FAT MTB – Haldon Nightrider, night MTB race

Well this was interesting. There were a couple of things I’d forgotten about night MTB racing. Things like how much I don’t want to be there, until I actually am 🙄

Megster and me rocked up early intending a sighting lap in daylight – which we barely achieved with darkness falling early – and hoping for snow to maximise our FAT advantage – again, barely achieved with just some pools of hail on the track edges and tree stumps.

Yes this was our first race on the FATs. I’ve had mine (Hattie. As in Jacques) for a year now, and Megster got hers a couple of weeks ago. Anyhoo. The sighting lap. Picture it. Twilight. Wet. Fucking freezing. Boggy. A non-mud tyre on mine – yes, Schwalbe make a fat tyre that’s fucking useless in mud and I really should address that – and although not much of a factor, the last third of my chesty cough rattling, staccato through the darkened woods…

Where was I? Ah, that’s right, the sighting lap. Leading Megster up the first climb, rasping and coughing, rear wheel spinning and jumping… cresting the rise and down through the trees on a rooty badger track… Hattie the Fatty jumping and skipping unpredictably … so now I’ve tensed up beautifully and it won’t be long before I’m off.

Ah yes, there it is. Whammo. Whacked noggin on tree as I went down and Hattie threw herself on top of me.

That was the highlight of my sighting lap. I didn’t slip off again but I jumped off and scrambled bits I could’ve (should’ve) ridden on a braver day.

There was a bit of internal pep talk.

Impatient Me: You really think you can ride Twentyfour12 if you can’t ride the fuckoutta this?

Feeble Me: But – but I have!

Impatient Me: I repeat my question.

Feeble Me: *shuffles awkwardly

Megster, coming from a slightly different place, was more focussed on how much more forgiving the fat is, than a normally-tyred MTB and she was… how shall I put this? A whole lot less negative than me.

Waiting for full dark, and the start, I was plain scared! There was talk about saying fuckit and heading home, mostly from me. But Megster was was supposed to say “man up!” not “well we could…”

We didn’t go home. After my second pee I came back with a plan. One lap. We can walk if we have to, but we’re gonna start. One lap is all we hafta commit to.

Cable tied a helmet light on, affixed full nightlights to handlebars; we rolled down to the start, and made our way to the back of the pack. Dead last, where we like to start.

(Pic courtesy of Mud and Sweat)

The fast boys rolled out and we trailed up the hill behind them. I overtook a couple of guys on the first climb and had a clear run through the first bit of single track then sat on a wheel along the top to have a good cough. She pulled over just after we entered Rooty Bit #1 and Hattie did a playful buck as we skipped past. “FOR FUCK SAKE!” I yelled, not for the first, or last, time. Crashed through and over the roots with zero finesse. Got past two other blokes here, one of whom was on his backside, and into the bit where I’d fallen over earlier. Luckily there was a queue of people walking it so I jumped off and scuttled, then when we burst out into the fire road I got past most of them.

I hassled Our Mate Jase along Rooty Bit #2 and passed him on the next fire road. I wasn’t seeing any nemesis roots and everything was more rideable. More of the same followed and then we swooped along easy blue trail before starting to climb back up to the start-finish. I was considering a second lap…finish the race…

The last tricky rooty downhill was… okay. I was well offline and the woods were full of “coff coff PEDAL YOU PUSSY coff coff FOR FUCK SAKE” but Hattie descended and we started the last fire road climb. I glanced at my Garmin. Well this is considerably quicker than the sighting lap!

Shouted my number to the lap scorers and headed back into the woods for lap 2. Let’s finish the damned race 😀

Rode the falling-off rooty single track bit this time. One of the elites was waiting to pass so I had to get a fucken move on through there 😛

Lead some slower guys through the second bit. Rattled off down the fire road, sweeping left into the drop to the bottom track, flowing quite nicely, albeit with the usual amount of caution. Hammered down over the roots as both bar lights shook loose and rotated to show me my feet. “FOR FUCK SAKE HA HA HA…”

And passing people standing with their bikes at the side of the track, fixing mechanicals, getting back to their feet, or just looking buggered and shell-shocked… “You okay?” to every one… I must’ve sounded like their mother. Maybe except for the “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, GET A FUCKING GRIP WOMAN” echoing back through the trees as I rode away.

Eventually it was back up the hill for the last time and rolled through the finish where Megster was awaiting with soup, rolls and all the practical stuff to put the bike away.

She’d ridden a bloody good first lap and decided to put it to bed while she was ahead. It was still one lap more than either of us had wanted to do earlier.

And it was worth waiting for the results. There weren’t any other Old Women out there and even if there had been, I was still the first girlie through the finish 😝 🥇

I make myself sound good, don’t I? I know: I was a complete shower, but I found my MO if not my JO in the woods, and just in time 😎


Loch Ness Marathon foolishness 

I’ve never wanted to run a marathon. I’m not very ambitious and am very pragmatic about my abilities (or willingness to suffer) but somehow I got swept up in Megster’s enthusiasm and we did our Loch Ness entries last October. We booked the hotel at the cheapest, non-cancellable, rate and ten days later I got tangled up in a sidecar accident on the Tamar Trial. The nice man in the hospital bolted my leg back together: he was very pleased with the job he’d done of realigning my tibial plateau (knee, basically) and said I’d be running again by summer. 
*HE* might not have been especially worried, but it felt like quite a big setback from where I was sitting, and there were some deep, dark and uncomfortable places along the way. When I finally got off crutches in February, we started a run-walk-run strategy. Once we identified the most sustainable run length split, Megster ensured we didn’t slack off and we wasted, I mean spent, every weekend of the summer and some evenings, doing long runs with structured walk intervals. It was annoying as we’d both identified that we prefer riding our bikes, but wanted to be able to do A Bit of running. And we’d entered this bloody marathon…

Suddenly, without warning, the summer was over and it was time to drive North for a little plod, and we set off on Friday morning to join the traffic queues on the Mfucking5 and the Mwhyisitsofucking6 for the seven hours it took us to get to Carlisle. We bought fishenchips from a Fishenship Emporium in Carlisle, and crashed out in a very acceptable travelodge. The next morning, after breakfasting at Carlisle Tesco (livin’ the dream) we sneaked across the border and settled in for a few more hours in the car.

