September Song: The Hoy Hundred

They handed us maps. Two sheets of double sided A4 paper. I take them out now and again and unfold them. Tracing the route against my mind’s eye. These creased papers are now overlaid with sunshine, their contours conjour up the cliffs over Malham Tarn, chalky against the blue sky, the rolling lanes into Kettlewell, the golds of Fleet Moss glowing in the sun, the umbers and ochres of Park Rash and the light, sinking the heather to an inky purple on Barden Moor.

I’m stunned at how much landscape a day can hold. Turn the maps over again to relive the vertiginous descent to Nab End, the deadening right hander at the end that unfurled into a steep bank. Where the photographer, poised, shouted ‘come on young lady’ as I stood out of my pedals, straining to beat the gradient.

Young lady indeed. I wonder how, at this age, I’ve suddenly taken to hundred mile rides. ‘I’m 42 you know’ I call back. ‘Bloody hell’ he says. I’m not sure how to take that. Maybe I’m only as old as I feel.

I found the photograph of me at that point. Framed by the Dales pocket meadows, gridded with dry stone walls. I’m smiling the smile that is fixed somewhere between suffering and joy.

I think I’d decided on the ride quite lightly — the Dales did not conjour a tough century when I did. We’re not into lakeland fell territory, no jagged peaks or scree slopes, just the sweeping curves of moorland shaped with subtle shadows, blurred, rounded and softened by heather and grasses and topped by the occasional outcrop.

With my piece of BMC carbon loveliness, it would make a good day out, the passage into September, a reminder of road riding after being lured off onto trails and rocks all summer. And besides, I really enjoy putting my road kit on. There’s a calm in the order of having one of everything, peeling on each piece from my BMC armwarmers to my DT Swiss socks, safe in the knowledge that they all do their jobs correctly. The instant I step onto the Granfondo, everything just works.

We lined up at the start in groups for the pep talk and are set off together. But our groups strings out quickly. I have the hundred mile target in mind and I set myself a good pace from Skipton. A few men race ahead but it’s only a couple of miles down the line before I begin to pick them up. That’s me, steady, but unrelenting. I keep pushing and I don’t stop. I chat to a lad on his second best bike. Steel frame, down tube shifters and a self-confessed penchant for racing on the flat. Stunned when I tell him to do it before he gets to my age. I lose him on the hills somewhere beyond Malham.

It takes a while to realise that this ride is not to be underestimated. The tops may seem shallow but the roads that lead to them are steep and sapping, and as they level to threads of tarmac across the moors, they’ve already worked on my legs, persuading them they’re heavy and tired.

But the route is good. No, marvellous and magical. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a ride so gloriously and splendidly solitary. These deceptive sapping climbs lead to breath taking moor land roads, slender sinewy byways that just about take the path of least resististance over the tops to link parallel valleys. At these heights though, the lush valleys and pocket fields are hidden from sight, swept away and forgotten as the expanse of heather and hazy peaks draw the eye heavenwards.

I’ve mountain biked here, on bridleways that cross the roads and have the disconcerting feeling of the almost familiar. The route takes a sharp left at Cracoe, the foot of a hot, but fondly remembered, struggle up Cracoe Fell and over Bardon Moor. In Kettlewell I glimpse the insane climb above Starbotton, a loose stony limestone scar that rears straight up the face of the hill.

The difference is one of scale. Off road, each tussock and boulder of progress is hard won. On these magic little roads, we roll out along the valleys, brace for the climbs and then are bowled out towards the heather, the hills and the tantalizing horizon. We seem to fly towards it, suspended between the moorland and the sky, but before we can touch the distant peaks, the road dives and we plummet back to follow the green lined river routes along the valley floors.

The route takes us the length Wharfdale, out over the top of over Fleet Moss and into Wensleydale. I can feel the distance growing. Hawes is about the turning point, the top edge of the route, and we follow the river until we reach Wensley and turn back over the moors towards home.

And as the miles mount steadily, the amount of climb leaps up and up. It seems that every 30 miles we top another thousand metres. There are feed stations on this route. Cyclists congregate and eat. There’s quite a lot of sitting around but I worry about reaching home (and Clover the poodle) so I set off alone.

