Riding Morocco

Acclimatisation

I've been here nearly 20 hours and the appeal of loafing by a pool has evaporated as rapidly as the water splashed on the pool side in the 30 degree heat by our kids, I'm Itching to get out and look around. Outside the steel gates of our villa is a different world, Range Rovers barge past single speed bicycles and Docker mopeds (imitation Honda C90's) on the road to the villa and I find my place on the ragged edge of the road, ready to jump onto the gravel shoulder if a lorry should come by. Further along the road I take a short cut along a dusty gravel track, rammed earth walls line the track past a quarry and on up to a main road. The N8 trunk road crosses Oued Ourika on a new bridge but I ride the old partly collapsed bridge which has developed some interesting ramps and holes as it has collapsed. Once out on the main road progress is rapid with a south westerly tail wind blowing me towards the mountains, I overtake a couple of mopeds and in less than thirty minutes ten miles is behind me.

Turning right onto a minor road I thread between farm buildings and houses passing donkeys, three wheelers and mopeds, occasionally a car comes past but most of the traffic has two or three wheels. Hamlets seem like sociable places, groups of locals gather outside shops or around a broken moped and I'm the only one rushing to get anywhere. This road winds past fields of increasing size until I'm reminded of fenland roads; mile straight, ninety degree bend and another mile straight all the way to the end of the road.

Right turn again for home and I'm riding a ten mile straight road into a headwind, sunset is drawing close so I'm fighting to get back before the light goes. Progress is measured by milestones to Marrakech which I count down from the drops doing my best to get out of the headwind. 

Back at the village by the semi-collapsed bridge there is a festival vibe, the  scent of spices, BBQ'd meat and diesel fumes. The pavements beside the main road are filled with people and it's all lit by strings of light bulbs hanging from the the roadside shops. It's now dark though and I need to get back to the villa so I pick up a tow behind a lorry and enjoy free wheeling at thirty mph along the dual carriageway to my turnoff. On the back roads navigation is difficult, it's totally flat and it's difficult to distinguish between these single track roads. Checking my GPS a few minutes later I see that I missed my junction resulting in much improvised route finding and a couple of dead ends in dusty fields dodging thorn bushes. Following the blue arrow of the GPS in the darkness I eventually pick up a side road that leads me back to the villa, later than expected but in time for dinner. 

 

Atlas Raid

Time for a ride to the mountains, I can see them from the balcony of the villa and they look a long away but Google maps assures me that it's only twenty or thirty miles to the foot hills. Various routes between 100 and 120 miles are planned and I set off after a breakfast of cereal and bread rolls with most of a plan. Armed with a pancake and a couple more rolls in my back pocket I get on the N9 out of Marrakech to the mountains. It feels like slow going but checking my watch I see that I'm climbing all the way past wooden shacks and new towns. As traffic thins gradient increases and the towns and villages become more rural, sheep and goats wander out into the road, barren hills cast a heavy shadow over the settlements. 

shop swept away by winter rains

Slate at the summit

prickly pear cactii

Sticking to the N9 keeps route finding simple and the first proper climb of the day is a relief after miles of grinding away on the plain. Verges are lined with prickly pear cactii and thorn bushes, little else appears to grow without cultivation hence the only animals I see are scraggly goats and sheep. Signs warn of steeper sections, presumably because many of the cars and vans I'd seen on the plain would struggle to make it up a 8% gradient, it's also the first time in years I've seen a cow in the back of a pickup truck. Roadside stalls display rows of local mineral stones and fossils, trade looks slow and it isn't until the Tizi ait Barka summit that I see much evidence of tourists. On the way to the summit I pass one of King Mohammed's forrest reserves where pine trees have conquered the barren scrub and the scent of pine trees fills the air. Round the next corner I glimpse a tanker climbing up to the summit, there's plenty of climbing left and I drop a gear to settle in to the rest of the climb. As I round a left hander a group of kids playing at the roadside stop to shout encouragement and one put his hand out to offer a high 5 which is returned. At the summit groups of Europeans pull up in 4x4s, take photos and continue to their next destination. A local asks if I would swap my bike for his moped, 'non merci' is my reply, I'm enjoying the challenges of the Atlas. Truck drivers pull in up here to have a drink whilst their trucks cool down, I eat a pancake and free wheel off down towards Zerkten. My plan was to turn left onto a minor road at Zerkten but when I get to the village which clings to the side of a lush, steep sided valley I can't see my turn off so I continue on expecting the turn off to be just around the corner. 

high above a deep ravine

Five miles later I have to admit that I've probably missed the turn. My GPS doesn't have enough detail for me to work out exactly where the turn should be and I am running out of time to ride either of the routes I've planned. With data to my phone costing £5/MB I'm not about to use Google maps either so I decide to return to the summit at Tizi ait Barka. From there I race some trucks down the far side of the pass and back towards the plain. Back in the barren land of the prickly pear I take a right turn sign posted Sidi Rahhal which should drop me on to the plain in around fifteen miles, and a very empty fifteen miles they are, nothing but occasional thorn bushes, cactii and tumbleweed holding on to dirt that looks to to be resculpted by every rain storm. At the end of this road lies Sidi Rahhal, I'm reminded of a frontier town; thick smoke, earth movers and tired buses mix it up with taxis, pickups and rickshaws on the main street. I take the Marrakech road and settle in to a thirty mile spin straight across the plain.

