Mayhem Weekender

Sometime after midnight on Monday morning in a 24 hour petrol station on the edge of Brighton

Cashier: “Have you done the bike ride today?” [Sunday was the annual London to Brighton charity ride]

Me: “No, I’ve done a different bike ride. A little bit further.”

Cashier: “Wow, further! Where have you ridden from then?”

Me: “From near Gloucester”

Cashier: “Gloucester!? Flipping heck!”

What I didn’t add was that I’d actually ridden there on Friday evening, done a lap of a mountain bike race that morning, before riding home from mid-afternoon until now. There was already a look of incredulity on the woman’s face and adding this additional information would have only led to the inevitable “Why?” question and I was frankly far too exhausted to think of an answer. I took my change, picked up my ready meal for two, stuffed it in my musette, and walked out of the garage, hopped back on the bike and rode into the light pollution for the final couple of miles home.

The weekend just gone was the last ever Mountain Mayhem 24 hour mountain bike race. I came to this event late, only attending my first one four years ago. That year I was there to help out mates and take some photos. That in turn prompted me to buy a mountain bike and return in 2015 and 2016 and do the solo race (in for a penny, in for a pound). This year being the last ever one I considered soloing again but sensibly decided it was a bit close to the start of the Transcontinental to recover in time properly. A plan to ride from Brighton to Gatcombe Park and then back again was hatched instead. This would mean I could hang out with mates and watch the last race with the added benefit of getting a couple of 200km night(ish) rides in as Transcon training. What with camping at the race too it gave me an opportunity to test out my sleeping stuff for the Transcon and see how most efficient to pack it on the bike. In the back of my mind I knew that if there was a spare bike kicking about I’d try and get a cheeky lap in too.


I left Brighton just before 3 o’clock on Friday afternoon (due to having run out of annual leave allowance I needed to fit the riding in around work. A couple of long days in the preceding week meant I could bunk off early) and headed along the coast for a bit before turning northwest. Annoyingly there was a stiff breeze coming from precisely the direction I didn’t need it to be coming from, but the sun was shining and the forecast was good for the whole weekend.

It says a lot about the last few months that I now consider the roads as far as Petersfield as ‘home roads’. Distances have not only become greater but there have been a lot of rides out this way, to Bespoked a couple of times, to Wales on an audax, and various long rides that have headed further into West Sussex that I ever did before (I usually head into East Sussex as I know the roads better). It’s only once past the climb over the Ashford Hangers or “Little Switzerland” as it is known locally, and there is something alpine-esque about the climb, in character rather than height, that the roads start to feel foreign and the excitement and anticipation of the long ride kicks in. I have ridden across parts of Hampshire and Wiltshire many times in the last two years but my route this weekend took in new roads to me. I was in roughly the same areas as previous rides, familiar names on signposts triggered memories. It was early afternoon by the time I got past Petersfield and Hampshire looked about as pastoral and bucolic as it’s possible to be. Narrow lanes carried me through endless fields of wheat and barley rolling across low downland until I popped out on a familiar road through the Bourne Valley towards Wiltshire. I crossed the border as the sun was setting and headed for Marlborough. Somewhere along the way a rustling sound from a field to my left startled me and I turned to see a group of deer bouncing through the golden field, not only a sight to behold but the sound of them swooshing through the tall crop was beautiful. Then a barn owl swept across my path. Idyllic.

The last of the light was fading from the sky as I reached Marlborough around 10 o’clock and by the time I dropped off the Marlborough Downs stars could be seen in the dark sky. There was an orange glow on the horizon to the northeast which I guessed was Swindon. From previous years of driving to Mayhem I knew this is where we turned off the M4 so it couldn’t be too much further. The Garmin distance told me similar, somewhere around 50km to go.

The next section passed close to Royal Wootton Bassett, Malmesbury and Tetbury but I’m not sure what the landscape was like as it was properly dark by now and I was tired and concentrating on pedalling, snacking and drinking. At 1 o’clock in the morning I was sat on a bench outside the pub in Avening eating the last of the emergency peanuts before the last couple of kilometres up the hill to the Mayhem site.