(Why drive instead of fly, you ask. You didn’t? Well never mind – MrJB had seized the chance for a little bike ride at Fort Bill and we weren’t about to entrust Flyordie Airways with a carbon frame, nuh-uh…)

What amazing and appealing mountains in the Lakes and again in the Highlands…. And we were wasting our trip on a run instead of cycling! (However, we are back up this way next autumn, with our bikes, to fulfil A.N.Other overambitious project)

We got signed on at the Expo, and made free with the pasta party.

We slept really badly in our hotel next to the A9 which was busy busy all night, the room was too warm, and the window wouldn’t open more than a hand’s width. Even if it had, the noise of the A9 etc etc.

We felt terrific upon waking, choked down a porridge pot (how can you *do* that to porridge?) and MrJB dropped us off at the bus pick up. *Now* Megster tells me she has to sit at the front of the bus or she’ll be travel sick. And I am a sympathetic vomiter.  I explained this to the marshal who was corralling the herds onto the buses, and she looked suitably bemused, but she let us elbow our way on board.

On the drive up, the rain started. Well it isn’t like we aren’t used to it bloody raining every time we go out. And up on top of General Wade’s Military Road, with a Loo View over Loch Knockie, the rain and wind was strong enough to rip our bin bags straight off. 

Luckily, in the best £1 she has ever spent, Megster had brought an entire roll so we had spares AND did a roaring trade with runners who had nothing.  Our cheapest, nastiest, most disposable arm warmers earned their keep in that hour on the mountain too!

We carefully started dead last. There were exactly fifteen runners behind us. It was hard to stick to the 2:1 run:walk strategy with the downhill start. As the miles ticked over, we started to Maximise any downhills, and jog steadily down even on the walk breaks, and walked (yomping pace) anything that felt hard, but basically, we were un-naturally disciplined and did whatever the Garmin beeped. Not having to think about what to do really helped, especially when I got to my dark place from miles 7 to about 17. Ish 

“What hurts?” Megster asked. “Fuck off,” I replied wittily, and may have added some threats towards the laddie whose iPod was blasting out some banging choons. I cheered up eventually, once we were well over halfway and the things that hurt didn’t get any hurtier, and at this point was civil enough to compare Hurty Notes with Megster. 

Compared with the hilltop, it was incredibly warm running alongside the lake. Too warm… The predicted Heavy Rain started at midday – a bit after mile 10 – and we welcomed it. Therefore it promptly dried up again, and as we left the lakeside it was but a soft mizzle. 

We walked through one of our run splits at about halfway – we knew, from our long runs, that we would – and shortly after realised that nobody was getting away from us when we walked. And when we ran, we were passing others. This was when we flipped our strategy to 2 min walk:1 min run, and we were still gaining on the Other Fading runners. It was a good move. We could march to the finish, but interspersing it with little jogs just gave us enough of an edge to feel competitive. 

The next deterioration was after mile 20, with increased groaning when transiting from run to walk and vice versa. Yeh. Even blinking was starting to hurt.

As we entered Inverness, still mechanically following the Garmin beeps, Megster looked at our total time elapsed. Banking time maximising the early downhills meant we could crawl and still get in under target now! 

A final jog towards the finish line, the commentator talking about Megster and Karen coming in together “They’ve been step for step the whole way”…. Huh? Megster, when were you gonna tell me about Karen? – and after we crossed the line Karen herself appeared, a little emotional, having apparently latched onto our metronomic wheels to get herself to the finish.

You remember I said there were exactly fifteen runners behind us at the start? There were three hundred behind us at the finish. If that doesn’t qualify run-walk as a good strategy, I don’t know what does. 

Now we had to get back to the hotel on rapidly stiffening legs. We gimped awkwardly across the playing field while I rang MrJB – who was on his way to us from Fort Bill – and got to the carpark as he arrived. What sort of playing field doesn’t have benches for a little sit down?? We had to plank into the car, bending anything was no longer an option 😭 

Back to the hotel, showered: feeling clean again was lovely.  Compared feet – nothing that flip-flops won’t solve – and compared hurts – nothing that avoiding steps won’t solve. My damaged knee was the only bit that didn’t hurt. I think this is A Good Thing.

MrJB had a good explore around Fort Bill on his MTB and met a bloke from just up the road where we live… Our mission not to meet anyone we knew on our marathon was a complete success, and we drove back home, down the entire length of the country, in a mere eleven hours the next day. Getting in and out of the car was the toughest part of the journey.

Good to have that one done, and even better not to have to do it again. Next time we’ll…. 

(MTB) Racing Through the Dark: Pivot Twentyfour12 29th & 30th July 2017

I am at home, safe with a cup of tea, surrounded by my kitties, and enjoying the sound of the rain hammering down outside. 

