-per-gram weenie for food. It makes a huge difference. 8000 calories in raw potatoes is 10 kg. Even if you could carry and cook that many potatoes, you wouldn't want to eat them. 8000 calories in butter is 1.1 kg. A lot easier to carry but also not a lot of fun to eat. For a "short" trip like the Iditarod race, fibre is just indigestible extra weight. Nutrients aren't a problem because you won't be gone long enough to suffer a shortage. The key things are: calories-per-gram, easy preparation, and palatability. Low weight is an obvious advantage. Anything that needs to be cooked over a flame will use up lots of fuel so "just add water" is better. And it doesn't matter what food you've got if you can't bring yourself to keep shoving it down every day.

At least these were my thoughts... I don't really have the experience to know how well my food plans will work out. I am setting myself back by sticking to vegetarianism. There will be food at checkpoints, but Alaskans are into meat (with good calorie density reasons) so I will have to assume I can only eat what I bring. Bearing all of this in mind, I started experimenting and creating a spreadsheet...

Foodstuff	Cal/g
Muesli	3.6
Powdered Milk	4.9
M & Ms	4.8
Cashews	6.2
Torq recovery	3.5
Almonds	6.1
Dried Apricots	1.7
Chocolate coffee beans	5
Couscous	3
Powdered Butter	6.92
Pumpkin seeds	5.9
Pine Kernels	7

With this information I could plan my meals and get to 8000 calories in 1.6 kg. Hopefully I'll be able to eat all this, here's the menu...

Breakfast: Muesli with dried milk
Daytime: Cashew nuts with M & Ms, Almonds with dried apricots (chopped up for when they freeze), Torq recovery drink (that stuff isn't super energy dense, but it really helps me recover while training), chocolate coffee beans (yeah, I'm having caffeine on this one)
Dinner: Couscous with lots of dehydrated butter, pumpkin seeds, and pine nuts

And there it all is in bags. Using freezer bags means I can cook and eat the couscous straight from the bag. It also means relatively minimal waste packaging on the trail. Making up all the bags certainly did show how much waste there is in food packaging though. My recycling bag was jammed full of cardboard, and the main big was overflowing with plastic by the end.

Snow halts play

2009-02-04T15:58:00.002Z

I was supposed to be going to Austria for my mum's birthday this week, which would have been a lot of fun. Time to have walks, dinners, drinks... chilled out stuff with no connection to bikes. Unfortunately, a couple of inches of snow intervened. As usual South East England fell to pieces. No flights, buses, or underground in London. No underground? It's under ground!

The positive to take from it has been snow riding straight from my front door and chance to write one or two things here that had been brewing as ideas.

SLSC UK Cold Water Swimming Championships

2009-02-02T20:26:00.008Z

24 January saw me attending the South London Swimming Club's UK Cold Water Swimming Championships. Now there's a silly idea. Take one gigantic 90x30 metre unheated Lido, and organise a race in January when the water temperature can be as low as 1C then see what happens. What happened was that the water was a relatively balmy 4C; people travelled from the UK, Finland, South Africa, Australia, Germany, Ireland, Canada, and Poland participate; and afterwards we had a barn dance.

Swimming in water that cold isn't at all like swimming in a normal pool. And it isn't like swimming in "normal" cold water - say, the sea at 10C or above. You just can't stay in there for very long - it is no exaggeration to point out that if you did, you would die. But you can stay in there a lot longer than you may think. One advantage of the Lido is that the water doesn't creep up your legs slowly so there's no dipping your toes in. Step one is up to your waist and step two is swimming.

When the water fully hits you, it grabs at your breath. But the weird thing is that your heart doesn't just stop, and you can swim. At first there is something surreal about the normality of swimming in an environment that you have been brought up to think would be unrelenting and impossible. Then as you get more into it, maybe do your first turn, it does begin to feel cold. Actually, it isn't impossible but it is unrelenting. Your brain slows down a bit and your stroke starts to look and feel drunk. Even then, though, there's a warm core inside and the thoughts are random. I felt my toes getting cold. My toes. While heat is being sucked out of every inch, my toes are wanting some nice warm slippers.

And when you get out, your skin is aflame. Bright red and invigorating the burn is actually quite pleasant. The bad part is that your hands and balance don't work so well. So you stagger about and claw at your clothes to get the wet off and the dry on. Even when you do, it's like there are little cold snakes running around under even the biggest jacket. They run and coil and disappear, only to come back again and again for the next 30 minutes or so. Fortunately, the recovery isn't like a longer swim in the sea - a hot shower or bath is OK. It doesn't shock the system so the SLSC's sauna is a handy shortcut to recovery and feeling blissfully relaxed.

Such was my swimming experience when acclimatising for the competition. On the day though, I swam for a mere 30 metres. It was all about supporting Emily as she swam in 30m Freestyle, a relay team with the "Swimtrek Bullets", and then the daddy... 450m endurance.

The relay races brought out the fancy dress. First, there were the Grenadier Guards who were swimming to raise money for soldiers returning from Afghanistan. They were pretty easy to spot in their bearskins which enforced a gentle head-up breaststroke technique. It was an impressive achievement for a group who aren't really cold-water swimmers but relied on toughness and the good cause to get through.

The Swimtrek team's fancy dress had a bit of a stripper theme. With Brad, Simon, and John dressed up as stripper policemen, they gave Emily a mix of the police kit and naughty school-girl. As you can see, she pulled it off and even managed to get the truncheon in behind her swimming hat. They didn't win, but they did look silly and that's the main point.

The final challenge was the endurance race. It's invitational only as the uninitiated would have no chance of finishing 5 lengths, 450 metres of the Lido. It was easy to spot Emily before she started as she waited at the far end of the Lido in my jacket. The challenge was to follow her swimming hat for 5 lengths. After one, I could see her do a brief bit of breaststroke. I wasn't sure what to make of that but, her stroke was strong again when she returned to front crawl. Turn after turn, she kept going and in the end managed a brilliant finish. Nearly 9 minutes in desperately cold water. Impressive stuff.

Enter The Pug

2009-01-19T15:43:00.007Z

Well, there was an awful lot of waiting, but the monster has finally arrived. On Friday afternoon and with many thanks to Cycle Care, I took ownership of my Pugsley. Then, life being life, I couldn't even put the grips and pedals on until Monday. Saturday was 10 hours of training on the bike, and Sunday was training on foot with Emily and spending some time together. Still, the big grey bike was still lurking when I went out to see it today and now it's ready to ride tomorrow. So bring on the glamour shots (apologies for poor quality camera-phone work, my camera is elsewhere. Click for bigger images)...

No comments about the fence... it's on the neighbour's side! Nice, clean lines from the Pug, though.

New style seat-clamp from Surly has a nice S embossed on it. Open cable guides for full-length cables/hoses.

Apparently, Hope SS hubs only come in gunmetal colour these days. The seals look different to my 1 year old one too. Note the crazy-big rims with offset build to allow a full range of gears that don't foul the massive tyres.

Lovely Hope stem, Goodrich braided hoses (to avoid plastic cracking in the cold. Arguably I should have gone with cable discs), King headset. The front is very high and wide as that's the usual style for snow bikes (so I'm told and it worked for me with the rental).

This is what it looks like to get run over by a Pugsley. Yes, the tyre really is bigger than a tree :) Also of note: the front wheel using a rear hub. For the race, that'll have a different gear from the back just in case. Even if I use that gear, I'll still claim to have ridden it singlespeed!

View from the seatpost... a 100mm FSA ISIS bottom bracket. Wise people say FSA ISIS is pretty good these days. Hope so!

That's how a drivetrain should look! Simple lines. For the race, I'll be running a granny ring at the front, but 32t for now so I can ride it round Swinley.

3 Mobile on MacBook

2009-01-18T09:12:00.002Z

Boring and techie, but useful for people trying to use the same setup as I had...

I just switched to mobile broadband because it's cheaper than having to pay line-rental and fixed-line broadband. You can get some really good deals out there as long as you don't mind losing a little bit of speed. Unfortunately, despite coming with a nice white USB stick the 3 mobile package is a mess on Mac.

Using the connection software on the Huawei E160G HSDPA stick, you can connect to the internet but I found that it would crash within about 1/2 an hour every time, bringing the whole system down. It's the only thing I've ever used which crashes my Mac so that's a poor result. I did some googling and found one suggestion that the driver sends too many messages to the system log but changing this made no difference. In the end, the solution seems to be to use the built-in connection software instead of 3-Connect i.e. use the little phone icon in the status bar. Using that, I haven't had another crash yet... woohoo!

Lobsters are cool but...

2009-01-10T18:42:00.004Z

Lobster gloves seem like the perfect balance of finger grouping for warmth vs dexterity to ride. There is a problem, though. You can do this:

But you can't do this:

And sometimes the second one is essential. Like when you hear some raging metalcore.

Oh, and these ones don't leave room for chemical handwarmers making them useless for me in the Iditarod. Good for UK, though.

New Year Carnage

2009-01-05T19:18:00.005Z

New Year didn't bring any training but it did bring the chance to go play on bikes with Emily in the woods of Shropshire, and then have a fun party for New Year's Eve itself.

First, we headed out to Mortimer Woods near Ludlow for a bit of "follow your nose" riding. Riding up a deer track gave us challenging branch hopping climbs in a soft, quiet world of our own. Ducking branches and working against the slope, we eventually had to turn round for some real free riding. Just the suggestion of a flowing trail and no guarantees, it was great. And then the elbows came out. Throwing elbows is a bit of a Tuesday night ride habit with Adam and me, but it's also an occasional feature on rides with Emily. Except that with Emily it tends to involve more contact. So on a perfectly level trail, the shoving ensued and one missed elbow from her entangled our handlebars. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and I'd hit my hip hard on the end of the bars. It took a few moments to figure out that everything was ok to move.

In the end, it was just a scratched hip and a dead leg but a bit of a shocker and lucky to be near the end of the ride. Unfortunately, the main carnage was reserved for later when a fast fire road conspired with an adverse camber and some cut logs to take out both Emily and her frame. Fortunately, she wasn't too hurt but the bike was, as you can see, terminal. Doh!

There aren't many worse feelings than hearing someone you care about wiping out in a painful sounding way behind you. Fortunately, she was ok and Merlin Cycles have been good about doing a crash replacement. When I was getting into riding the question wasn't whether or not I crashed on a ride, it was how many times. Exceeding your limits accelerates your learning, it just hurts sometimes.

