Arriving (Day 0)

On Sunday, we left the family behind and threw the bikes into Martin’s van. His mate Jez joined us for the 4 hour journey to St. Bees. Martin was buzzing, he’d driven most of this journey hundreds of times with work, dreaming of riding coast to coast. He didn’t say much, but there was an air of excitement around him that almost hummed as he urged the van to go faster towards our starting point. I was quiet too, wondering what I’d let myself in for. After the Mournes I had no confidence that I’d be able to ride across even moderately challenging terrain, Despite the ordnance survey maps and satellite navigation, on my phone, the compasses, the maps, I was sure we’d get lost. Would my bike hold up, would the new tighter chain stop the ride on the first day? Would I fall off at the simplest hurdles like in Woodburn? On one hand, I was full of doubt. On the other, I was desperate to get started, to put all the problems I’d encountered in my training behind me, and get stuck into the adventure I’d been preparing myself to undertake.

Jez somehow managed to keep a conversation going single handed for the whole four hours. He covered yoga, conspiracy theories, freemen of the land, corporate greed, water filtering techniques, hydroelectric cars, drug use, the UK court system and wireless electricity. Oh yes, and he talked about mini cooper cars, property ownership and human anatomy too.

When we got to stonehouse farm Carole showed us the excellent annex/bungalow where we’d be staying. A bedroom, a shower room, and a living/kitchen/bedroom. We offloaded the bikes, changed from our jeans and shirts into the cycling shorts and tees that we’d be wearing for the next week, and Jez turned around and drove the four hours back to Martin’s house. I can only guess what topics the conversation covered on that journey.

While Martin prepared a pasta carbonara for us to eat, I borrowed his bike and rode down to the water’s edge. Tradition dictates that anyone riding coast to coast should dip their back wheel into the water in St. Bee. I’ve done it, and Martin’s bike has done it. I also selected a more permanent proof of the journey, a pebble from the beach which I intended to carry across the country with me to the other side.

Back at the B&B, my headache, which had been developing most of the afternoon, got quickly worse, and I was only able to force half of the pasta down my neck before stumbling to the bedroom and collapsing into a fitful sleep.

navigation

For a trip like this, navigation is everything, and I've already proved that my sense of direction's far from perfect.
We both had compasses, Martin carried maps covering the Lake District and the North York Moors.

I had my phone.


I always knew my Nokia 5800 did a lot of stuff, but on this trip it blew me away.

I've got Alex Fischer's AFTrack software on my phone.

I loaded Ordnance Survey maps from Bing and calibrated them using satsig.net. It was time consuming, but very worthwhile.

I cable tied a cheap silicon holder to my handlebars so I could see the screen when I was riding, and,

HEY PRESTO!

I had satellite navigation which told us exactly where we were and what direction we were travelling. It even told me what speed I was doing while playing a selection of MP3s. The holder gave good shock resistance, it never fell off, and I was able to take the phone out easily on the rough off-road sections or when I wanted to make a phone call (yes, you can even use the Nokia 5800 XPressMusic to make phone calls!). A fully charged battery lasted all day, but I started every day with two charged up. Just in case.

I would never rely on just a gps for navigation; too many things can go wrong, but it turned out to be an amazing setup and saved us a lot of faffing about on windy mountain tops.

packing

After a couple of days being tourists, Martin and I sat down to prepare what to take for the trip. Not wanting to double up on too many things, we laid out everything on their garden table and packed away things we wouldn't need.

I took:
frame bag, right pocket:
spare inner tube, pump, puncture repair kit, 4 links of chain, allen keys.
frame bag, left pocket:
sun cream (factor 50), camera, insect repellant.
drybag:
first aid kit, socks, boxer shorts, long sleeved cycle shirt, jogging trousers, t-shirt for sleeping.
backpack, main bag:
3-litre water reservoir, spare food (dried fruit, nuts, chocolate), waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers, travel towel, extra padding for cycle shorts, emergency bag (bivi, water purifying tabs, lighter, phone charger/light).
backpack, front pocket:
toothbrush & soap, keys, wallet, spare phone.

We both also had bar bags to keep food within easy reach.