It wasn’t always thus.

We entered a team of four girlies in the Twentyfour12, a 24 hour MTB race at Newnham Park. There were meant to be five, but we couldn’t get anyone to take the fifth slot. Crazy: I had to fight for my place on a team last year, and I genuinely don’t know what is the wrong with the girls who didn’t want to ride.
So me, Megster, Missy Giove and Rachel Atherton were a team of 4 with Missy clearly our strongest rider, Rachel the youngest and (stupidest) bravest, Megster the one with least idea of why she ought to be worried, and me with… all my little features…

We also had, as support crew, MrJB and MrGiove, and they were hoping to run a 24 hour barbecue.

Megster and I went down on Friday with our bikes to pitch the tents and get a practice lap with Missy. It was all rideable enough, there were a few technical drops and I was actually pleased to see the Cottage Return was in. The lap was 7.6 miles long with a big climb in the first mile, and 800-ish feet of climbing in total. Not too much to worry about, although if it turned wet….

Yeh. That. It rained all Friday night, the tents were leaping about, the awning on Missy’s camper van made a break for freedom, and I was pleased to have packed a dry jersey for every lap. 

I demanded the first lap because I quite like the thrill of being in the start pack, and started further to the front of the pack than I usually like to. On the dot of midday we were off across the wet grassy field into the drizzle and onto the spreading-out loop. I managed to ride all the drop-offs and technical bits, breathing hard and riding well into the red. That was my fastest lap of the whole race, thereafter it only went South.

Got in, handed over to Megster, and so the routine began. My bike was covered in claggy shite and needed hosing off. 

I was very wet and changed into jersey number two, then sat around drinking tea, eating cheese rolls provided by the domestic goddess that is MrGiove, and waiting. We quickly got the hang of wandering over to trackside after an hour, and when our rider came through we knew we had 15-20 minutes to get to transition. Our times were pretty consistent, even in their slippage, and we also agreed that the slippery, muddy course had a few challenges.

Y’know, the laps themselves are honestly a bit of a blur…. I had to run and push the slippery, water-filled bombholes on top of the hill on lap two and slipped and twisted my knee (yes, *that* newly remodelled, twatting knee) and subsequently struggled to stand up riding down the Cottage Return, never mind pedalling up the sharp little climb in the last mile… I was bit anxious and subdued on getting back, having had an early pasting from the course (only on lap 2 remember). As I limped back past the hosepipe one of the twelve-hour riders was saying he thought the course conditions were dangerous and he was packing it in. I thought he was a pussy. But still… others were also packing.

Janey had been my first choice for a fifth rider, but she was already promised to another :-O She was also packing in after a single lap, having been ill all week and – as it turned out – still not quite right. Not one of life’s bailer-outers, she was struggling to accept the idea that she was going home early. Truthfully, it wasn’t a track to be riding if you weren’t starting at 100%.

Missy had been out immediately before me, and my response to the conditions wasn’t a surprise to her. While Megster was out, and I was sitting in Missy’s camper van, being cold, my dry jersey leaching the wet from my shorts, she suggested we don’t worry about riding through the night. If we couldn’t ride it in daylight, we might be wise to limit our attempts in the dark.

We could, she said, go out again early doors: we already knew our rival ladies’ teams had decided it was too risky to ride through the night. We eventually thrashed out a plan which meant Missy would go out as it got dark, I would follow her at about midnight – as I was mentally prepared to do – and then go to bed. Megster would go to bed *now, set her alarm for 3am and we’d restart our routine. Young Rachel had been ridden into by an over-eager overtaker and was too sore to commit to the immediate plan.

When Missy handed over to me just before midnight, she murmured something about it being “interesting” out there. Hey ho. Lights on, and off I trundled across the slimy muddy grass… scrambled down the first drop on my feet and the rain hammered down, bouncing off my light beam and soaking me to the skin. How lucky that I was working hard enough to stay warm.

I rode the second technical drop-off; I wasn’t too worried if I lived or died by the time I got to it. The marshals on top of the hill, in the middle of Nofuckingwhere Woods, called me on the loudhailer as I approached, “Rider, are you alright?”

“Uh? What? Yes, yes I think so.” FFS enough with the tricky questions as I ride into the notoriously rooty Bluebells Wood.  I was riding without much power and not particularly fluently, thus not enough pace to roll over the roots and my little 26″ wheel (ancient technology, yes, yes) kept dropping into holes and stopping. And then the mud spatter – how does that fire *directly into your eyes? Every time? And – sometimes – both eyes at the same time? Dear god that needed some careful rubbing and blinking. And was immediately followed by a faceful of muddy puddle which really added to the humour of the moment.

I did ride down a muddy slide that I’d walked on the previous lap, only because getting off was too much effort. Rode two of the bombholes but couldn’t power enough to get out of the third, so walked a little bit there. The Cottage Return was horribly slidy and fluid in all the wrong ways. Out onto the bottom track swearing furiously with fear, and a bit of access road before the River Path. Which had grown a bottomless hole since four hours earlier. Fell into it. Got going again, Strumpet was clattering a bit and the front was moving. My headtorch showed my front QR had quick-released when we fell into the water-filled hole. Okay, better do that up, I s’pose… 

The little bridge across the river back into the campsite. I’m glad I rode it, and the following tree-roots, because MrJB was waiting on the Other Side, with Ma and Pa Atherton. I had been so long they had decided there was a problem… which there kind of was, but only the usual one! 

