A Welsh C2C - XDUROWales18

A sharp climb up a narrow lane flanked by rambling dry stone walls leads up to a basin over which old slate workings loom. Zigzag tracks scythe across the mountain side. Bikes are handed over a locked steel gate and the climb is on. 

Menai Bridge start line

This is the Racing Collective's XDUROWales18, nearly 200 miles of mixed terrain riding between the Menai Bridge and Cardiff waterfront. We'll take two days to complete it, that's if our bikes, backsides and tyres hold out. There's 1700 feet of climbing in the first ten miles today, this is looking like a decent challenge.

The pace of our small group is sociable enough and after 10 minutes or so we round a hairpin to a small terrace littered with blue slate from which we have a commanding view of Llanberis and the lakeside slate workings. I roll off down the descent and my 40mm tyres are soon throwing shards of slate out behind me creating a  cracking sound,  the temptation to speed over it is intoxicating. I hear a shout behind me, Nige Smith’s rear tyre is spewing sealant from a long rip in the sidewalk. We stop and fix it, the first casualty of many in our group. Tyres fixed and we descend towards the lake with considerably more care. From a viewpoint further down we stop to soak up the vista; Llanberis nestles beside the deep blue lake at the head of which a turret of abandoned Slate works sits to thevleft of the main road.

Riding with Nige we tick off Llanberis pass, the A5 and a hike-a-bike climb. We’re making good progress now and it’s not long before we pass the Centre for Alternative Technology on a quiet leafy lane that I recognise from my last visit here. We’ve dropped out of Snowdonia into mid-Wales but the climbs keep coming, the last of the day is the longest. Sharp kicks give way to false summits as I slowly head to wards the head of the horseshoe shaped valley . The road runs out and I drop down a brief descent to a forestry track along which a rally car is speeding towards me. Fortunately the track is wide enough for the car to slide past a leaving a trail of choking white dust. 

Emerging from the top of the forest the track undulates across high moorland to an isolated reservoir before dropping down to Daf’s farm where we’re bivvying tonight. He's a great host providing a hot shower, good food, a bottle of beer and a bonfire. The next morning he puts on an impressive breakfast spread of porridge, sausages and eggs. Just what we need to fuel another 8000 feet of climbing, much of it off-road. I notice more wildlife today, a young fox plays with its shadow ahead of us on a gravel climb whilst further on a red kite picks through a sheep carcass in a quarry for its breakfast. Two 4x4s are parked up miles from a road on a beach beside the Claerwen reservoir high in the Elan valley whilst their drivers fish in the deep blue water.

An energy sapping section of hike-a-bike soon follows, thirsty horse flies keep us moving over a lumpy watershed but we’re suffering in the heat. Sweat streams down my face on the climbs and I need to stop and re-hydrate by midday. We briefly escape the glare of the sun in a filling station but we can’t hide for long, it’s another 65 miles to Cardiff. Next stop Brecon town, but not before we’ve climbed  a lengthy ramp up onto the MOD training grounds which mark the start of the Brecon Beacons. Miles ahead of us is a  gap in the ridge through which we are soon climbing on the last timed segment of the day. It’s loose and rocky in places, my bike is thrown off line repeatedly as I wrestle the bars to keep it moving, the final ramp and hairpin are completed on foot. The descent to Merthyr Tydfil would be quick on a mountain bike but the loose rocks brake my progress, a ripped tyre here in the 30 degree heat would be more than inconvenient.

Thats the last timed segment completed, it's pretty much downhill to Cardiff from here, we wind our way down the valley dodging the main road. This is the Welsh valleys, townships built around the mines that powered British industry for decades. Today kebab shops, salons and and bookies occupy the streets where butchers, grocers and bakers once kept the industrial machine moving. A former railway line leads us into Cardiff past swimmers in the river and couples soaking up the unusually hot sun in a park. Our north-south C2C is done; we've seen many different incarnations of Wales- the post industrial south reached via the mountains of Brecon, the rounded hills of mid Wales our reward for surviving the slate of Snowdonia. A proper journey and another land whose familiarity we've earned. 