Rhossili is so bracing; NYT

2008-12-24T21:48:00.006Z

3 days in Wales and 3 sea swims to help acclimatise for the competitions to come. Cold water swimming is such a weird thing... In a lot of ways it's just awful. Pain in the arches of your feet as the water first hits you, then shock as the water gets up to crotch height. And finally, the breath-wrenching dive to become fully immersed. If it weren't for Emily, I wouldn't be there.

But once you're in, it is fun in a muscle-twinging way. You break through some barrier between normal comfortable life, and surviving in a truly hostile environment. The idea of winter biking is to avoid getting cold, but here we have no protection for anything but modesty. Just swimsuits and temperatures that are guaranteed to give you hypothermia if you stay there long enough. So we built up each day: 4 minutes, then 10, then nearly 20. Once you've taken the plunge and ignored the horror, it's actually kind of fun to be there in a place where people really shouldn't be.

Bring on the UK Champs at Tooting and then Finland!

And in other exciting news, the New York Times article is out with words and videos... yay!

Bikemagic article is up

2008-12-20T19:08:00.004Z

Well, the Bikemagic article about the Alaska training school is up. Go read it here.

And today's training ride? 1 snapped chain. 1 standing in water over ankles incident. 85km distance, 2030m climbing, 6h45m time. Completely battered body.

Mr Selle Italia is having a laugh

2008-12-18T11:54:00.007Z

The Pugsley build is underway and while I was crushing down boxes, I came across this:

In a sunny country villa in Italy, Signore Italia is laughing. But, signore, this is what we do to your saddles with our lack of sunshine...

I don't know why I bother with Ti rails!

Training, iPod, wet

2008-12-13T15:00:00.008Z

I've found myself doing more and more training rides this year. Today being a perfect example... there's no way I would really want to go out in the pouring rain and ride for 4 hours if I didn't know I had to. If I want to ride the big events I've got to put in the hours on local trails no matter how nasty they are.

So, I finally caved to using an iPod for these rides. I'd always thought they rob you of your connection to the bike. I'd always listened to the sound of the tyres across the ground, the click of the freehub, and in quiet moments the birds in the trees. But when I don't want to be out there, or I know I'm going to be out on the same old trails for a long time then the music helps me to keep going. The right track can make things better... Today I was just wrenching the last pedal stroke out to get over a mud-sucky climb when Bad Religion popped into my ears. It was the perfect liberation as I hit the singletrack coming out of the climb. Sometimes it's all too much though... Reading a leaf-covered trail that's speeding at you whilst Miles Davis is swirling in 10 directions at once or (as today) Steve Reich's phase-shifted drumming is taking up a significant proportion of your brain is pretty difficult. But the same music can be the perfect antidote to long boring straights.

I think that if I'm riding for pure joy, then the music stays at home but for putting in the miles it seems to help. You've just got to see the pictures from today to appreciate that it wasn't a day to stop and smell the flowers. More a day to stop and wring out your gloves. Those are rivers, those are the trails!

After Alaska

2008-12-12T08:19:00.004Z

Well, my first ride back from Alaska was interesting. The first few metres riding down my road were terrifying... were my tyres always this skinny, was the steering always this fast? I reached the end of my road and nearly popped my eyeballs out as I touched the brakes... Clearly, this wasn't quite the same as riding a rented Pugsley!

Climbing brought breathing difficulties and made my arms feel like over-cooked noodles, flapping away as I hulked up Kop Hill. In Alaska, I hadn't been using this much effort and the air had been dry. Now I was maxing out and sucking down moist air at about 0C. Only 5 minutes in and I had resigned myself to a ride that would hurt but feel better afterwards. 20 minutes in and I was speeding down some doubletrack blinking away the water and mud from my eyes. Ruts were twitching the front tyre around and my attempts to correct were just exaggerating the problem. Then I tried to brake and only set off a massive uncontrolled buck of the bike result in a face/gulley interaction. I needed to find my mud-riding head again.

As the ride went on though, things started to come together. I couldn't yet find that pace inside myself to grind up the long nasty wet climbs, but I was at least getting control back on the downs. Once again, though, I'm in the position where my problems will be solved by more riding so it's not so bad.

Looking back to Alaska, a couple of things were discovered.

First and foremost, they've got a vibrant and friendly mountain biking community out there that was hugely welcoming to me. Billy sorted me out with a fine rental bike and then went way beyond the call-of-duty helping to get me as much riding as possible (more on that later). Tim introduced me to the local night-riding scene that was remarkably similar to our own but whiter and then went on to offer more help than I had any right to expect.

Second discovery was that I will stand a chance of finishing in McGrath staying vegetarian and singlespeed. I left the geared Pugsley in one gear pretty much the whole time to find the right ratio and now I can get that for my own. 22:18, since you asked. That means just a granny ring, but a relatively small cog at the back for where you'd be in the granny on a geared bike. It seemed to work for me, so I don't care if it doesn't look as manly as 32:16.

A detailed story about Bill and Kathi's school will be appearing on Bikemagic at some point but in the meantime, here's what happened when Billy and I rode around Eklutna Lake...

The forecast didn't look good. Right around freezing point and rain. Snow is fine, but rain sucks. It means pushing the bike through slush and potential disaster with a down sleeping bag. As we drove out from Anchorage I kept hoping it would get colder, but it never did. We were going to ride anyway as Billy is training to ride to Nome and I had to experience as many different conditions as I could in my time out there. The trail started off pretty rideable with options to stay down by the lake on trails used by skiers or go a bit higher up on easier trails where snow machines or quad bikes drive. We stayed low and the precarious singletrack line of packed snow eventually petered out to nothing. So we pushed. And pushed. And pushed some more. In the end it was over 5 hours to cover 12 miles, but the lake provided serene beauty with an almost perfect mirror for the mountains and the sun dipping behind them.

Our conversation petered out a while after the trail did and we just trudged along every footstep sinking calf-deep. It was ok, though, it wasn't going to break us and Billy had eggs for breakfast tomorrow. When we eventually stopped, we had taken the wrong trail - the way we'd meant to go was completely unbroken which would have meant lifting the front of the bike through the snow, an even worse fate than mere pushing. Since we weren't fixed on a destination this was fine and we set up a bivvy to make water, dinner and then sleep for the night. Spirits were high again as we sat warm in our sleeping bags and eventually settled down to sleep early.

Hours later, I heard Billy starting to mess around with his stove. It took a while before I woke up enough to check my watch... 11pm Damn, Billy... it's not even morning yet. It didn't take much discussion to agree to more sleep before breakfast. At about 4am, we were up again and Billy went to his stove again to make breakfast. Seconds later flames leapt a few feet into the air, wildly out of control. To my great relief, Billy threw the stove away from our sleeping bags. "Billy, your hand's on fire." "BILLY, YOUR HAND'S ON FIRE!" He slapped it out on the snow whilst I tended to the stove, controlling the gas to get it back down to a proper blue flame.

After that, breakfast was quite uneventful but tasty. Rain reduced the menu from eggs, gravy, and biscuits (that's American biscuits) to just eggs and gravy as we hurried to get packed up and moving. Pushing back was much easier with the furrow we'd ploughed on the way in and once we hit the main trails we took the high road. That meant more ups and downs, but almost entirely rideable trails that I tore up on my pretend singlespeed.

Eventually we were back and ready to meet Billy's family for breakfast at the Snow Cafe. It turned out to be a nice relaxing final day in Anchorage with Billy's lovely family and my chance to watch A Thin White Line. I can't thank him enough for his many kindnesses... If you need to rent a fat bike out there, he's your man and you can be 100% sure he'll have every detail sorted out for you.

Stepping Towards Iditarod

2008-11-28T01:04:00.004Z

Well, I took the first step and entered the Iditarod, now it's time for the second step: training. So here I am in Anchorage to see riders, pogies, bivvies, snow, and big fat tyres.

Unfortunately, I didn't realise that today is Thanksgiving for those crazy Americans so my plan to stock up on gear has fallen through. But I got to sort some stuff out and have a wander around.

The light is really amazing here. It fades in and out really slowly, it hangs low under the heavy clouds and glows brilliantly over the mountains. Can't wait to spend all day in it.

As for the city, it seems pretty friendly and the traffic moves really slowly. Having said that, with all the snow, you see cars skidding to a halt at red lights and skidding away from greens so not that much of a surprise there.

Just a day of wandering about and looking at the light. Soon to be followed by measuring out portions of oats and dried milk. Oh, the glamour...

On Failure

2008-09-07T20:09:00.004+01:00

Yesterday was the second mountain bike race that I've ever quit. It was supposed to be 12 hours solo, but even from the beginning things weren't smooth. Driving down, the deadline for registration came and went as I got lost trying to find an area I'd only ever ridden cross country to. The lazy part of me was thinking that this was a pretty good excuse - if they don't let me in, there's nothing I can do. In the event, I was just in time to sign up with an hour before the start.

I set to work replacing brake pads, brushing the worst of the muck of my bike, and getting ready to go. It looked like I might be in time! The solo riders area was just a part of the camp-site that followed around the edge of the track and I was parked miles away so I was glad to be able to stash my gear with Kathy's excellent track-side position. We joined the start near the back - there's no point in rushing the first lap - but with a couple of minutes to go, I realised that I'd left my keys in my unlocked car. I manage to bounce across the tussocks, grab my keys, lock the car and nearly make it back to the start before the race began at 12pm. Hmm... starting in dead-last.

The first lap was typical queuing and the course had degraded a bit even since riding it a few days before. By the end of the lap, I was 21st in solo and feeling ok. The second lap, I got a clean run so I let the bike run a bit and fell twice for my effort. Still, by then I had reached 14th. Two hours in, it was time for a bite of malt-loaf and back onto the course. It wasn't long before team riders started lapping me and on one open corner, I went wide to let a faster rider through. He went wide too, so I was forced wider until my tyre hooked up on the mud on the outside of the corner and I went down hard on my knee. During the remainder of the lap, blood flowed down my shin and, even now, it's a throbbing reminder of how not to corner.