In the end I'm not exactly sure what Martin took. He had more clothes than me and didn't take a towel, but overall I think we were carrying roughly the same weight. Martin decided at the last minute that he didn't need his hard-back book BS7671 Requirements for Electrical Installations and I was inclined to agree.

tension mounting

Northern Ireland school holidays are from the start of July to the end of August, so as soon as school finished, we headed for the Larne Ferry.

A couple of days with Martin, Tiny and Co. we did holiday things and on the surface it probably looked like we were relaxing. Inside, Martin and I were raring to saddle up and start riding.

We went to Thomas Land, and went out for a family cycle, went to the beach and played in the garden. Time with the family is great, but I'm sorry to say that my mind was elsewhere.

bumbling about

Once past that first hurdle my spirits lifted, and I was able to ride. Some of the descents were a little hairy – I was on my own, so I sometimes walked rather than risk injuring myself, but I was in a good mood. Following the path down from the saddle between Meelmore & Meelbeg I knew I wouldn’t have time to do more than follow the base of Slieve Meelmore, out onto the Trassey Track and back to my tent, either rejoining the section of the Ulster Way that passes the campsite, or out through the forest onto the road.

I was in my element.

There were a couple of places where the path wasn’t totally clear, but that was OK, I just kept going till I picked it up again.

There were one or two paths heading off to my left, but that was OK, I just had to keep the mountain on my left.

The sun began to set, but that was OK, I was enjoying the technical riding,

I knew where I was and I knew where I was going… until I rounded a corner and found myself looking down a valley at a large body of water that definitely wasn’t on the map. It was a very large body of water, and the people who made the map really shouldn’t have left it off. Actually, it was so big that somebody had built a dam across it and it could almost be mistaken for a big reservoir, and it definitely wasn’t on the map… unless I had strayed a little bit off the path, or missed a turn…

Map out, I realised I was looking down at Ben Crom Reservoir, and while I’d been concentrating on looking down at the technical trail I’d forgotten to look up and see the that I was actually going round the base of Slieve Bearnagh instead of Meelmore – and that it was actually getting dark.

I had the choice of working my way round Bearnagh (scary) to Hares gap and down, or backtrack and take the longer but less treacherous path between Bearnagh and Meelmore. I opted for the cautious route. Riding some, but mostly pushing. Trails that were fun at dusk on the way down became impossible in the dark on the way back up and I eventually made it to Trassey Track at about 1230.

Almost as soon as I got on the track, I looked up and watched the mist descend. The easily identifiable peaks very quickly became invisible through the pale blanket. Half an hour later and I wouldn’t have been able to find the path. I wasn’t too concerned; I had my emergency bivi, a couple of spare lights, and enough food and water to last me well into Friday. I didn’t see any reason to worry, but I was annoyed that I’d wandered so far off my planned route and that my journey home was so frustratingly slow.

My progress was hampered further by the fact that my chain had at some point bounced off the chain ring and into the gap between the ring and the frame. It was trapped there, and I couldn’t prise it out, so when I got to the path I split the chain with my chain tool and forced it through. I reconnected the chain, but I could see that some of the links were twisted. Even when the path smoothed out, I wasn’t going to be able to ride.

It was slow going, but eventually I made it to the Ulster Way marker. I started to push along the wall, but there was a group of about ten tents along the path – with litter, abandoned meals and empty tent bags scattered on the ground all around. I was annoyed with myself, I wasn’t pleased that they were camped right on the path, and I was righteously indignant that they’d made such a mess. At half past one that morning, a large angry animal bumbled through their camp… pushing a damaged bicycle. I practised my evil chuckle when they nervously called out “Who’s there? Do you hear that? What’s that noise?” I’m bad.

At nearly two in the morning I locked the broken bike to the fence out of habit, crawled into my tent, pulled the sleeping bag over me and slept till morning - woken only once by a sheep eating the tent.