Thanks to @theracingcollective for photos, get involved at www.theracingcollective.com

Torino - Nice Rally 2017

Fiat Pandas¹ and Rapha man²: two things that you are nearly guaranteed to find on a Alpine col.

I felt right at home 2000 metres up an alpine col surrounded by men (and women) in full colour coordinated Rapha strip. Sitting on the short grass in groups, gazing out over the valley discussing the merits of various obscure cycle frames, I had found Rapha man's mountain habitat.

In truth, we were all grateful for a break from the seemingly unrelenting loose gravel climb of the Colle Colombardo: 6 miles of climbing at an average gradient of 8.7% interrupted only by an oncoming Fiat Panda with a bale of hay strapped to its roof. This was a tough start to the second Torino-Nice Rally.

The night before most riders had met in the centre of Turin (or Torino in Italian) for pizza, beer and bike spotting. The Piazza Giambattista Bodoni was littered with gravel bikes, cross bikes, classic steel tourers, full sussers, hardtail mountain bikes and all the weirdness that lies in between. We talked route options and swapped tales of similar events until the beer tokens ran out.  A late night tour of Turin's cycle lanes ensued, dodging tramlines and relaxed revellers.

Back at the Piazza for the start of the rally the next morning, the atmosphere was laid back and we didn't leave the square until nearly half an hour after the planned 9am start. Rolling out of the city towards the distant mountains under a clear blue sky, I remembered why I loved riding in Italy. Hectic city streets gave way to fields of golden corn punctuated by traditional villages, each with their church, tricolor flag and troughs of colourful flowers. A section of ancient cobbled roman road was our first encounter with the rough stuff; a good opportunity to see how our fully laden bikes felt off road. My Cannondale Slate felt fine on the flat but the 10kg of luggage I had strapped to it made its presence felt as I started the 1000 plus metre climb to the Col de Colombardo.  I started to doubt whether my standard 52/36 and 11-32 gearing would be suitable. I stopped at a roadside fountain for respite from the midday heat; a welcome chance to refill my backpack with water and cool my head in the chilly mountain water. Little by little, I inched up the loose gravel of the Colombardo to be rewarded by increasingly spectacular views with each gravel switchback. Nearer the col the gradient eased, before I plunged down into the next valley round blind hairpins to the sound of overheated brakes and G-One tyres skating over tarmac .

I was riding the rally with Mick, another rider from Yorkshire who I'd run into the night before. He was also excited by the massive descents and like me had no itinerary for the event; eat - sleep - ride should do it. That night we found a good bivvy spot next to a water fountain several hundred metres up the Col de Finestre.

climbing into the night in search of a bivvy spot

What we didn't realise was that French rider Benedicte (one of several woman riding the rally) was trying to take a shower in the fountain as we showed up with our torches blazing. Torches were swiftly turned off in the interests of international harmony.
The next morning we were at the Col de Finestre by 9am for a breakfast of sheep’s yoghurt, cappuccino and fried eggs.

gravel switchbacks on the Col de Finestre climb

Just what we needed before the famous Strada Assietta3 which snaked along the side of the mountain ridge before climbing to the Col de Assietta at 2474m. Motorbikes and 4x4s kicked up clouds of dust as they squeezed past on the Assietta, unsurprisingly we weren't the only ones to seek the cols and abandoned forts along this old road. At one dusty col three Italian old boys on electric bikes inspected my Cannondale Slate and asked questions about the bike, the single-sided fork proving particularly perplexing.

The descent from the Assietta was a riot of scattered stones, vague lines, dust trails and the occasional crack as rocks hit my downtube. Unfortunately it was too much for my front wheel which gave up a spoke to the descent, the rest of the wheel relaxed and bends became more than a tad unpredictable. Mick tweaked the remaining spokes and I restrained my descending to make it to Briançon where a independent bike shop fixed the wheel for an amazing five euros whilst we had coffee.