The campsite field was getting unrideable. There was no traction and the back end was trying to overtake the front. I got through it, and back to base. I had a cup of tea, no food, climbed into my sleeping bag, applied ear plugs and that was all I knew for four hours.

Not so for wee Megster! She’d gone to bed in her tent before I set out on my dark lap. Ma and Pa Atherton fell over her guy ropes a dozen times each, there were raucous riders returning from laps all around her and she ended up going out for her lap early having utterly failed to sleep. We all laughed heartily when we heard about her adventure in the Deep, Dark Woods in the torrential rain. But not until several more hours had passed and it felt safe to do so.  

I woke up suddenly in daylight, thinking “Fuck! Daylight! I’ve missed my turn!”

I hadn’t. It was all taking longer than I expected as the course and weather conditions dragged everybody down to my level. Although it was, shockingly, not raining now, Megster had had a wet, cold, eventful ride and was struggling to communicate. Okay, wasn’t even trying to communicate. Missy was out on the course and Rachel would be up next. I would even have time for a breakfast before I had to go. Great! I was told that the other ladies teams hadn’t been out in the dark and we were leading the category. Greater!

Rachel had quite a tough ride in the early morning light, and she was a long time. I eventually rode over to transition, where Jen, from the second placed ladies team, wanted a quiet word… She thought my lot were in an unassailable position and wanted to know if we were willing to call the result, thus none of us would have to go out again. Conditions were horrendous, the ambulance had been out in the night, the helicopter mobilised and it all sounded pretty nasty. At most, she reckoned her team would manage three laps in the remaining time. We would only manage two, but it wouldn’t be enough for them to take first place off us. The doubt was whether the third positioned team would accept the deal. 

The third team had only done 4 laps on Saturday before they stopped for the night. Their team leader was quite matter of fact that they wanted to do one more lap each. Jen relayed this information to me, shook my hand and said, “Well, you’ve got it, but I have to go out again, not to take it from you, but I won’t settle for third behind them.” And if Jen was going out then our lead would be slimmed down A Lot. Megster said, if I had to do a lap then so would she: she had a bad lap to put to bed. I sighed and racked my bike in transition.

Rachel arrived after a very long ride, looking pooped and said something about “Be careful”. 

I quickly found out what she meant. The campsite twisties were a flat, slidy walk, tyres jamming solid with grassy mud and never really clearing. I must have dragged the bike a third of a mile before a gravel stretch allowed some mud flicking. In fact, the fourth lap was unrideable for an additional reason – as well as impossibly slippery, other bits were drying and clagging right up.

The puddles on top of the hill were draining and if I had known what was under the water, I would not have ridden through when they were full! The River Path was much more “holding” than previously and I had a nice little walk along there with my bike. 

I eventually worked my way around to the final field through the campsite, slid off once more on an innocuous little downslope, and back into transition where I handed over to Megster for the last time.

She was round and back in exactly the expected length of time, threw her bike down on the track after the finish line and that was that. None of the ladies teams were going to overtake us now.

My team worked hard: we only had four riders, where the other teams had five, and we rode dark laps when other teams made a different call for the track and weather conditions. Yet it feels odd: that we could walk, scramble and push all that for a win, looking like a bunch of amateurs, when there are riders on the other teams who normally have my arse?

Maybe our advantage was that we are used to falling off, to having to get off and scramble anything requiring skill to ride, and to being beaten up by the terrain…. and perhaps if you are any good as a rider, it’s all a bit of a shock when you come across something you can’t ride…

Devon Coast to Coast 100 mile cycle route

I’ve been saying nonchalantly for a couple of years that it must be possible to knock off the #Sustrans Devon C2C 100 miler in a single day of good daylight. Megster and I talked about riding it with MrJB, Twinkletoes and ProfBB, but once involve others it gets complicated – Prof pointing out it would be pleasanter done over 2 days, and then there would be B&B costs, and as for finding a date when we were all available… Mmmm…

We reached the soddit point, and under the guise of “a recce” Megster booked us a train from Plymouth to home at 18.25 on our next free Saturday. We counted back a reasonable guess at how long we’d need, added a bit, and MrMegster was coerced into dropping us at Ilfracombe. Also, aware that we wouldn’t have much time to divert into the bordering towns to buy sustenance, we stuffed handlebar bags full of sandwiches and flapjack… but not too much in the way of waterproofs because even if it’s wet, it’ll be warm because it’s June.

I think you can spot the foreshadowing in that second paragraph can’t you.

Cut to Ilfracombe at 8.15 on a dampish spring day of 24mph winds from the South (the direction we were cycling towards). MrMegster drove home without us, shaking his head and muttering “Effing idiots” while we posed for the obligatory photos with Verity in the harbour.


I hate trying to find my way through towns. Ilfracombe didn’t want to let us go. The GPS kept saying helpfully that we were off course but gave no further clues. By virtue of simply riding up hill, away from the sea, and spotting the odd NCN27 sign, we broke free of Ilfracombe’s shackles and climbed steadily for 4.5 miles, and after an hour of undulating back roads, sheltered from the wind by high hedges, and beginning to think we might be in trouble on any exposed stretches…. we made it to Braunton and the start of the Tarka trail.

This was the flat, easy-going, honeymoon period of the ride, only slightly jiggered by the headwind. Do you flog into it as hard as you can, or save your legs and pedal easy, accepting that it will all take a bit longer? We did both.

Approaching Bideford after two hours we started feeling a bit of damp in the wind, and before much longer, quite a lot of damp in the wind. By Torrington it was actually, technically, mizzle as we call it in these parts.