At this point, much of the course was draggy, some hills weren't worth the effort of trying to ride up and there was hardly any free-wheeling to be had. It was going to be a long day. Adam turned up to say hi, which was a good diversion from the unrewarding ride. Eventually, I'd reached 11th place and things were seeming ok. The course had even dried from slop to goop in places. As 7pm rolled around I stopped to pick up my lights. Rather, the Ay Ups I'd borrowed from Tas. But as I went to fit them, I realised that the extension cable was in my car. So, it was back across the tussocks and losing race-time without even resting. At least I bumped into Richard on the way over and had the chance to chat to a friendly face.

With lights fitted, I set off once more. It was light enough outside the trees but I had to rely on using the force inside them. I didn't really know if the lights would last so I bumbled through for an extra half-hour before switching them on. I was well into eating at this point - on the potatoes and fig rolls nearly every lap as mealtimes skulked past. The rain had started again and the course was becoming horrendous. Nearly every part was an effort of dragging through mud, only the steep climbs brought the relief of walking. And my head was going out of the riding. I fell twice in 100m through lack of concentration. I smashed my shoulder into trees by taking ragged lines, I dabbed, I fell, I walked, I came close to falling off the wooden bridge. I saw a kitten on the trail - it turned out to be a tree-stump. This was seriously worrying and I couldn't have been more glad when the 1.5hr lap finally ended. I stopped for some food, feeling cold and in pain. I decided to take break, as I couldn't think of a single part of the next lap to look forward to. I sat on the damp, dark grass, I wanted to pull up my knees and hug myself but my cut knee wouldn't allow it so I just lay back and watched the sky, mulling. Could I do another lap, would I still be falling as much?

Fortunately, one of the Tunnel Hill Trolls took pity on me and invited me over to their camp-site for tea and cake. It helped me to feel a lot better, but when I went back to the bike, I still couldn't do it. 9 and a half hours in, shivering and confused I quit.

So, what to take from it? There are two things that keep you going in that situation - mind and body. I'd got both of them wrong. I had a dry top to put on that would have helped to stay the shivers, but I didn't use it. If I was going to ride that hard, I would have needed to train more and not to have cut so many corners in the run up to the race. But all things are connected and the mentality that had let me cut a 5.5hr training ride into a 3.5hr ride was the same mentality that wanted to feel self-pity instead of grabbing some merino and getting back out there.

I suppose it comes down to why you're doing the ride. There was no joy to be had on the course, or training in The Chilterns so all the drive had to come from inside. From irrational bloody-mindedness. That is something that I have possessed in the past, but seems to have drained away. There plenty of cases where a bit of suffering can be worthwhile to experience something unique, but just going for 12hrs isn't enough any more. I want to enjoy the rides again, to know why I'm doing it. So, I can look back on a 9hr training ride for Iditarod and hope that I won't break the same way out there. At least there will be progression out there and beauty out there. For now though, I can do this last season of riding in circles for hours and then find something more fun to do.

CLIC 24

2008-06-09T21:02:00.004+01:00

Riding a 24hr solo mountain bike race had been an ambition of mine ever since I rode my first team one more than 5 years ago. So, this year I finally went and signed myself up for CLIC 24, a charity 24hr race in the Mendips. Training for it dominated my riding for months beforehand. Sometimes, it clearly was training - riding when the conditions were awful, grinding out the miles each time my body recovered enough to get back on the bike. And when work took me away from bikes, I hit the swimming pool with the same mentality length after tedious length without the rewards of riding.

So the cliche of such things became true - the training was the hardest part. Riding 10 miles home from work in the dark and rain to swap bikes and hit the "trails"; sloughing through mud so thick that bouncing my entire weight on the pedals wouldn't always turn them; swearing my way up climbs to discover (hoarse-throated) a mist hanging so thick that I couldn't see the ground beneath my light; having a 4 punctures in one ride and riding 3 miles home on the rims. Any time not on the bike meant dunking the worst of the mud off my riding clothes and washing them, replacing destroyed bearings, changing brake pads worn down to the metal, getting my shoes brushed down and into the airing cupboard and then trying to take care of all the normal life things.

But there was still joy to be had on a bike. Not every ride was a solo Chilterns beast designed to toughen me up. Bracknell with Adam and James held twisty singletrack, starry nights, pointless racing, and plenty of laughs. Wales weekenders with Kellie and Tas provided rocky singletrack, speed, beers, and cakes. All riding as it's supposed to be - fun!

So after the months of good and bad, it was a relief to see CLIC approaching. Soon I would be able to do other sports again and maybe, if I wanted to, no sports at all. Just imagine that! In the weeks beforehand, the sun finally came out and the local trails became almost laughably easy. After-work rides were stretching to 3-4 hours and still not having the gut-wrenching harshness of winter. Those slippery knots of roots were now just a high-speed jump and a dusty landing. All was looking good for the big day.

Armed with Emily to keep me fed and watered, and the longest break off the bike I'd had in months the first few laps of CLIC were a doddle. The course took in genuine bridleways with flowing singletrack, rocky sections, and one dirty-great climb. Like a sessioning freerider it was possible to refine my lines indefinitely. Each lap faster and smoother descending, then lock out the forks and crank from the saddle up a long fire-road, unlock before the steep sting in the climb and a loose rocky finish to the road. Also each lap, a bite of food and a kiss and cuddle from Emily. This thing seemed pretty good and even as night fell, I felt incredibly strong.

Then a surprise visit from Adam made for an awesome lap as he took Emily's tiny bike out in his sandals and rode round with me. We chatted and whisked along, me feeling like I was showing him my local trails, him feeling like a kid out riding with his dad due to the 15" vs 20" difference in bike size. We nailed the descents with confidence born of riding much scarier, steeper, and pointier stuff in the Dyfi Forest the week before. We passed other riders like statues until we reached the final climb. Part-way up the climb and mid-conversation, Adam pointed out that he was panting and I was just chatting away. Well, I was warmed up :) Then as he dropped back a bit there was a crunch of gears, an oof of breath, and a lack of light from where he had been. He bid me to carry on so I rode out the lap hoping that nothing too serious had gone wrong (his gears had slipped causing the battery cable to get pulled out).

But the laps after Adam were where things took their toll. Suddenly, I wasn't on autopilot anymore. It was that damn corner again and I know there's that stupid loose climb and the annoying mud to come after. I don't even like night riding - I keep missing the lines. How many more times round? I checked my watch more often. I began to notice that I'd got sun-burned during the day. Tea and encouragement from Emily helped, but it wasn't long before I decided to take a break. I hadn't planned to sleep but something needed to change or I couldn't carry on and if I was going to miss some riding, it made sense to miss it in the dark.

So, stinking, I lay in my sleeping bag for a bit and felt the aches. My mind was just static, though, and I don't think I reached anything like sleep. We'd set an alarm, but I don't remember now how long I'd given myself. I just lay there are pondered how pointless this whole thing was. I'd done a good few laps and could just have a good sleep now. I know this place though. That ugly voice inside and how it makes you feel afterwards if you come back to yourself and discover that you gave in without good reason. But I felt like bouncing off the bottom so I let my teeth chatter from the cold (and it was cold), I tried to get Emily to talk me into going back out there. In truth, I didn't need (or get) forced to leave. I just needed to dip before I could rise. And without fully accepting that I was doing it, I was soon putting on fresh clothes, sorting out my Camelbak, and preparing to go.

My teeth chattered all the way along the start line and all the way up the first climb. My mind half slumbered down the first descent, but eventually I was back in the groove. Going round in circles, knowing that the sun would rise. Still, I'd come around and Emily would be there. Endurance racing is a particularly selfish thing. It feels strange to be waited on but, in truth, it really is all about you for that 24 hours, that ironman, that channel crossing or whatever the challenge is. From a karma point of view, we help each other out and your supporter knows it's about keeping the pedals (or equivalent) turning. I like that simplicity of life for a while, I like to be able to accept the support for once, and I try to be sufficiently grateful (that includes to random people who help without even knowing you).

Sunrise is something I've always loved at Mountain Mayhem (team 24hr I've done loads of times). The warmth and light coming back into the world, the dew being baked off and the trails getting fast. It was oddly unemotional for me at CLIC. Perhaps because it merely signalled another 6 hours of riding to come. For now I just concentrated on my aim: to reach 20 laps.

One lap at a time, it came to pass. Nothing dramatic, just keeping on riding and eating and not stopping. With a few hours left to go, I was there and it was time for potatoes and a bit of a break. (Potatoes with olive oil and pepper are my treat for endurance riding. They fill, they taste good, and they're cheap) As often happens in these circumstances, I try to figure out how little riding I can get away with doing before the end. Fortunately, rear tyre damage comes to my rescues. The inner tube is not quite escaping through the cuts, but you can see it in places so I err on the side of caution and time-wasting.

Eventually, I squeeze in another couple of laps and they're actually pretty enjoyable. When you can see the finish and you know you can make it, everything seems loose and easy. There's no rush, just a final few chances to perfect those descents. And when it was over, it felt like an anti-climax. The training had worked - I'd done it and I hadn't suffered horribly. The training, the support, the $150 shorts, they all did their job. So bring on the next challenge, I guess.

The facts? About £500 of sponsorship raised, over 200 miles ridden, and 2nd place (but it's not a race, right?). And it's not too late if you want to add some post-event-sponsorship!

Swimming With Crazies

2008-05-12T22:24:00.002+01:00

The May bank holiday means a lot of things to a lot of people. To mountain bikers this year, it meant the Dyfi Enduro and SSUK - I partook in the former. To Channel Swimmers, it meant the start of their training in Dover Harbour. For weeks and weeks until their crossing, they head out from the pebbles and endure the chilly water for hours at a time. They build up physical and mental strength against the cold; they face boredom and discomfort; and they have their own community bound together by the innate looniness of their endeavour.

So for a mountain biker and a channel swimmer together it meant driving from Machynlleth to Dover for some endurance sport cultural exchange. The Dyfi was, as always, great fun. Laid back people, hard technical riding and a good vibe. For me, the scary event was the next day... My first cold-water swim accompanied by a plunge into a whole different subculture.

Arrival in Dover was extremely pleasant as the sunshine melted away what had been a brutally early morning to get there in time. Freda, the matriarch of channel training, seemed nice enough but her hard edge was clearly there inside. As more people arrived, they all seemed too nice to want to dive into that opaque chilly water. But as the time approached, swimming hats were donned, assignments given by Freda, and Vaseline applied. She'd given Emily and me 2km to swim and now the deal was done. I was really going in.