In the morning, with the bike unrideable, I'd no choice but to pack up and head home. Would I have tried another ride after the marathon of the night before? I don't know, but I'm glad that chain got mangled on my practice ride rather than on the first day of the coast to coast.

worth the effort

I’ve heard mixed reports about Meelmore Lodge. Some say it’s full of groups playing loud music late into the night, others say if you’re not husband, wife and 2.4 kids they’ll turn you away because they’re a ‘family site’. Some say it’s spotless, others say it’s filthy. Needless to say I had no idea what to expect. All I needed was a sheltered stretch of grass to pitch my tent, and somewhere to take a shower before I went home. What I got was as clean and comfortable a site as I’ve ever camped. Well kept grass, two toilet blocks, showers (which cost £1 a go) – all clean; friendly helpful staff, who stayed on site all night in case of trouble. Basic, but pleasant and well maintained. And I don’t think a fiver was too dear – especially when it’s so close to the mountains.

There were a couple of DofE groups, and a few hikers, but it was Thursday night, so it wasn’t busy; and the location is amazing, with an awe inspiring view of the mountains.

I fired up the trangia, and while the water boiled I pitched my tent.

I boiled up some couscous with curry powder, threw in a few raisins from my trail mix, and munched it down it straight from the saucepan while I pondered various routes on the map. Idyllic.

I planned to ride for two hours on Thursday night, and then four hours on Friday morning before heading home.

For Thursday, I thought I’d head along the Ulster way, to the path that goes up between Slieve Meelmore and Slieve Meelbeg, up into the Mournes, and then make a decision based on how long that took me.

The sun sets at about ten thirty at the end of June, but it’s light enough until nearly half eleven, so I got all cleaned up and on the bike by eight, and I was happy enough with that. I set off at my usual pace when I think there’s people watching – fast enough to get me out of breath within a couple of hundred yards – so by the time I reached the stile I was glad for the excuse to get off and push for a while. I headed off to the right – and realised riding was hard going. Sure there’s a path, but it’s about six inches wide, and it’s deep enough that the pedals would keep catching. I just couldn’t get any sort of rhythm going. I pushed a bit, tried to ride, got off, and pushed a bit more. In the end I pushed most of the way round the base of Slieve Meelmore, and when I looked up at the saddle between the two mountains I realised I’d just pushed the easy bit.

Undaunted, I pushed on.

All those authors who use that phrase in their books, they don’t usually mean it quite as literally as I do here.

There were one or two places where I thought to myself “I could probably ride this section, but I need to conserve my energy for that vertical bit up ahead”

“If I clear the lip of the saddle by 9pm… just after 9pm… a quarter past nine… half nine… I’ll still be able to get back to camp before it gets dark.”

I finally got over the wall just after half nine, and it was beautiful. The orange sun low in the sky behind me highlighted every white granite boulder and black peaty crevice against the green carpet that stretched over a mile across the valley floor to Cove, Doan and Slievemalagan. Everything was utterly still, not a soul in sight and in the shelter of the wall there wasn’t a breeze.

I love the Mournes.

Yes OK, I know that’s not exactly what I said in my last post, but occasionally, just occasionally I reserve the right to change my mind about these things.

The plan

Beginning to panic with my lack of off road experience, I booked Friday off work.

I packed my £10 Lidl tent, Alpkit Aeric, sleeping bag and trangia and took the car in to work on Thursday, with the bike on the rack.

I never really liked the Mournes, preferring the silent barrenness of the Antrim Hills or even the Sperrins to the well trodden paths and constant foot traffic I’ve always experienced in the past in the Big Mournes. I’ve heard people say it’s impossible to get lost in the Mournes because there are so many landmarks and they’re so compact, but I’m not that familiar with them so I dug out the compass and chucked it and a map into my bag along with my usual emergency kit that I take for canoeing. (though I did leave out the snorkel vest that I keep as a backup buoyancy aid) and enough food to keep me going, and headed off.

Alex wasn’t too pleased at me leaving her to look after the wains while I disappeared off on an overnighter, but there was no good time to go and I had to get some experience before the big ride. That’s probably why I didn’t leave a proper route card with her (she takes Duke of Edinburgh groups out, so she likes route cards) the other reason is that – well I hadn’t a clue where I wanted to go. I didn’t know how fast I’d ride on proper mountains and really this trip was just about getting familiar with serious mountainous terrain rather than travelling a route.

the Schedule - Overruled

The Schedule said I had to do three hours on the mountain bike on Saturday. My Daughter said I had to take her to the Lough Shore. My Daughter won.