I was feeling the miles pass rather slowly, but on the whole we were about where we expected to be as we passed through Torrington with only a quick wee-and-water-bottle stop, to start climbing up away from sea level for the second time today.

Despite being a native, I’d still like to distance myself from the people/artists who did this.  It scares me.


Still battling the wind we reached the end of the (old railway) line and followed the uppy-downy back roads for hours. It really was hours. Megster enjoyed this part for not-being-flat-and-boring, for having a chance to coast downhill, get out of the saddle to pedal etc, but for me this was the difficult second album. And it went on for hours.

I don’t know exactly when it started raining: like boiling a frog, we didn’t notice it happening, but suddenly we were wet to the skin, cooling fast, riding through running water across the roads, and it was too late to put on our single waterproof (each). But at least it was warm, cause it’s June.

Somewhere along here we rode past a couple of chaps pushing their chunky hybrids up a hill. “You girls are putting us to shame”, they simpered good-naturedly as we ground past, knees and lungs gently exploding… “Yes,” snapped Megster, “we are.” She may have been in a dark place :-O And I joined in, once out of earshot, with, “Now, now, if they’ve ridden those hybrids from Ilfracombe this morning, no wonder they’re walking. I wonder where their B&B is for tonight. The bastards.”

There was a sharp little climb up to the old railway line at Okehampton, and once on the Granite Way, we grabbed a sandwich and rode on, chewing, into the wind and rain. Our time schedule had been blown to pieces by the headwind and we had to keep moving, if we were to have a prayer of making the train. I trailed Megster’s wheel for a bit, down through Lydford and up onto the moor into the cloud. I thought strong winds were meant to blow cloud away? How little I understand about meteorology.

Twinkletoes had sent me home with flapjack after Thursday’s time trial – where I’d raced my FATbike, another whole level of stupid – and we worked our way gratefully through it, and Dextrose tabs, for comfort as much as anything. It was getting difficult to do technical stuff, like unwrap things, with hands that had been wet and wrinkly for three hours now. I remember thinking, I can see how a stupid mishap like a puncture could prove fatal on the open moor. We were on a track across the open moor.

Once down off the high moor at 880 feet (twice, because geography loves a joke) even crossing the main Tavistock road was a navigational problem with no direction signs, and the GPS just shrugging. Eventually we took a gamble on a rough, steep, stoney track with no signage and the GPS chirped up to say it was the actual Sustrans route! It wasn’t the first time we’d been surprised by the unroadiness of the surface. Kiddies on road bikes beware :-O

We had a brief bit of tarmac descending, then some muddy single track which turned into a rocky climb. Megster commented that if there was much like this, we could kiss the train goodbye :-(

But we were heartened, as we emerged from the climb, to see another couple on hybrids, in full wet-weather kit, at the top, who said, “Did you just ride up that?”
“But you’re on road bikes!”
“Crossers, FFS.” (Slick road tyres mind…)


There was more wet riding into Tavistock, and we picked up Drakes Trail, an entirely traffic-free 20 miles into Plymouth. But not flat, oh no. A cheeky little 22% caused actual tears after 85 miles of riding. Nearing Saltram, and clock watching, we made the call to ride straight to the railway station instead of the harbour. You can see the damn harbour from the A374, and we rode past, following the signs for the railway. That was scary: Plymouth traffic, always needing to be in the right-hand lane, and without the legs to get a move on.

We got to the station with 6 minutes to spare. Tickets were soaked. Found a nice man who flashed us through the barrier. Platform? Cold. Wet. Which platform? Which train?

We found another nice man.  Did I imagine that he actually called us “my luvver”?  No matter, he was a very nice man at a point when we too cold and wet to do anything for ourselves.

We put our bikes in the guards van, the nice man ushered us out and into a carriage so he could send the train off and we sank soggily into the upholstered seats for an hour’s respite from the weather. Our dry kit had not stayed at all dry in our handlebar bags, so we stoked the furnaces with coffee and hoovered up everything edible in sight…

Getting off at our stop, the roads were dry. There was sunshine. The canal was mirror-flat. We pottered the seven miles home, the warmest and driest we’d been all day, and happy that it was all done.

Truthfully… we’re doing okay for a couple of old birds on entry-level bikes ;-)

Pivot TwentyFour12 mountain bike race 2016 (names have been changed to protect the tearful)

Knobblies is an LBS with a definite angle towards Fat Bikes and mountain biking. They always enter teams in this all night race/festival/rave and luckily for me and “Missy Giove” they couldn’t quite fill all the places this year. Not so luckily for him, MrJB was also seconded because he is “Colon”‘s friend.

It’s a 24 hour race, where the winner is the person or team who rides the most 6-mile-ish laps between midday Saturday and midday Sunday. So you bloody well ride through the night if you want to get anywhere!

Missy and me ended up in the Fun team (might survive/might not) with three fast old men because Chris remembered that I cry if you put me under pressure. We were “Knobblies Fat Tyre Adventures” which, as you might spot in a minute, means the rejects from the following B and A teams.

MrJB was on the fatbike B team with Colon – “Knobblies Fat Fun”

And then there was the Knobblies A team, “Fat Tyre Adventures” composed of their hardest, bestest, bravest MTB riders, and also promoting Chris and Knobblies’ Bike Packing Adventure Tours.