We walked down the beach hand-in-hand and I couldn't help remembering a similar situation in Goa, except that time the warm water welcomed us and we played around in the surf. This time the water was drawing back its palm, ready to deliver a slap. Putting thoughts aside, I got in and went quickly into a few strokes. Salt water hit mountain biking wounds. Cold water hit stressed muscles. But it was actually invigorating. My breath was shortened and it felt like a thousand tiny combs were being drawn over my muscles, but there was also a freedom. And with that freedom a liberating sense of the ridiculous - we could be comfortable but we'd rather be challenged.

As we swam out to the harbour wall, I concentrated on a small world. The strange feeling around my body and keeping in step with Emily. Sighting would have expanded my concentration beyond this little intense world that I could cope with, and into a larger one that I couldn't. So along I swam, enjoying the sun the novelty and Emily beside me. We reached the wall, exchanged a few words and turned back to our second target before the cold could reach bodies that dared to slow down. This leg felt more like a swim. I noticed how little I could see, thought about my stroke a little, and probed those weird muscular feelings with my mind. Some of the fear had subsided - it didn't look like everything was about to spasm and leave me helpless.

Finally we reached point two and just had to get back to the beach. End in sight, the strokes became monotone. A trudge, a thought about lunch, a mouthful of salt-water. But soon it was shallow enough to stand, so I did. And stumbled. And stumbled some more. As the blood rushed from my head, I flipped from feeling strong to disoriented and weak. Many hands helped me along and I tried to push them back a little - so used to coping alone. But this wasn't something to cope with alone. I can't even remember how much I dressed myself. Not much, I think. Minutes later, wrapped in many layers and still shaking from the cold, I could really appreciate why people come down here. They need each other to face these challenges, they're bound by something most people will never experience, and they're just damn nice folks who enjoy hanging out together.

India - don't try to make sense of it

2008-02-02T13:37:00.000Z

The facts are these: I spent the 11th to 28 January backpacking around India from Bombay to Goa, Kerala, and then back up again. It was awesome.

The trip consisted of many tiny fragments and many special moments, all churning together to make a delightful state of chaos. Even if I wanted to, I don't think that I could draw these events together to form a coherent narrative. So what follows is a collection of the fragments. They don't fit together like a jigsaw, they just exist as a reflection of the tumult. Nothing that we tried to do in India ever went exactly to plan, but since everyone else's plans were also shifting around us there were always way though. Like a rickshaw on a busy street, we didn't try to go to fast, we worked with the flow, and somewhere in the gaps we found ideas and adventures.

Dystopian dream

2007-12-26T08:45:00.000Z

My dreams have been taking a dystopian turn. This morning I was in some sort of (prison?) camp that contained a school-like building (all lino floors and heavily painted radiators) and a field area with a wire fence. I was being taken to see the unfortunate people and felt a mix of anticipation and unease. I would have to confront my discomfort at my privileged position compared to the unfortunate, I would search to balance my curiosity against having respect for their humanity, and I would have to be on my guard a little to make sure I wasn't going to be exploited myself. So out I went to the field, and along the wire fence was a row of fellow-fortunates, all sat on the ground in sleeping bags (why sleeping bags when it was blazing sunshine? I don't know, but don't ask Freud). As I approached, there was a signal from the other side of the fence and the ragged line of fortunates wriggled back. We were under the control of the comfort of the unfortunates - it was us who wanted to read them. I joined the line, and we did a little wriggling hokey-cokey until finally an unfortunate stepped forward (what happened to the fence? - it's a dream, they're allowed to cheat). I spoke to him, I have no idea what about, but as the conversation went on he lunged forward and made to grab whatever he could. Fortunately, the sleeping bag was pulled tight and my possessions were inside, but he found some sunglasses on the floor. I sat shocked for a second and looked into his unashamed face. Would I have done the same if I were on his side of the fence?

It was getting too disturbing and as I turned to leave, I saw many other fortunates pulling out of their bags and heading back to the school. They must have had similar experiences. Maybe they had learned all they needed, or maybe they required time to reflect on things. As I walked back, I wondered how they could avoid any of the unfortunates coming with us but, as I had that thought, I felt a tugging on my rear pocket. The confusion and disquiet of my earlier confrontation now blazed out with a single tip. Grabbing the hair of my "attacker", I quickly dashed him against a wall. As I saw his pudgy, panicked expression, I recognised him as another fortunate. I wanted to beat the unfairness out of him, but my restraint was holding. Then, of course, I woke up. You should have been expecting that... I did say it was a dream.

Conclusion? Maybe I should re-read Brave New World.

Nietzsche Would Have Ridden Singlespeed

2007-12-16T21:34:00.000Z

Man is a bridge to the superman; man must overcome himself: all that jazz. Nietzsche would have ridden a singlespeed and ridden it up this hill. He'd have seen the point of struggling in a battle that you can never win. Toiling against a hill that's not just long enough and steep enough but, in the winter, grossly unfair. It's not just about muscle, not just about technique, it's an examination of your psychology. The hill is hard, it's harder than you are and it will beat you, but will you commit yourself fully to taking it on? If you are going to fail, will you fail with a whimper or a cry of exhaustion? At any moment you could fail. A couple of inches of leaves remove every visible detail from the trail and drag at your every pedal stroke. And then as every fibre, every twitch, every ounce of concentration is keeping you moving straight up the gulley, a hidden tree-root spins the back wheel out from under you. The frustration is beyond words, but the hill is here to teach you lessons not to patronise your self-worth. Accept your limitations, get back on, accept that it will probably happen again. It's one dark gulley of the soul and I love the chance of success it offers in the summer just as much as the certainty of failure in the winter.

Arriving at the top is like returning from another world. To be without the insistent strain, the mocking and impassive mix of gravity and terrain - it suddenly seems strange. The world has more colour and intensity, and you just happen to be at the top of an excellent trail down to Wendover.

Not yet a human fly

2007-12-06T03:43:00.000Z

Well, I've had my first attempt at climbing... and it was really good fun.

Just like the first time I went mountain biking, there was an initial period where I had to make a step change in my perception of what is possible. Watching Phil or Nik flow up the wall and even across the roof really opened my eyes. But more than that, I had to open my own ability to commit to things. An interesting head game - just the kind of thing I like (see riding planks).

So, under the tuition of Phil, off I went to try to figure things out. Bouldering was hard with no clear idea of where I was going and the need to swing my feet around to make any progress. Still, I managed a couple of little moves, even if they did require close direction from the ground.

Then over to an inclined wall with holds on it. "If you saw someone riding a mountain bike the way you're holding onto that wall, you'd laugh at them". OK, lots to think about - stop stressing my arms so much and use those legs that I spend so long building up. I try to relax and stand more, rather than trying to pull myself along. I try to remember how lazy and economic Phil's motion is. As I start to make my way up, he advises to me to pretend the wall is a woman and lean right into it (little did he know there's a specific woman in mind these days, but that's a whole other story). At maybe 2m up, I am up close and personal with the wall and he tells me to put my hands behind my back. It's scary, but I don't fall off. That's interesting - maybe I'm more stable than I thought. I go up a bit further and then freak out a bit. I can't see where I could go next and there's a bit of ball/harness interaction going on.

Back on the ground, I watch Graham getting a lesson in how to belay. It looks kinda hard, but a responsibility that I'll have to take at some point. Whether he's working for Phil or Nik, they both make it look easy. Damn them.

Eventually I get back to the wall where I'd freaked out but this time with more commitment. I take some useful direction from the ground. I accept that, if I fall, the rope (and Nik on the end of it) will hold me. And I make it all the way to the roof. A claimed 7m according to the internet (which we know never lies), but I'm awful at judging distance. This time the grin is huge when my feet hit the floor. Another sport that's not as good as mountain biking, but very good all-the-same.

We do some other stuff, and as my confidence builds my arms decide they aren't having it any more. It's great to watch the others tackling their own progression, and I feel eager to push my own. I had expected fear of heights to be a big problem and, in a way, I feel cheated. Since I was concentrating so hard on what I was doing, I just sidestepped the fear, instead of having to conquer it. Maybe that is a kind of conquest. I do know that trying to raise my hand to eat an apple seemed like an awful lot of effort and if that isn't a sign of an evening well spent, then I don't know what is.

Swimtrek in Malta/Gozo

2007-11-15T17:51:00.000Z

My first impressions of the water were the blue, the depth, and the grin so wide that it interrupted my breathing. We had jumped off the boat under sunlit cliffs and my trepidation had duly been slapped by the shock of the water. But as I started to swim, as I started to warm up, the grinning had taken over.

A dozen of us were out there in two groups - finding our way; feeling salt in our mouths; and searching for a group dynamic that would tie us together for the week. I soon found myself attached to the feet of Keith, taking advantage of his open-water experience so that I had only a very small world to worry about. It helped to calm the scary and exhilarating feeling of being a small dot in a big sea. I could dip fully into the joy of swimming without walls and I could marvel at the pitted cliffs rising above me in gold and sinking below in blue.

And as the first swim went, so had the first evening of the trip. The unknowns of 14 people who had come from different directions to the same place. The trepidations melting into enjoyment as a dynamic emerged. Past experiences and future excitements had fizzed up and down the long dinner table.

Back on the first swim, the calm seas couldn't last forever. As we turned around one false headland after another, I started to hope that the next one would reveal the bay that we were headed for. When it finally did, we had come around the island and I had my first experience of "lumpy" water. We just had to swim down to a clearly visible rock and into the bay. No problem - just like the final hill on an mtb ride. Thus began the labour. Waves pressing against me like London commuters, holding me back. My hands caught water too early or too late, and my breaths often caught water instead of air. Maybe there is something to this open water business. The cliffs were crawling past now, but they were moving. The primal bit of me thought, "Yeah!" whilst the most of me thought "Food... tea... food... tea..."

In the end there was tea and there was food. The protection of the bay gave us calm waters and the November Mediterranean sun bathed us in what must have been about the finest place on earth for that moment.

And that was just one bit of one swim and one bit of one dinner. Swimtrek was a great adventure - full of laughs and sunshine and swimming. They've made something that's nearly as good as mountain biking. And since mountain biking is the best thing in the world, ever... that's not half bad.

My photos
Eric's photos

Cheddar Bikefest

2007-10-05T06:19:00.000+01:00

It's all Adam's fault. In defiance of the knee problems, I'd started riding again and it had been fun. The pain wasn't any worse, and I could get out on bikes again. And then he went and mentioned Cheddar Bikefest. An 8hr race with a dodgy knee? Tempting... very tempting.