Progress so far had felt slow, the Strada Bianca4 were more fun than tarmac roads but progress on them in the mountains seemed pedestrian. The smooth tarmac of the 2360m Col d’Izoard was a welcome change, we enjoyed the views switchback by switchback until we made the col just in time to see the sun retiring behind a ridge far above us. The scenery on the far side of the col was more dramatic; razor sharp ridges, limestone pinnacles and scree dominated our view, it was difficult to take in whilst repeatedly gunning for hairpin apexes on the fast, smooth hairpins of the descent. The next morning we climbed the Col Agnel, an idyllic meander up a lush valley to reach the eleven percent ramps of the final kilometres.

climb to the Col Agnel

the border stone at the Col Agnel 

The col was already busy with motorbikes and cars so we soon dived down the Italian side overtaking a BMW motorbike on the descent. Near the base of the climb we stopped for a plate of penne pasta and cappuccinos in a traditional village. The elation of the descent was soon dampened by news of a road closure ahead followed by a puncture on my Slate which took forty minutes to sort out. Whilst some rally riders obeyed the road closure for cycles we rode through it  and onto the Colle di Sampeyre climb, granted the road was rough in places but no worse than most of the roads back in Yorkshire.

The narrow road was quiet but dark clouds closed in overhead and we saw our first rain of the rally so we didn’t hang about at the top. The famous Death Road beckoned far below and we were looking forward to riding it. We could soon see why this stretch of tarmac, gravel and landslides had become notorious. A ribbon of narrow tarmac clung precariously to the side of a steep ravine, diving under rocky overhangs and burrowing through rocky outcrops leaving rough stone arches which were generally damp, potholed and pitch black inside.  A rusty steel rail served inadequately as crash barrier, in some places it had been ripped through by unlucky cars leaving the ironwork flailing in the breeze.  We stopped to peer down a hundred metres to the final resting place of the road’s victims on the rocks below.

Just one more climb, one more climb; one more climb to the Rifugio Ristretta where we were promised beds for the night. Unfortunately that one climb was around 1500m, initially along the valley bottom and past a couple of villages to open ground. Once past the villages I gazed up at the spruce trees clinging precariously to the steep mountain sides that surrounded us but I could not see where the road went. We knew though that it must climb up there for us to reach the hidden gem known as 'Little Peru". Following the road round tight hairpins it kicked up and had both of us out of the saddle wrestling handlebars through the hairpins to make the crest of the climb. Meanwhile the clouds closed in again and thunder rumbled in the distance; dusk beckoned. I wondered whether we had stumbled into  a horror film where we would be the unwitting victims.





The tarmac road ended at the Colle del Preit but we kept moving up a gravel track following signposts for the distant rifugio, we did not know how far but we had to be there for 7.30pm or we'd be going hungry tonight. Finally a flag was glimpsed and we rounded a corner to see a collection of old stone buildings with bright red painted doors and window frames, most importantly we’d made it in time to eat.

sunrise in 'Little Peru'

The next morning I was up early to wander over frosty grass under a deep blue sky before breakfast, the feeling of tranquility up here away from roads and villages was sublime. After breakfast we rolled off after through the breathtaking beauty of Little Peru along the old military road. Limestone pinnacles punctuated the skyline and far below cows grazed golden meadows between steep scree laden slopes, it was a dramatic landscape. So dramatic that we were soon retracing our tyre marks after a missed turn. A steep shove up to the highest point of the track at over 2500 metres revealed a panorama of peaks stretching far into the distance.

cows grazing in 'Little Peru'

We would have hung around longer but the descent looked like fun and it didn’t disappoint, the track continued to the tarmac road head where we could have turned off to the Pantani memorial at the Col dei Morti however we were keen to press on so we'd be in Nice the following day. The descent into Demonte seemed endless, we passed shepherds, a cafe and a group of Lada Rivas on the rollercoaster of a road. It twisted and turned through blind gravel strewn bends until we ran out of gradient in Demonte. A quick stop at a bakery for focaccia and pizza fueled us for the next two minor cols but the big one was coming up at the border. The  Col de Tende, although tarmac on the way up would be more of a challenge. There is an unwritten rule though that before leaving Italy via the Col de Tende you must buy gelato and fortunately we found the best gelati in Piemont-Limonte. The lemon sorbet and fruits of the forest ice cream that we indulged in were out of this world, bursting with crisp natural flavour and just what we needed after a thousand metres of climbing in the midday heat.

