Strathpuffer 2018

Four of us (myself @colm @Ben & @luker ) did the Strathpuffer 24hr MTB race over the weekend and I've started a write up below.

It was a crazy weekend and it fair to say that it has whet the appetite for endurance XC racing among us.

Strathpuffer 2018

All of us were puffer virgins, some had raced a few XC races, and one of us had never even bothered to enter a mountain bike race previously. We had all read all the blogs, seen the photos and enjoyed the stories, some of us had even endured the teeth sucking and head shaking from their local bike shops.

But just like Happy Gilmore’s golf balls, our bags were packed and tickets booked, so we were about to experience our first puffer and 24hr MTB race.

Like all modern stories, this one starts with a silly idea in a WhatsApp group, or someone mouthing off on a forum. I can’t recall which one set us on this path, but if was definitely one of those two and we soon had a ‘puffer 18’ WA group in motion. The entry date rolled around and four of us had bought tickets as a quad. The team was formed, back up was kept warm and Dan Durling was AWOL.

The Team was named ‘Brixton Cycles Tractor Club’ in honour of the great ‘Social’ Dave Tapsell who used to refuse to stand up on club run climbs and would only shout “RAMMING SPEED” as he shagged his way up the hills, we also went down on the start sheet as Outliers.cc, to mark new beginnings for some of us.

The final team selection was made and the lucky four were as follows - Ben Delaney – former Irish team pursuit champion, Ras Lantern Rouge, Instagram influencer and PHD Christmas tree farmer. Colm Tobin - Irish track championships veteran, former Cat 2 Road racer, greyhound owner and plastic French car enthusiast. Luke Richardson – Actually a decent MTB rider, 24 years old, fit as a fiddle, King of Swinley, posh window maker and CX pervert. Rob McAuliffe – has Driving license and can drive van.

With such a finely balanced and crack outfit such as that, we were confident that at least some of us wouldn’t die.

Getting to Inverness and ‘planning’.

Strathpuffer isn’t a place as such; it’s more of a legend. The event takes place in Contin Forest just past the village of Strathpeffer on the Black Isle, north of Inverness. It’s a lovely spot, but even for McAuliffe who lives in Perthshire, still not easy to get to if the weather doesn’t want you to.

After much messing around with van cancellations, partners being upset about cars being taken and people realising that they didn’t have enough holiday left to get there, a plan was formed. Richardson was to get the Sleeper up from London on Thursday night, get off at Pitlochry and be collect by McAuliffe on Friday morning. Delaney was to fly in to Edinburgh from Dublin and meet McAuliffe in the airport on Thursday night and Tobin was to start panicking about his Flight on Friday night to inverness in July 2017. We would then pack the van and drive up, meet Tobin in Inverness, have a nice pint and meal and get our heads down.
So that all unfolded perfectly and we all arrived on time and correct….

Delaney and McAuliffe managed to meet roughly on time, the THUNDERSNOW that had enveloped Edinburgh for most of the week had abated and driving conditions were swift and pleasant as we sped towards Pitlochry. Conditions were excellent until we reached the turning for our village, at which point the snow reappeared everywhere on the ground and in the air, which meant the 20 yard drive to the house from the road was now looking like something only Aled Jones could fly over. This meant that Delaney’s welcome to Scotland involved a shovel and pushing for an hour, until McAuliffe’s silly car was beached outside the house. Perfect. Ish.

This weather front now jeopardised Richardson’s collection at 6am the following morning from the station. But we went to bed and worried about that at 5am the next morning. When the alarm went off, the windows were checked and further overnight snow meant no chance of Richardson being collected in a timely fashion. So after a few calls he stayed on the Cally Can until Inverness and we would meet him at the Youth Hostel. If we could collect the van from Aberfeldy and then get it over the Drumochter pass to the Ness. After an unexpected lie in, we breakfasted well, watched yet more snow fall and then decided to dig out the winter car.

Obviously a Smart car is the perfect winter vehicle and after several swears and more astounding Delaney shovel work and tarmacking jokes, we got the little beast out and went to collect the van…….Although we didn’t as a shopping trip for McAuliffe’s partner was called for as it was looking like she would be snowed in all weekend and we also had to collect the dog, which we might have forgotten about… Driving to the ‘feldy was exceptionally sketchy, despite the immense ability of the rear wheel drive cereal box, but the dog was collected, shopping acquired and a macaroni pie was sneakily eaten, when no one was looking.

Luckily in the time the shopping had taken, the gritters and plows had been out and the roads were now passable. The snow had also stopped falling. After the Smarts glorious return we set off to collect the van. Barhaul, Aberfeldy’s local ‘we do everything’ business had done us a lovely deal on a LWB Renault Mastervan, which was just the ticket and made Tobin excited as it was French. Forms were signed, teeth were sucked when they found out what we were doing and money was knocked off the bill, but they didn’t ask us for payment up front, so they must have been confident of our survival, even if we weren’t. Now the roads were grand, we went home, packed the van with the essentials (Bikes, all the clothes you own, BBQ, fire wood, patio furniture etc etc…) but sadly the taking of a portable pizza oven was vetoed. We lobbed some food in as well, including the Tentmeals food packs, which were to become invaluable, but we ultimately forgot the whole Christmas cake that was offered.

After a brief stop at Pitlochry to get brake pads, a camp kettle, some cutlery and Delaney some wellies, we headed up the A9. The road was clear and the sun was up making the snowy Cairngorms look stunning. It wasn’t long before Delaney had the welsh Go pro out and was filming everything and wondering out loud if you could grow Christmas trees on this terrain. We happily headed off in search of Richardson, who had spent the day in Inverness. Richardson had discovered the Velocity Café and had spent most of the day there, which he had mostly enjoyed. However a group of school children had been in there learning spannering and as all 11yr olds who live in the highlands are MTB experts, their pointed questions about tyre choice had clearly rattled him.

We swung the Mastervan into the Youth Hostel around 16-30 as the light was starting to fade, Richardson bounded out like the young pup he is and after we’d thrown a few sticks for him, he calmed down enough to load his rig into the van. Three tractors were present, correct and ready, ish. The 4th Tractor, Tobin, had just closed his front door in sunny Nunhead and was about to become ‘that’ person who takes a wrapped up MTB on a Friday night London commuter train…… As we were all very aware of Tobin’s travel anxiety and hatred of airports (“They make you feel like you’re a terrorist” he says, in his brogue), we were very sympathetic towards him over social media. We immediately checked he had made the train, then started winding. Text messages soon started to be answered with ‘yes’, ‘no’ and the truly guilt inducing ‘FINE’. We started joking that he should get a taxi to the hostel with his bike so we could go for a relaxing beer, instead of having to pick him up from the airport. This went down badly at first, but then he actually did book a taxi, which meant that he had the last laugh, as we then did go for a beer….