Just before the final feed station — as I tag onto a group for the first time in fifty miles I calculate that I have spent the best part of eighty odd miles battling my way into a headwind. In fact the best protection from the headwinds has been the shocking climbs.

Leaving the feed station I am grateful to join three southern mountain bikers -exiled on road bikes — for the last fifteen miles. These cheery chaps with broad shoulders usher me to the foot of Barden Moor. I am stunned at its bulk before me. From an entirely disinterested perspective, it is beautiful. Glowing in the slanting light of a September afternoon. But my heart sinks. There are only a handful of miles to go but it stands between me and my destination.

I have to put my head down and grovel in my lowest gear. Ignore the walking figures of broken riders ahead and pedal. Occasionally I look up. We are making progress. Even the retro Raleigh is doing well, zigzagging across the road ahead of me to stem its incline. I had exactly the same bike twenty odd years ago. Black and shiny with Raleigh emblazoned in gold. I loved it — the tall gearing was perfect for tearing round London but it was stolen in Clerkenwell.

Musing takes me up. The steepest section abates and from the shoulder I make better progress. My companions are waiting on the summit and we freewheel down the hill into Embsay and push on the last couple of miles back to base.

The day is wrapped up. I have hardly stopped. No photos. But my head is full of gold and light. Small green fields. Steep hills. And an infinite hazy moorland rolled out below blue skies.

Ups and downs (and not all of them on a bike)

You know, some weeks are crazy. Like at one and the same time the most amazing and exciting and the most awful and depressing.

Just had one. On the one hand, we've had to come to terms with the fact that our first, much-loved, Makepiece shop just isn't working in the premises it moved to at the end of last year and we have to close it down, with everything that entails.

On the other, I was told that I've won a trip to do the Tour of Flanders sportive and the perfect bike for it: a BMC Granfondo, on which to do it. It's a massive challenge which will be an an amazing experience.

I can't really describe the inside of my head. Like the constant pulsing of a lighthouse beam, slowly rotating between a million lumens of excitement and a rather deep, dark sadness. Then back again. Round and round. Happy anticipation keeping me going through the worry and the stress.

This contrast is rarely so stark but it's a heightened example of what cycling does for me. When things are good, it makes them better. When things are difficult and life is a challenge, it helps me rise to it.

I get onto my bike and it takes me over the hills, one pedal stroke after another. Almost literally it takes me outside of myself. I get to look at new things and peep beyond the valley's rim. And when the rain is coming down sideways and filling my shoes, I look down at my still pedalling legs and it makes me giggle at the nonsense of the endeavour. Fighting my way up the gradients, sweeping down the hills. Cycling makes everything in me work together - head, heart, lungs and legs.

It's particularly noticeable on my mountain bike, where the trail takes over my mind. Everything is concentrated on picking the line, keeping poised, holding, pushing, pumping the bike maintaining momentum over rocks and drops, taking the turns, looking looking looking forward.

The trail winds ahead of me and that's the challenge I have to accept. Get it wrong and it may hurt. Or worse. It teases my brain like a puzzle of roots and rocks. I look at the jumble in front of me and something inside, something unconscious and brave takes over and orders it, and orders me forward. Push my wheel over here, roll down the sliver of smoothness I can just about discern. Hit that ledge and keep moving, lift over that step without pause and onwards. Look round the bend, turn my head and drag my body into that look and the bike will go. There are no worries here, no niggles, no concerns. Everything extraneous to keeping this bike on this line is excluded. And as the spell works, it unlocks elation. The exhilaration of speeding downwards combined with enormous satisfaction of a job well done.

And even back in the real world, that satisfaction lingers. So even in this crazy week, when things are really pretty grim, there's a bike, a reason to get on it and the prospect of long roads, cobbled climbs (a different technical challenge) and a view quite outside the valley. What more does a girl need to get through?

On the Koppenberg in 2012

Done. No dust.

The strangest feeling. I wasn't worried.

The day dawned. Or rather, a dimmish light seeped from behind the cloud blanket. The air was thick with drizzle. But I felt impervious to it. Very matter of fact. Make breakfast. Eat. Put clothes on. Go.

I forgot all sorts of things (to brush my teeth, apply chamois butter and pack a lip balm) but I had reached the point of don't care: go. This thing had been calling me for some time, and it was time to get on with it.