Col de Tende

The Col de Tende was fortunately well graded, it was the old road over the border until a 4km tunnel was built far below us through the base of the mountain. We spun cranks to the col where the road ended, the French had long since stopped maintaining their side of the pass and it had deteriorated to loose gravel with drainage berms every few hundred metres which made for interesting descending at speed on fully laden bikes.

It was now late afternoon and we had no plan for where we’d stay or how we’d get to Nice the next day. We bumped into French rider Benedicte once again and decided to ride together as far as we could make it that night. Following a pizza at a nearby bar we set off up a remote valley towards the biggest dirt climb of the rally - more than 1500m to the top. The pace was relaxed but intent as dusk fell and we turned left onto a forest road that zigzagged up through the trees above us. The track climbed slowly to a ridge by which time it was pitch black apart from a blood red moon rising in the distance. Spinning our way along the ridge we could see valleys far below filled with mist in the moonlight whilst distant streetlights to the south reminded us that we weren’t far from our destination. Nights like this reminded me why it’s so good to get out and ride at night or in the early morning, it was a different world up here in the darkness high above the civilisation of the valleys. The three of us continued up into the cloud and towards the ruins of the Fort de la Forca. Winter gloves and leg warmers were hastily found and wrestled on to numb limbs at the summit just after midnight. It was too cold to bivvy up here so we descended quickly past the Col de Turini to find milder air at 800m. After a few hours sleep by the side of the road we free-wheeled round the remaining tight bends of the Col Turini and along the base of a spectacular limestone ravine towards Nice.

descending the Col Turini

The last few miles into Nice were something of a shock after days in the mountains; trams, traffic lights and the noise of the city all serving as reminders that we were on our way back to normality. Reflecting on our journey at the Cafe du Cycliste I felt privileged to have ridden to the places we’d been in the company of like-minded individuals. James Olsen was absolutely right in his event briefing, it’s a rally not a race; a dram to be savoured, not a shot to be downed. Find out for yourself next September.

¹Fiat Panda- small Italian car which doubles as tractor, shepherds dog and spare bedroom.
²Rapha man - Discerning 30 or 40 something male who prefers a garment hand crafted by artisan seamstresses. Seeks adventure
³Strada Assietta - 34km military road dating from the 1800s connecting Sestriere with Pian dell’Alpe, used in the 2015 Trans-Continental Race. Most of the road is at an altitude of more than 2000m
⁴Strada Bianca - Gravel roads

Gear

Cannondale Slate Ultegra with Hunt Wheels
Apidura bags (Specialized handlebar roll)
Navigation by Komoot on iPhone
OMM Sleeping bags and waterproofs
MSR Shelter

Thanks to James Olsen for the route, Jen@Velofondista for bike prep and Mick for laughs along the way

Crossduro Oxford #XDO17

Inflated entry fees, prizes from the bargain bin, crowds and habitual nihilism. Just a few of the reasons why I don't enter many races. That's not to say that I don't like a challenge though, which is why the Racing Collective's web site caught my eye one dark winter evening. Their events looked like a real challenge whilst remaining low key. It seemed obvious, set a route, let Strava handle the timing and tracking, publicise through a Strava club and enjoy. No sponsors, no permissions and no paperwork. This is proper amateur racing; push on and enjoy but accept that none of us are getting called up by Team GB any time soon. Post race craic over a beer or two and ride home. 

I had pencilled in the Racing Collective's Trans Wales event in the spring but as the weekend approached I couldn't sort out logistics or justify another weekend away on the bike. A couple of months later in June XDO17 (Crossduro Oxford) looked feasible if I rode there and at least some of the way back. This was why I found myself in my garage staring at a pile of kit more suited to a polar expedition than a summer weekend in England. I pared it down to the point where everything including a change of clothes for eating out fitted in a couple of Apidura bags. I wasn't very keen on carting it all round the event but decided that a dose of #bemoremike* was probably required.