Before beer though, we raided Morrison’s in the town and filled up on all the food the teenage boy/single father could wish for. Pot noodles, unripe bananas, Soreen loaves and Super Tenants left over from Christmas. We also bought 15litres of water, confident it would be more than enough for the whole trip. We also bought a bag of half/half Tabasco and cheese Doritos, which would play havoc the next day. After we had got lost on the way back to the YHA we decided it was time for a sensible meal, a few light ales then back to YHA to meet ol’ smilin’ Tobin. After a lap of the town centre and several dodgy curry houses avoided (I’m sure they are lovely, but the thought of a curry’s second coming the day after was enough to put us all off) we settled on Pizza Express. We were shown to our table and it quickly dawned on our party that 18-00 on Friday is clearly ‘divorced Dad children’s time’. With McAuliffe playing Dad to the suitably young Delaney and Richardson we fitted right in. Pizzas were ordered and devoured, large Peronis sunk, and puddings rejected, we headed off, after some more Tobin baiting (He was wandering around Gatwick at this point with a pint screaming, “OIM NAT A TERRRAARRRIST” apparently) into the night to find a nice quiet pub to ‘plan’ in and to ‘discuss tactics’.

Delaney had set the sensible bar high so far. This respected Ras finisher, national medal winner and TCR scratcher had shown McAuliffe and Richardson how the amateur pro prepares for an event. He had talked himself down, made sensible food shopping choices and crucially, not had a large Peroni in Pizza Express. Quietly impressed by this purring cycling machine, the group got a bit lost and ended up outside the Black Isle brewery bar. Seemingly lifted straight out of Shoreditch, this pizza-ovened-wooden-decked-school-chair-­encrusted craft ale bar drew us in like an art student to a pair of vintage Reebok classics. Reassuringly, despite its appearance the clientele was more Sam Smiths than Sam Smith and the beer selection on a par with ‘spoons. This proved to be Delaney’s undoing. In spotting a treble hopped citrus Belgian beer that he had not seen or drunk before he simply pointed at the bottle and screamed “GIVE ME THAT” at the startled barman. He then scurried off like a chimp who has stolen the best banana at the zoo, to enjoy his precious prize. Surprised and a bit scared, Richardson and McAuliffe settled on a Porter and Session IPA respectively. Finding Delaney making ‘OOK’ noises at a shared table and slowly shelling the other punters off the uber-cool school chairs, we sat down and began to plan. We actually planned on winding Tobin up, but he was now in the air, safely strapped to a seat, somewhere over Cumbria.

After a round each and one for the road (Richardson and McAuliffe sticking to their chosen ales while Delaney went feral in the Belgian shelf) we headed back through the streets of Inverness to await the Tobin’s happy landing at the YHA. In order to wait properly we liberated some Super Tenants and Holsten Pils from the Morrison’s Christmas leftover bags (£2.50 for 5 cans anyone?) and waited in the lounge. After a few anxious WA messages and tins of vending machine Pringles, the last tractor finally arrived. He walked into the hostel and announced “FUCK THAT” which cleared the lounge of the more mild mannered hostellers, but also caused the enterprising lady at reception, spotting an opportunity, to open the bar. After tales of first world woe from Tobin, and with a few more cans cracked, we actually started to plan the ride. We drew lots for racing order, Tobin who had been keen on the Le Mans start, bagged first leg, Richardson the second, McAuliffe the third and Delaney the fourth. That was it, planning done. Cans consumed we headed to bed just after 22-00, alarms set for 05-00 and a big old adventure ahead of us.

Getting to the ‘Puffer and the start

Waking up in a bunkbed when over 35 is always a strange experience and its worse when you realise that all the good the 3.5% session IPA did you, the Super Tenants you drank after, undid, with interest. This coupled with getting out of a bunkbed and then working out how to use a complicated shower, at 05-15 is not the greatest start to a day in which the ‘puffer awaits, but this is how McAuliffe found it. After Tobin had also showered (after McAuliffe, thank you, yes you, sniggering at the back) and Delaney and Richardson were up, we where good to leave. Well we thought we were but Delaney, who had gone from Belgian Ale Chimp to Hungover Orangutan buy this point, had to destroy several toilets. This was to become a disturbing theme over the next 24hrs. After cisterns had been cracked, beds striped and most of the door keys left at reception, we left the hostels front door. Disappointingly the van was still there in the car park, so while McAuliffe de-iced the Mastervan’s windscreen, Tobin took everyone through its wondrous French engineering and then refused to sit in the back, as we had told him he had to, as “it jus' not safe lads”. So looking really safe and like a tarmacking gang from Aberfeldy (perhaps the worst advert for Barhaul they could imagine) we headed out into the dark Invernesian morning and towards the Black Isle.

The journey to Contin was fairly straight forward, the directions were simple and the Mastervan a right shit to drive, thanks to Tobin’s arse hovering over the gear stick due to the front bench squeeze, his loving relationship with Renaults was nearly consummated at every roundabout and changes into 6th. We arrived just before 0700 and there was already a small queue of traffic waiting to enter the forest, with it there was the small band of amazing marshals already on duty, holding back the tide. After some initial confusion about who we were, we were told that Barhaul’s finest would not be going up the fire road as we had no chains and it was very icy. We were pointed in the direction of local hotels car park, 50 yards down the road. Before this happened, the chap in front of us, simply lost the plot with the volunteer sorting the parking. Why was never clear, but it was the only cross word we saw exchanged between anybody in the whole-time we were on site. As we drove away from the entrance a chap asked us if we had ice tyres for the bikes, we said no, he laughed, we looked at each other.

We entered the snow bound car park that already had a few Motorhomes and vans set up in it, most from the night before and promptly beached the Mastervan in between two piles of building debris at the end of the carpark, this enabled the chaps next to us to set up a gazebo alongside their van and for us to set up the patio furniture and executive patio heater (BBQ) next to the Mastervan. With this done, we freed the bikes and pedaled the 5 mins up to registration, which was at the changeover zone in the nice, big, warm tent.

We were some of the first up to registration and with lap 'dibber' and numbers collected, liability for death signed away and t shirts and stickers filched, we decided to collect our lights. Tobin and Richardson had hired USE’s most monstrous lights and we were all to share them. The USE folk were kind, helpful, understanding and generally brilliant throughout the event. But as good as they were they couldn’t get Richardson to understand how to turn his light on. If he couldn’t do it now, what hope 13hrs later…. Before heading back to base camp we all smashed a bacon sandwich (diets forgotten) had some tea and had an explore of the campsite and fire road. When perusing others camping set-ups we quickly became aware that things that we had brought with us ‘for teh Bantz’ were actually the basic essentials. Namely; chairs, lots of water and a large fire. Clearly this wasn’t some people’s first rodeo. In fact we overheard a few people talking about how they had been to all 13 Puffers and the snow was set to make it the best yet, “….even better than the one when the main tent blew away…” some people had amazing set ups, we saw everything from Horse wagons, caravans, 4X4 T6’s, Tepees, Yurts, Winnebago’s and old German fire engines, down to single man tents. It was awesome to behold and the atmosphere brilliant.

We left the start to go back to Mastervan HQ and to prepare Tobin for the start of his life. It was now around 08-00 and the Le Man start was at 10-00. Back at Mastervan ground zero the car park had filled up quickly and luckily our ‘towels on the sun lounger’ job with the patio furniture had saved our compound from being overrun. Much bike fettling and van unloading now commenced, a second bachelor’s breakfast was taken and the fire was started. Quickly a kitchen area was established, ground rules about snow and shoes in the van laid down and sleeping matts pumped up. Kit was thrown on with careful consideration to the conditions, which lead to some interesting approaches.

Richardson, now fully outed as a young Ranolph Fiennes had gone for the hipster-in-all-the-top-spec-mountain-gea­r-I-could-borrow look, Tobin for the why-did-I-want-to-go-first-full-lycra-xc­ look, Delaney looked like the Instagram influencer he was in £340 bibs and £10 wellies and McAuliffe had gone for the Timeless, Barbour-and-hi-viz-railway-trousers look. Looking as damn hot as we sounded, we pedalled up to the start. Tobin was strapped into the Welsh Go Pro with the kinky harness, so he could help Delaney Influence and The BCTC was ready to roll and run and walk.

Briefings from the organisers followed, warnings and salutations given and many a bike was perved upon. The atmosphere was carnivalesque and the port-a-loos were doing good business. Suddenly there was a lull in the crowd, the piper had struck up.

This was the cue for the first riders to be piped to the bottom of the fire road, when the pipes finished, they were to run back up and collect their bikes. After a few minutes, the pipes stopped, the crowd went silent and with the sighting of the first running rider, the noise returned, elevated to a roar as the riders poured through. There was carnage as the right bikes were found, things dropped, feet ridden over and drinks spilt. Tobin claimed his Single speed sled and he was off.

The Puffer had started and there was no going back now.

Except to Ground Camp Mastervan, for a cup of tea and maybe a tea cake.

Photos can be found mostly here

The First laps

With Tobin gone and the start of the fire road climb starting to clear, the remaining tractors decided to wander back to camp. The front part of the large warm tent in which we had collected our lights and signed in in, was now being converted into the transfer and 'dibbing' area with tables, mats for the 'dibbers' to dance/keep warm on and cones to split the 'In' and 'Out' sides of the track. As the three remaining tractors wandered through the freezing melee, old friends were being reacquainted, new friends made and around us stories were being told and listen too. Snippets included "this will be the best one yet" , "Remember when the tent blew away a few years ago" , "how many teeth did you need seen to after last year" and "how many sets of ice tyres do you have". Excitement and camaraderie reigned and the atmosphere was jubilant. On the way back down the hill some lads were offering 26" ice tyres, out to all passers with small wheels, oh how McAuliffe laughed at their cheeky faces......

Getting back inside the perimeter of Camp Mastervan, we quickly assessed priorities and tried to work out which bits of Tobin's kit we should hide. Deciding that was probably too mean as it was bloody cold, we decided to light the fire and get eating. As we hadn't actually worked out or thought about how long we would each take, to do a lap, Richardson was counting down the 40mins we estimated he should wait before trundling off back up the fire road to swap duties with Tobin. Richardson, as a clever young soldier, had changed into his bibs and associated gear in the warmth of the Hostel, he now had to simply remove his highly fashionable geography tutor trousers and puffer jacket, and he was ready for the off. After eating, prevaricating and making use of the (flush-less) portaloo we had discovered at the back of the car park, Richardson's time was up and it was time for him to ride up to make 'the exchange'.

Delaney and McAuliffe were now alone and McAuliffe in particular was starting to get a bit worried. A lot of the mental preparation that had been done for the event involved ignoring his lack of ability and his low confidence and just focusing on the fact the he generally believed in himself. Even if no one else did. Therefore a lot of his first lap prep now relied on Tobin coming back and telling him that it was a walk in the park and that it would all be ok. Delaney, having never bothered to enter an Mtb Race, or really ride an Mtb, was quite relaxed, safe in the knowledge that whatever happened, it would all be new and he had some excellent influencing opportunities ahead of him. True to his nature Delaney was now filming videos for his blog in the portaloo, or that's at least what he told McAuliffe. Whatever he was doing, it sounded like there was an unhappy Walrus trapped in there with him, the emminating smell wasn't far off either...

Around 1130, Tobin returned to Circus Mastervan. Delaney was still fighting marine mammals in the thunder-box and so missed this return. Tobin was exceptionality excited. This turned out to have little to do with the lap he just completed, but all to do with the fact he had discovered the Alpkit stall in the nice big warm tent, post dibbing and making 'the exchange'. He had invested a mere £3000 and had walked away with a Ti camp mug and a Ti-foon. Both of these immediately went on to McAuliffe's 'To Burn' list, which was already quite full of the other three tractors bike packing kit. When Tobin was talked down from his Alpkit High and Delaney, still breathing heavily, had returned from the tardis, Tobin finally opened up about the course and his lap. His verdict was "snow everywhere" (such an observant chap) "some climbing and then some descents" (utterly incisive) and "all fine, all rideable". He spoke these last words with a slight wobble in his voice, looking at the floor, so for the sake of his shaky confidence McAuliffe ignored his guts doubts. Anyway he only had 30mins until it was time to leave to make "the exchange" with Richardson and he had to kit up.

Getting changed into bibs in a freezing van, with the doors wide open is quite the experience, but as a man used to things being small and waved about in public, he nearly enjoyed it. After two layers were peeled on, it was of course time to go to the loo and to peel most of them off again. Tobin had at least helpfully disclosed that he had over dressed and that a base layer, winter top and wind-stopper was probably suitable. As this was McAuliffe's usual winter set up, it increased his confidence no end. When you know how to dress, then the world is your lobster. After a suitably horrific experience in Delaney's artic office (which involved a 'flushing stick') McAuliffe saddled up. Water bottles were already pointless as they were freezing even before the bike started moving, so with a healthy swig, off he went.

The route from Base Van Camp Master was out along the main road, through a gap in the armco and across the old bridge over the river. In the frozen morning air, the mist hung low on the flood plain as it stretched out down towards the mountains in the distance. It was breathtaking and Delaney was missing it, hashtags and all. After spinning up the fire road McAuliffe realised that Tobin was right and it was 'warm'. He made a mental note that with the extra blubber he was obviously carrying it was best to stay out of reach of Delaney. The change over zone was noisy with music and incoming riders were flowing in down the left hand bend from the woods, over the small drop, then skidding into the 'dibbing' area where the happy dibbers were already dancing along to the beats smashing out of the speakers. Some of the incomers swapped the team dibbers with team mates, and after a kind word sent them on their way, others carried on as they were either solos or pairs. Richardson soon ripped into view down the slope and McAuliffe was on. Richardson echoed Tobin's "its fine" mantra and it looked genuine, so with a little lift in spirits and 'the exchange' made, the senior member of the team was off.