Deciding about Cheddar was postponed, but the riding was coming thick and fast. Commuting through the Chilterns, cheeky night-rides in Bracknell Forest, a long ride in the North Downs where I could watch James' tyres tickling autumn leaves off the ground, a post-work death march round the Chilterns for some unsuspecting victims. All good stuff and a new physiotherapist who might be able to help me out. It was kind of her fault too. Anyone's fault but mine. I asked her if it would be a bad idea to do an 8hr race and she said it wouldn't do any permanent damage.

So that was how I ended up sitting in stationary traffic on the M4, listening to England vs. Tonga and hoping to get to Winscombe before midnight. I felt like a fraud - I used to ride endurance races, but who was I kidding now? And did I have all my gear? And did I have enough food? And would the toothpaste-tube/gaffer tape repair to my tyre hold up? And would I have the strength to crawl over the line if it all went wrong?

Eventually, the traffic moved and after that, I finally arrived. Just enough time for lemon tea and an exchange of fears with Adam before bed.

Race day came with all the usual doubts. There's going to be a whole crowd of real bikers there, and then I'm going to be this fake with my stupid bike with one gear. Putting on my cycling clothes helped. At least my body had some residual memories of the good rides and the strong rides. Some confidence chipped away at the doubt.

We arrived at the event pretty late. With 1/2 an hour before the start we were still queuing to register. That's not what I need. What I really need is the time to take a dump. All the usual buzz is going around: "What's the course like?" "What tyres should I use?" "I hardly rode at all this year - I'll be slow." "No I'll be slower." I try to think positive. After all, soon I'll be riding my bike and I like riding my bike.

15 minutes to go: We're attaching race numbers, and preparing bags to take up to the solo riders area. You can hear the race briefing going on. I hope it's not important. Soon we're spinning up from the car to the start line, laden with fig rolls. Winding through the crowds of team riders, there are minutes to go before the start. It's going to be a Le Mans start, with us running around a BMX track to our bikes. This is going to be tight. Another solo rider's support person offers to carry our bags up for us, so all we have to do is find somewhere to drop our bikes. The PA announces "12, 11, 10, 9, ...". I pull my seatpost up to about the right height and we jump the fence. We nearly reach the back of the pack before the start and I have my gloves on by the first corner of the run.

Adam and I enter the lap together and it starts with a crowded climb which isn't too steep, but is sprinkled with roots. It seems like a good idea to get up some speed so that I can carry momentum over the slippery sections. "See you when you lap me," calls Adam. This seems awfully hard right now and I'm not looking forward to doing this climb repeatedly over the next few hours.

We turn right through a gate and along a trail where the best line involves putting your arm through a hedge. The hedge turns out to be quite solid. Two more gates, a nice, open 180 degree sweep around, and we have a little descending. I pick a fairly natural line and this feels like something to look forward to each time around. We pass some marshalls (kids in army uniform - a enthusiastic staple of mtb races!) and then switchback up the hill. This is a challenging climb it soon gets steep and rooty, but just on the right side of do-able. Then it gets steeper and rootier. Then it gets impossible. One of my fears came to pass: I was going to have to push on every lap. At least I was comforted by the fact that everyone else would have to push, too.

Eventually, the trudging was over and we were into another do-able climb. Balancing my way up the wet rocks, I eventually reached the top and took a right turn towards the main descent. In the whole 8 hours I never really got a good hold of the top section. Loads of roots, rocks, and off-camber. All of it slicked up by the rain. The only solution seemed to be momentum and quick reactions. That stuff passed and gave way to swoopiness which could be great on your own and "interesting" with slow riders around. Then into "witches wood" pointy wet rock deflecting you all over the place and, again, it's momentum that keeps you going roughly in the direction you intended. Nearly at the bottom now, and I can go left or right of the tree. It turns out that left is a disaster of a line. I scoot my way back onto the course and hope that the soreness in my nuts will go away soon. Body behind the saddle and chest on it in order to duck under a tree, and then a little swoop downwards. We duck into a gully and then back out again, and I notice the exit seems tricky: Steep up with rocks in it. Lumpy-bumpy singletrack that seems designed to test how badly your forks deflect takes us around towards the main site. Nearly home and a surface of wet wood chippings steal some energy. Finally, we ride through the middle of the BMX track and across the line.

Starting lap 2, I feel a bit more bullish. There's less traffic and the lap is less than 25 minutes. Everything is going well until that up/down gulley near the end. The tape around the course has fallen down and I miss the turn in. Waddling back, I rejoin the course having lost my flow and promptly fly over the bars trying to get up out of the gulley. It doesn't seem to have hurt but leaves a sour taste for the lap. And then as I pull into the arena I can see blood dribbling down my arm. Not too much, so I ignore it and resolve to take the gulley better next time.

And another lap starts. My thoughts are still too cogent and I haven't reached the endurance riding zone. So I start to think about giving up. And while I'm thinking, most of the lap disappears under my wheels. This time the descending is fun. I'm picking slightly better lines and enjoying the angry buzz of my freehub.

Past 2 laps, I stop counting them and just count down to the next food stop. It was maybe 4 laps before a fig roll. A little longer before I swap camelbak bladders for more water. On that occasion, a kind supporter of another solo rider refills my second one for me. She seems amused by how grateful I am, but it makes a big difference. Over the course of the race, I talk to all 4 other singlespeed riders. They all seem up for the idea of fixing the race, having some beers and then just riding the last lap together. But that would be giving up, and I have to beat Adam by a healthy margin.

So the race goes on and, as I get more tired, the thoughts of giving up have no more space in my reduced brain. I ride, I push, I eat, I drink. Until 18.00, that's what I do. At 17.00 I see Adam lying flat on his back in the solo tent. I stop to attach my lights and he says I have to get 2 more laps in. That's what I had in mind, so I'm going to time the next one. He's going to accidentally leave it too late and only do 1. Fair play to him, he's still going in the longest race he's ridden. I set off, knowing that I'm laps down on the RAF guys and laps up on the guy in 4th. It's only for pride (and fun) now. Lap 1 comes in at about 25 minutes by my watch, so I take it easy on the second. Walking big sections now and chatting to other riders.

I roll home with 10 minutes to spare, and it feels like a job well done. Hot chocolate, a toastie and some cotton clothes bring me back to the real world satisfied. Coming 3rd out of 5 is not the greatest achievement in the world, but it's better than a kick in the teeth and it was fun. And it was the first time I got to stand up like a podium finish. Maybe I will train through the winter...

The Sad Truth About The PCT

2007-08-21T22:31:00.000+01:00

Well, I'd been trying to keep the dramatic tension for anyone who didn't know about how the PCT ended for me. The rate and detail of posts about it probably gave the game away though, so other topics are going to creep in-between, but the story will get finished. After a while my knee packs in and I come home, but stuff happens first. Interesting stuff :)

Also this means I can let people know about Morgan's solo progress. The last time I heard from him was yesterday and he'd passed half way. I'm happy for him, impressed by him, and pretty damn jealous of him.

So another interesting thing is a another possible knee self-diagnosis... http://www.emedicine.com/pmr/topic104.htm Who knows if I'm right though. We're approaching the 1 year anniversary though and it's hard to remember what riding was like when the limiting factor was my lungs, my legs, or my willpower.

PCT Day 4: Mt. Laguna to underneath Sunrise Highway

2007-07-31T20:26:00.000+01:00

Our plan for the day was to head along the Laguna rim and see how well my knee held up. Unfortunately, we were behind schedule and would need more food, so we decided to split up for the first section. Once again, Morgan was taking up the slack caused by my failing knee - this time it was so that I could get a head start at around 8am, and he would go to the store to get food when it opened at 9. We were to rendezvous 10 miles down the trail and I was to coddle my knee by taking breaks and stretching as much as possible.

It felt great to be moving again and I was soon stripping off layers in the morning sun. As I headed gently downwards, the terrain was still quite wooded and it felt kind of like home. I was having more visions of mountain bikes, but this time it wasn't me riding them. Maybe I was getting into this hiking thing after all. I was making steady progress and, since I had the map, marking arrows at ambiguous junctions for Morgan.

In terms of feeling like a progression, there was little stimulation. The trail "just" followed along the rim, but it was one of those days you get in the mountains where you just run out of superlatives. Your breath gets taken away so often that you have to be careful not to stagger down the cliffs that have you agog. Where the road to Julian had had fleeting glimpses down to the desert, now I could stand at the edge of the train and see the mountain plummet down to the sand. I could take in the scrub that hung on so tight to the walls, and the brown swirling desert down on the floor. Looking way out I could see more mountains out to the other side. I wished that Morgan was there, but I contented myself that he'd be seeing this soon enough and I should just be glad.

I made my way along for a couple of hours, pointless competitiveness kicking in and making me determined not to get caught up until I'd made it to our meeting point. Despite this, I managed to maintain some semblance of being a grown-up and every hour I put my camping mat down in the dirt (usually right there on the trail) for a stretching session. Lying there in the scorching heat and easing my worn legs into a variety of positions, it was hard not to laugh. What would I say if someone came along? "Yeah, I'm hiking the PCT but my knee is bust. I reckon I can fix it by stretching!"

As it turned out, I wasn't the most ridiculous sight out there though. At one point, the trail had turned away from the desert valley and towards wider, flatter, chaparral covered expanse. The sand was reflecting heat back up and there was no shade at all (aside from the desert umbrella!). Then, from the haze comes this guy running along with his bare chest that red-brown colour of someone who's spent too long in the sun, or maybe the colour of the inside of a medium-rare steak. With his Oakleys and his little 0.5L water bottle, he was the perfect Californian. Still, I had to admire the apparent working-order of his knees.

Eventually I made it to the meeting point with Morgan and set myself up on a picnic table to wait. It had been a depressing last hour as my knee had started to fail again and every little downward slope had me reduced to shuffling. As always though, taking off my shoes and looking out across the land made me feel better, made me wonder if it was all in my head. Soon enough, Morgan arrived too: striding along with his straw hat beginning to fall to pieces.