 

Friday dawned sunny and my route south through the Peak District was hilly but rewarding. Riding the Strines I chased the scent of sausages cooked by workmen on a roadside barbecue. At Tideswell bunting was out for the traditional well dressings and between bright limestone walls at Miller's Dale I picked up signs for that most traditional of cycle events; L'Eroica. Up the hill I found the Tissington Trail and began a thirteen mile descent into Ashbourne on smooth dazzling white limestone gravel. It was easy to imagine trains steaming down here as I cruised under narrow stone bridges between deep cuttings. I rolled along high embankments enjoying the panoramic views of the White Peak's steep sided dales and vales. 

BANG. 

Crumple. 

What the?!? 

On the floor and confused, I lie there for a few seconds trying to work out what just happened, I push myself up using the arm that doesn't hurt and check the bike. Both wheels are ok and the freehub is turning which confuses me because I was stopped dead by something.

Later in the day I decide I must have struck a pedal on a small curb in the shade under the trees. I'm bleeding so I stop in Ashbourne and get cleaned up in the Leisure Centre. 

From Ashbourne leafy meandering lanes make their way south towards my destination. The roads are quiet save for brief excursions onto the A50 and A5 and my old friend the Fosse Way is soon found. Eventually I reach Banbury and the final twenty or so mile in to Oxford. Reminding myself to conserve effort for the next day I roll into Oxford in plenty of time to find a good Italian meal and take a wander round Oxford's sights. 

 

After an interrupted night's sleep at the YHA (I have to put in earplugs at 2AM to block out my snoring bunkmate), I enjoy breakfast with a bunch of French school teachers. Slipping through Oxford's finest architecture on my bike just before 8am is magical, there's very little traffic and the morning light is bouncing off windows to illuminate ornate stonework. Our meeting point and start is the most ornate of buildings, the Radcliffe Camera. It's a relief to see other riders already there and introductions and photos soon follow. 

The Crossduro format is more social than many races in that only five short sections are timed, the rest of the ride can be more social. Our group of ten or so ride out together along the riverside greenways to the first segment. And... GO! Well that's not quite what happened. I set off up the first hill at a reserved pace, I'm running Strava on my phone to follow the route and as this is a starred segment it changes from route finding mode to "red mist" mode telling me how far off the fastest rider I am. This is great except the map has disappeared and there's a fork in the trail. I take the wrong fork and everyone behind follows. Not a great start, or a very clever way to make new friends.

Back on course we regroup at the top of the climb and ride on at social pace, leafy hedgerows and ripe fields of maize line the quiet lanes we ride between quaint villages. Idyllic road riding and plenty of time to get to know my fellow racers. Soon we reach the next segment, up from the flat chalk plains on to the Ridgeway where we enjoy commanding panoramic views of Didcot and Oxford. Very different to the Pennine terrain I know at home, its rewarding to know that I've pedalled all the way here. 

There are five segments in total and I blow two of them by taking wrong turns and puncturing on the sharp flint of the Ridgeway. I take a hard tumble on a third by over estimating the frictional quotient of dry chalk and getting very cross rutted. Blood looks good on chalk and my injuries are  fortunately superficial. The sun reaches its zenith and everyone is running low on water, a stop in the pretty Thameside town of Goring allows everyone a chance to rehydrate and enjoy cake. A love of cake and bikes definitely unites all of us today. The social pace between segments lets my thoughts wander to reflect on how fortunate we are to be here today. Many of us were strangers at 8am this morning and yet a common love of the freedom of bicycles and the outdoors are enough to bring us together in shared enjoyment of this experience.

After our our cafe stop comes the #bemoremike* segment, a mile long corridor of mech clogging grass overhung my brambles and choked by nettles that grab arms and clothing as we pass. I emerge bleeding from both elbows with legs tingling from the nettle stings. A souvenir of today's adventure. We finish together at the Isis public house down on the river Thames, friendly bar staff offer to take photos and then it's time for me to leave if I'm to make it to Rugeley tonight. Hunched forward on TT bars for the next few hours there is plenty of time to mourn the cold pint I turned down at the Isis. 