The fire road encampments are amazing, as you climb up through the forest there are motor homes and tents placed 'Tour de France' style on both sides of the road, they had stereos, fire pits, bike stands, grills, home made gas bottle stoves and actual executive patio heaters. Music ranged from Trip hop to 80's classics to glam rock. At every tent people shouted encouragement and rang cowbells, it was simply brilliant to be climbing that fire road. What progress as well, McAuliffe was steaming up it, riders falling away left right and centre, confidence was returning with a vengeance. The fire road gives way to a wide footpath for a time and this marked the first change from hard-packed snow to fluffy snow. The fluff was rutting up, but as it wasn't melting the ruts just parted as you rode through them and the snow stayed grippy. The fireroad soon resumed and there was more 'up' to contend with. The motor homes became thinner and soon it was just the odd van in a ditch or hardy soul in a tent by the trackside. After some slight 'down' on the fire road then a bit more 'up', McAuliffe came across a small cabin with marshals singing and dancing in it, what jolly and courageous folk they are!

As McAuliffe crested the fire road rise, confidence was high, life was good and as a small bridge came into view, beyond the hut of dancing marshals, there were few cares in the world to be had. Moments after crossing the bridge in a small group of riders, the confidence fell away, quickly and sharply.

The single track curved up in an 'S' into the trees and the climb was clogged with riders walking up it, while looking at these brave sherpas, McAuliffe neglected to look at where he was putting his silly little front wheel and promptly slid straight off the track on the fluffy snow. Lucky the two riders behind did exactly the same thing. After the small tight, rocky turns into the trees, the path became rideable again as numbers eased, after a nasty steep slab that normally McAuliffe would have walked down, but had no choice but to skid down as brakes were becoming academic, the single track eased into straighter lines, but ones that were in covered in deep snow. This lap being early in the race, meant that only one line had been established, meaning that as the paths reared into the steep climbs, the only way around slower or walking riders was to venture into virgin snow on the right hand-side of the path. Sometimes this was fine and you ground past, other times your rear wheel slipped out and the 'sods law' favourite, was that just after you shouted "on your right" your front wheel hit something buried in the snow and you fell off next to the rider you were overtaking.

Confidence ruined and cursing Tobin's lies, McAuliffe realised that it was probably quicker to just walk some bits. Thankfully after a while the snow became tighter packed on the path, the riders thinner in number and the climbs less steep. Conscious that time was pushing on McAuliffe was happy that the next section through the wood and down to the Bridge of Thighs was 'easier' and enjoyable. One section was mentally noted as "bastard for later" where a stream had to be hopped over. After the bridge and a sharp climb the track flowed up and down and there was some more group walking, before reaching the View Rock. After this the descents came and hairy as they were, there was quite a lot of grip, and despite some regulation 'fluff snow' get downs, all was well. The track wound down through the wood, became flowy and then that was it, it was done! The last corner was majestically swept around and the exchange tent skidded into (it appeared to be obligatory).

Dibber dibbed, McAuliffe sought out Delaney, who was waiting looking as impassive as only a man who has fought a walrus in a toilet can, asked "how is it?" "Fine" answered McAuliffe, giving Delaney the courtesy of a massive lie, just as he has received from Tobin and Richardson. But then he added "just watch the back of the course, gets busy, maybe walk some of it". And with that and 'the exchange' made, Delaney cycled off on his rigid singlespeed into his first ever MTB race. McAuliffe, eyes now firmly wide open, headed down the firewood to have words with Tobin and Richardson. Upon entering the now moated entrance of Outpost Mastervan 13, he was greeted with grinning faces and the comment “fucking hard isn’t it?”

After a 3 way de-brief on which bits of the course caused the most bother to each tractor and how many times we all ended up face down in the snow unexpectedly, some food was put on, the mighty camp kettle was safely encsonsed on the BBQ coals (actual coal, McAuliffe backed 15kg of the black stuff, just in case) and all the clothes were put back on, once the wet layers were peeled off. It was 1330, the sun had just crept over the hotel we were camped behind and all in the world was grand.

Apart from it being 0 degrees and us still having 21 and half hours of the race left to go. Somewhere from the course we heard the distant screams of an Irish pusuiter being hounded by his imaginary, or real, Walrus demons.

After the obligatory 40 min wait, the ever cheerful Tobin went off to make ‘the Exchange’ with Delaney, if Delaney had survived. McAuliffe and Richardson did normal CampMaster things, like patrolling the perimeter and checking the cargo licenses of passing freighters. It was noted that the tractors were roughly on track for 24laps in 24hrs, which was considered (by the tractors) to be ‘not bad’ for a fist crack at the ‘puffer. The Motorhome across the car park was full of a similar quad and buy full, I mean the whole team was currently in it. later in the event we discovered why. Needless to say even at that early stage, the Tractors were aware that this event is a hard one at the best of times but very very hard if you are struggling for any reason, and sympathy and respect is due to all competitors having a tough time of it.

As Richardson was illustrating the finer points of why McAuliffe perhaps shouldn’t have used Tobin’s new Ti mug as a fire poker, Delaney returned through the barbed wire.

After declaring;

“THATISFUKIN'MAZINWHENISMYNEXTLAPWHYHAVE­NTIDONETHISBEFOREHOLDONINEEDAPOO”

in Wexfords version of Queens Irish, he disappeared into his office with a light sabre to fight the walrus hoards. 15mins later, Having completed his epic battle against his tripled hopped hangover and Diavola pizza, he emerged with a big grin on his face to tell us all about his lap. Delaney had learnt a lot and thoroughly enjoyed himself doing it. Despite the regulation offs and a few extra bits of walking than where perhaps necessary, he had got around in regulation time and was rightly proud of himself. Richardson, a sharped eyed young gentleman, asked his first question.

“How was the grip?”

In full PHD mode, Delaney gave a long and complicated answer about lasers, Christmas trees and orphaned lambs, which effectively boiled down to:

“Non-existant to Fucking Slippy”

Richardson then wandered over to Delaney's steed and offered up;

“and what pressure have you got in your tyres?”

Delaney then started to explain his tyre pressure choice by way of diagrams and a brief introduction to how gravity works, before tailing off as Richardson ignored him and just repeatedly squeezed his front tyre. This made Delaney concede;

“I had no idea so I just left it as it was”

What Richardson had noticed was that on Delaneys return to Base Van Camp, there was little ‘give’ in the tyres, on Delaneys rigid single speed….. In fact as a true trackie he had managed somehow to have around 50-60psi in them, both.

Laughing, Richardson informed him that he had about 16 psi in his front wheel and 20psi in the rear and that Delaney’s tyres “Aren’t tubs mate” Delaney, slightly embarrassed conceded that he probably would have found more grip on some Pista CS’s.