We had Top Ramen noodles (Brits: that's super-noodles) to add to our existing supplies and he'd got himself coffee so we were stocked for the trail. The water at this picnic ground was from a trough for horses and it featured both dead insects floating on top and live wriggly things swimming inside. It was time to break out the water filter for its first use. The filter was simple - attach one end to a container, dip the other in the dodgy water and pump away. We managed to load up with water and we were soon ready to see how far we'd get before sunfall.

The very first bit of trail was astounding. It passed close to the existing road and up a broken one which was luxuriating in the lengthening shade provide by a high wall to West. This wall was covered in graffiti from kids who could easily make it this far from the road. Turning your back on the scrawls, the view was once again awesome. Down into the desert again, but here the vantage point framed our view with nothing but reddish brown rocks. We took photos and drank it all in before turning up the road for more progress.

It wasn't long before my knee was a serious problem again. We were in an area that had been heavily burned by wildfires and as I ducked under a sooty tree we had the idea to make a walking stick. With the stick to support my weak leg it was possible to go much faster down the hills and not to risk falling. So it was with tripod footfalls that I made my way along and we chatted the afternoon away. It was to be our first night out in the real wild with food to be cooked rough too, so pretty soon I was looking for a clear area where we could use the stove. In the end we settled on top of a huge granite slab and enjoyed super-noodles with the setting sun. It was just like the photos you see in outdoor shops but immeasurably more awesome.

The day ended with a bit more progress along the trail and then a frantic search for space to make a camp. My little tent and Morgan's bivi weren't going to need much space but a lot of the trail was narrow with either thick brush or steep cliffs coming off. Eventually we found a spot, pitched up (half by feel) and tried not to think too hard about wildlife hazards. I drifted off hoping that no-one would steal my stick.

PCT Day 3: Julian

2007-07-05T17:17:00.000+01:00

Sleeping much past dawn was difficult on a trip like this but we gave it a go, and it was a pretty leisurely 8.00 by the time we reached the post office and shops in Mt Laguna. Of course they weren't open, so we killed time watching the lack of hustle and the lack of bustle. By the time the shop finally opened and Morgan got his coffee we had some semblance of a plan - get to Julian and do some internet research to find possible self-treatment options for my knee; get back to Mt. Laguna for exercises and general relaxation then, knee-pending, push on along the trail.

It seemed like a good plan, but as we headed for the road to hitch a lift, I was unable to walk 100m with my pack. Morgan carried both and I felt the true meaning of lame. It was to be my first ever hitch-hike and Morgan had been entertaining me with stories of his previous hitching exploits. He maintained that out here, with backpacks, it would be a breeze. When we made it to the road every car we saw was going in the wrong direction for a while and then, on the first chance to use our thumbs, a van pulled up. Morgan dashed up to meet them, and I tried to hide how badly I was limping. They were going to Julian and happy to take us all the way. Hitching was easy!

The driver, Lonnie, introduced himself, his wife, and then his daughter, "She's called touch-her-you-die." "Haha, but really, what's her name?" Morgan asked. "Touch-her-you-die." There was nowhere else to go down that line of enquiry, "So what takes you to Julian?" It turned out that Lonnie knew all about the PCT and had helped hikers out before. He and his family were heading to Julian to get pie. Julian markets itself on pie - better than nothing, I suppose, and pie is good. We went through the usual round of small-talk, I trotted out the usual vaguely correct description of my job to be met with, "You design ASICs then?". Lonnie's bewildering expertise included nursing, electrical engineering, and piloting small planes.

Lonnie's Small Plane Story

On a flying trip out with his wife one day, Lonnie was having difficulty finding the runway. The weather was fine, he could see roads and buildings and knew he must be in the right area. He was looking for an airfield that he'd never been to before and he knew it was quite small, so seeing a strip of land that looked about right and a group of building that looked about right, he set in to land. The runway was short and narrow, with no margin for error, but he managed to touch down, keep the plane straight and stop before he ran out of room. So far so good, but he soon noticed a patrol car heading his way. All flashing lights, sirens, and excitement, the officer rushed up to speak to them. "You can't be here!" he said. Lonnie was confused, "I thought this was XYZ airfield." (I forget the name)
"You can't be here! You need to leave immediately!"
"Where am I?"
"You're in ABC State Prison, you can't be here!" (I forget that name too)
Lonnie had mistaken an internal prison road for an airstrip, made an impossibly hard landing, triggered an alert for an attempted breakout, and exploded the tiny mind of the prison officer in the process. Once things had calmed down, it was decided that his wife would travel to the airfield by car and Lonnie would have to get the plane turned around before performing a tight take-off and flight to the real airstrip. Everything worked out in the end, but Lonnie is a man who knows very well what happens if you ignore inconvenient details on a map and that was a subject close to our hearts.

It was an interesting drive, there's no doubt about that. Not just for the conversation, but also for the views from the mountains down into the desert. We could see where the next few days might take us and it was epic. Many little worlds in valleys, knit together by the mountain range and each fading into the same desert at the bottom. This was more like the PCT we'd dreamed of, and the one we weren't prepared to give up on.

At Julian, Lonnie gave us a quick tour of the town before bidding us farewell and dropping us off at the library. Knee research suggested two possible problems Iliotibial Band Syndrome (ITBS) or Patellofemoral Syndrome (that second link I found much more recently). At the time ITBS sounded more likely and Morgan knew a good method for working the IT bands - lying sideways on a foam roller and moving it up-and-down from knee to hip. "Excruciatingly good" was an apt description. This exercise (using a fuel container wrapped in a towel) and resting did smooth things out somewhat... but more on that later.

Having done the work, and scratched the email itch, we headed into Julian as a pair of smelly, cheap tourists. We had pie and the pie was good. With hours left to go, we set out to hitch back to Julian. This time things weren't so easy. The junction of roads left nowhere good for cars to stop, and the wind blew hard, but we kept our humour for 4 hours. The first car that stopped was a woman on her way to an AA meeting (Brits - that's Alcoholics Anonymous, not Automobile Association) who said she'd pick us up on the way back if we were still waiting. We really hoped that it wouldn't be necessary. As it turned out a friendly dentist who rode mountain bikes gave us a ride, even though it was entirely out of his way. It was another fine example of the kindness of ordinary Americans. He was slightly less wacky than Lonnie, but he was soon to be heading off for an MTB trip in Mongolia at an age where other people might be just looking forward to golf and retirement.

There was time for one more slice of Americana before we retired from the day. As we walked up the road to the camp-site, a local shouted over from his yard, "Are you guys hiking the trail?". We said yes, and he asked where we were from. We said we were English and heard the voice of America, "You guys are real allies, not like the French. Tony Blair's welcome here any time. He's a great leader." Not wanting to get into that, we just appreciated his enthusiasm and bid him goodbye.

A whole day gone and no trail miles, but characters aplenty, a renewed determination, and a plan of action. It wasn't hard to sleep that night.

Why ride a singlespeed? (Part 2)

2007-07-01T11:34:00.000+01:00

Here's another good reason (Part 1 here):

Because it's not the fastest way to ride a bike. I'm hugely competitive, but that competition is directed at myself. Deliberately riding a bike that's inefficient acknowledges where the real challenge lies: not in beating other people, not in achieving an 5% improvement in my average speed, but simply in sustaining my effort for the amount of time I want to ride for. And that's not all - anyone who has ridden along a flat road with a 32:16 ratio (or, even worse, my usual ration of 32:18) cannot take themselves too seriously. And if they do need to watch the bit in The Goonies where the older brother gets dragged along by a car whilst riding a BMX - that's what you look like with your little legs spinning like a pinwheel.

PCT Day 2: Lake Morena to Mt. Laguna

2007-07-01T11:14:00.000+01:00

Those damn dogs! Sleeping in a hick town where every resident has a noisy dog in their yard isn't easy. I'm so jealous of Morgan's ability to sleep through anything. Today we head for Laguna - at 6,000ft elevation some climbing will be necessary.

However, before we even get beyond sight of Lake Morena, the first blister crisis comes on. My battered feet start to burn as one has burst. I should have pierced it the day before, but I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Instead I was sat on a rock with the hydrogen peroxide, hoping that the pain would go away. Strapped up, and treading carefully we pressed on to finish the 6 miles to Boulder Oaks camp-ground for water and a breakfast stop. The route took us under a major road and made for one of many jarring contacts with the rest of the world. As school buses, trucks, and commuters bustled past our slow progress felt idyllic and the dry grass was a world of yellow. It was in this field that we saw our first snake. Generally the snakes were put in a poor performance, we saw only 4 between us on the distance between Campo and Warner Springs. Even verbal taunting didn't bring them out. Lightweights. Anyway, this particular snake was narrow, kind of yellow ochre with black markings, and its tail was hidden in the grass. If it was a rattler, it wasn't putting the effort in.

Eventually, we made it to Boulder Oaks and Morgan set off to find a working tap whilst I attended to my feet again. Old blisters feeling slightly better, but new blisters at the sides of my heel. Having a third item to add to my putative letter to Mr Salomon, I once again took knife to my shoes. This time trimming the edges of the insole where it had rolled over to make a lump around the edge of my foot. The "sterilise needle, clean up mess, hydrogen peroxide, strap" routine was getting pretty familiar now. As Morgan came back, the news was: no water.

So we had breakfast with water from our packs and got back on the trail. The water report said we would cross a road and we could go 1 mile off-trail to reach a spring that had been running a couple of weeks ago. Arriving there involved throwing away a load of height on the tarmac, and then we found the spring dry. Bummer. The next chance was back up another mile and along the trail for nearly 2 hours before diverting back off it to a camp-site. It was a hot trudge round to there, but we were getting towards the mountains and views along (the gloriously mundanely named) Fred Canyon were a great distraction from pointlessly sucking on my camlebak. The miles rolled by, and eventually we met the jeep trail down to Cibbets Flat Campground. Running water! Toilet paper! We clearly hadn't completely adjusted to trail life yet.

We spent a few hours hanging out in the shade and considering how far we had to go to make Mt. Laguna before dark. It was going to be pretty tough with the required elevation gain, but we could should make it. The trail snaked in and out, but gently upwards for hours. Just chapparal, kinda big hills to the sides and ever bigger hills above. As the shadows got longer every stick started to look like a snake, but they must have all been at home drinking gin and knitting because each stick was just a stick. A marker we had been looking for to indicate that we were getting there was a "Horse Meadow" and as we got close things got surreal. Lush green grass, overhanging trees, running water. Had we just wandered into an English summer?