 

Back to the Atlas

sculpture in the Atlas foothills

Another ride to the Atlas but this time I have offline maps app maps.me installed on my phone so I have a much better idea where I'm going. Today's route sets out on gravel tracks dodging the main roads and aiming for the Atlas by a cross country route. It seems slow now because more route checking is required but it pays off later in the ride. As I near the mountains I hear a moped coming up behind but it doesn't pass and eventually I look round to check I'm not imagining the sound, the kid on the moped asks me where I'm from and which Manchester football team I support (always a tricky one if you don't care). We chat in broken English for a few minutes before he turns off, I am reminded that this is why I love to explore on two wheels, in a car you are passive and paranoid, by bike approachable and adventurous. The back roads are always more of a treat for the senses, the scent of honey suckle and jasmine greet me in every village whilst villa walls overflow with brightly coloured blooms.

camels for the tourists

Once on the main road into the mountains I'm overtaken every few minutes by tourist mini-buses and hire cars. Camels and honey vendors have set up camp in the lay-bys on the Atlas approach and villages are peppered with artists' studios. The road kicks up out of the valley and winds upward along a tributary towards the higher peaks of the Atlas. It's not evenly graded like an alpine pass which makes it difficult to pace, I stop a couple of times in the steep sided valley to take photographs and take in the sounds of the place, children playing across the other side of the river, goats on the hill above and bird song all around. 

A few miles further up the lush valley is a junction, straight on is a dead end and right climbs up out of sight to a ridge, the right turn is mine. I quickly gain elevatIon out of the green valley up the red earth slopes which are mostly bare until I reach a ridge where pine trees grow. From here the road hugs the conour of the steep wooded slope, tight gravel strewn corners need concentration but the view west over the plain back towards Marrakech is distracting. Eventually the road descends out of the woods back to barren slopes, far above to the left is a peak with a radio mast on it, this road is at nearly 2000 metres so the. mast must be very high. I see goats from the road in the woods above and further along the road a boy shepherds the rest of his herd which includes several kid goats. Although not busy this road is in poor condition and the road surface at nearly every switch back and water crossing dissolves from tarmac to mud and gravel, I'm glad of some tread on my tyres as I loose grip in another corner. The descent is quick and I'm soon bouncing over speed bumps and free wheeling into a traditional mountain village, thick red earth walls, small windows and tiled clay tiled roofs. No sign of tarmac now either, just gravel and as I stop to check my route the call to prayer is sounds from the mosque I just passed. 

A couple more miles through olive groves to a junction where to my surprise I join the road from Imlil which we were driven down a couple of days before on a day trip to the high Atlas. From here it is downhill across the plain all the way to Marrakech, pick a big gear and ride straight to the hazy horizon. I've no idea how far remains, it always seems further on the flat without the distractions of the mountains. I can tell that I'm getting close to Marrakech, the road improves and golf course and leisure club developments line the road. The last few miles to the centre are a typical colonial boulevard, wide road, ornate street lamps, palm trees and prestige buildings set back from the road. It's only another ten miles from here though the back streets near the palace, mixing it up with the Marrakech traffic which isn't half as scary as a Leeds rush hour, trucks and buses leave loads of room when passing and nothing no-one is in enough of a hurry to put anyone else at risk. Many of the roads have a metre wide bike lane for cycles and mopeds, I can't help thinking that contrary to first impressions this is a pretty good place to ride a bike. 

street market in Marrakech

Nearing the villa I end up riding through a deep pothole to avoid an oncoming car on a narrow back road, the hiss of air from my rear tyre that follows is one of my least favourite sounds. I park my bike up-side down to see that I can't remove the rear axle - the splined collar that should be on the axle has fallen off at some point today and now I can't remove the wheel. I can't even grab the axle with any other tool as it's in a recess, as I'm only a couple of miles from the villa I decide to ride on carefully putting as much weight as I can over the front wheel. Arriving back at the villa with a flat tyre, two broken spokes and several more loose ones I'm glad to have made it, a flat in the mountains would have been a major problem. 

Road to Nowhere

The backup Planet X bike is deployed and as I've been to the mountains a couple of times I fancy finding the nearest thing to desert that's within an hour and a half of here. Looking at the map heading west from our villa should take me into some pretty empty territory and an off road shortcut will save time and add interest. After only eight miles I run out of road and pick a track heading out of a village into a barren vista of red earth and rock. Other than the occasional dry river crossing this is pretty straight forward although I'm being super careful to avoid punctures as I'm down to just one spare tube and no puncture repair kit. There are tracks heading off in all directions, I'm tempted to explore them but I need to be back at the villa for lunch so I stick to the planned route. Using the offline map app maps.me on my phone it's fairly simple navigating through this red wilderness although I'm glad to see a milestone for the P2118 once I find tarmac again. Typically the P2118 is absolutely straight to the horizon in the small hills ahead, progress marked by pot holes and milestones passed. Nothing grows here without a great deal of work, occasionally I pass a riad (courtyard house) in its own oasis created by pumping water from deep aquifers to satisfy the thirst of palm, olive and herb. Everywhere else bears more resemblance to the moon, it's difficult to even grasp the scale of the place when all you can see is rocks of varying sizes and dust. 