Having said that I was slow off the mark with lining up and quite far back in the line up, close to Chipps and a few other friends. The weather forecast (damp and windy) had made me choose winter tights. I'd decided to go for my more flexible shoes even though they weren't waterproof, with wool socks which stay warm, wet or dry. I set off wearing a waterproof jacket. I didn't take it off for the whole race. 'Damp and windy' proved to be an understatement.

The start was great. The bike is light and suited to gentle uphill so I flew ahead, making up places, keen to get a good position on Ingleborough. The first tracks were easy, the kind of farm tracks I love riding. But we were crossing streams within minutes. A pair of riders collided in front of me, and immersed themselves in a brook. It was salutary. I jumped over it, noting that it would be good to keep dry for as long as possible.

As the hill became steeper, the true bogfest began and I realised that trying to dance every mud puddle was futile (mud puddle, there must be a word for that. Muddle is taken though). I was quite happy slogging up though, and reasonably fast. Making sure I didn't lose a shoe in the sucking mud. But that was the warm up. I'd seen the pictures of Simon Fell's crazy angle and was just waiting for it to start.

Steep went steeper and we started to enter dense cloud. Shouldering the bike was not too bad - turning it to the wind accidentally was a big mistake with much staggering and the odd falling over episode. Perhaps the carbon wheels, with their deep rims, were not the best choice. Too late now...

Despite this (and weaving across the almost vertical slope at the pleasure of the wind) I was doing pretty well and moving slightly faster than the column which had kept to the left to use the fence for support. Once the 'super steep'™ bit was over, there was still more 'quite steep'™ before the path flattened and we were disgorged, disorientated, in dense grey mist on the top of a grey, stone splinter strewn plateau. Tape guided us through this monochrome landscape to the marshals, and the first dib. The feeling of achievement and elation was amazing! If I can do this, I can do anything.

The descent flashed by - a bit stumbly to start with. I was finding dismounts and remounts challenging. After a few 'surprise dismounts' I came to realise that the winter tights were descending slowly and acting like a slingshot whenever I tried to get into the saddle. I'd get on and then be surprised to be spat off again immediately and unceremoniously. In fact, the whole wet kit, wet legs, wet shoes for sustained riding was a new experience. My brain switched off to the discomfort (good - I kept going) but also to the consequences (bad - I found it difficult to square up the fact that things that I would usually find easy were much more difficult with soggy kit as I became more tired).

For Ingleborough, though, this wasn't yet an issue. I made it down the descent on a wave of elation to the delightful sight of Stanny with his bag of treats. I ate half a banana and took a bottle filled with energy drink and set off. The link road to Whernside wasn't far off and as I rode I reflected that maybe I hadn't eaten enough. Then it dawned on me that my food was in my backpack. For a couple of minutes I actually deliberated about getting at the food but fortunately (although stupidly slowly) came to the conclusion that I had to do it. I stopped, stuffed a bar into my mouth and got going again, resenting every non-moving second. Note for next time!

I don't remember much about Whernside, apart that the rain and the wind were worse. I had to push in places when carrying would have been more efficient for fear of being swept off the stone staircase into the mist-filled abyss. It felt like I was being sandblasted. There were a lot of steps. They were slippery. So was the bank next to them. I kind of ground at it, rather less enthusiastically than I might. I kept losing my bottle - its magnetic attachments which worked off road on other occasions were really not up to this. I hoped that it wasn't a metaphor.

The descent off Whernside was probably my least favourite bit - I kept trying to ride it but it was low visibility, deceptive and wet. The water bars were hidden in puddles as were the edges of the path at times. There were so many ways to come off the bike. Slipping off the edge of the slab path stalled the bike and led to falls. Cycling along the boggy bank led to sliding off to left or right. Or to plunging the front wheel into bog pools, creating another version of the stall and off. Falls created amazing cramp throughout my legs which I've never felt quite so comprehensively before. Chipps caught up with me at this point and disappeared off into the mist (my race strategy was to keep ahead of him for as long as possible so that if I had a serious failing of any kind he'd know and possibly be there to shepherd me down to base).

This was where the conditions bit me - my wet kit flapped around my legs, I found it hard to remount and avoid the crotch-slingshot effect, and my brakes did not want to work, ultimately ending in a comedic 'can't brake, can't stop, steer into reeds, over the bars' dismount. That hurt quite a bit and when concerned fellow riders picked me up, I was vastly grateful. I was a little more circumspect after that, giving steep terrain a miss and running more. I did manage to ride some rocky gently sloping sections and gave myself a little cheer for getting over quite a few water bars. In retrospect, they should not have held much terror but I was probably empty and a bit cold which was affecting my mind and skills.

When I finally reached the bottom of Whernside (which seemed to involve fording several torrents - only one of which had a bridge) I was very relieved. The doubts which had beset me in the mist vanished (probably as Stanny stuffed jelly snakes into my mouth, washed down by more energy drink). I'd come this far, I would finish.

The link road seemed to take forever and I managed to add some Clif blocks to my calorie intake. They're quite tricky to open whilst cycling though (note for next time). At the bottom of Pen y Ghent I turned down the lane - familiar with it from cheering Chipps there last year. As he'd told me, it was just the kind of terrain I like riding on a cx bike, stony and not too steep. Wonderfully, my friend Kirsty who was there to cheer offered me water and when I asked whether she had sweets, one of her friends broke up a bar so that I had it handy in my front pocket.

Riding Pen y Ghent lane would be something I'd do for fun on a good day. On Sunday, it was satisfying as I ground up it, refusing to dismount as people around me were doing. I even rode the three foot deep puddle at the bottom (I was bemused that I managed it - it was a really odd feeling to have water lapping your thighs as you ride).

Eventually it became too steep and rocky. The wind was hard work and quite often I had to wheel rather than carry just to avoid being blown away. I had a few dispiriting moments as I seemed to get slower and slower - until I remembered the bars in my pocket. They were so easy to eat and as I chomped them down my mind cleared and my feet started to move faster again.

People were dashing down the hill on the lane as we struggled up - and I envied them! As you near the top of Pen y Ghent there's an amazingly steep section, after which you hope it's over. Of course, it's not, there's a upwards sloping boggy section to go (how we can have bogs at the top of mountains is a mystery - but they do seem to be a speciality of the area) before the welcoming sight of mist clad marshals. Again, a wave of sheer joy passed through me. Turning back onto this now gently descending, but horribly boggy, terrain, it looked like the promised land. Well, as far as we could see. Which, honestly, wasn't very far.

Despite the bog, from which we slithered onto the loose, rocky path, the descent seemed to go so quickly. There were still a few people struggling up near the top (which meant, happily, that I was not last). I became happier and happier, uncovered my brakes and let rip. I was delighted to pass quite a few people. I'd been eyeing up the path on the way up and it felt familiar enough to pull the stops out.

Sadly one lady got me back on the link road - my highest gear was too low to help me keep my advantage as the last two miles are almost entirely downhill.

But in all, I am delighted. I finished and a lot of people didn't. It took 5 hours and 45 minutes - longer than I hoped but fast enough to make me 23rd woman in a field of 57. I got a medal. I might wear it round the house occasionally. It has been the most physically demanding thing I have ever done. I tested the limits and measured up.*

*If I ever want to raise money for charity again though, I might pick something easier next time. Like a coffee morning.
You can still donate on my justgiving pages. Go on: amnesty ... or ... greenpeace the choice is yours.
Thanks! Beate

Nearly there...

So, I am as excited as a child at Christmas. I am collecting together the gear (I've cleaned this little low profile backpack and bladder off for the occasion). I lay awake last night thinking about the course and wondering about the weather and realising that I didn't really care. I just want to do it!

I went to see Ali this morning for a second look at my shoulder. She confirmed that it's getting better and told me to cosset it a bit this week. Not to get it cold, give it a nice heat pack one night and generally recover.

So, the training. Yes, I've been doing some. Not as much as I'd like but enough to feel moderately prepared. At least an extra CX loop every week. Another competition - the Singletrack Up the Buttress for cobbled climby madness (second elite woman since you ask). And another 'cross race.

On Sunday 23 September we stopped off on our travels for a bit of London League cx. We thought it would be balmy and warm down south. We were, oh so, wrong. A solid hour of heavy downpour - although the course was such good fun that I didn't really notice until I peeled my clothes off and they puddled on the floor.