After all first laps had been completed, the routine of one lap each, 3 hours off was established. The 3hr gap enabled the tractors to do 3 things. 1 - get changed into all owned clothes again, 2 - eat as much possible because it was all dead good snack food and 3 - sit around, getting cold/hot/cold/hot depending on how much the fire was poked and how close it was sat too. McAuliffe had been a particularly verciferous fire poker, largely due to his feeling that, as the slowest member of the team, he had to ‘add value’ in some way. This had caused him to cover his face in quite a lot of ash and soot, obviously the other tractors didn’t tell him this and he did his next laps looking like he had added warpaint to his battledress. This coupled with his urban camo MTB shorts gave him the look of someone who might work in a shoreditch shoe shop, or be an anarcho-scummetal-squatter, but you can’t quite tell.

As the afternoon wore on, the sun started to recede from the heady heights it had never reached during the day and with it the temperature dropped. The weather at the Puffer is what makes it special. By all accounts its always an extreme of some sort, apart from ‘extremely hot’, but this years weather extreme could be classed as ‘chilly, with a hint of Artic blast’. Luckily the wind was light and even in the watchtowers of Festung VanMaster, it was just freezing and not bloody windy and freezing. Even in the inky afternoon sun, everything was freezing. Our water supply had to be kept either in the camp kettle, jet boil or footwell of the van to keep it liquid, our shoes were freezing if they were off our feet and most things became solid, with a layer of frost developing on them, within 5-10 minutes of them being outside of the van/our hands. Here an old soldier met its death. McAuliffe’s veteran campaigning FHHV water bottle gave up the fight, as he went for a swing and the whole mouthpiece cracked away into a thousand plastic shards. After a minutes silence and the Last Post, we got on with it. Its what Ze would have wanted.

Eating was going well. Tobin, after another consistent lap felt that we needed to eat and drink more than we thought we did. this was music to Delaney and McAuliffe’s ears. Richardson was off on a hot lap so the skinniest member of the team was missing out. Everything pasta wise was going in kettles, jet boils and Ti Mugs, and it was all delicious. The Tent Expedition meals lived up to their billing and with a bit of hot water and love, were turned into something that you would happily have at home. In fact Delaney claimed the last one at the end of the event while muttering something about “Date night” and “lucky girl”. The one downside to this pasta-in-everything maelstrom was that when you got a cup of tea, it tended to taste of pasta and have the remains of the last persons cup a soup in it. But if anything, it added to proceedings. We had been pretty good in having boiling water ready for the returning riders and everyone was content with their lot and the sterling work of the camp kettle

As we had all now done at least a lap and were either on, or heading out on our second, we were aware that the course conditions were changing. As we could now tell each other the truth, what we told each other became more valuable, at least in our minds. In reality, the conditions and course changed so quickly, and our different abilities, interpretations and ‘styles’ meant that whatever we told each other was academic and that we all fell off in different places anyway. The one thing we could agree on though was that it was fun and that even now, we would do it again.

Some rides haunt you afterwards and you eventually decide to do them again because of the afterglow and achievement, or guilt and burning sense of unfinished business. Some rides are just great fun so you will always do them again if you can. Some rides are so bat shit mental, challenging and unique that you have to do them again because they poke you in the eye and demand you do it again and how dare you think otherwise. The puffer falls into all three of these catagories.

As the sun was now decidedly on the turn, for his second lap, McAuliffe strapped on the USE lights as he would be riding the sundowner lap. After meeting Richardson for ‘the exchange’ he set off into the gloaming, cocktail in hand. The Fire road climb was still a massive party, someone had let a flare off on 80’s banger corner and there was ‘Build me up buttercup’ bouncing out of speakers and across the forest. Now armed with less confidence and more useless course knowledge, he was skeptical of his ability to master the first part of the course, but was looking forward to the second ‘easier’ section, post Bridge of Thighs. With the fire road climb negotiated, McAuliffe whizzed past the marshals hut and over the small bridge. The section of single track that had been a bus stop queue on his last lap was empty, so why not try and ride it, and so he did. Surprising himself, he rode the whole thing. Hauling up on the lowest gear like an ancient trawler and carefully selecting his front wheel placement, he dragged his confidence back onto the trail and started to inflate it. Even mastering the treacherous ‘Slab I would normally walk down’ section. (Admittedly by nearly falling off, but in doing so finding a new ’Narnia line’ through the trees to the left of it) This inflation continued all the way around until the Bridge of Thighs, when a poor overtaking (yep, overtaking) manouver meant a small rest on a snow bank and a run up hill with the bike, The Marshall at the top of the hill fairly and squarely stated “Its not fucking cross you know mate”, with a wink.

Now onto the ‘easier’ second half of the course and with 30 mins to make it back to get in under the hour, McAuliffe gave it the beans, sensing that this would be the lap when he managed to dip under the hour. Of course with great speed and great inflation comes great frustration. The back of the course had now become the section that was harder as darkness fell. Upon reaching Rock view, after following two single speeders chatting, as they tore up the single track slope, the massive lights were turned on and a new challenge found. Even with the incredibly powerful lighting, McAuliffe struggled and despite no get downs or hairy moments, it was a slog for the man with the Rambo face paint. Eventually tagging onto a similar paced group he wound his way back to the start, deflated and a bit dejected, the self imposed hour lap time passing away before his ashen eyes somewhere up in the trees above the transfer tent. Upon making ‘the exchange’ with Delaney he trundled home past lap boards and ‘do a wheelie’ signs to have a strong word with himself, a cup of pasta tea and good poo.

Upon arrival through the airlock into Station VastermaN, he found Tobin and Richardson merrily wittering away about the crazy bikes that had been seen (twisted Ti Lynsky anyone?), Single speed Green Stanton man, how it was possible to be that fast on a fat bike, how great the event was generally and how we should plan the darkness laps. It was decided that as sleep should be factored in to the 24hrs, we would do two lap stints through the night. This would then go back to one lappers after dawn. This plan gave us all 6 hours to try and get some sleep, or poke the fire, find fire wood and talk about how cold it was. Delaney was out on the course so had no part in this discussion, but if you start TCR, its expected that you will agree with almost anything.

After the normal brew up and lap dissection, we realised that we were running out of two important things; Water and Wood. Water could be found up at the nice warm main tent, so that was easy to fix on a 5l bottle transfer, from incoming to outgoing rider, but wood was a bit harder to find. In the dark, in a car park, when its baltic and theres snow everywhere. Un-deterred, some building waste was soon found in a far corner of the site (Next to the portaloo and behind the full motorhome). This find of skirting boards, door surrounds and other bits of crap was invaluable. Some of the GluLam burnt with a blue tinge, but hey ho, it was warm and who needed lungs anyway.

A miracle had also happened. The walrus portaloo had magically found its flush, it would appear that what ever Delaney had forced down it, coupled with the temperature falling towards -10, had loosened the flush mechanism off and a blue chemically flood now greeted all our fear ridden ablutions. Wood finding and standing naked in a dark freezing van while swearing at socks had passed much of the time since McAuliffe has returned from his lap and Tobin had set off to meet Delaney for ‘the exchange’ that would set off the two lap stints. Upon his return through StarGate Van, Delaney was euphoric;

“ILOVERIDINGINTHEDARKEVENWHENIFELLOFFILO­VEDITINEEDTOGOFORAPOO”

Once again Richardson and McAuliffe settled down to a good 15mins of animal noises and satanic screams from the portaloo. It was now properly dark, properly cold and properly funny.