As Knobblies is a bicycle repair shop I thought I’d see if Chris would twiddle my gears so they would shift reliably and improve the team’s chances. He immediately interrogated me about what I’d already fiddled with. “Have you touched the limit screws on the mech?” he asked. “No, only what I could reach while I was riding,” I said. He nodded and started the black magickry. “I didn’t just do it by half a turn either,” I added helpfully. “I can see that,” came the dry response.

We set up in blazing sunshine, far too hot, and started discussing the expected first lap chaos, who will go first? Should be your quickest rider apparently, also there is an extra loop to spread the field. I said several times I didn’t mind going first, because i really didn’t mind, and actually, getting going would be good Bike

Come midday I went and put myself at the back of the field. The pack filled in behind me so I broke out and went to the new back. Then I stuck with my position and they would have to ride around me. There were 429 twelve hour, and 379 twenty-four hour solo riders, pairs and teams riders, some on single speeds, ffs.

The hooter went and MrJB was filming on the first bend. It took one and half minutes for the field of 700-odd riders to pass him, and I was about 50 seconds in, so nicely placed halfway. A bit of meandering through the campsite, proper CX playing field stuff, then out to the first hill where somebody fell off on the narrow gravel climb and half the pack got baulked. Walked. Nice single track along the top, blast down through the field, back into the campsite twisties and out onto the course proper.

River-crossing, remember Colon’s advice, use the bridge, once your feet are wet they stay wet for the next twenty four hours! Up around the whoops then the half mile Clif Climb. Hot, so hot, dusty, no power, walking, dragging my bike with lots of other people. Back on, oh no it goes up again…but I think I can ride this. At the top, kiddies were holding out ready-peeled ice lollies! Why yes, thank you I will, snatched from a tiny outstretched hand as I rode past, scoffed as we continued up the fire road and turned into some single track, more up-up through the woods, lolly gone, still so hot, don’t people die exerting themselves in these temps?

The top was elusive – we snaked down through rooty singletrack and across forestry corrugations (and these got tiresome very quickly) before climbing back up the fire roads to the next technicality. One rooty bank was unrideable if you didn’t get exactly the right line – something to learn – and yet another stayed unrideable (by me) for the entire event.

Finally, after bumming around on top of the hill for a couple of miles doing uppy-downy, nadgery, stoney and rooty stuff, we got a mile of singletrack downhill – worth picking a line to dodge the sharpest, pointiest stones – past the ruined cottage to the river, where another half mile of similarly rooty going, but flat, brought us back into the campsite twisties. Into transition to handover my token to rider two… whose name I hadn’t paid attention to, and whose face I couldn’t remember. Was nearly awkward but luckily Rich remembered what I looked like and it ended well.

The oldest of the fast blokes on our team, Stewart, was full of questions about the course, and I was at pains not to say how hard I’d found it. Interesting, lovely riding, good mix of stuff, oh there’s a bit of a climb early on, some tree roots but they’re not slippery (they weren’t, in the dry…) How much time did I think I could take off as I learnt the course, he asked. “Time off?” I queried. “I always get slower as the day goes on.” He argued with me a bit, saying surely as I learnt the course my times would come down, and I may have got a little offhand with him… As I said to MrJB, “Come Tetchy fucking o’ clock in the morning he’s gonna get a slap, I don’t care how fucking venerable he is..”. It’s fortunate that he wasn’t talking to Missy Giove.

Anyway, subsequent riders coming in were all saying how hard it was, and I raised an eyebrow at MrJB as he prepared to take his lap. Yeh. It was gonna be hard…

Stewart was obviously more competitive than the rest of his team, and insisted we write our lap times on the board in the tent, with a note of the time you got in so we could work out when we were out again. Missy wouldn’t co-operate at all. “I forgot,” she said, and wandered off.

Sadly he latched onto me as a fellow figures-and-data weenie and insisted on telling me The Plan, talking tactics, laps, when to go to transition and I suddenly found myself quite liking the fast old boy…

We all got a hot first lap done – hot as in sunny, not necessarily speedy. MrJB had found the FAT hard work as expected, but he was flying the downhills and passing everybody, partly because the FAT is an awesomely stable and forgiving piece of kit and partly because he’s an idiot with no fear or forethought

I took my token from Stewart (best buddies now) and went out again. The flat campsite seemed needlessly hard as I started, I went over the bridge again and walked the Clif Climb… again… and laboured over the corrugations again… slithered to a stop on a steep rooty climb and stabbed my Neuroma on a pointy rock again… whacked my ankle metal-work on a tree stump… a bit of self-harm… and then the lovely downhill singletrack, the toothy rocks already looking familiar and without the extra couple of miles and extra 200 feet of climbing from the filter-lap I almost enjoyed it. But it was hot and there was very little time to drink, you wanted to be fairly focussed for most of the lap. Thanks to Stewart’s insistence on the board times I could see it would be about three hours before I had to go out again. Something to eat. Cup of tea. No sitting down and resting though, even I though I’ve read the book and know Pro cyclists never stand if they can sit, etc.

I was waiting in transition with MrJB and we were all getting nervy when Ian for the B team was late in… had he gone straight through for a second lap? Punctured? Crashed? Thirty minutes overdue, and he arrived, handed his token to MrJB and fell over. MrJB hesitated, wondering whether to help with the crisis, Chris shoved him out to start his lap and we all stood awkwardly around Ian who was writhing on the floor and not saying anything sensible. Eventually one of us thought to lift the (relatively undamaged) fatbike off him. Even more eventually one of us told him to man-up and got him to walk to the St John’s tent.

They declared him not broken but he’d had a heavy crash and wasn’t all that bright, taking no further part in the race.

