Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…

Ivinghoe Beacon - Wendover

Having spent the better part of a month fine-tuning my plans, I managed to find myself the night before Ridgeway Round Four fruitlessly in search of a taxi in Streatley, even though it was still reasonably early. I’d just set up my fully stocked checkpoint in the Bull Inn, where I’d also planned to leave the car, in order to stay closer to the start at the Premier Inn Tring. After 20 minutes of trying and a rapid-fire bout of proper blue air, I gave up and decided it’d be easier to just drive there and worry about the car later. I had a week, after all.

Plans will change. Control the controllables. Off you pop.

I drove along thinking about the conversation I’d just had with the landlord of the pub who’d asked where my accent was from. When I told him Chicago, and he told me what a Blackhawks fan he was and that he used to play hockey for England, it was patently clear my heavenly Pop (the worlds greatest ever Blackhawks fan, IMO) was fully present and ready to rumble with me as long as I needed him in the days to come. It could not have been a better omen and boosted my confidence immeasurably.

I reached the hotel an hour later, just in time for my dinner booking, which included the obligatory night before pint of Guinness and a giant meal (slightly tarnished by once again being mansplained how I should take my steak). After a quick check to see what Rukai was up to in Lourdes, I finished cutting down the tape for my feet and sank into an epsom salt bath. I always find it hilarious how all these things seem to start out reasonably civilised, before descending into a profanity-laced mudbath, complete with ample snot rockets, the odd wild poo, and a rising hatred so deep for the trail you’re on that you wished you’d brought along a can of gas and a flamethrower.

Always when it’s done you wonder when you’ll be going back. And as it happens, this time, from this distance, nothing has changed to that end despite me being dead certain it would. I hate the Ridgeway but I guess I love the Ridgeway after all. Let’s just call it trail running Stockholm Syndrome.

Anyway, I’m looking like it’s finished already and I haven’t even started(!) so best take you up Ivinghoe Beacon.

Easter Sunday up top was as blustery as a blustery thing in bluster town as per usual, but there were great views all around and plenty of other folks about. As I was doing this in part for charity, I’d affixed a back sign to my pack to prompt donations, and lo and behold one man who spotted it generously made a donation to HCPT later in the day much to my great delight. (Thank you again if you ever see this!)

As is standard, I faffed around so much that morning that I started a whopping four hours after I’d originally planned, which threw the master plan further off track. But the 3 am wake up call the day before to get Rukai rolling had stripped away too much sleep, and I shudder to think of the state I’d eventually have been in without that brief lie in. It wasn’t until 11 am when I finally pressed that tracker on, nervously adjusted the pack a few more times, and once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…

Having seen a recent and nerve-wracking photo of massive puddles in the ditches running down trail, my gast was well and truly flabbered at the fine quality of the ground beneath me throughout that first section. I’d even brought my YakTrax along in the event it became comically slippy (I was wearing Speedgoats after all) but it was about as good as I’d ever seen it. In retrospect, I cannot even recall trodding in anything other than reasonably dense and fairly sturdy mud in the early miles. Soft underfoot = less impact, so this truly set me off on a high.

The first of the rain came roughly 2 miles in at the bottom of Pitstone Hill, as I neared the gate through to Aldbury Nowers. Little more than a drizzle, the conditions were all very much a non-event at first. There were steady pockets of people moving in both directions and I was glad to pause periodically to let them through. On reaching the approach to Tring Station I wished I’d thought to park my car there rather than at the hotel, as I thought the three days parking I’d asked to book extra wouldn’t be long enough, but a station parking space could likely have been topped up remotely. I’d also have been able to retrieve my regular gloves which I’d left in the car when the taxi arrived faster than expected. This meant I’d only have my warm gloves and waterproof mitts for the duration. Still, in the end the latter was probably for the best.

As I slowly climbed along the farm beside Pendley Manor I wasn’t feeling physically strong by any stretch of the imagination. I knew my lack of training was certainly going to rear its ugly head and I wondered how long it would be until I fell screaming into the pain cave. What tricks would I have to pull out of the hat to manage it this time? Did I even have that in the arsenal? How badly did I want this? How much was I willing to give?