*#bemoremike - a reference to toughing it out in the spirit of adventure racer Mike Hall who was sadly killed whilst racing earlier this year

Gravel Grinding UK: Return to the Dirty Reiver 200

numbers - boring, right?

Whatever happened to the art of cycling? Replaced by numbers, stats, sensors and spreadsheets in the endless quest for marginal gains. The route to success lies in analytics dictates modern sports science but what about those legends of yesterday? Marco Pantani did alright on a healthy dose of Italian passion (we'll ignore the widespread doping back then), and when it comes to riding a bike I prefer not to over analyse. But. Races are tricky, all that adrenaline mixed with excitement, expectation, anticipation and the sheer enjoyment of feeling fresh and fast has a tendency to lead to early over-exuberance which like those festive over indulgences must be paid for later. The closing stages are the flip side of this coin, payback time; we've all been there, running on fumes and pushing harder then we want to remember wishing for deliverance. 200k of gravel race is going to take 8+ hours which is longer than any race most of us will attempt so my survival plan involves keeping a close eye on my numbers.

start line at the castle - photo by San Kapil

This is the second year that Stadium Riders have made it to the Dirty Reiver and this year we have a good group of riders up for the challenge. There's Saul 'singlespeed terminator' Muldoon, Andrew 'nicest man in the world' Beever, San 'once you ride fat you won't go back' Kapil and Mr and Mrs Smith; Clare and Stephen. No one sleeps well Friday night, 5am  on Saturday morning eventually arrives and we're rolling off down the road from Newcastleton, Kielder bound following forced breakfast feasts of muesli, toast and coffee. I have fresh coffee and toasted wild white bread from The Handmade Bakery back home, thickly spread with cashew butter; proper race fuel - I'd take this bread round the world if I could. On the start line down by Kielder Castle the grass is white with frost, the air is a chilly 5°C but there's a bright glowing ball rising above us promising warmth for later in the morning.

This year the start is staggered, groups of twenty or so riders set off at minute intervals on the neutralised road section. The testosterone in the first group is palpable, I'm leaving them to it. A few minutes later our group freewheel off down the hill and despite yawning a minute or two ago I'm already overtaking other riders and winding up for the start proper. Clare Smith offers encouragement shouting 'the road is yours', go on then, lets do this thing. 

Compared to the Pennines this is easy terrain, back home we ride steep gnarly and technical trails but today's route is mostly well graded although there's still plenty of fun to be had drifting both wheels through corners and smirking at roadies dabbing nervously. Despite the lack of technical challenges today's course favours the mountain bikers and cyclocross racers, roadies may have the fitness but slowing down to walking pace through every loose corner will seriously dent your finish time.

enjoying the fast descents

At about twenty minutes in a group of riders merge from a trail on my right, it turns out that the first group out took a wrong turn and have stuck an extra few km on todays route with an excursion out and back into the forest. This group are in a hurry and it seems that a good few speed off ahead. I continue to keep an eye on my effort and push on. The crowds thin out and soon I am disturbing young deer and rabbits, tyres spitting gravel from the trail as I climb the wooded moorland west of the Kielder reservoir. After a few miles I am joined by a couple of riders; Jon, a bike mag editor from California, and Soren, a pro mountain biker living in the Netherlands riding for Stevens. Soren is fresh from a stage race in Ibiza, by contrast I've just survived another Yorkshire winter. Another rider, Dave Hopper joins us, he's a mate of Rich Rothwell who I assume is somewhere up ahead. Dave is kind enough to offer me water as my bottle has fallen out on one of the early descents, he does nearly take us all out though on a sharp right  hander which we all spot too late. Easy done when you are head down and charging as we all are on these fast forest roads. 

I am glad to see the first feed stop, I'm parched. The feedstop crew are still preparing but there's some sliced Soreen out and I fill my Camelback rucksack with precious water. Back down the road and some familiar faces nod as they ride towards the feed stop, it turns out that those are the fast group from the start, now back on track but behind us. I'm surprised by all the closed gates on the next section and we waste time opening and closing them, where are the marshalls? I make it through the river crossing without taking a bath and the rocky descent towards Newcastleton is completed without incident this year, last year I punctured my rear tyre here. This year the knobbly gravel tyres on my Cannondale Slate are soaking up the worst of the terrain with ease. A marshall we pass on one of the tarmac lanes remarks that he wasn't expecting us so soon and we press on to the 100km feed station, taking turns on the front into the cold breeze. 

"How many have been through?" I ask the marshalls, I'm a bit surprised when one replies, "you're the first ones", somehow we're out in front. I thought there were a few riders ahead of us but it does explain the closed gates and half built feed station. There's plenty of time to let the news sink in on the next climb, fellow riders Jon and Soren take off through the forest and I leave them to it, we're only half way and I'm pushing as hard as I should at this stage. I prefer to ride my own race. I reel the pair in a couple of times on the long drag out of Newcastleton but they get away further up the climb. I feel a strange disconnect riding hard up this track, the surroundings are idyllic - flowering gorse and new grass shoots nestling under pine trees, all bathed in Scottish spring sunshine and yet many will pass without noticing, focused on getting to the top. The climb back over to Kielder is a slog, this is where many have their race low point and I briefly question my motivation after thirty minutes of kidney and lower back pain on the climb but I don't race often and there's nothing worse than the disappointment of an aborted challenge.  Fortunately it's easy enough to shut those negative thoughts down and zone out until the descent to Kielder. I'm glad to see Sandra and Francis Muldoon (parents of Saul) marshalling here. Familiar faces and encouragement are much appreciated. In many ways marshalls have the harder day, hours of standing round marking the route offering assistance to exhausted, unfortunate and occasionally ungrateful riders. The next climb hurts but I catch a glimpse of Jon up ahead and it's these glimpses that keep me pushing on up the Forest Drive to the summit. The descent down to the last feed station feels great, down in the drops dodging and hopping potholes in top gear through the dappled light of the forest. I beg WD40 for my dusty chain at the feed stop and grab some flapjack for the final push back over to and round the reservoir. Encouragingly those glimpses of Jon become more frequent on the climbs and I start to feel that I'm making up time. Eight or so miles later I catch him on a climb. He waves me past, later confessing that Soren really pushed the pace after the midway feed station and he was now paying for it. Soren was somewhere ahead, the gap unknown, perhaps I'd spot him on the lakeside trail. 

I did spot him later, just a few minutes ahead but I was now in endurance mode, after six and a half hours any significant effort was short lived. I focused on getting to the castle counting down the lakeside miles until the final sprint up to the finish line where I slumped forward on the bike to be told 'that was really quick' by the marshalls. Yep, we set off at 7am and it wasn't yet 3pm. One marshall hands me a receipt printed with my result which I shove in my back pocket. I push my bike to the grass, peel off sweaty outer layers, rub my sweat encrusted face and collapse on the grass. Horizontal feels good. It's only after a couple of people ask me what time I completed in that I reach into my back pocket for the now sweaty and crumpled receipt; 7 hours 34 minutes bags me second place two minutes behind Soren Nissen. Maybe those numbers do matter after all. 

Route of the Dirty Reiver

An hour later I get back on my Slate and spin back towards Newcastleton, it might be a couple more hours before the rest of the Stadium Riders are in and I'm getting cold. The next morning four of us have a gentle spin round Newcastleton trail centre on CX bikes under glorious blue skies. The perfect ending to a great weekend.

    

Thanks to:

Velofondista for bike preparation
San Kapil for photos and enthusiasm (his Indian Fire trail blog is well worth a read)
Saul Muldoon for sorting the arrangements
Focal Events for organising a top event

Gear:

Cannondale Slate Ultegra, as standard except for wheels (front Stans Flow shod with tubeless Surly Knard and rear Hunt Adventure Sport wheel with tubeless Schwalbe G-One tyre)