The lengthening shadows were beginning to be a worry as switchback after switchback crept us up towards camp. Finally we seemed to stop climbing and reach some woodsy singletrack that even Morgan (roadie scum) could appreciate. Picking nice lines to ride and willing myself through the last few miles I could feel an ominous weakness in my knee. When we finally made it to Burnt Rancheria camp-ground I was tired, confused and hurting. Fortunately Morgan stepped up to sort things out so that I could go for a shower, and hopefully find some resolve underneath all the dirt.

Wandering around the camp-ground looking for the shower block things just got worse. In the fading light, my knee kept failing and I was lucky not to just fall. The shower helped my mind, but the body still wasn't playing the game as I tried to get back to our camp. Over orzo and veggie chilli I told Morgan about the knee and we decided to take the next day off for stretching, research into what the knee problem could be, and possible replanning. 40 miles in and doubts about whether I could continue. At least there were no dogs to keep me awake up here.

PCT Day 1: Near Campo to Lake Morena

2007-06-27T13:18:00.000+01:00

We got up "early" to put some miles behind us before the heat of the day really took hold. Later, we would come to a whole new definition of early, but for now we dragged ourselves out of tent and bivvi sac then spent some time faffing with where to pack stuff. Having laboured along with a full load of water the previous day, we actually looked at the map (!) today and dumped the majority of it.

The first real steps of the PCT were springing and lovely. Coarse sand, exotic (to me, at least) shrubbery, the sun rising slowly across the low hills. The path wound along like some manicured singletrack, just waiting for a mountain bike to swoop through. Clearly, my head had not yet adjusted to life on foot. It wasn't long before the heat started to build but we made some distance and were rewarded with views down into Campo Valley as the PCT wound in and out of the hills of the Hauser Wilderness (The trail is graded to be very shallow so every change of elevation brings with it a clutch of switchbacks). A burrito breakfast propelled us on towards Morena Butte, with only Hauser Canyon in the way.

At this point simple things like the Manzanitas were exciting. You find the red bark peeled back like some sort of flesh trees that would be on a Slayer album cover. We laboured our way up towards Morena Butte and I had the first occasion to deploy the desert umbrella. It worked amazingly well, shading fragile English skin from the sun and providing some respite to the heat.

Unfortunately, too little map-reading led us astray and a simple descent into Lake Morena involved a 2 hour diversion. Lesson learned: read the map, don't just rely on trail markers. Once down to Morena itself, the Malt Shop was much less Happy Days than I'd hoped but still a welcome treat.

The day had taken its toll on my feet though. Disregarding the wisdom of Ray, I had ignored the building pain and now I had blisters to contend with. Some Hydrogen Peroxide cream (mmm... fizzy) and some patches later, I was ready for shoe surgery part 2. There was a hard spot in the sole right under the ball of my foot. Nice quality control Saloman! I hacked out part of the insole to account for this and crossed my fingers. It felt better, but with my feet taped up it was hard to tell.

So, we camped down in Lake Morena, tried to avoid talking to the crazy ex-marine for too long. - he was carrying wheely luggage of the sort that people take on planes (how heavy?!) and also believed that the saliva from chewing beef jerky meant he had to drink less. To his credit he had made it all the way from Warner Springs, though.

It turns out that I kick ass

2007-06-25T11:45:00.000+01:00

They finally got around to posting them and I finally got around to checking the results for the Dyfi Enduro: I was 2nd in the luddite (singlespeed) category and 29th overall.

Pretty satisfying especially considering my complete lack of riding from September until a few weeks before the event.

PCT Day 0

2007-06-21T09:45:00.000+01:00

All good things start from 0 and so it was with our PCT hike. After entertaining us with artichokes, pasta, and beer the night before, Cam drove us down to the start of the trail on the Mexican border. Well, actually he drove us via his office for some just-in-time planning of little details like water reports and also via a fast-food joint for the burritos which would be lunch, dinner and breakfast over the following 16 hours. Before getting to the trail-head it would be rude not to thank Linda for her role in the artichokes, beer and last minute stuff; and unconscionable not to thank Celia who did us so many favours it could be a blog by itself.

At the monument marking the start of the trail we looked out to the border in the south and bumpy chapparal-covered terrain extending north. We took photos and flicked through the register for a while and then a brown pick-up with twigs and other "camouflage" approached. It was a minuteman who seemed pleasant enough, but we steered well clear of talking politics. His moustache, trucker cap, and "doing the work the government won't" t-shirt were right on cue, but he did disappoint by chugging iced tea rather than beer.

Eventually we set off, our packs bulging with all the water we could carry. Our aim? Get far enough away from the border for a quiet night's sleep and get some miles in the bank for tomorrow. Before we'd even passed Campo, a map-check revealed no map. Dropped in the clearing between the monument and the start of the trail-proper. Doh! We made it a few more miles that night, ate burritos, and made camp. Even that short distance had me jumping to shoe-surgery. A slight rubbing in my toes before we came out to the PCT took on a whole new significance, so I hacked out part of the toe-box that was being folded into my feet. This seemed to help and Day 0 ended with excitable sleep and a chorous of coyotes.

PCT Resupply Schedule

2007-06-03T21:52:00.000+01:00

For those who may want to track our progress, or send stuff, here is our resupply schedule

http://spreadsheets.google.com/pub?key=p8pQvTG41aedxI1-Wh0eFAw

Today, we walk

2007-06-03T21:36:00.000+01:00

Today's the day that Morgan and I start the PCT. After a hectic couple of days around LA, including arriving straight off my flight and into helping to Morgan to move house, going to a gig, getting up at dawn for more moving house, and then running around packing food and running errands; things are settling towards the walk. Compared to all this, the walking is going to be a piece of cake.

Cable issues mean no photos yet, but coming soon... Matt sleeping with a dog, me sleeping in a pile of resupply boxes, the Elvis wig, and other chaos.

We owe thanks to a lot of people in LA and around who have helped us out and been incredibly kind.

Woohoo... It's finally starting :)

Desert Umbrella

2007-05-27T20:25:00.000+01:00

When I first heard about hikers using umbrellas to combat the heat, I though of Gogo Dodo (see right). Ha! I'd never use something so ridiculous. And then I read more about the ferocious heat of SoCal, and I softened. Then I read Catra's blog - she just started on the PCT and it sounds hot out there. I put aside images of Dodos, costume drama parasols, and Englishmen in bowler hats; I got down to M&S and bought me an umbrella. Add a space blanket for heat reflection, et voila, behold my creation...

I got me a spork!

2007-05-23T23:03:00.000+01:00

I just like saying it, too. Spork! Spork! Spork!

Actually, typing it is less fun than saying it.

The truth about Lena

2007-05-22T20:24:00.000+01:00

Everyone in image processing knows her face, but until today I could only speculate about what lay below the shoulder-line.

Lena is a standard test image used in image processing books, papers, and software tools. It's good for its mix of highly detailed areas, smooth areas, and sharp edges. She's also much more pleasant to look at than zone plates (argh! My eyes hurt again!), mandlebrot sets, or pictures of buildings. And as it turns out she's a Playboy model from the 70s who had no idea of her fame until she was invited to a computer graphics conference. I'll never look at test images quite the same way again.

Full story and details here.

Dyfi Enduro

2007-05-14T20:31:00.000+01:00

The Dyfi Enduro was on May 6th and, as usual, it was awesome. The last outing for my knees before the operation, and there is no better even to ride your mountain bike at.

It's based in Machynlleth which, in Glyndwr's day, was once the capital of Wales. Nowadays, it's the alternative capital of Wales in another sense with the Centre for Alternative Technology, a great bike shop, and a hippy cafe. And then there are the trails of the Dyfi Forest where long fire-road climbs go up and rocks, roots, mud, and steepness go down.

The Dyfi Enduro takes the laid-back attitude and the in-your-face trails, and puts them together to make the most fun enduro of them all. Then to cap it all, they throw in random spot prizes, home-made flapjack, and weirdness. What weirdness? Well, after the first long climb has nicely separated the field, the sound of a band can be heard on the wind. Yes they have a rock band in the middle of no-where. Round another corner, and now there are cheerleaders. Now you're just spoiling us, and we haven't even ridden down any hills yet.

You only need to look at the grins in the photos to know it's great. And ask yourself what you want to see at the top of a hill, angry XC guys in Lycra or this lass...

Feet up, arse down

2007-05-12T20:44:00.000+01:00

Doctor's orders... Must be idle this weekend.

The arthroscopy on my knee is done. They didn't find anything wrong, which is good because it means my knee's not just going to fail. But it's kinda bad because it cost a lot of money to get no solid conclusion about what's wrong. Once the recovery from surgery is over, it might just have got better by itself. Hmm.

Anyway, rain, enforced sofa time, and an impending adventure mean I'm back on blogging.

Swimming is my methadone

2006-10-13T21:53:00.000+01:00

Can't go cold turkey from riding without it, so another Friday night spent ploughing up and down in the pool. Next week it's time to see the doctor and get this knee checked out.

In the meantime, I can sit back and remember happy childhood days where my mum used to take my sister and me out swimming. We always loved to swim, and we'd come back to dad cooking dad-food: steak, stir-fry, and buttered mushrooms. The chlorine soaked skin, the hot and noisy kitchen and the juicy food well-earned. Mmmm....

How much do I miss riding my bike?

2006-10-09T20:10:00.000+01:00

Loads.

I don't recognise the body where muscles are turning to fat. The body that constantly feels tired and wants to be fed junk. I refuse to recognise the listless and apathetic mind that no longer feels uncomfortable, no longer feels challenged. From this beige perspective, the summer feels like a happy dream. The memory of it burns under the same jealous eyes that watch people going about day-to-day on their bikes. Swimming just doesn't do it. No adrenaline, no anaerobic test of strength, no smell of the moist earth, no speed, no distance, no solitude, no camaraderie... and a timetable... a bloody timetable! Oh, so I can only exercise after 20.45 on a Monday, 20.30 Wednesday, 20.00 Friday? No wonder so many people don't bother.

It's no big trial. It's not a disability. It's just a mental man-cold but it really does suck.

Ouch

2006-10-02T22:13:00.000+01:00

Crunching knees all the way to work today. Running is the tool of the devil and it seems to have pulped my knees so badly that gnashing swearing pain travelled with me on the morning and evening commute. Who would know that running 10km having not run in years would hurt no matter how much cycling you're used to? Who would know that going on a 4 hour ride the next day would be bad? And then 100km the next weekend. And then 120km the weekend after. I probably deserve trashed knees.

