There’s Rough Stuff and there’s Rougher Stuff. One is north of the border and t'other is south? Which is which and whose miles are longer? Read on if you will, this is the tale of the Rough Stuff and the Rougher Stuff 2008.
Once upon a 12th October the sun failed to rise. Mists hung low, shrouding buildings and trees. The 7am air dripped, ‘Its ok’, I said, ‘we’re in a river basin, once we get out of Norwich we’ll be clear’. Well the Wensum seemed to merge into the Yare then the Tud, the Waveney, the Orwell, the Deben and finally the Butley marshes. Clearly this was more than river basin mist but the car park was already full of cars and nobody seemed to be deterred.
Unperturbed, Becks and I registered, wasted time trying to transfer our written instructions onto an OS map, missed our start slot and somewhat haphazardly set off into the murk. Peering through steamed up goggles didn’t help. We cleared them on the outside and cleared them on the inside. We cleared them again and again. Eventually we pocketed them and settled for flying sand and low-lying branches. We sailed past male triathletes on cross bikes peering at their instructions but they quickly took on the chase and settled safely behind us, praising female map reading skills. I was niggled by their incessant nonchalant chatter, we had set off at a puffing gallop and I was perturbed that they seemed to be on a Sunday afternoon ride! They followed us on the single-track long grass and through the rabbit warren but when we hit the rough sandy track they decided to put effort into their legs instead of their mouths and slowly disappeared.
Becks’ gears seemed to think they had the right to claim that, due to lack of recent exercise they were currently unfit. Although they complained vociferously she masterfully forced them into submission. I struggled clipping in to my new eggbeaters and we lost time every time we had to stop. We discovered that our path was generally well marked, except for where it wasn’t, by which time we had no idea whereabouts we were on the instructions. We joined a small road and came to a grassy triangle with arrows on all sides; we went round and round and round once more. Yes, indeed, all directions were clearly marked; we studied our written instructions, made a moderately random hopeful decision and set off in one direction with fellow cyclists setting off in the other.
The mist had begun to seep into our clothes and we were unnerved when speeding cyclists came downhill at us along a piece of narrow rough track but soon found ourselves at a reassuring checkpoint. My memory then becomes a bit murky; we pushed on, falling in soft sand, following airbase fences and forest tracks. Lots more, deeper, very soft sand, guesswork, wrong turns and checkpoints, one an impromptu ‘café’ that revived energy with a choice of drink and biscuits!
At some point the sun came out and when we sped past some cyclists going up hill along a narrow rough track we pitied the miles ahead for those folk but wondered what could have taken them so long to get to that point. We soon found ourselves back at the well marked grassy triangle and our tyres set up a good whine as we sped back to the hall only to be dismayed by the long queue to get signed in. a good ten minutes ticked by before we could get signed off, we watched our time slot disappearing.
Once upon a 26th October the sun failed to rise. The god of the grey sky flipped a coin, over and over, drizzle or pour, drizzle or pour? I woke to a pour, thinking ‘if only I hadn’t persuaded three others to do this I could stay in bed’ .In an effort to predict the flip of the heavenly coin, I turned on the radio, ‘heavy rain set to continue across East Anglia for the next few hours’
We arrived. Knowing the going would be hard and dithering between 3 and 3.5hrs, Becks and I registered, the guys arrived, and the decision was made. 3 hours. We stood around, admired new bikes and then, unperturbed by the rain, set off.
Andrew’s brand new crossbike soon stopped shining and his transmission objected to the grit but he was clearly enjoying the experience; Becks’ and my chunky mountain bike tyres kicked up ample mud onto our legs, our faces and encrusted our behinds. Soon, ‘clean me’ was written across the back of my coat. Rob meanwhile, on his new single speed cross bike looked the perfect gent, clean and presentable, protected by generous mudguards.
We made it past Blickling before I took us on our first diversion to see what was over the other side of the hill rather than heading down towards Oulton Chapel, I knew it was the right way, I remembered doing it last year… doh!!! Becks gamely put us straight before leading us on our second diversion, taking us towards Oulton Street, clearly trying to avoid Monson Wood. She gamely bowed to the pressure from us all and turned into the woods but discovered why she had wanted to avoid them when she picked up a puncture. With no pump to fit her valve we opted for Pit Stop Inflate and Repair. We read the instructions carefully, but lost the screw on adaptor in doing so. Once retrieved from the leaves and attached, it inflated her tyre easily and quickly. Too quickly. Once started it just doesn’t want to stop and Andrew’s half eaten energy bar was now white iced with the erupting surplus foam. As Andrew tried to reclaim his fingers from his now webbed hand, we pushed on. but not for long. Clearly our pit stop approach had been unsuccessful, Becks was flat again and reluctantly forced to phone in for rescue.
No longer with a female companion I found myself dragging further and further behind the guys. Periodically they waited for me. I think Rob decided he didn’t like the look of Manor Farm and took us off to look at some local woods instead and Andrew made use of the facilities whilst we were visiting.
Back on track, we swam the mud, rode where we could and sort of made up the rest, even Rob had to bow to the terrain as the combination of long grass, rough terrain and ascent defied single speed transmission. I straggled further behind as the long grass wound itself round my pedals and I gave up trying to stay upright in the deep narrow ruts where my pedals caught on either side. Rob asked me at one point, having waited several minutes, whether this was intended to be a bike ride or an escorted walk! We knew there’d be mud, flood, ruts and rocks but nobody warned us about tractors and carrot trailers blocking the path or sticks that leapt from the hedgerows diving between front wheel spokes, the nettles that hung low, hungry brambles or unfriendly logs which seemed especially placed to ensure mud baths We pushed on, knowing our time was disappearing. The boys were gone from sight and at first glimpse the long smooth track ahead looked firm until I discovered it was a turgid river of fine mud slowly creeping its way along.
When we finally reached the Marriotts way Rob gleefully expressed the hope that we could make up some time. Well, an Ironman riding a cross bike has just a little advantage over my fitness, chunky mud tyres and mountain bike gears. Frustrated, the boys continued to wait for me and I struggled to keep up with them, wishing they would just clear off and let me plod along. Eventually they did so but too late to make it back in time for a certificate. DNF, the lot of us! Their Garmin GPS system reported an actual riding time of 2hrs 40mins, I guess they wished they hadn’t waited for me. And me? I came in 20mins over time. I should have stuck to my original 3.5hr prediction!
So, I guess you can tell which was Rough and which was Rougher? Becks and I did our best in the south and confess to being thrilled when the timekeeper knocked off our queuing time and we were awarded 2hrs 45mins for the 25miles. It was this success, which led to our gallant attempt at a three-hour ride in the north. The terrain is testing in different ways, the route finding systems very different, but in my informed opinion, based on two years of the north and three of the south, the roughest of the rough stuff can only be found north of the border!
We would all like to extend a huge thank you to all who planned and executed this ride, it was such a shame that the god of the skies chose this day to play his raining game which resulted in so few entries. We thoroughly enjoyed it, learned from it and should there be another, undoubtedly will be back for more.
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by Tina Potter, photos by Rob Lines