My lap times were consistently the slowest in our team, but not that far adrift of Missy’s. The Fast Old Men were all riding 38-40 minutes while Missy and I were turning in 48-50s.

My third lap began at 7.20, so I had my lights attached but not switched on. It was my best, fastest, and most-bits-ridden lap of the entire race. I high-fived all the kiddies around the campsite twisties (disappointingly, none of them were concealing sweeties) walked the usual bit of the Clif Climb but I managed to concentrate through all the nadgery bits and rode the tree roots confidently at any angle, was already on the fast line when the toothy rocks appeared, and didn’t clobber any bodyparts on anything. Came in and handed the token over to Rich, bursting with confidence.

Missy was riding with a calm confidence which I don’t often see in her, in fact she was uncharacteristically self-contained and she put in another good lap just after 9pm, returning in the dark.

With the falling darkness the lovely summer evening we’d just had cooled down and turned to drizzle, then proper rain.  Missy reported that the course was getting a bit slippery and there were odd tree roots that she couldn’t ride.

MrJB went and lay down in the van for a zizz. I cleverly ignored the rubber knee warning which I get when I really need to sleep, and hung around in the dark, waiting. It felt rather like war – long periods of boredom punctuated by short spells of terror.

Transition at night was a wet, dark, lonely place. Many teams had decided to sleep through the darkest bit, and the solo 24 hour guys were just banging out laps without ever coming in.

Waiting for Stewart in transition I got talking to Trish. She had been taken out by a faster rider who crashed into her from behind and wasn’t sure how many more laps she could do. (I was keeping a very wary ear out for faster riders approaching, and yelling at them to Hang on, I would get out of the way…. Mostly, they seemed to accept it) One of Trish’s team-mates had gone to A&E to have hand-sized flap of skin syringed clean and sewn back down, after being terrorised into a ditch by a faster rider. But she was part of team Muzzy and they were desperate to finish the full 24 hours for him.

Missy and I had spent some time weeping on the phone when our incredible friend Muzzy died last autumn. He had already done his 24 hour solo entry (on his singlespeed because he was wired up special that way) when he died and the Welly Wheelers planned to flood the event as a tribute to Muzzy. Mrs Muzzy was riding the solo womens 12 hour then carrying straight on as part of the 24 hour womens team, really putting herself through it.

Trish talked about just riding the 12 hour women’s team next year, and really going for it. I wasn’t feeling like I never wanted to be here again and I must have sounded too interested, because she said, “Stay in touch and we’ll sort something out.” Well, if I don’t answer my phone she can’t tie me down to anything Raspberry!

At 23.25 I recognised Stewart’s racing crouch coming back through the rain into the floodlights, ran to the bike rack to switch on my Garmin (only later realising I’d completely missed the switch in the dark) back to grab the token from him and away through the silent and darkened campsite on a lonely and deserted route…

But what’s this? My light was utterly crap. This isn’t right – I’ve ridden night MTB races before, I LOVE it, what’s going on? Ah… this isn’t my light. Over the bridge and into the woods, and now I found I’d forgotten how to ride. I was slow, jerky, nervous, waiting to fall off. I didn’t have to wait long.

At the top I had a word with myself and rode hard at the first root bank with a predictable result. Cue swearing and wriggling out from under the bike. The light approaching obviously recognised the language, “Is that you ninjading?” It was Colon. “Alright?” he added as he rode past with no suggestion of stopping if I wasn’t. I was fine, merely having a strop. I pushed me and the bike away from the roots and got back on. Missed. Fell over. It really had fallen apart. More furious swearing. “You tell it, love,” said a passing light and I managed to laugh. It was utterly ridiculous, and let’s face it I was gonna get back down eventually

The corrugations were so effing hard to ride in this state. I kept stopping to let faster riders through, “Yes, yes, I’m fine thanks, please go through,” and every time I came to rooty sections I was just too scared to try riding. My Kanadias didn’t grip any better than my Conti-Kings, and there was much more mud/backside interface.

I realise now that I was just too tired to function, never mind ride anything vaguely technical.

I nambied down the Cottage Descent, picking an edgy line between the toothy rocks, and even after I was on the flat river track I still had to get off and push over the odd-angled, flat, tree roots. Back through the silent, dark, wet campsite twisties, handed over to Rich and went back to camp.

MrJB had breakfasted on pizza and coffee and was about to go out into the dark night. I told him I wasn’t going out again until daylight, adding that I would use a different light next time. Except, of course, I wasn’t going out again.

I finished the breakfast pizza, and as he left I crawled into my sleeping bag in the van still in my wet muddy kit, and stretched out to doze. I snapped suddenly alert 45 minutes later when MrJB came back in off his lap and embedded himself in the other sleeping bag. He started snoring :-( I gave up and went back out to the campfire, which warmed and dried one side of me while the rain kept the other side cool and damp.

But look, now I’d had a lie-down, I’d eaten and adjusted my expectations, and I’d changed my light for a more familiar one, so even if it meant another walky lap like I’d just done, it was survivable. Knowing I’d be slow again anyway, I stuffed the camera in my jersey pocket because night riding in the woods is (usually) so amazing that I wanted to show you all what it’s like.

Everybody’s laps were taking longer, a combination of the darkness and the tricky conditions, which meant more waiting between rides, but eventually I went back to the dark, deserted transition to wait for Stewart.

Just before 4 am I saw him approaching the floodlights. I ran across to switch on my Garmin – and actually did it this time – grabbed the token and set out through the dead campsite.