After Delaney had come back from the portaloo, sweating and wearing far fewer clothes than he went in with, he announced "I think that's got the little bastard." After getting changed and donning all of his eBay bargain down clothing, he took us through his joyful lap. Under the lights he had found his lap highly entertaining and was already planning a long distance trip, where he only rode at night or with a blindfold on. After talking him down from his high, we forced cup-a-tea into him and the three of us settled down to a good hour and half of shivering, poking and giggling. In the next 90mins we covered many topic and discovered many facts, Including that you can get the train anywhere in the world from Crewe, Defeet gloves will dry on red hot coals without melting and that gortex ski mitts don't. After the sad loss of one of his hipster lobster hands, Richardson slipped away into the icy night, like a GORE covered penguin, carrying and empty 5L water bottle. Delaney and McAuliffe set the world to rights until Tobin appeared around the side of the van in a steaming heap. In the dark you could normally see a rider approaching as the SUPERMOON lights alerted you to their presence long before they arrived. The reason for Tobin's clandestine entrance through HMS MasterVan's porthole was soon revealed as our head torches picked out the USE 6pack light dangling off his bars, upside down.

"Fuck me lads I just properly stacked it!"

It looked like it as well. Tobin soon seated and heated filled us in on his two lap stint, which seemed to have gone well timing wise but had involved numerous offs and one biggy. The light loosener had occurred on one of the longer downhill sections on the second part of the course where you could carry a fair bit of speed into it, if you wanted too, were feeling brave, or were already sliding around the corner on your ribs screaming "SWEETBAABYJESUS". No prizes for guessing how Tobin entered the section then. This hit and subsequent 20 yard down hill slide had totally knocked his bars off centre and loosened the stem, walloped the light bracket clean off the bit of the bar it was shimmed on to and caused some large, feline like scratches to Tobin's cheek, ribs and other cheeks. Some of that Btwin kit was not making it back across the border. It seemed that Tobin had been scrambling to make up time that he had perceived he had lost on the first lap and had completely over cooked it. Tobin also stated that there were a lot more ice tyres out there now and that conditions on the trail were starting to freeze up in certain patches. All of this was exactly what McAuliffe knew he would hear, but exactly what he didn't want to.

As we had two sets of lights, we were swapping them between the bikes, but as McAuliffe had the biggest head it was easier just to use his helmet and keep the Flare attached to it permanently. That helmet saw a lot of action. The wounded Six pack now had to be assessed and pulled off Tobin's bike. In the dark with freezing fingers and a £1 Btwin head torch this was no mean feat. Luckily the light and bracket were made of tough stuff and we nearly had all the bits left to attach them to the vintage Ti wonder bike, that was McAuliffe's steed. Not having all the bits meant that McAuliffe had to go and see the nice USE folk in the nice big warm tent, before making 'the exchange' with Richardson. They were delightful, and fixed both the Six Pack bracket and the Flare fitment which Tobin's fat head and fingers had conspired to "nearly make work". They also gently took the piss out of the Cotic's 'silly little wheels' clad in trail tyres, it's Iger head tube angle and its owners Rapha jacket. "Want to sell that jacket and buy a Tarn matey." he agreed, the bike heard and that might not have been great.....

All of this faffing actually helped McAuliffe's pre double lapper nerves. Already 12hrs into the race, the old chap was a bit tired, having woken up a 'tad jaded' at Inverness Youth hostel some 20hrs earlier and hadn't thought to have a sleep since. Adrenaline and worry were keeping the hope of that hour lap at the forefront of the hairy mind. After meeting a suitably chilled and understated Richardson for 'the exchange' the fire road climb and two hours on the trails beckoned. Deciding that the best way to measure the effort over the two laps was to ease up the first fireroad climb and then attempt to speed up on whichever bits of the trails weren't bloody impossible, then once the measure of the course had been taken, gun that second lap and get back in around two hours, have a nice cold pint and wait for it all to blow over.

The first lap was actually a beautiful thing, it was taken at sedate pace and was very enjoyable. Grip seemed to have returned and in a nice group, 90% of the course was ridden and not a get down was even heard of. Pausing for a second in the group we shared a moment at Rock View as below us riders lights slalomed through the dark forest, occasionally punctuated by the nocturnal screech of a Sintered Pad Owl. There were a few moments during the 'puffer which are genuinely new experiences, seeing the squirming lights and ghostly trees was definitely one that will be remembered. On entering the transfer area, McAuliffe realised that he had been enjoying himself so much he hadn't bothered to look at the time that first lap had taken. Indeed he couldn't remember if had even looked at the handover time with Richardson. Doing some quick maths, the type of 'quick maths' that only someone without a puffer jacket and with 4 GCSE mathematics fails can do, he concluded he had shipped 40mins in the first lap. In fact the timing at the end showed he'd had only been 4 mins slower than his last lap. As a small consolation at least his maths was getting better and at least he had got the first number right......

Without being able to remember times or do fashionable maths, McAuliffe now panicked and reverted to type. 'Type' being 'bull in china shop'. Knowing his own type, McAuliffe had tried to park this part of him knowing that in mtb, it tended to end in expensive failure, both egotistically and financially for him. But now with the Sharpe theme tune coursing through his veins and Biffy Clyro for some reason stuck in his head. He attacked the fire road. Burying himself, progress was good, the small bridge of bus queue came and went, a few more tricky bits were negotiated well and confidence was practically boiling over. This was how you did it, you at Attacked it, nothing to be scared of. This was completely and totally true until he reached that stream which in more cautious times McAuliffe had mentally marked as 'Bastard for later'.

Upon reaching the small stream that had been ridehoppableonefootdownable previously he just launched the bike at it, now drunk on his own invincible confidence. Unfortunately all the hopping and footing had meant water and ice had been spread over the entrance and exit banks. This meant that both wheels slipped, one foot ended up submerged and a leg got trapped in between the TT and turned bars. Sadly with the bike on top of him in the river, one leg pinned and the other literally playing Bambi on ice on one bank, McAuliffe was stuck. On his own. After what seemed around 30mins, but must have been 2, another rider appeared. Laughing he helped untangle a mess only usually seen on Russell Brands pillow and said "Aye that is a hard bit" rather charitably. Thanks given and blood still up McAuliffe was off again. This lap was not lost,yet. CHAAARRRGGGEEEE.