After twenty miles or so it's good to meet a main road which will return me towards Marrakech but the sun is now high in the sky and I'm not used to riding in 30 degree heat. The air is so dry that every breath sucks the moisture from mouth and nose, I've nearly run out of water and a few miles later I stop at a roadside shop for a cold coke. Once we've worked out what variety, size and style of Coke I would like a mug of cold water is poured for me and a kid asks me how I find my way. I explain about the phone and down the cold bottle of coke, before leaving he takes a selfie with me.

It's just after midday and most people are hiding in their houses or have found a patch of shade, riding fast in this heat is not clever but I have to be back for 1pm so I press on down the N8 towards Marrakech computing milestone markers as I go, 50 km - that sounds like more than one hour...

Fortunately the villa is this side of Marrakech and I make back in time to puzzle over how to remove the rear wheel from the other bike so it can be packed up for the return flight to Manchester. Eventually I source a hacksaw and slot the other side of the axle so it can be undone with a screw driver. I'm reluctant to leave our villa where we've been treated so well, if I return to Maroc it will be to the Atlas with better maps and some pre-planned gravel road routes. There are hundreds of possible mountain riding routes in the Atlas, I just need to research them and drag some accomplices out with me next time.

      

 

Gear:

• Cannondale Slate Ultegra
• Planet X custom XLS
• Osprey trail bag with 2.5l water reservoir

A Very Yorkshire Race: 3 Peaks Cyclocross 2016

Weeks of planning, hours of preparation and now only minutes remain. For many a return to a familiar spot but it's my first time waiting in the drizzle gazing up at the cloud-bound summit of Penyghent. I'm telling everyone it's 'only a bike ride' and it is, but once that countdown finishes we are all going to push hard because we love to race, otherwise we'd have stayed in bed this morning instead of rising in the darkness and driving for hours.

There is nothing quite like the 3 Peaks Cyclocross Race, this was the 54th edition of the race and the Dales village of Helwith Bridge has played host to most of them. It's the kind of race that you wouldn't be able to get off the ground if you tried in 2016, it doesn't make any sense. Except that it's a proper challenge, and that is why every year the race is massively oversubscribed, the 650 riders gathered here this morning are the lucky ones. 

The countdown starts but it is barely heard in the mid pack, instead the sound of hundreds of pedal cleats clicking into pedals marking the start of the race. A commisaire's car neutralises the front of the pack and I fight my way forward to get closer to it taking every gap to make sure that I'm forward for when we leave the road under Simon Fell. There are plenty of sketchy moments as I'm not the only one trying to make it forward, as the road narrows in Horton in Ribblesdale a handful of brake is needed to avoid riders in front, my rear wheel locks and I'm reminded to allow a more space. A gentle climb out of Horton sorts the impostors from the contenders and then an open gate and the start of race proper. 

The climb to the start of Simon Fell is soft in places and many of us dismount to run rather than spin up rear wheels in the rapidly dissolving grass. I glance at my watch to check heart rate, 160bpm isn't sustainable but feels ok for now. Gears are skipping which is odd as they were spot on last night so I put it to the back of my mind instead focusing on picking a good line through the soggy fields. Legs spin wildly, arghh, no drive. Snapped chain and in a split second I'm out, no longer a racer. Tens and hundreds of riders stream past and if I'm lucky I'll be at the back of them all by the time I'm pedalling again. Chain tool out from my pack and I can't find the handle for it, a few riders ask if I'm ok but most are focusing ahead until Star Wheeler Gary stops and lends me his multitool just as I'm considering calling it a day. 

Fix complete but by now most have passed and my calves are burning by the top of the steep and tussocky climb up Simon Fell. Overtaking opportunities are scarce on the singletrack towards Ingleborough and the ones I take frequently land me knee deep in moss and peat. The descent from Ingleborough starts off rideable but I soon shoulder my bike to take more steep shortcuts from the summit. It becomes nearly rideable and I hang on for a rough ride to Cold Cotes. The violence ceases near the timing point giving way to smooth grass and tarmac, time to drink and take stock, tubeless rear tyre feels softer than it did but it's ok for the downwind section up to the Hill Inn. No time for passengers on the straight road past White Scar caves, hangers on are swiftly ejected unless they take their turn. 

thanks to Phil Hinchliffe (HCC) for the photo

Whernside is less steep but more imposing, the view back down the valley is spectacular, low light reflects off every flood in the valley whilst the cloud close above frames it beautifully. Shame I left my camera behind. Near the top my rear flats and I change it but it flats again within a few minutes on a sharp rock. Ok then; I find a sheltered spot behind a wall past the summit to fit my last tube. 'Must more ride carefully, must more ride carefully, must ride...' chants a small and hopeless voice. These steps look fun though, and no one else wants to ride them, maybe I could though? I'm soon hanging over my back wheel bouncing down Whernside's slabbed footpath. Any idiot could tell me that it's not going to end well, a loud 'pfttt' and I've just bought myself a 4 mile run to Ribblehead Viaduct. The novelty of running pushing and carrying a bike soon wears off as more riders pour past me.  Yup, I'm now riding to finish, any hope of a respectable time well and truly out the window.