A few minutes later, and after getting lost on the campsite, I pulled into our camp where Rory and Shaggy gave me a hug and a beer, and Jo handed me a plate of pasta. Part one completed, 215km in ten and half hours.


Much sitting about in the shade trying not to melt in the sunshine. Beer. Food. More beer. Heckling mates racing. Due to some motorway closures one of Jo’s team of ten, My Knees Hurt (usually a team of four and raced all 20 years of Mayhem, singlespeed in the old days hence the team name, this year all previous riders and helpers have combined to make a team of ten) can’t make it to Mayhem so they are a rider down. Frazer from the Pivot Boompods team very generously offers me his Pivot Les to do a lap standing in for ‘Scottish Phil’. Some number crunching is done and it is decided that I will go out for the dawn lap on Sunday morning. I then drink some more beer as I have hours to go before I have to ride.

Sunday Morning

I awoke to Jo saying “Oi, you’re supposed to be awake. You’re out soon”. I checked the time, it’s 04:18 and two minutes before my alarm is due to go off. Bleary eyed I gave Jo the spare number board to go on the bike whilst I dragged my kit on. Half a flapjack and a spin around the campsite to make sure the bike is set up OK and I set off to the arena to take over from Rory when he gets in from his lap. Yes, I know it would have made sense to check the bike the day before but it was being saved as second bike for Rich who was racing solo so I didn’t want to mess around with the seat height until I was absolutely sure he wouldn’t need to use the bike.

Rory beeped over the timing mat and handed over to me. I hopped on the bike and headed out of the main arena into the field before the woods. First corner and the rear end squirmed all over the place. Bloody hell, I’d not ridden a MTB since last November and I had completely forgotten about how low pressure you can run a tubeless tyre. I minced around the first few corners, almost slid out over a root into a tree, until I got used to it and then I was off. It’s a lot more fun knowing you only have to put one lap in rather than ride non-stop for 24 hours. For the first time I was riding up behind people and saying “on yer left” or “on yer right” and slaloming between slower riders. Most of the course was ingrained in my mind from two years of solo racing and the trails are so dry it was easy to get some flow going. Despite not having ridden a mountain bike for months it felt like the best I’ve ever ridden.  After a few corners I can see the sun squeezing between the trunks and branches, sun rise! A magical time of day to ride a bike. I love riding at dawn but my previous experience of dawn at Mayhem is utter exhaustion and a slow (rapid) unravelling of my sense of humour or resolve. I’m usually having a lie down and sulk not long after the dawn lap. This was riding at dawn without all the tiredness and mental fragility of soloing and it was ace. I even rode the entire course, no parts were walked, a mix of having a really lightweight bike to ride and all the Transcon training, plus the fact I only had one lap to do so didn’t need to worry about conserving energy (I may have eased off on a couple of fire roads knowing that I had to ride home later in the day). It was the most fun lap I’d ever done at Mayhem. Through the campsite section I could see Phil was still at camp and not at the handover waiting for me. “Phil, I’m back…” I shouted as I whizzed past. Through the last bit of singletrack into the arena and I span along until I saw Phil riding round to take over. I rode over the timing mat just as he arrived. I passed the baton over and went looking for a bacon sarnie. Then I dozed some more.

The rest of Sunday

All packed up and goodbyes said I pedal out of the campsite just after 2 o’clock for the 200 or so kilometres home. It was ridiculously hot and I had toyed with the idea of just getting a lift home, but this was the last big Transcon training ride, and getting a lift won’t be an option on the Transcon. I had a framebag stuffed full of snacks and two bottles of water which would get me as far as the first shop. I had routed myself home pretty much the same way as I’d ridden on Friday, so knew that I probably wouldn’t see anything open until Marlborough. Two bottles of water would not get me that far, not in the heat, but I also knew that I would pass close enough to Malmesbury to detour if I needed to. However it turned out my route back was slightly different, I rode through Royal Wootton Bassett rather than near it, so was able to buy some food and water to keep me going to Marlborough.