The best bit was that I slid off on a corner, and nothing hurt. There were at least 13 women to chase down as well - I made it upto 5th place which wasn't too bad considering that I didn't start too well and  I've had a bit of enforced tapering - a week in London for London Fashion Week. Although that was definitely part of my training to drink like a cyclist. Champagne at 10am anyone?

The course was really fun - Redbridge Cycling Centre hosts mountain bike events and they routed the 'cross race round a couple of blue route bermed corners, through some muddy singletrack and over three decent sized humps as well as up and down more standard playing field fare. The rain gradually increased the slipperiness but the mud never became really deep and boggy which was nice.

I tested out my shoe choice - I think I am going to stick to my Pearl Izumi non-waterproof but flexible mountain biking shoes and try and keep moving fast enough not to get cold. Other than that I have stacked neatly every possible combination of mountain biking wear I possess. And some nicked from Chipps as well.

It's likely to be not-that-nice on Sunday so I'm expecting to be wearing tights (maybe winter ones), a base layer, jersey and a waterproof. However, last year it was bright sun by the end of the race from a rainy start so I am keeping all bases covered.

And taking a pair of Sealskinz socks. Just in case I turn into a wuss halfway through. I changed into them halfway round the Mary Towneley Loop I did earlier this year and they improved my soggy life for quite a while!

Right, back to more packing and bike fettling (or, more accurately to stand next to Chipps and look on as he fettles the bikes). There'll be an equipment list before the end of the week...

I have been really rubbish at collecting sponsorship. Please sponsor me - for Amnesty or Greenpeace! These links go straight to my JustGiving pages, go on, use them xx

Three Peaks...

There’s no other way to visit the top of Whernside, Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent with your favourite two-wheeled companion apart from taking part in the Three Peaks Cyclocross race. It sounds romantic. I’ve watched others do it. They are clearly bonkers.

At the start of last year’s race I was cheering on my boyfriend. I nipped into the ladies’. There was a rider in there, preparing for the start. She was a tiny woman so delicate looking and a couple of years older than me. I was so impressed that she was taking on this race when there were so many big blokes - my boyfriend included - who have a genuine respect for this race as one of the toughest in the calendar - that the seed was planted. Maybe I could do it too.

I hadn’t even ridden a short cyclocross race at that point. I was warned it was hard to get an entry - you need to prove that you’re likely to finish. But the seed was there - and I started making tentative steps.

Nine months later I:

a) have an entry - much to my surprise, delight and terror
b) have raced several cyclocross races (currently third female in the Yorkshire Cyclocross Summer Series rankings - although this is more a case of persistently getting points by attending all races rather than any speed at least it showed the organisers that I was worth an entry!)
c) have been knocked off my cyclocross bike (also my daily commuter) so it’s in bike hospital and coincidentally I've been told I’m run down (or at least have anaemia and Vitamin D deficiency).  Ooops!

I feel that I'm right at the start of a rather long journey...

Most importantly I have decided to raise money for Amnesty International and Greenpeace. It’s hard to sum up briefly why it’s so important to fund these two organisations - they’re both campaigning organisations. It’s so easy to get depressed about the state the world's in - the damage to the environment, the awful events in Syria, the terrible danger so many people live in. But, essentially, I’m an optimist - and I've always believed that if you don't like something you have to try and change it. Even if you only do the tiniest thing, it's better to light a candle than curse the darkness.

Both these organisations have supported, protected and brought together people and have changed the world. I’m a child of the iron curtain - remember that? Gone. Because of the persistance of ordinary people. Like CFCs: banned (and the ozone hole is smaller than it was). Because governments were pushed into banning them.

Yes, there’s loads to be done, the problems of the world are vast but these are two organisations that shine light in dark places and harness the power of ordinary people for change. So, please support them.

I've set up just giving pages for both Amnesty and Greenpeace - it's easy to donate online but you can also donate directly (there's a bizarre UK rule that allows private schools to be charities but only part of the work that both Amnesty and Greenpeace do to be classed as 'charitable') - if you want to spend real money email me and I'll sort it.

I’ll do my best to get fit (and eat my new iron tablets), fast and learn to fix the bike in case of emergencies. I hope you’ll join me on the journey - for the whys, the highs, the mud, the blood and if nothing else, just to laugh at me for a piece of glorious insanity.

There are 100 days until the race, so I’d better start getting ready.