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"Let's do a classic mountain bike loop in the Derbyshire Peaks" they said. In February. "It's only seventeen miles" they said. Should be a doddle, only it wasn't. Wacky weather and personal injury don't even top the bill in this tale of MTB daring do.
On the drive up the weather was scintillating, pin sharp visibility showcased icing sugar dusted peaks in brilliant sunshine. We were like a pack of slavering dogs on the way to chase a shivering snow-rabbit. Winter traffic was kind and the ugliest courtesy car in the world (a lime green Nissan Micra we soon christened 'Kermit the Frog') nonetheless did the job getting us there almost as quickly as my pranged Volvo would have. We arrived a little early but were still surprised by the poor showing of regulars until Ben rattled through on the mobile, he'd been languishing in the car park at Hope four miles away wondering where we all were. Occasional strong gusts of wind couldn't dampen our massed enthusiasm and even the stark realisation that I'd left my post ride clothes at home wouldn't dampen it for me, for a few hours at least! We set off in to a head wind strong enough to have us pedaling downhill in what was becoming a familiar pattern for the Winter weary MTB Britain crew. The approach to Jacob's ladder starts as a good tarmac road, which leads through gates to a worsening doubletrack and finally across a narrow stone bridge to the foot of the Massif itself. We already felt tired from our head down battle with the air and now the loose rock covered, slippery stones beckoned us upwards. Laughing heartily at our rubbish attempts to ride any distance the ladder had us off and pushing in a trice. We pushed on up muddy ruts and over shattered rock steps, until we reached the snow line, then we pushed on over snow-covered mud ruts and shattered rock steps. Finally the summit was reached and as if to reward us for our excellent strenuous efforts the local Gods (a cruel and petty lot) summoned up a blizzard of welcome. It blew straight in our faces and reduced visibility down slightly, by about twenty miles. Having had a good snigger the Gods relented or so it seemed and we got rolling again cracking through sheets of ice and slipping on tennis ball sized lumps of stone. By the time we reached the top of the first real descent it was clear that danger money and a top-class insurance policy would be needed to tempt a well-padded stunt man over the edge. So with a cheery wave and gleeful call of 'someone's going to get killed on here' we slithered off to meet our fate. Fate was feeling a bit sympathetic to me that day, what with the weather God shenanigans and me having no trousers for later. So it was that, despite oddly shaped lumps of bedrock, ice, snow-covered ice, ball bearings and mud (OK, I lied about the ball bearings but it was damn slippery) I chased off down the 'trail' without wiping out. We survived for so long that we dropped below the snow line and began to actually enjoy the super-technical hi-jinks without the roulette wheel of rubber on ice. Now I really should qualify who I mean by 'we' at this point, because it transpired that Fate had another card to turn for Mark as we waited at the gate. After a short while I started to ride back up the broken slab trail, ostensibly to see if I could help but also because the idea of riding it again had begun to seem like fun. By this time I could see Mark descending slowly and he was clearly suffering. By his own admission he had gone too slowly and pulled hard on the dreaded front brake lever (which we should have disconnected or perhaps labeled 'Emergency use only, £200 fine'). In the resulting tumble he had interfaced spectacularly with his stem in the groin area and was developing a fine swelling adjacent to the 'family jewels'. Everyone winced and Mark continued to look queasy for the remainder of a now painful ride. Before the downhill ended we took a right turn through a small gate and contoured around the bottom of Kinderlow End. The going on here was soft to boggy with puddles of hidden depth, full of black peaty slime. Old silent movie images of plunging in to bottomless puddles leaving just a floating hat flashed through my mind and I resolved to loft the front wheel higher and further than the rest. This seemed to work quite well and I pedaled my way slowly towards the front of the group. Finally the 'descent' began as we turned left away from the hill following a wall, original line choices were much in demand as we began to flow quickly through the mine field of waterlogged ruts and deep soupy pot-holes. As the trail narrowed and we approached a flooded gate, we came across a group of well seasoned walkers who were sipping Chablis in the midst of icy snow and slush. I logged a mental note to include alcohol on the next cold ride, brandy perhaps or a couple of fruity cocktails with Chinese parasols and plastic monkeys. A bit more traversing across a grassy slope and we were hurtling down a crushed stone track towards a herd of hairy Highland cattle. Man but those horns would have a Matador in a cold sweat, we slowed a little and made encouraging noises in the form of 'nice cow, please don't kill me'. I'm told they're very placid beasts but the way they roll their eyes when you get between mother and calf is less than reassuring. By this time we were experiencing a few mechanicals, chief among which was the compete collapse of Ben's Black Box crowned Rockshox Sid. Air was escaping faster than me running away from a hairy cow with BSE and blood on it's horns. Fortunately this didn't slow up the unstoppable Ben too much, who nevertheless spent more time mid-field than usual on the following descents. After a short road section the climbing begins again in earnest and despite some spirited granny gear grinding, we eventually succumbed and re-formed the tightly knit MTBB Team pushers. It was at this point something quite bizarre happened, Ben spotted Louise (an MTBB regular) coming from the opposite direction. This was odd, firstly because she lives near Aberystwyth and secondly it turned out the route she was on only over-lapped with ours for a short section. Double spooky and no mistake, we made sure to throw some puncture patches over our left shoulders and crossed ourselves with mini-pumps, in case the Gods had sent an omen. After a nice chat we went our separate ways and soon reached a super fast double-track with vicious hard edged water bar 'ditches', built of solid stone slabs. There were two ways to deal with these, the favorite of which was the time honored speed hop. Three or four, four foot jumps later I was really getting in to the swing of it and speeds had topped around twenty five miles per hour, when another ditch/bar just ahead proved to be a lot wider! Falling short would have been stupid so we exploded in to the air and cleared it with not much to spare and no style points for the dodgy landing in my case. This was just about the only fast section on the ride and soon after we were climbing on foot once more, first on yet more of the local solid rock and latterly on snow covered bog. This was proper Arctic stuff, well above the snow line and we had a couple of miles of three inch deep powder and boggy drifts to negotiate. After much Shackleton-style trudging we reached Rushup Edge, a snow covered grass descent which was a barrel of laughs, hidden boulders a specialty and lots of curvy contours courtesy of old mining efforts moguled us on down toward Mam Tor. All this time the weather had been changing faster than you could say Meteorologist with a skin-full, four seasons in one day and no mistake. A quick chip up the road to the Bridleway, which by-passes the Tor to the North and hold on, the weather Gods weren't finished with us yet. They jealously rustled up a hideous blast of freezing rain and hail, which threatened to blow us off our bikes and made me feel really cold for the first time that day. I donned my balaclava and pulled it round to cover the left side of my face which had recently lost sensation and was beginning to throb. Once down to Hollins Cross we turned left and tackled some big juicy drop-offs, the kind you wouldn't want to hit with a collapsed fork (sorry Ben!). After a final squirt down tarmac to the car park we reckoned it one of the toughest seventeen milers around, only half the distance of some of our rides, it demands due respect in Winter. Dave who was feeling really keen, took a left turn by mistake and headed downhill away from the car park. We sent out search parties and he was eventually found pootling back up the hill to complete an eventful Winter Peaks ride. Now there was just the soggy wet backside to contend with on the drive home.