The section between Wootton Bassett and Marlborough was gorgeous. I’d not been able to see it in the dark on Friday but white horses in the sides of the hills at Broad Hinton and Hackpen hill glowed in the bright sunshine. On the Friday I had a feeling that the road between Hackpen Hill and Marlborough was nice, the twilight meant I had been able to make out silhouettes of the surrounding landscape, but it was an absolute cracker made even better by the fact it was a gentle but fast descent for the best part of 7 or 8 kilometres. More food and water in Marlborough before a quick blast along the A4 to get back into the quiet lanes across Wiltshire and Hampshire. The Bourne Valley again. Love this stretch of road. Under the A34. Dinner sat on a step in the shade by the river opposite the little Tesco in Whitchurch. Over the M3. Yet more hedge lined lanes through yet more fields. This part of the country always makes me think of Lemon Jelly record sleeves.

Picture Perfect England™.

A kestrel glides low over the field to my side before swerving across the road and through a gap in the trees to my right. Then I chased a hare along a lane a few minutes later.

Petersfield again. More food, more water. Home roads. Tired. Hot. Probably dehydrated. Actually, absolutely definitely dehydrated. Twilight. By this point I was starting to lose interest in riding, bored even. Close enough to home to just want to be there, far enough away to know it was still a couple of hours away. I plugged my earphones into my phone and hit shuffle. I pedalled on. Home roads. Autopilot. Village names got ticked off the mental list – Harting, Cocking, Graffham, Greatham, Storrington. Dark now, it was late. Even the main roads were quiet. Swerved a hedgehog. Route 1 home. Washington, Steyning, Shoreham. Head down, high gear, push pedals as hard as possible. The fast road and the cement works. A way I would never ride in the day, but 11 o’clock on a Sunday night it was OK. Tempted by the drive-thru MacDonalds, but no, cracked on. Didn’t even cross the lock gates for the quiet of Basin Road, I stuck to the coast road. Hungry. Tired. Get home, maybe stagger to the kebab shop. Then I saw the lights of the M&S shop at the all night petrol station near Hove Lagoon…

“Have you done the bike ride today?”

Tourist Trophy 2013 // Stage 9 // September // The Black Mountains

The YHA weren’t lying when they said the Wye Valley hostel was at the end of a “a steep unsurfaced road with a hairpin bend”. The first few hundred metres of the September TT ride was back up that steep driveway more suited to a ‘crosser or MTB. The hostel lies next to the River Wye which was shrouded in mist as I left, but directly above my head was blue sky. I was optimistic about the weather despite the fact I was heading to the Black Mountains in Wales. I’ve been to the Black Mountains quite a few times before for the Green Man Festival, and I’ve only ever not been rained on at one of them. And for two of them it was unbelievably sodden.

Heading west and over the Wye the first climb of the day (the first of many) was over Symonds Yat Rock towards Monmouth via the Forest of Dean. On the long sweeping descent back down towards the Wye at Monmouth I passed over a double border; Gloucestershire into Monmouthshire, England into Wales. At Monmouth I stopped for breakfast and to check my route notes against the map.

IMG_20130914_092028After a pot of tea and bacon sarnie I continued west towards Abergavenny on narrow lanes that rose and fell with regularity. In the distance I could see the Black Mountains, the edge facing me looking like the escarpment edge of the South Downs, but far more menacing. Not helped by the fact the mountain peaks beyond did indeed look black. In contrast the landscape around me was lush green (all that rain) and empty fields the hue of burnt sienna oil paint. Passing a farmhouse a couple of dogs snapped and barked at my cleats, patriotic hounds that could smell English blood?

IMG_20130914_204003Looping back and forth over the A40 and over a hill I was soon passing through Abergavenny and on my way to Crickhowell, crossing another double border into Powys and the Brecon Beacons National Park. Across the River Usk at Crickhowell I passed the Glanusk Estate, home to the Green Man Festival, and towards the first proper hills of the day: The Black Mountains.

River Usk at Crickhowell
River Usk at Crickhowell

The Black Mountains are the eastern most edge of the Brecon Beacons, a set of ridges separated from the rest of the Beacons by the Wye Valley and straddling the border of Wales and England. These lumps of sedimentary rock – sandstones, mudstones, siltstones – were to be my playground for the next couple of hours.