Running, yes running up the hill after Bridge of Thighs he remounted and threw himself down the snowy and grippy descents determined to limit that '40min' loss. On one descent a tank slapper was held with a foot dap and a bloke (gender fully assumed) who looked like a real-life-proper-MTBer complimented the save, this just threw petrol on the lack-of-ability bonfire. Now fully committed to the #fullsend ethos/lifestyle/religion he launched it down Tobin's baby Jesus descent. The back of the now angry Cotic sniggered and stepped out again, trying the same foot dab save, McAuliffe realised that the bike was now straight, which was great, but that the trail went right, at about 90 degrees. Shooting straight off the small berm in the corner he flew quite far and landed in the nice soft Broom bushes that were covered in snow. After a small battle to free himself and check that nothing hurt or had things stuck in it, he went in search of his bike, which he found in a bush nearby, the 6 pack slowly melting the snow around it, but it was now a unicycle. Loosing rear wheels has happened before as Gorse bushes seem strangely attracted to the geriatric Mavics. Must be their European open minded filthiness and odd aero spoke kinkyness.

With the help of, yes you guessed it, the chap from the stream. McAuliffe was away again. With no descents left really and the flowy bit of the course left, that he felt he could hold speed on, he was still stupidly confident. Now rushing and thinking the lap was basically over, when it still had 15mins to give was the biggest error of the lap.

Gunning it through some muddy, undulating forest single track and then out onto a more open section, the trail became noticeably icy, slowing a little he tried to keep his head up to see down the trail as far as possible, but in doing so neglected a large Icy lump slap bang in the middle of the trail. What happened next is probably only known to the bastard Bike and the local wildlife, but the last thing McAuliffe remembers is a massive SMACK on the left side of the helmet, then stream man on his knees infront of his face asking if he was ok. How long McAuliffe had had an icy sleep for was unknown, but stupidly he shot straight up and pedalled off after assuring Stream man he was golden. He wasn't golden, unless it was a golden stream of piss that was threatening to escape down his leg as the impact of the crash started to sink in.

Limping back to the transfer zone, he suffered the embarrassment of falling off on the last corner before the transfer zone, in front of everyone. Now feeling stupid, angry, dazed and like he had messed up the whole teams timings he sought out Delaney.

"Sorry I just had a massive smash, have you been waiting long?"

"No, only 5mins, like normal, maybe 10"

"Eh, I thought I'd lost an hour or at least 45mins?"

"What? Just give me the dibber, oh and Tobin has let the fire go out, bye"

Now feeling broken and dejected, he scooted down the track to see what the fuck Tobin had done and to see if he could sort his head out.

After alighting on platform one of Barhaul Junction, he found Tobin and Richardson sitting in front of a raging inferno, now really confused and obviously a bit pale, McAuliffe slumped down onto some patio furniture and tried to work out what had just happened and how he was going get the white dots out of his eyes. Sensing that McAuliffe may be vulnerable, Richardson and Tobin went in for the kill and started a massive wind up about burning garden furniture as they had no more wood. Throughly confused, McAuliffe retreated to the van to get changed, check his helmet and seriously question what the fuck he was doing, how he would do two more laps and wonder what else he could eat.

After regaining some composure and eating a few of Richardson's painkillers he pieced the laps together for the others. After much laughter and merriment, he felt better, but no nearer to getting his head around another lap. Richardson, being a clever, but never an awkward, sausage decided to get his head down in the van. This snooze would prove to only aid his superpowers later on in the race. It was now 0230 and well into the -10's, there had been muttering of -14, but what ever it was the irn Bru was frozen and that just wasn't normal. In fact it was so cold the grease in the pedal bearings was seizing and the spindles were tough to move when left for a bit. The spd mechanism on the pedals would also freeze. This wasn't due to being clogged with snow, that had stopped happening early doors, but because the springs and clips would actually freeze. This made bike maintenance while resting up important. Luckily with some hot coals, a rubber mallet and a brush we managed to work out and fix most things, apart from why McAuliffe's bike obviously wanted to kill him. Tobin had recovered well from his slide and his face now looked at least explainable to his partner, but he was suggesting that after Delaney returned, we should go back to one lap stints. This meant that he had had 6 hrs off but wanted everyone else to have 5, not that mattered as he only used that time to make jokes at our expense and not sleep.

As the freezing night wore on and we learned just how frozen things can actually get, (Ti-foon to wood anyone) how you burn a 9ft bit of glutam on a 3ft BBQ and that actually Whiskey isn't what you want at 0330 with a raging headache. Richardson emerged from the van, seemingly indestructible in his youth and still full of beans, he agreed to Tobin's one lapper plan and offered to do a double lap stint if required as

*"it will be good practice for when I do it solo next year". *

A lot of 24yr old men must have been making odd decisions concurrently at 0330 on that Saturday evening, but Richardson's was surely the most jaw dropping. At least his Dad would approve of this one though. Tobin soon started to saddle up as 0400 approached, he reckoned he had one more good lap in him and was determined to get it out. For the first time MastVaner Camp was out of water, so Tobin promised that at this 'exchange' he would get Delaney to bring back supplies, as melting snow was a ball ache and quite a bad investment in cold fingers.

As Tobin Headed off for the the graveyard shift, Richardson and McAuliffe talked around the world, destroying empires (well Clapham) in the flash of a fire-poke. Delaney soon returned through. He skidded into Camp, dropped his bike on the floor without a word and sprinted to the toilet, as we saw his ample behind disappearing past the motor home, we noticed a large rip in his £340 influencers shorts and a large bloody, gaping hole, slap bang in the middle of it, certainly if he had ripped himself a new one then the toilet was the best place for him. Richardson and McAuliffe knew that a good story was about to unfold from the depths of the Portaloo, but that there would be no pasta tea to wash it down with, as in his anal haste to get back to his walrus cave, he had abandoned our water supply.

Staggering out of the now smoking cubical, Delaney made his formal Camp return.

"So what happened then?"

"Got a bit cocky on one of those descents, it was buffed up into shiny ice on the top of the rocks and I lost it, went over the bars and went arse first straight into a tree. I had to pull a stick out of my cheek. Look at my fucking bibs, how can I Instagram these now?"

"Yeah but why the mad toilet dash?"

"Ah, I hadn't 'got the little bastard' as I thought after my last visit and when I landed on the tree I winded myself, and my guts dropped, properly, I thought I would shit myself the whole of the second half of that last lap, in fact I think people behind me were slowing down to lessen the snow and view, someone definitely groaned and turned their light off."

"But why not go up at the loos at the start"

Rather sheepishly the reply came,

"Well, you know, this is my toilet, my safe one, its special now"

The mind boggles.

After much piss taking and feeding of pasta, RIchardson and McAuliffe actually asked Delaney if he was ok. It turned out that he couldn't actually stand up. Not wanting to make stereotypical jokes about the Irish, they just took pictures of him, head in his hands, next to the fire, with a bottle of Jameson next to him. Soon after this Delaney retired hurt, his back in a sorry state, not to mention his now double entry bowels. This was manna from heaven for mental Richardson as it meant he could 'take' Delaney's remaining laps. It was a nightmare for McAuliffe who had privately talked himself out of ever getting on his stupid MTB again and now he found himself offering to do more laps on top of his own.....luckily Richardson's happiness quickly disappeared off into the gloom at 0500 to go and make 'the exchange' with Tobin and to get the sodding water that holy excrement bibs Delaney had abandoned.