Despite being warmly greeted by horses in search of snacks, I frowned when I realised those intrusive and relentless thoughts were the work of the chimp, which had not only taken up residence in my head early, but also gleefully. I could even picture it smashing down this button, jumping on that one, turning cranks and dials past max with a flourish and a snigger, trying to fill my head with doubt and fear and uncertainty while cackling around its fangs.

So I told it to fuck off. I had to practice the profanity after all.

As luck would have it, the persistence of those doubts actually charged my battery for the duration. Chimp tapping away, laughing insanely, and there I’d catch it up and give it a long enough swift kick into the sea so I could chip away at my goal. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Not today, son. Not today. You will lose.

Through it all, I kept coming across people whose dogs would do that delightful stopstarepose thing they all do when they spot me, then run back to their owners excitedly outlining the situation: ‘MUM! DAD! HOOOOMUNNNNNN!’ I enjoyed one such display in the midst of a patch usually swarming with cows, today absolutely and blissfully bovine-free. I bade that furry friend farewell, then made my way out the gate and over the road, and soon enough was back in Tring Park, marvelling at just how pretty the place is when you have the time to stop and look around you. For some reason, I’d never truly liked it, but then again I’d never really seen it.

My waterproof socks had become sodden and started to bunch up down the shoes, so I stopped to reposition them before moving on. Soon enough I was out of the park, down that familiar road and it’s right turn up up up into the lovely Pavis Wood roughly 6.5 miles in. Although it was a bit more sticky underfoot than where I’d come from, it had clearly dried out a fair bit from the warmth and heavy winds of the preceding day.

Onward I went through the familiar ditch / bridleway section I was sure would be swampy, but to my great delight it was more of that soft-solid stuff which I easily descended. I decided to stop for a sit down and some olives before the next big climb out and was met by a group of what appeared to be DofE girls in search of their campsite. Gutted to report that despite my navigation course last summer, I was absolutely no help at all, other than to point out where the Ridgeway was in relation to their suspected location. Eventually I just sort of waved my hand in the general direction a bit and wished them all good luck before darting up the hill in shame. Tell you what, there’s some pace you can get on when you’re feeling like an arse!

Not far into the next wood I spotted a tree wearing a lush skirt of wild garlic, before realising with dismay that I was entirely not fit enough to be able to run one descent I absolutely adore, lest I risk injury very early on. Nevertheless the hike down was still joyful and I recovered from that let down very much the same as I would from many others on my way to Avebury.

I had planned to eat when I reached Wendover, then decided I’d rather stop somewhere up a hill where I could enjoy the views. Looking back, this revised plan was one of the mistakes I made in terms of staying warm and dry while on the move in less than ideal conditions, as I neglected to jig that I’d been under cover for the better part of the day so was largely out of the elements. This began a theme whereby the conditions would make it a habit of sneaking up on me for the duration. I’m convinced the chimp must have given Ma Nature a backhander while stomping on my decision-making crank, the bastard.

After a stop in the public loo (a real toilet, oh joy oh rapture!) I started to pass by the convenience store as I had plenty of food and drink on hand, then thought best to top up a bottle anyway. On the way out I started the slow ascent towards Bacombe Hill and its crafty camber, and suddenly realised I’d left my poles tipped against the side of the shop. After a quick and slightly panicked jog back I found them untouched. I scooped them up, nearly cuddled them like a lost child, and set off with great relief up the road.

I was starting to feel proper hunger, and not just for lunch.

(3 / x)

Prologue: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/in-search-of-inner-greatness.html

Part 1: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/why.html

Part 2: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/when-adversity-comes-calling.html

Part 3: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/once-more-unto-breach-dear-friends-once.html

Part 4: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/dream-big.html

Part 5: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/the-big-chill.html

Part 6: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/let-it-begin.html

Part 7: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/keeping-faith.html

Part 8: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/breaking-levee.html

Part 9: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/of-rage-and-guts.html