IMG_20130914_191515After passing back over the River Usk and then the A40 I started the climb towards the pass between Mynydd Llangorse and Mynydd Troed. I headed towards the town of Llangors before turning onto a narrow lane lined with high hedges, framing Mynydd Troed ahead of me.

IMG_20130914_190728The lane got narrower and steeper, the pain in my legs greater with each pedal stroke. Then rounding a corner I was at top. I glanced behind me and then had to stop to take in the vista. Down below was Langors Lake and the Brecon Beacons rising into the distance. The last mile or so had hurt but the tops of hills are fine places to arrive at.

IMG_20130914_180941 IMG_20130914_190142The view to the east was as good, and even better I had a good few miles of freewheeling back down to the Usk valley. Back over the river and I started the climb up Mynydd Llangynidr, an undulating plateau of yet more sandstone and limestone. However it was now the mountains’ turn to play with me. I’ve driven over this mountain before so I knew it was a long climb and the road over the top could be bleak depending on the weather. It wasn’t long before I realised that I hadn’t been refueling enough and had that ominous pre-bonk feeling. This wasn’t helped by the cloud that was rolling over the high moorland and the resultant drop in temperature and dampness hanging in the air. I stuffed jelly babies in my mouth, followed by a banana, which helped, but then as I looked down I saw “3km to top” written on the tarmac, which didn’t. However I did know that I would be turning back for Crickhowell before the top so maybe I only had 2.5km to go. That thought didn’t help me. I crawled over the first summit and the road started to descend offering some respite, and I could see I would be turning off before it started to climb again. I also know I would be stopping in Crickhowell for lunch. I shifted back onto the big ring, got my head down and hoped there would be no sheep in the road on the fast descent…

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbHIt is a really bad idea to order lunch just after you’ve nearly bonked. You order comfort food and way too much of it. In this instance burger, chips, onion rings, cup of tea. You know, the food that the pros eat. Then you eat it way too fast. Which leads to the weird feeling of still feeling weak, but stuffed and a little ill. Oh, and then a 1 mile 9% climb out of Crickhowell.

The next 20 miles undulated through stunning countryside, dropping me into little wooded valleys and back up onto high ground, then over the Hereford road I climbed Campston Hill. The view from here was incredible, the edge of the Black Mountains disappeared to the north, the route of Offa’s Dyke, and to the south and east England spread before me as far as the Cotswolds. It was breathtaking and took my mind of the ache in my legs. Almost.

At Tregate Bridge I crossed the River Monmow and Herefordshire border back into England, three borders; one natural, and two linear borders printed on a map. The road started to immediately climb hitting 20% at times. I really didn’t need this now. I was out of the saddle and staring at the floor. There was a stern inner monologue. Some bad language was used. My legs really hurt but I knew I was only 10 miles from the hostel. I just had to get over this last climb and it was all downhill to the finish…

Except for the sharp climb back over the hill from Goodrich to the hostel. And the clattering down the “steep unsurfaced” track to the hostel didn’t do my aching calf muscles and arms any favours. I leant my bike against the door frame of the hostel, ordered dinner, bought a beer and headed for the shower.

This was probably the hardest but also most beautiful TT ride so far, as Jo* would say “no scruffy bits.” And that is saying something as Scotland, the Lakes, and France were all pretty spectacular, and Somerset, Dorset, Suffolk and Norfolk all had their moments. One day I’ll go back for a few days touring around the whole of the Brecon Beacons. I’ll just remember to eat more often.

* Jo Burt, instigator of the Tourist Trophy

Strava link:


Miles ridden: 100

Feet climbed: 9000

Average speed: 13mph

Near bonks: 1

Ill thought through lunches consumed: 1

Counties: 4 (Herefordshire, Gloucestershire, Monmouthshire, Powys)

Countries: 2 (England, Wales)

Local ale consumed: Kingstone Abbey Ale

Cameras used: Holga 120 and Samsung Galaxy Ace/Instagram

Film used: Kodak Tmax 100asa

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH