I realise I have yet to write up this summer’s main tour along the Rhein with buddy Christopher, but I need to unload reflections on this weekend’s aborted KAW (King Alfred’s Way) first whilst still fresh in mind. I’ll start with the day itself, and break down my analysis after.
The morning started pretty well. The usual pre-ride nerves were there as I kitted up in the car park of Waitrose Salisbury (handily bookable for a multi-day stay). I was an hour or so behind my intended schedule, which was not ideal, but the weather looked pretty much as forecast. Occasional blue patches with some lurking dark clouds. The ground was still wet from the earlier downpours but overall it looked the promise of a mostly dry day would probably hold. After downing the last of the smoothie bought so I don’t feel guilty just using the shop loo, and scoffing a sneaky donut bought last night I was ready to roll. I was very glad that I had ignored last night’s wobble over brining a warmer outer layer. Within a couple of pedal strokes, with my waterproof layer still stashed on top of my saddle bag, I was sure it wasn’t going to be as cold as I’d feared.
The first kilometre or so was on cycle path alongside a stream – easy and pleasant riding. Too soon though the easy riding ended, ejecting me first onto a city street, then a short gravel road between houses, before finally leading to a taste of the day to come. A narrow muddy path up towards the castle. Not steep enough to make me get off and push, but plenty steep enough to make me work hard to keep my momentum high enough to roll over rocks, roots, lumps of broken concrete and other obstructions. By the top, I was properly warmed up. Seven years away from real off road riding had allowed me forget how much concentration and intensity you need. There is no crawling up a ramp at whatever easy pace you like. The track and the slope ahead demand your full attention and dictate how much effort you need to put in. I sensed all of this in the moment but put it to the back of my mind. It was way too early to start second guessing myself, so I waited for a safe crossing at the main road, looped around the short section of tar beyond, and then crossed back and up to the castle mound itself – Old Sarum.
It was definitely pretty enough to linger, but I was now running late and sensing a harder day ahead than I’d expected. So I wheeled through a gate on the right out of the car park and onto the bridleway. More single muddy track, but this time at least down, if still needing my full attention to avoid the hazards. Across the road at the bottom the pattern for the rest of the day really set in: the Garmin (a new Edge Explore 2 acquired in the hope of better offroad maps) would beep and flash a green “CLIMB” at the bottom of the screen; I would look ahead to an upwards banking track that I wasn’t totally sure I’d have the legs or technique to get up; I’d stick my head down and grind at full gas; and somehow get over the top without dismounting. On this first ramp I even managed to gasp a greeting at the group of walkers I passed on the way up. As the day progressed though, that became a grunt at best, and only to the friendlier ones. If you know me you’ll know that I don’t rate myself a climber and have no shame in taking a hike occasionally – so I was more than pleasantly surprised that I found myself getting up every one of these ramps. But with each one the nagging feeling grew that as strong as my legs felt, my engine was running over capacity. I was burning too many matches and not recovering enough in the stretches in between. More of that later though.
I recalled up ahead the guidebook noted a slippery single track descent which needed care. Not having much in the way of technical downhill skills, where the bridleway swung hard left and started downward I showed extreme restraint. I know that the best way to tackle a rutted, bumpy downhill with drops over tree roots is at speed, but with a barbed wire fence running dangerously close to my left forearm I picked my way down gingerly, putting feet down at obstacles where I did not have enough speed to carry them. Thankfully it was short, and at the bottom a brief stretch of lane to regather myself. Next came a section of extreme beauty and where again I surprised myself with my riding.
The route left the tar again after a short stretch of maybe a kilometre, and immediately passed by a ridiculously pretty old mill – with multiple narrow wooden bridges across different branches of the river and diverted mill race. Beyond lay a gradual but persistent ramp up what was really more of a footpath, with a still slippery mud surface, occasional roots, and a slight off that was off-putting visually if not actually adding to the challenge. Somehow, again, the legs managed to keep going at sufficient speed to get all the way up without drama. I was gasping at the top but smiling at the same time. I knew after here, there was a dip down into the village of Lake and a winding detour up to the next highlight of the day: a ride-by of Stonehenge. It did, of course, involve another climb – this time a grassy track with nature reserve to the left and a field of sheep being tended by a farmer on a quad bike on my right. Aside from these, I was the only soul around. Until of course I crested the rise and the army of tourists came into view – camper vans clogging the lane across the busy main road, and crowds of people that from this distance could easily have been a swarm of ants. I was still excited to be there though, also a tourist, but a solo one by bike. The kissing gates to access a short link path were tricky to get a loaded bike through, and I respected the footpath signage across the field even though it was perfectly ridable. Getting across the busy A303 took some courage. After 5 minutes of waiting I realised there never would be a gap that was really large enough. So summoning all of my 8-bit Frogger arcade skills I scanned for simultaneous but offset gaps in both directions of traffic to get part way across in one move and then complete the move in a second swift sprint. Dumb as it is, I was smiling at myself on the other side. Although on the BBC Micro as a kid, my frog did get squashed more than once by a heavy truck so I was glad not to have to do it again.
Some of the camper vans lining the gravel lane looked almost permanent – strange that no one would move them on, but maybe it’s just accepted as a summer ritual. The chap at the entry to the official bus turn around helpfully pointed me towards the footpath beside the monument to grab a picture in the absence of me possessing an actual ticket to go in. Having visited a few times in the past, my main interest was just a record shot of the rig actually having been there. Once done, I rolled off and up the gravel track towards the largely military town of Larkhill at the top of the short next rise. From here the route joined the tar road briefly before separating to a parallel bridleway on the right. It was lovely to be away from the cars on this busy piece of road, albeit the uphill and rutted parts of the track cost me more effort and care than the road would have. I followed the track a little further beyond the right turn at the next junction before noticing the road to my left was now a much quieter lane. At which point I hopped back onto the tar and enjoyed some free rolling to the next landmark of the day – the Great Bustard Inn. Formerly a coaching in from centuries back but now a tearoom which sadly only opened in an hour’s time. I could have done with a cuppa, although at 22km it was a little early to stop, especially with a shop just another 10km or so ahead.
That 10km, it turned out, was through the heart of the military training zone of Salisbury Plain. At pretty much all times, except for a short section through the village of Orcheston, on one or both sides of me were signs telling me not to enter when red flags were flying (which they were), and warning of unexploded ordnance. Although judging by the soundtrack of loud explosions which regularly punctuated my riding, it seemed like most of them were actually detonating. The Garmin announced the next climb out of the village and once again the legs heeded the call of duty. Across another main road though, the spirits began to sag. I guess riding alone under a darkening sky and into a chill breeze didn’t help, but the rutted track was the bigger worry. I took to the middle bump between the wheel tracks, which was mostly rideable but with the ever present risk of accidentally pitching into the ruts on either ride. A vague recollection came to mind of the guide warning of this section, although I couldn’t remember how long it lasted. Eventually I realised, almost at the end of the section, that the field beside the track had been used recently by farm vehicles and was flat enough to ride without being cut up. In fact, the only “fall” of the day came after these fields on the even more rutted track up to the nearby ridge. It was more of a stumble into an especially deep hollow, but luckily I unclipped fast enough to get a foot down and avert the full topple. Recovering myself did, handily, allowed the perfect moment to observe a giant military prop plane (an Atlas C.1 maybe) fly low across the fields dropping two boxes of gear by parachute as it passed. I’ll swear it was so low I could see the pilot’s moustache, although Yoli seems to doubt this. As I crested the ridge an army land rover sped past, presumably having collected whatever gear was dropped. Or maybe the gear was the landrover itself! 🙂
From here it was just a short gravel spin down into the village of Tilshead, where the Garmin pinged at me to head off route to find the shop – a Londis attached to the garage on edge of town, and nicely stocked with snacks and drinks. There were even benches outside – not that they helped much. As I sat there I chewed my way resolutely through a pork pie and downed a Lucozade sport. The earlier snacks and gels seemed to have done nothing for my energy levels, and it was an effort to get these down. I swapped messages with Yoli and she did her best to lift my spirits, but I knew as I sat there that I was in trouble. This spot was at 32km, pretty much a third of the day’s riding, and I was physically beat. After another 6km I was mentally beaten too. Staring up another grassy track rising up between fields I knew that I did not have another 60km in me, at least not to arrive in any shape to do anything tomorrow. And worse than that, I wasn’t having fun – the scenery and weather were both sublime, but I was out of gas. Slogging along head down trying to survive wasn’t allowing me to take any of it in and actually enjoy it. Earlier at the garage I wondered if I could make a decision to abandon so early. But at this point, in this moment, I knew there was no actual decision to be made. With luck I’d have just about enough in the tank to get myself back to the car safely. Pressing on was going to push me too deep to have that option, at which point the risk of being alone and remote and out of energy would only escalate. With a heavy heart I called Yoli, relayed the news, and turned around.
Back at the garage I spent half an hour recovering myself and tried a local taxi firm and a couple of passers by in the hope of a lift to Salisbury. I’m glad now that both of these options failed though. Partly for the small victory of being able to say I got myself back on my own. Plus managing still to climb every ramp without any hiking. In the process I got to savour that tea and cake at the Great Bustard, which was open on my return. And chat to the sentries at the Larkhill base, who were amused and unfazed at me riding the track just outside their perimeter fence rather than a slow slog holding up traffic on the busy road. I saw Stonehenge for a second time, and got another round of Frogger – although this time it was too easy as cars actually slowed down to let me cross. I gave myself the luxury of a tar road back into Salisbury rather than the slippery single track too. But that aside, it was all ridden despite my battered physical state. Only driving home though did I realise why not getting a lift back mattered. Arriving back at the car utterly spent did at least justify my decision to abort. Had I ridden on, I’d have needed to find another 23km more of riding across even hillier terrain. I simply did not have had that inside.
Analysis
As easy as it is to see the issue – lack of physical preparation, I feel what’s more important is the specific details of that. I have plenty of endurance fitness – at the end of the day, this was still a lengthy and tough ride. The problem is my conditioning is very much for long slow burn rides. Whereas off road is a constant succession of maximal efforts, sometimes with only short breaks in between. My base fitness is good, but this was like a prolonged HIIT session. Adding to this, I’ve become a little complacent, even lazy, in my preparation for long tours. I know I have the luxury of the first 2 or 3 days to ride myself fit. There’s always a way on road and smooth trails to slow down, drop your pace, and recover. Worst case, you arrive at your accommodation an hour or two late, which is rarely a problem. And in practice, I’ve usually allowed at least that in hand in the timing for a day anyway. But offroad, none of that works. There is no “easy pace” up the ramp ahead of you – it’s full gas to get up it, breathe hard at the top, and full focus down the other side. There is no casual recovery bit in between. Annoyingly, having done plenty of this riding in South Africa, I knew all of this. I just forgot it, and arrived in Salisbury short of the essential conditioning to take on KAW and enjoy it. Lesson learned. There may well be a future attempt, albeit next year now for both good weather and enough daylight. And in between a bigger mix of higher intensity work in my training. I’d also probably plan around 75km days (the same length as this attempt in fact), and add an extra day to the tour just for caution and to leave room for more enjoyment.