I loaded her and her brother into the bike trailer, Granda borrowed my marin, and we took the scenic route down along the river, through the castle gardens and down to the shore; ate ice cream, watched the pirate ship race, saw a demonstration rescue by Lough Neagh Rescue and lay in the sunshine.

I couldn't help but notice a girl in the crowd with her arm in a sling and a plaster cast all the way up to her shoulder looking awkward holding a wee baby. That wrist surgery's never far from my mind these days.

Martin does a lot of his training with weights on his ankles. Personally I don't see the logic in this, because the weight's balanced - so when you have to pull one weight up, the other's pushing down, cancelling out the effort. Pulling a five year old and a three year old behind you in a trailer, on the other hand, now that's a definite training enhancement.

The problem is that my straight line cycling fitness isn't my biggest worry. I really need to improve my off-road skill, so tomorrow I'm heading down to the Mournes for an overnighter, taking my new £10 Lidl lightweight tent, sleeping in my as-yet-not-used Scottish Silkworm sleeping bag liner, and cooking on... I'm not sure which of my too-many stoves I'll take.

I wonder where my compass is.

that railway

I had another attempt at tracing the Randalstown-Toome railway. My strategy wasn't complicated. I rode along the road, and followed every turn off that the map said would cross the line.

The railway marks part of the western boundary of Randalstown forest, so I headed down there. On the road down I came across an unusual feature. At a guess i'd say the road over the bridge must have got damaged, so instead of repairing it, they just moved the road, filling in a path across the railway cutting and leaving the top of the bridge visible at the side of the road.

Unlike Tardree, Randalstown forest's pretty flat and featureless, and consequently isn't frequented by bikers. It is home to "World of Owls" though, which I'll have to take the wains to sometime.
I got to the point where the path is closest to the forest boundary, but it was all inaccessible through the dense trees.

At the next turn off I missed the crossing entirely because, as before, there have been houses built over it. I did find myself down near the lough though and enjoyed the view.

I'm beginning to think this railway line is totally inaccessible - and from what I've seen of it, even if I do get access it'll be totally overgrown and unrideable. Still, I've no intention of giving up.

the Elusive Half Hour

I've been thinking about that elusive half hour over the last couple of weeks. One of the routes I've been taking goes up Donegore hill, home to the world's best garden centre (with the world's most expensive cafe), an ancient motte, and Santa's Western Europe reindeer relay station

I usually crest the hilltop after about fifteen minutes of riding, and after that I do believe I could tackle anything, so I'm forming an opinion that it's not the first half hour that's the struggle, it's the first big challenge. This is both good and bad. It means that when there's a difficult bit early on, that means I get into my stride early. It's bad though, because Day1 of our coast to coast ride looks like it's going to be one long challenge from start to finish. So I'll never loosen up the whole day!

technical features

Neither of us are speed demons, so we spent the next hour potterng through the forest, honing our low speed technical skills. I've read that momentum gives stability. It's got to be true, because to balance on a bike at all you've got to be moving. So low speed riding over technical terrain is inherently unstable.

And with moss-covered forest floor, a multitude of technical features lie totally concealed.

(you know where i'm heading with this, don't you?)

Even entire tree stumps have been known to become completely invisible when covered in sphagnum.

OK, so I fell off.

Over the handlebars, facing back to where Martin was coming behind me, the reflector on my handlebars shattered and bits of plastic flew past my head as my face brushed the tree stump on the way down.

Martin was looking me in an interested sort of way.... "Why're you coming back this way?" he thought.
I thought "I wonder is that shoulder dislocated?" so I calmly said "Martin, is there any chance you could please assist with disentangling me from this wreckage?"

so he did, and we rode on. Apart from the smashed front reflector (waste of space anyway) there was no damage to the bike. My shoulder was sore for a few days, but nothing serious.

Motorbikes and Volcanic ash

Martin's a bit of a motorbike enthusiast, so he flew over for a few days to watch the North West 200. I got home from Chicago on the Saturday, so we all watched the races together. On Monday, volcanic ash meant their flight home wasn't until 7pm, so Martin borrowed Alex's bike and the two of us headed for Woodburn forest.