A couple of spare tubes are secured at Ribblehead and I manage to ride more like a grown up from here. Road to Horton doesn't take long but the climb up Penyghent is a slog, descending riders taking the best lines on this out and back section. Hands ache on the descent and I don't envy those riding old skool cantilever brakes. The final mile or so on the road is full on, no point in saving effort now, grab some cheeky air into the finish funnel and that's it. One 3 Peaks down, perhaps more to go. 

Thanks to Saul Muldoon, Gary Jackson and Pete Dukes for support on the day

The Bike

I built this up a few weeks before the event mainly with parts I had lying around - Planet X XLS carbon frame and fork with American Classic Race29er wheels and tubeless Sammy Slick tyres. 50/34 x 11-32 gears. 11 speed Ultegra shifters and Deore brakes.

GT 24: West Highland and Great Glen Way in Not Quite a Day

Midweek apprehension; a big weekend looms, plans and kit list ongoing but the memory of our last aborted attempt hangs heavy. The water bars of Conic Hill a reminder that we are heading back to serious mountain biking country where feed stops are 40 miles apart and black trail features surprise round every other corner. 

Dramatic skies on the M74 northbound

On the bright side we were returning better prepared and with some support, Emily had kindly agreed to drive the van from Glasgow to Inverness saving us an uncomfortable train journey back to Glasgow, and more importantly offering an escape route if something serious went wrong. The odds of 'something serious' going wrong seemed fairly high to me given that on our last attempt we managed two punctures, one concussion and a fatally collapsed freehub within 30 miles of the start. Hmm, maybe a weekend of football, IKEA and washing the car would be a better idea. 

Friday night and Saul, Emily and myself were out on the town in Glasgow, well nearly, we were in Nando's in search of a good veggie pre-ride meal. Our Ibis hotel room had more in common with a hospital than a hotel room but it was convenient for tomorrow's ride start at the Riverside Museum on the Clyde. After our meal we discussed the next day and foolishly convinced ourselves that we'd be done within 24 hours and therefore a late start would be a good idea to avoid getting to South Kessock near Inverness too early. Naivety was not our usual strategy.

Sleep interrupted by post revelry antagonism in the nearby car park and the incessant motorway noise, I was glad when it was finally time to ride. Along the riverside to the SECC where we spotted several cycle team buses parked up for the Tour of Britain stage the next day. 

A couple of cheeky selfies later and we were back at the Riverside museum, déjà vu. 

At least we had a better idea of the escape from Glasgow route and we were soon settling in for a big day as we rolled along an old railway line towards Loch Lomond. Amidst the walkers we passed a man carrying a bird of prey on his hand, we ignored the urge to shout 'nice bird'. This section was busy with walkers who often didn't hear our approach so progress was intermittent.

Start of the West Highland Way (WHW)

Busker in Milngavie

Problems with my eTrex GPS were worrying me, it was unable to load the route up despite testing it back at home the previous week. It was an hour into the ride before it loaded up the right maps and route, fortunately we knew this section from our last attempt. The climb up Conic Hill hadn't got any easier and we were really steady descending the far side, Saul was practicing his 'ride within myself' mantra avoiding the steps and carrying the technical sections. Passing the point where he crashed last time felt like an achievement and it was all new to us from here on.

Conic Hill

Loch Lomond went on forever, initially fun and at times technical singletrack became unrideable after several miles and we were into the 'hike a bike' section. We'd averaged around 12mph to here but this figure plummeted as we squeezed between rocks, climbed stairs and tried not to overbalance into the loch. Hours disappeared and we still couldn't see the head of the loch. Some parts were rideable but the drains and water bars had already caused two punctures to Saul's back wheel and we were soon replacing a third tube. My chain then snapped but fortunately I had a spare link and chain breaker so we were soon moving again. That was until I realised that I couldn't unclip from my right pedal due to a lost cleat bolt. Fortunately I carried spare bolts and cleat since a similar mishap whilst racing the Manx 100 had lost me valuable time and sapped my enthusiasm.

Hike a bike 'til you don't like

Another puncture

Progress on the rocky singletrack at the head of the loch was steady so we were relieved to finally find a fast double track taking us north towards Crianlarich and Tyndrum. We were surprised to pass several groups of young girls and family group walking the route here, so far we'd only encounter older couples. It was strange to think that these walkers were taking a week to walk a route that we hoped to complete around today. More quality singletrack led through dark pine woodland and across moorland blooming with purple heather but we had little time to take in the view and the drizzle and idles kept us moving until we reached the Green Welly in Tyndrum. 

6pm. It was hours later than we'd planned reach this point, the light was starting to fade and we had a major section of trail to tackle before Fort William, nine hours to tackle sixty miles seemed depressingly feeble. Nothing to do but stock up on overpriced flapjack and nuts and carry on. The track to Bridge of Orchy was fast as was the old drover's road up to Rannoch Moor but darkness  arrived just as we crossed one of the remotest sections of the route. A further puncture to Saul's rear wheel whilst descending to the Kings House was fixed by torchlight as midges feasted on any exposed flesh they could find. This had become 'Type 2' fun, we pressed on regardless. 

The Devil's Staircase climb became a shove rewarded by the view back towards Rannoch Moor, tiny car headlights far below us the only clue to our progress. The top of the climb was cloaked in mist but the descent to 'The Electric Village' (Kinlochleven) was a blast despite the dark, wet conditions. What comes down must go back up, surely the next climb would be our last before Fort William? We had soon ground to a halt as Saul stopped to fix his Exposure light mount which unusually had worked its way loose. 

The long descent fooled us into thinking we were in the home straight for the WHW but the glow in the sky behind the ridge to our right confirmed my suspicion that there was more work to be done. We crawled up the steep climbs and dropped through deer fenced timber plantations to arrive at the back of Fort William. We headed to the rendezvous point but the van was nowhere to be seen so we had a look down Fort William high street to see if she was waiting at the end of the WHW. Again, no sign and I was growing frustrated as we wasted time dodging drunks in Fort William when we should be on our way to Inverness. A quick call and Emily and the van were located on the quayside, desperate for some real food I jumped in the van to pull out a sandwich I'd left in there the previous day.

Official end of the WHW

It was now 1am Sunday, hours later than we'd planned to arrive. We had eight hours to complete our ride, fortunately the Great Glen Way (GGW) started out fast and flat, a top gear mission in our tunnel of torchlight. To either side of our path was water but all we could see was the hard pack track stretching away into the darkness of the highland night. Occasional climbs broke up the monotony of the small hours and a donated caffeine gel kept me awake and on the trail. By this point I was craving some real food, flapjack, chocolate and cereal always lost their appeal after seventeen hours. Fortunately I had some nut butter sandwiches left but once they were exhausted my stomach grumbled, unaccustomed to the high energy diet we needed to complete this ride. I checked my watch and estimated how long it would take to the next village. It was pointless really, hours were flying by and we weren't hanging about but the scale of this ride was epic, we'd get there when we got there.

At Fort Augustus the character of the GGW changed, the GT24 opted for the high level GGW sections so we were once more grinding and shoving upwards through the forest round tight gravel hairpins. A wide singletrack roller coaster lurched towards the glimmer of dawn on the horizon. I fought with my gears which encrusted with mud were now very reluctant to work, I became convinced my brakes were dragging but it was just the thick gravel of the trail slowing progress.

Dawn arrived as we summited the second high level section of the GGW but we were far from done with our granny gears. More steep climbs and a great descent to Drumnadrochit for a final refuel before that last twenty miles into Inverness. We expected another climb and this one didn't disappoint but once done we rolled nearly all the way to Inverness, to our left the Northern highlands, to our right the the foothills of the Cairngorms. The last few miles were particularly great, a wide smooth downhill track was nirvana after some of the trails of the last twenty four hours and Inverness was bathed in sunshine. Along the riverside following the purple line on the GPS route to a final effort along the road into South Kessock where Emily waited patiently with here dog Spin. 10am, slower than expected at twenty five hours but we'd made it. Tough but not quite killer, there was unfinished business here.

The 600k Day: Return of the Thousand Yard Stare

Challenges have a habit of growing whilst in the fermentation stage. A desire to pepper the year's riding with some memorable and challenging days out will eventually result in pushing the limits too far. One of these days that realisation will kick me in the guts miles from home shortly after legs have turned to spaghetti and brain to jelly.

I'd been planning to ride a 600k audax for a couple of years, initially to qualify for the 2016 PBP and latterly to gain experience for a Trans Continental race entry. There are quite a few 600k audaxes, many of them allow forty hours to complete the ride and offer somewhere to get a bit of sleep during it. I decided that sleep wasn't necessary and it would be easier to just keep on keeping on and sleep afterwards. It's doable in a tough 24 hour mountain bike race and all I've got to do is keep spinning cranks until the miles are done, no steps and roots to ride at 3 am in the dark, just miles of unrelenting blacktop.

M62 Bridge near Goole

That 600k aspiration got turned into a plan at short notice triggered by a failed GT24 attempt, a good weather forecast, a day off work and the prospect of shortening days for the rest of the year. There a were a few 600k routes I could ride from home but only one that was a loop, the temptation to abort if passing the starting point in the small hours on a lapped route could be too much. Committment was to be engineered. A Pair of Kirtons 600 started in Poynton, crossed the Pennines to Holmfirth and approximated a trapezium with the Humber Bridge, Boston, Whitchurch and Greenfield as the corners.

Off road section near South Cave

I joined the route in Holmfirth on Thursday afternoon just as rush hour traffic was building to its frustrated peak. The sun was out and a light tail wind encouraged a fast and easy spin east to the Humber Bridge. Averaging close to 19mph I stopped at a super market in Brough for pastries and water, and still arrived at the Bridge in time to capture the sunset. This was the easy bit, the sun set and I turned right into a light headwind, next stop Boston, Lincs. 

I'd never ridden all night before and it showed as I realised that my GPS didn't light up as I reached each junction, I needed to jog the GPS' joystick frequently to light up the screen so I could check I was on course. Traces of the day gradually faded from the sky, I glanced up to see if I was to be treated to a moonlit ride but far from it, the moon was waxing, a narrow crescent of milky glow in the night sky. 

A sprinkling of stars interrupted the darkness of the night sky but my eyes needed to stay focused in the beam of the dynamo powered front light. Looking out for pot holes, gravel, road signs and junctions on hedge lined lanes staved off the usual boredom of flat roads. These were quiet roads and most people now looked to be home and in bed judging by the lit first floor rooms of the houses I passed. Tonight's ride was now soundtracked by the whirring of freshly oiled gears and the chugging of agricultural pumps. If I upped the effort squeaking pedals added their beat to the montage. Unlike when I had been trail running at night time I saw very few animals; I won a race with a rabbit near Lincoln and nearly had to bunny hop a cat in Misterton but anything more exotic was decomposing on the road. Badgers, squirrels, pigeons and rabbits all rolled to fetid pancake by passing wheels. Occasionally a large insect would ricochet off sunglasses or helmet to break the monotony of the small hours, the passing of time had slowed right down. The landscape was ripe at this time of year, the sweet smell of rapeseed and hedgerow blooms contrasting with an occasional pungent rotting odour from the hedgerows. 

In Gainsborough I stopped at a petrol station for food and water but spent several minutes waiting for a girl in heels who was solving a seemingly complex equation involving several bottles of cheap spirits. Continuing out of the petrol station forecourt I headed west for several miles following the GPS until it pointed up a road signposted Goole. This seemed odd and now the my position on the GPS didn't appear to be updating. I pulled over to check my position in relation to my planned route andnas I zoomed out to find the purple track I had been following I realised I was several miles off route. According to the map I should have turned off before Gainsborough so I spun the bike round and retraced my steps back to the town and up the first hill in 50 miles. 

The fenlands were predictably dull by night, parallel dykes and flat straight roads were good for maintaining pace but bad for a sleep deprived brain. Not far south east of Lincoln I joined a former railway line cum greenway which would take me nearly all the way to Boston. Twenty miles later and I was finding it really tough to stay awake, I'd already made and drunk a caffeine laced energy drink but it wasn't enough and I started looking for somewhere to grab a brief nap. A damp lawn next to the fenside lane I was riding was sufficient for my exhausted state at 3.15am. I threw the bike against the hedge, took off my helmet and set an alarm for the future or 3.30am to be precise. I fell asleep to the sensation of insects crawling up my arms and legs and was woken at 3.40am by fat droplets of rain. I'd slept through the alarm, still I was refreshed and ready to press on. First light was emerging in the eastern sky, day was due and there were a lot of miles to roll before it was done. 

Life was stirring in Boston, more cars on the road and the occasional pedestrian. I was now heading broadly west for a very long time and unfortunately the wind had settled on blowing from west-south-west at 15mph, time to get acquainted with the tri-bars I'd bolted on at the last minute before leaving home. Dropping down onto my new handlebar ornaments saved energy into the headwind but there was no doubting that I still had a long way to go and the skies were stacked with leaden clouds promising rain. After a couple of hours I reached a trucker's cafe at the A1 and I stopped to order a coffee and bacon roll, I was fed up with flapjack and the usual high energy foods I ate whilst riding. The rain poured down outside whilst truckers queued for their breakfast and made jokes about the football inside. I didn't have time to wait for the rain to abate but promised myself more breakfast at Donington services which seemed to take an age to reach, the westerly wind had increased to 20mph by the M1 but the sun had emerged and the day was feeling more normal. Costa provided porridge, toast and coffee, all needed for the next fifty miles to Stone, the going had become undulating which wasn't altogether unwelcome - the tedium of the flat was hopefully past.

Disused Trent valley power station

I planned to stop at the Stone M6 services but spotted a chippy in the town where I ordered battered mushrooms (a new chip shop delicacy), chips and a coke. Proper fuel for the last leg. I closed my eyes for ten minutes and then set off west again towards Wales. This part of the route was lumpier still on pleasant tree lined lanes and after only an hour and a half I made the final turn north west. I was very glad of a tail wind but conscious that I had estimated the distance home from here as three to four hours but it wasn't based on any evidence and it was starting to seem unlikely. School closing time in Middlewich and rush hour in the Cheshire suburbs meant a hectic afternoon's ride back to Manchester. From Poynton I headed  north through the suburbs of Manchester, initially 'nice' and green but tired and post-industrial by Stalybridge. By now 23 hours in the saddle had taken their toll the saddle was no longer somewhere I wanted to be, the last twenty miles up and over the Pennines was ridden out of the saddle. I arrived home and the thousand yard stare took over. Time to take a minute before planning the next one.

Flatter than usual but I do like a route with two seas on the map

When The Juju Isn't Good

You know how some people are superstitious? Well I'm not one of them. Don't walk under ladders? Well duh, there's a higher probability that something above will fall on you, and that's if you don't knock the ladder over. All that stuff about bad luck running in three's? A couple of bad things happen and you'll look for the third, it's known as confirmation bias. So if something bad happens I try not to let it phase me, I don't start looking for more bad stuff and I definitely don't use it as an excuse to dodge a 24 hour bike ride. Good, I'm glad we got that straight.

Where's all this going then?

Big rides take lots of preparation so they tend to get pencilled in early in the year and the last weekend in June had been picked long ago to ride the GT24. The GT24 is a point to point ride from the Riverside Museum on Glasgow dockside to South Kessock slipway near Inverness via the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way. Approximately 170 miles and around 17000 feet of ascent, a big day out by anyone's standards. I planned to ride it with my riding partner Saul who was up for the challenge. The week beforehand was spent laying out and packing equipment, getting to grips with a new GPS and preparing bikes.

All set at Glasgow riverside

A Friday night post work dash by van up to Glasgow saw Saul and I installed in a Premier Inn at Milngavie for an early start on Saturday. Unfortunately Saul had caught the wheel arch of his van on a neighbour's car at home before we left on Friday night but our thoughts were on the challenge ahead of us, no time to dwell on a minor scrape to the van. Saturday morning arrived and we discovered a flat tyre on the van, not the end of the world, just a minor inconvenience. Changing the wheel delayed us by thirty minutes but we were still riding by 8.30am, I did remark to Saul "let's hope these things don't come in threes".

Group selfie. We were photobombed

Ride progress from the dockside to Milngavie was initially slow, the surprisingly scenic route followed cycle ways through a wooded valleys where locals were being instructed as part of some sort of boot camp course. The path split often as our route wound its way from the Clyde towards the hills so frequent maps checks were required as we did our best to stay on course.

From Milngavie we were able to use the GPS and we were soon clear of Glasgow, riding in the sunshine alongside a lochan flanked by rhododendron bushes in bloom towards the distant highlands. The views were great, it was warm and so far the going had been good, a disused railway, minor roads and forest tracks led towards Conic Hill on the shores of Loch Lomond. This was the first proper climb of the day and the path was busy with walkers and runners so upward progress was often interrupted. The terrain became trickier here as well, big rock steps prevented the trail from being washed away and made the ascent more challenging, we hadn't yet met any other riders and I was glad that I wasn't on my gravel bike with its skinnier tyres and minimal suspension.

Mount Conic

We stopped at the top of Conic Hill to admire the view over Loch Lomond whilst I attempted to sort out the indexing on my gears, it had become really poor over the last few miles and I couldn't work out why. We did the best we could and it seemed ok without me on the bike. Time for a big descent down to the Loch, the rock steps need restraint if we were to stay puncture free and avoid delays. There were too many walkers about anyway to pick up much speed, many of whom seeming slightly incredulous as we rode down the rocky steps towards the forested shoreline of the Loch.  I had moved right off the steps onto the grass when I saw Saul go over his handlebars and land on the steps before bouncing to a halt off two more granite steps. I winced, but he got up, straightened his handlebars and looked to be about to ride on before thinking better of it. I ditched my bike and crossed the steps to check he was ok. A moment was needed to work out the damage. With adrenaline coursing through veins it was often a few minutes before all injuries were reckoned. Saul's helmet had fortunately protected his head but he felt nauseous and had double vision which suggested that his injuries were more serious than we initially thought. 

The walkers we had passed further up the hill slowly came past and I took in the view whilst Saul waited for his vision to settle. After fifteen minutes or so he was clear to continue however steps were walked and progress was much steadier. We carried the bikes over a narrow gate from the steep grassy hill and descended into a pretty pine woodland on the shores of the Loch. I could tell from the pace that Saul wasn't right and we stopped in a loch side car park were Ibuprofin was administered. Another twenty minutes passed and it was becoming obvious that a change of plan was needed, he agreed that he wasn't in any condition to be riding further today. Whilst an ambulance wasn't required I needed to get his van so I set off back to Glasgow. 

Five miles later and an unfamiliar grating sound from the rear of the bike was starting to worry me. It sounded like carbon fibre on carbon fibre and the back end of the bike felt vague. The chain was also jumping off every time I stood up to pedal and I was starting to get irritated with these mechanical problems. I stopped and tried to work out what was going on. Problem number one was a slow puncture which I pumped up and hoped that the tubeless tyre sealant would seal. The rear mech looked to be badly aligned and I was confused about why this was, the bike had been fine only forty miles ago and it wasn't like I had fallen off or hit the rear mech in the meantime. Regardless, I had a van to fetch so I pressed on as the chorus of mechanical destruction grew louder with every revolution. Of course the tyre went soft again and after a few more miles I was forced to stop and install an inner tube. It was only when I removed the wheel that I noticed the rear cassette was loose on the freewheel. Mental cogs whirred and realised that the freewheel condition was terminal, if I went easy on it I might make it to the Clyde, jump up and down on it and I would have no chance. Inner tube installed and I chose a route following the busy A81 into Glasgow. The bike was now changing gear twice a pedal stroke which was frustrating but I focused on getting the van and ignored the cacophony from the back of the bike. 

The high rise flats of north Glasgow eventually came into view followed by the river Clyde snaking its way towards the wide open spaces of Argyll and Bute. Downhill to the riverside and I arrived at the van which was quickly packed up so I could head back to Lock Lomond for Saul.

I reflected back on the day's problems, in many ways it was good that I'd turned back when I did or we'd have been in a much less accessible spot on the isolated east shore of Lock Lomond when mechanical disaster struck. Accidents happen off road and without their threat what we do would be much less exciting. We'd both ride another day, but maybe I'd be carrying a horseshoe next time.

Day of the Roses: 231 Sunny ones

Big mile day dreams blossomed though the early days of June as notions of a home - west coast - east coast - home via the dales in a day evolved into a main road dodging route. Having plugged options into Google maps it turned out that my plans were optimistic, there was no way I was going to ride 340 miles on Sunday and be back in a fit state for work in Monday. I was keen to ride the "Way of the Roses" Sustrans route partly because following a way marked route would make navigation much simpler but also because it would be an interesting and picturesque route through the Dales.

Sunday dawn arrived early, the dog was desperate to be let out so I was up earlier than intended at 4.30am, a bucket of muesli and some toast set me up for the first few miles. Unfortunately it was a false start as I had to return home after the first mile when I remembered that I hadn't oiled my chain, there was no way I was riding 200+ miles with a dry squeaky chain.

The start of a big ride is always filled with apprehension, will I puncture? What will break? Do I have enough food? Am I riding too fast? Too slow? What if??? It fades soon enough, and spinning up the Calder Valley at 6am on a Sunday morning all I saw were shift workers, taxis and lost souls in the grey murk.

Bright patches emerged through the the cloud as I descended into Cliviger and by the time I reached the ornate buildings of Padiham town centre I had the sun on my back. I followed familiar roads to Lancaster, this was a popular audaxing route and the miles passed quickly through the scenic Trough of Bowland. Spinning past fresh hedgerows on quiet lanes the gentle whirring of freshly oiled gears was only interrupted by the calls of lambs, skylarks and the occasional curlew.

Zen-ness was shattered as I rode into Lancaster, past the old prison and the Ashton memorial, over the river Lune and out to Morecambe. White van man was alive and full of useful insights on the main road here, apparently roads aren't for bicycles. A useful dose of adrenaline had me speeding towards the end of the road. Morecambe-on-the-mud was passable in the bright sunlight, I reckoned it would be pretty depressing on a damp, grey January day. Bingo, tired cafes, and mobility specialists added to the impression of a seaside town on the wane.

A couple of photos at the sea front and I was off on the Way of the Roses, navigation back in Lancaster was complicated by the number of cycle routes on the riverside path but the quality of the traffic free paths was excellent, a world apart from the paths in Huddersfield.

From Lancaster I rolled alongside the riverside on a tree lined former railway line to the Crook of Lune where several pannier laden touring bikes were leant against a wooden shed from which coffee was being served. A couple of brief climbs on a narrow lane flanked by wide open fields led up the Lune valley to Hornby. From here it was more narrow undulating lanes bypassing Bentham and eventually dropping into Clapham, right to Austwick and Settle where sustenance was sought. I stopped in the centre at Ye Olde Naked Man cafe for freshly made pastries and a sandwich.
The cloudless sky meant it was now 22 degrees C, hardly hot but more than warm enough on the climbs. I sat outside the cafe to eat an egg roll only to be joined by some chain smoking bikers dissecting the morning's overtaking manoeuvres and the latest offerings from the 'big 4' in Japan, it sounded dull but then gear ratios and carbon bling probably had equally minimal appeal to the passer-by and I'd spent plenty of time discussing their minutiae. A sportive was passing through the centre of Settle and watching the stragglers provided some entertainment, their route took them up the steepest hill out of Settle, a hill that I was soon grinding up with a bunch of riders who'd run out of energy. They zig-zagged to and fro up the hill in their granny gears denying the reality of the gradient.  I was rewarded by a croissant from my back pocket on the following descent as I free wheeled down lanes lined with butter cups and cow parsley in bloom.  This was the best of the Dales, bypassing Grassington and through Appletreewick where I stopped to have a chat with Mick Collins who was enjoying a pint in the sun, it wasn't the first time I'd bumped into Mick miles from home, last time it was on the finish line for Battle on the Beach at Pembrey. Tempted as I was to have a pint I was only half way and I wanted to get home before dark so I rode off up the lane towards Stump Cross caverns and climbed to the highest point of the ride at Greenhowe. There were copious warnings about the descent to Pateley Bridge in the route description, yes it was a tad knarly in places but I was paced by a BMW 1200GS motorcycle so speed through the tight, chipping littered bends was limited anyway. I stopped for a coffee in Pateley Bridge, I needed to check the map and fancied sitting in the shade for twenty minutes after the the climbs of the last thirty miles. I was served in the cafe by a guy in his 50's wearing a Saxon T shirt whilst his wife berated him across the courtyard where I was sitting. Too old to Rock n' Roll, too young to die...

From Pateley Bridge I climbed to Brimham rocks which were busy with day trippers, this was the last proper climb of the day and from here it was downhill all the way to Ripon. Nearing Ripon the route turned into fountains Abbey and onto the main road through the estate which was closed to cars. The estate road was absolutely straight passing the various buildings of the estate, all built in their own unique style until the twin towers of Ripon cathedral were in sight straight ahead. The road lined up perfectly with the cathedral several miles away, the gatehouse archway at the end of the drive a frame for the City of Ripon.

From Ripon the route was very flat, quiet lanes to Boroughbridge and York before changing direction out of York and on to the path alongside the A64. This led into Tadcaster where the lack of bridge brought me to a halt whilst I wondered how I was going to get across the river Wharfe. A quick scout about and I found a temporary pedestrian bridge to ride across, on the far side I was told off by a kid on a BMX for not dismounting! From here I was on famaliar ground, Rothwell, Wakefield, Grange Moor, a quick stop to untangle another rider's chain and I was climbing Scar lane back to home. I felt like another 100 miles would be OK so that will need putting to the test soon with a true coast to coast!