So it's time to put on the sensible hat and stop riding my bike for a while. Welcome to Surlyville, but not in the good way. On the plus side, after a summer of tipping the scales for the physical, it might be time to let them swing to the intellectual. The Turner Prize is back; Soweto Kinch has a great new album to get stuck into; and it's finally time to grab a hold of Irish History.

Why ride a singlespeed?

2006-08-26T19:58:00.000+01:00

There's a thousand and one answers to that question, but todays answer is:

Because they work. Bikes with gears almost never work properly - a sticky cable here, a bent and bent-back mech hanger there, a worn casette, a wobbly front mech, a wobby rear mech, worn out jockey wheels, chainsuck, burrs on the chainrings.... the list of geared ailments goes on and on. They only really work new out of the shop and even then the cables stretch. That nagging feeling that my bike doesn't work properly drives me mad and 2 cogs, 1 chain allows me to bypass all that and get on with riding.

The Choice

2006-08-06T18:25:00.000+01:00

I came across a fragment of this poem in An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan. The full text speaks (volumes) for itself.

The Choice

The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

W.B. Yeats

Another infrequent brain-dump

2006-07-09T22:03:00.000+01:00

100km races are getting kinda routine now, but the Builth Wells round of the Merida 100 was something else. 30+ degrees C, lots of climbing and a decision to ride more aggressive than I had at Rhyader would have made for a tough day out. As it was the organisers advised that we were only riding 84km and that there would be food+water at approx 20km, 40km, 60km. That turned out to be a lie and we rode 100km with food+water at 20km, 40km, and 85km. I can't really describe what that middle 45km was like. To begin with I was looking at my watch and thinking that I must be putting in a slower pace. Then, struggling across the baked dry and exposed hills, I reasoned that there couldn't be far to go before more water so I tried to drink more and stay hydrated. As it became apparent that I could make no assumption on how far the next stop was, it was time to start walking up the hills because I couldn't afford to sweat up them pulling my one gear. Riders nearby in granny gears gave me a bit of heart as they moved at little more than walking pace. After riding more than double the distance I had expected, since the last stop 4 cups of energy drink and 3L of water in my pack powered me over the hill back to Builth. It felt like the toughest 100km I've done, and the 7hr time (compared to 6:30 in the mud) confirmed it. Yes it's an enduro, and no-one said it was going to be easy but getting the distances so far wrong is just awful.

Unsurprisingly, I've had a slack week on the bike following that and the search for inspiration continues. 3 hours in the Chilterns felt like a gentle stroll and it was really boredom rather than tiredness that made me call it a day. Must find inspiration before the Selkirk 100km, followed by a week in the Scottish Border, follower by Trans-Wales. Maybe those should be inspiration enough.

More random Linux stuff... I got me an iPod Nano and it works great with mepis Linux. Downloaded an Ubuntu deb of ipodslave. Install with dpkg, fix dependencies with "apt-get -f" and then, as promised, Amarok supports it well. Ace. That means I can download...

Ignite and Neurosis - more splurging on new music. Since Ignite are playing London next Sunday it seemed like getting their new album would be the decent thing to do. They're still doing good. Bands that do straightup punk have got to be good or be dull, and Ignite are good so they fit into the small collection that is "punk CDs worth having". Neurosis albums take time but the signs are good so fingers crossed.

Wow... my feet finally touch the ground

2006-07-03T21:40:00.000+01:00

It's gone mountain bike event crazy...

unexpected drafted into a SSMM I ended up doing the 24hr team thing again. I think I prefer the solo rides - there's something about riding round a field every 2 hours that reminds me of the apocryphal cure for teenage smoking by making them smoke until they're sick. You're going to camp in that field and ride every 2 hours until you get it out of your system. Ride, eat+drink, sit, ride etc. It's cool because it's big and you get to chill out with a bunch of bikers before and during the event, but it's not so fascinating when you've done it a handful of times. That said, riding the dawn lap where you get to see the sky turn from black to blue to gold, you get to see the dozens of little lights winding along the hillside where dozens are people are fighting their personal battles to keep the cranks turning, and you get to feel the sun's gentle caress before it becomes a scouring burden - that is a unique moment.

From there, it was some culture with John B Keane's The Field at The Tricycle in Kilburn. First a side-note: there are some references on the web to a place called CTJ Vegan Chinese Restaurant - there is a Chinese restaurant at that address, but it's not vegan and it doesn't even do good veggie food. I hear the meaty dishes are good though. The play was excellent. Tense, funny, endearing and well produced it made an excellent change from norm. The last thing I saw that was remotely like it was Ibsen's "A Doll's House" but a closer time period and a closer culture made The Field much truer to my heart.

Still more to say... but no time to do it. Story of my life at the moment

Bikefest and more Linux tweaking

2006-06-12T20:05:00.000+01:00

Bristol bikefest - another great small-scale mountain bike event. I rode in the 12hr solo event and it was a hell of thing.

They put together a nice course with loads of singletrack and attracted a perfect number of riders (maybe a 100 soloists... I'm rubbish at esitmating numbers). Even the start was amusingly low-key: we all rolled out to a patch of grass and the organiser shouts, "3, 2, 1, go!".

The cheer of the other riders, the unbelievable uncouragement from the marshalls, the funny announcer on the PA system, the cheers from the spectators in the arena - there was just a great vibe the whole time. As for the riding, it certainly felt pretty strange as the 7 hour mark went by. That's longer than I've ever ridden continuous and was still only just over half way. I was happy to keep it together for pretty much the whole time, fuelled by fig rolls and bananas on the course and oat cakes, peanuts, apples, and potatoes in my "real food" breaks. The potatoes especially were great, bringing back a section from a Terry Pratchett book

"I never worry about [religion stuff.] Never --ing give it a thought. I've got my potato."
"Potato?"
"Oh, yeah. Keep it on a string round my neck." Mr. Tulip tapped his huge chest.
"And that's religious?"
"Well, yeah. When you die, if you've got your potato, everything will be okay."

"A potato can be a great help in times of trial."

and indeed it was. My only disappointment was that I came in at 11hr20min (plus a bit) and was lapping about 40min by there so I didn't push it to squeeze in another lap. My excuse (such as it is) was a puncture on the previous lap which cost me 10 minutes due to exhausted lack of co-ordination (even then I had to stop a bit later and put more air in).

All in all a top weekend, and next year I'm dragging some more people along :)

To linux hacking... I've had a spot of bother enabling dma on the optical drive of my Shuttle SD11G5. It uses a Intel 915GM ICH6M with SATA hd and an IDE optical drive. The way I had it set up,

hdparm -d1 /dev/hdc

returned

HDIO_SET_DMA failed: Operation not permitted

which is no good because without dma, watching dvds and ripping cds both kill the cpu. Turns out that the solution is in the BIOS. In Integrated Peripherals/OnChip IDE Device, make sure that OnChip Serial ATA is set to "Enhanced Mode". Having done this, the cd drive becomes /dev/hda (it's no longer related to the hard-disk) and enabling dma works... woohoo! Now I can watch The Incredibles.

Too busy to blog

2006-06-09T23:15:00.000+01:00

...and that's surely a good thing.

Singlespeed UK champs were absolutely ace. Hamsterly is a great place to ride and the atmosphere all weekend was like music festivals used to be (except without the music which was, let's face it, incidental to having a good time). Some tents, some booze and herbal cigarettes and 90s dance music pumping until the early hours. And then we rode a "race" on the Sunday. Tight technical singletrack on the first section caused predictable carnage from the outset; 1000ft of climbing per lap made sure we knew exactly how much beer (some free) and pizza (plenty free) had been consumed the night before; rocky descending kept it interesting on the descents and - amazingly - didn't kill any of the people riding fixed. God knows how. The world needs more of this - 100 odd people in a little bubble of their own, making fun.

It's not all about the bikes. On Tuesday, Sell Crazy proved that there's more to Bracknell than just the forest. Another grass-roots kinda thing the gig was really good fun. They play kind of indie/rock with vocal harmonies in the SoCal punk style. Or at least that's what my ears made of it. It's good to hear a band that can write songs. They get the hooks, they get the length and the complexity right. Generally, I like challenging music - Sell Crazy don't really get up in your face or confuse you but they do know how to show you a good time to go listen to them. Then buy their CD.

Next stop, Bristol Bike Fest. And maybe a rant to get off my chest about stupid project management courses... hmm.

Simple is good

2006-05-29T22:11:00.000+01:00

Velcro is simple. Velcro is good. Why make a shoe like this

when the old design always worked? To launch a "new model" every year? I don't know, but I do know that my 3-strap velcro shoes lasted 5 years before the sole cracked. After about a month these new fangled shoes are being relegated to road use only. And the genius who invented a mountain bike shoe that doesn't come off your foot when the "M-lock buckle system" gets muddy should get his head examined.

Happily, Specialized offer "a version for those who prefer 3-strap closures" i.e. those who ride somewhere other than California.

And there it is...

2006-05-26T22:07:00.000+01:00

Go riding and you find it. 10 miles each way on the road going to work and back; get home and switch to my mountain bike; set off into the rain. It was an awesome mid-week adventure: hauling my way through boggy mud and clay. Normal climbs verge on the impossible, singletrack becomes streams and a ride near home becomes something remarkable. OK, it all went wrong when my brakepads wore out over 15 miles from home, but I'll quite gladly give 9 miles on the road for the feeling of doing something out of the ordinary and the sheer joy I felt when I could see the lights of Risborough up ahead.

Go ride a bike :)

What's the point of it all?

2006-05-22T21:28:00.000+01:00

The muddy footprints through the kitchen; the washing machine going 24/7; the OS map drying in the front room; the batteries charging in every socket I can get my hands on; the cycling shoes in the airing cupboard; the mud tyres fitted back to the bike with the recently un-seized hub.

Shit ride on Sunday, but there's all the same work to do anyhow. I'm going to keep blind faith and squeeze in a night-ride on Wednesday. "showery rain, becoming more persistent later" be damned.

Still, Funland is the best messed up telly out there and a good way to take your mind to a whole other place

3 Good Things

2006-05-17T23:25:00.000+01:00

Neurosis
Yesterday's New Quintet
Caol Ila single malt

With those three, any week is a good week.