At least I could see a bit more this time, and I was now riding with the acceptance that I was tired and my reactions weren’t there. I rode to my target tree on the Clif Climb, and got off to push. Half way up, this –

You remember that lynx who escaped from the Dartmoor Zoo – which is five miles away – a couple of weeks ago? He still hasn’t been recaptured, but I would suggest that he’s doing okay;-)

Back on the bike, a cheery word from the marshal at the top and on into the single track, still climbing, picking very careful lines and avoiding all tree roots. I didn’t even attempt to ride my Nemesis-roots and pushed until I was well clear of them! However I manned up enough to ride the second rooty bank successfully for the first time. Yay! Go me, in the dark and the wet too!

This was more like it, this was the dark riding that I love, and had expected.

Then the Cottage Descent, not riding too stupidly and giving myself plenty of time to respond to the dragon’s teeth as they appeared. Sleep deprivation though, heh, you almost welcome the hallucinations – well hello, its you – and the old man standing alone by the ruined cottage had me freaked for a moment until I recognised him as the product of a brain which needed sleep

I rolled out of the woods onto the bottom track as it was getting light. Also… I’d stopped getting wetter; it must have stopped raining. This has to be good. Returning through the campsite twisties, the duty cheerleader said sleepily from an anonymous tent, “Well done, keep going” :-)

I handed over to Rich and returned to camp, where MrJB was up and getting ready, and he could see immediately that I’d had a better ride.

Missy had retreated to her tent wearing a variety of stolen blankets and earplugs, and it was my mission to wake her when I got back in… I’d barely had time to get two coffees before she arose from the deep, looking marvellous as you only can when you’ve gone to bed wet and haven’t slept well ;-)

I’d intended to try for a second zizz but it was getting properly light and I decided against it. I’d got to the dull point where you can carry on for hours without getting any worse. Or any better, it has to be said.

My rubber knees had gone away (I was surprised to see dried blood on my legs?) and the campsite was returning to life. You could see where the sun would be if the clouds weren’t in the way. It was more or less dry. The sanitation trucks arrived to hose out the Dunnies! There was a scramble to use them while they were still, er, fresh, and had paper Raspberry!

Missy went out for her first daylight lap, and had some trouble with the flickering trees as a migraine trigger. She often faints with migraines which makes the whole situation worse as you can imagine. It was lucky that Bill, a Muzzy-friend, rode past – or rather DIDN’T ride past – and nursed her around her lap. (No, she wasn’t going to stop just because she was dying on her arse, my Missy Giove is made of sterner stuff than that :-O )

I sipped tea and sat close to the still rumbling campfire, doing some encouraging maths which suggested we would each only have time for one more lap. Stewart would get the glory lap, the one where you ride through the finish arch after midday to cheers from the crowd and get your name read out by the commentator. He seemed pleased with the idea.

My final lap started at 8.10, and with a four hour gap between rides I was confident I wouldn’t be out again. It was still wet and slightly treacherous in the woods. I had a stab at riding the nemesis roots and got a bloodied elbow for my trouble, BUT by focusing harder than I ever have in my life I managed to ride the second rooty bank again. And the bloody corrugations, it was such an effort to turn the pedals over… Then the hard work was done and it was downhill all the way home.

Riding confidently but steadily down the Cottage Descent for the last time, the old man of the woods was gone (like he’d ever been there) and I burst back out to the river where the marshal was fast asleep in her chair, head back, mouth open. It had been a long night and I could empathise ;-)

I still walked the tree roots on the flat river track, then I was out into the campsite field where blurry figures were huddled around like refugees on the wet grass. The track was running fast here and felt good, and some of the campers raised a smile and an encouraging wave for the riders coming through.

I rode into our camp with a big grin, I’d done all the laps I had time for and I was alive: the Strumpet hadn’t let me down in the middle of the deepest darkest night (although it sounded mechanically rather nasty now). I felt rather epic at having got around a pretty tough event.

I got to work with the baby wipes and put on my one remaining dry t-shirt and shorts, a signal that I was done. “I’m sure we could find you another lap,” Chris said thoughtfully. Given that he’d done one dark lap early on then retreated to his van to sleep through the night, he nearly got the slap I’d originally reserved for Stewart.

The A Team had worked out that they had a comfortable lead in the Vet Mens Team – unassailable so long as they all finished their next laps… but just to put it beyond reach MrJB went bravely out and did a 7th lap, getting back at 11.48, just permitting (the Other) Ian to get out on a final lap before the cut-off.

The rain came back, heavy this time, but we’d have to stay for the presentations, so we started to pack up what we could for a quick getaway afterwards. Now the action was over I was struggling again and even simple tasks, like picking things up and putting them away, were proving beyond me

Missy was cold and wet and maybe a little withdrawn, and when the last wet riders were in, and we were called for presentations she wrapped herself in my only dry fleece, and went to sleep in the van. Tony and Stewart left early to take Tony to A&E after he face-planted on the campsite twisties on his last lap. TwentyFour12 having the last word :-O

Mrs Muzzy got a podium in the solo womens 12 hour and was on the winning team for the womens 24 hour team: such a shame Muzzy himself couldn’t have seen it.

There were so many categories that we did well NOT to win a prize Raspberry! We were 6th out of 10 mixed teams with a fairly tame 30 laps between us. MrJB’s team was 5th out of 11 in the Mens Vet Team, with each of them riding one more lap than we had. And the Knobblies A team won the Mens Vets with 40 laps over 24 hours, 4 laps clear of second place.

See – Stewart was right when he identified me as a harmless stats-weenie