I've wanted to ride there since I caught sight of the triple reservoir a few years ago from the air. It's also popular with local riders.
After my experiences on the extreme flat of the plains, I was struggling up the hills. Actually I found myself struggling to keep pace travelling downhill as well. And on the flat. Martin made a comment about the first half hour being hard work before your body loosens up, but I just grunted "no!" because I wasn't loosening up, and I couldn't understand why.

We kept going for half an hour or so, and when I stopped for a break I lifted my back wheel and gave it a spin. It didn't. Looking a bit closer we realised that the brake was jammed on. I think it must have been when I refitted the wheel after I got that puncture and Jed gave me a lift home. I've never touched disc brakes before. I'd read about them in the Haynes manual, but never touched them. Reluctant to look foolish in front of Martin, I dropped the wheel out twiddled and twisted and - actually they're not that complicated. I got the pad so it wasn't touching the disc and couldn't believe the difference! It was like the bike was 10kg lighter.

we rode on, and I had no bother keeping up. Maybe it wasn't the brakes. Maybe it was that elusive first half hour.

"trail"

A few posts back I put up a photograph of what the locals in Tardree consider to be a good trail. Downhill on a 30% gradient, barely wide enough between the trees to fit your handlebars, and since that's not enough of a challenge, they added dropoffs and jumps to make it more interesting.

After work today I used the Chicago Bike Trails website to find a trail and keep up my training. I know the cliche says they do everything bigger and better over here, so I was hoping there'd be something within my skill level.

When I got to the start of the trail I remembered some of the other cliches about the US of A.

There's the story about an American who visited Belfast, couldn't find the Highway, so he had to drive down some back street called the M2;

And there's the Texan who took three days to drive across his ranch in his car. (I had a car like that once).

This bike trail was wider and better surfaced than most of the main roads round where I live. It was also unbelievably flat. Where I'm staying is on the Great Lakes Plain, so the whole area is flatter than a flat-footed flat-cap wearing flat bloke with a flat tyre in a block of flats. It's flat. No hills.

It was a pleasant ride though. lots of trees and squirrels and deer, sunshine filtered through the leaves and not a soul out but me.

where to now?

One of the reasons I wanted to go to a bike shop was to get advice on where best to ride. I knew the hotel was in the middle of a forest, but I've no idea about laws regarding haring off between the trees - and coming from Ireland, I'm also pretty ignorant about wildlife. We don't even have moles, voles, weasels or toads in Ireland, never mind snakes, bears or brown recluse spiders.

Again my colleagues helped me out. Tim directed me to http://www.chicagobiketrails.net/trails.htm which has a trail going right past the hotel door!
He also reassured me that I am unlikely to be mauled, poisoned or eaten alive by the local beasties. That's a relief.

Howdy folks!

I’m in the USA now, staying in a hotel. A picture says a thousand words, so this picture is my explanation of why I don't like hotels. I had to come here for work for two weeks. You’ll be thinking I’m a real jetsetter with all these journeys abroad, but honestly I’m not, and I was worried it’d really upset my training schedule.

Work offered to hire a bike for me if it didn’t cost "too much", so I phoned GlenBrook cycles and got prices.

1 day - $40,

one week - $150,

two weeks - $300.

Apparently, because the car rental costs less than half that amount, $300 falls into the “too much” category.

The dude in the shop (I’m going all American after only a week here) said I’d be far wiser to buy a bike for $300 and dump it when I’m done, so I came planning to do something like that – maybe find a second hand one or something.

People here are really nice; especially when you consider that they’re training us up so that we can take their jobs from them.
When I got here, Sheri, with whom I’m working, phoned her husband and said “Is yower baiyke ay maowntayne baiyke?!” Apparently his response implied that he believed his cycle would meet my requirements and she brought it into work the next day.

It’s a mountain bike only in the very loosest sense of the word, probably cost about $70 when it was new, but it’s not costing me anything, and it’s well set up and it’s been well maintained (read “never used”)I should have taken a picture of it, but I didn't, so here's a photo of the bikes that are dotted round the company for people to use when travelling between buildings.