McAuliffe now faced up to his demons on his own around the fire. He was scared, fair enough we all get scared, but of a sodding hill walkers path with some hard water on it? Do me a favour, you muppet!! I'm 'avin this next lap, pain is only weakness leaving the body!! COME ONNNN!!!!............But should you, you know, because you were actually unconscious for a bit and you are shit at this and what happens next time you crash and....

"Well fuck me bays, stick a fork in me, oim fucking done"

Tobin was back and had neatly shattered McAuliffe's conflicted feminal thought pattern to bits, so he had to really do another lap, didn't he, the big sexist.

Tobin's plan was simple. He was done, blown, Delaney was actually broken and actually asleep and if McAuliffe 'Christophed' a lap out, it would let the mentalist that is Richardson rest, before he then got let loose to do as many laps as he could between 0700/0730ish and 1000/1100 (it was a 'long' 24hrs, google it if you are normal person, if you are an Mtb weirdo, feel smug now).

"Have you spoken to Luke about this Colm?"

"Nah, no need, I can see it in his eyes, in fact I can see it in his thighs".

After explaining Delaney's unfortunately stick intrusion to Tobin, McAuliffe togged up (over the stricken Delaney) and took a deep breath. He set himself no other target for the lap other than to stay conscious for all of it. With that he cycled off to meet Richardson and to pass on the new game plan. All was not lost and 24laps in 24hrs was still on, nearly.

It was just gone 0600, the sun wasn't even considering showing its horribly warm face around those frozen parts at any point in the near future, and it was still so very cold. at least the cold had got into everything now and warmth had been long forgotten, so it couldn't really get any colder.

With these cheery thoughts McAuliffe slogged up to make 'the exchange' with Richardson. He had told Tobin and Delaney that if they did decide to meet him for a lap after his, he would be an hour and half.

When Richardson appeared into the changeover area, he told him the same and Richardson looked mildly annoyed, probably because it meant he had to wait longer to get back out there and chase stick and dig holes.

Even though the party on the Fireroad was still going on, it did little to lift McAuliffe's broken spirit. Tiredness was one thing, but the shock of the head knock had left him reeling like a decent bouncer. Like a tailender waiting for the next ball, trying to guess if it was going break his toes or jaw, he chugged up the icy slope. He secretly hoped that he got a unplayable one that missed everything and ran away for 4 byes. But realising that not everyone appreciates a cricket analogy, he decided to stop for a comfort break. The joy of standing still for a minute was soon over and the lap had to be done, just because and also to re-release Richardson from the slips.

The rest of that 1hr 36mins of lap is not re-liveable, mostly because a lot of it doesn't actually appear in the memory, worryingly. The snippets that remain cover; hovering between giving up and walking, walking a bit, getting back on, the Flare light running out of power, getting sodding cramp, being terrified when a photographer stepped out from the darkness, sliding down descents with one foot out and the dropper fully down, terror, loads of people walking and it finally being over. Riding the last turns was not euphoric, there was no sense of achievement then, it was just a feeling that at least for him, it was over and that he hadn't done his best, which was fucking annoying. Before the dibber was even exchanged to a wild eyed and slavering Richardson, the decision to come back and exorcise some Damons, sorry demons, had been firmly made.

Wide eyed and relieved McAuliffe headed down the fire road in the stiff morning light, to Vander Camp Master to find out if Tobin had slept, if the fire had survived and if Delaney was still asleep. Once the car park to the hotel had been negotiated and the van door rounded, McAuliffe was gratified to see Tobin with a nice fire asking;

"what'll you have then?"

A cup of your finest minestrone tea please my good man...... After getting changed and leaving the awful smelling heap that was Delaney in the van dreaming and muttering about "GIANT FURRY WALRUSES" and headed up to the nice big warm tent to eat some bacon and to cheer Richardson on his way through to the 24 lap target.

It was just before 0800 and we had completed 19 laps, theoretically 24 was still on the cards, but it depended on the youthful strength of Richardson and if he really could be arsed. He was on lap 20 and had to start and finish lap 24, before 1000 and 1100.

In order to make the sitting in the warmth easier to bare, Tobin and McAuliffe had liberated £10 from Richardson’s wallet, to buy bacon sandwiches and tea. Well he didn’t need it now did he? We also liberated some porridge called FUEL or MAN or COCK or something daft. While suffering these luxuries, Tobin found the team lap split machine and live leader board. Reading through the solos and pairs lap number is awe inspiring, most of the top 5 in both categories were at least one or two laps ahead of us already, how do they do that, it’s incredible? In our own competition, Quads, we were 24th out of 139 teams, which was respectable we thought.

Sat clutching the lap splits and some testosterone porridge we were joined by a semi familiar figure. It turned out to be one of the poor sods from the motor-home across the way from our very own citadel.

Apparently their race had unravelled on the first lap with one of the team breaking the rear triangle of his alu Giant clean off, at the rear sus pivot on the fire road climb. Tobin’s screams of “STEEL IS REAL” and stood up finger pointing went down really well at this point of the conversation. After walking back to the van the poor lad had asked to borrow another team members bike (who was in bed with flu) but the ill member, had said that he would rather not loan his bike out…..So Giant man took it anyway and crashed it on his second lap, then he decided that he had bitten off more than he could chew and that was that for him. Two team mates down, our porridge buddy and his mate had gamely carried on before binning it just before 0800. He did say that our constant merriment from across the car park had been uplifting and very annoying in equal measure. The puffer really is a cruel mistress.

With the best intentions in the world, McAuliffe was never going to be able to stay awake to watch Richardson's progress and after the Richardson's first stop, where he ate some ‘trail mix’ (this just used to be called fruit and nut didn’t it ffs?) had a drink and then just belted it back up the fire road in full XC tuck, McAuliffe felt the calling of the wooden stairs. Leaving Tobin to hold the fort and bacon sandwiches. McAuliffe made it back to camp to find Delaney still asleep and moaning and the fire still burning. He nestled down in the driver’s seat and fell sound asleep with his head on the steering wheel.

Meanwhile Richardson was still popping in lap times that Delaney was literally dreaming about and Tobin was checking the quality of the bacon supplies and teabags while allocating the lap times to the team riders. Richardson was now on lap 21 and might just slip in under the 1000 lap start time, but I would be an ask as lap 23 would be his 3rd lap out there and even now the sun was ‘fully up’ i.e. pissing about behind some trees in the distance, it was still well below freezing. Richardson made it back to the exchange area just past 1000. He looked no different from when he started almost 24hrs ago.

A sterling effort by the young, fit, single, ugly, terrible human being. As more and riders finished and team mates, partners, dogs and secret lovers came out to welcome them, the carnival atmosphere returned and most were jubilant just to be done and to not to be dead. After some prevarication, Richardson showed a chink in his armour by confessing that even the course had got to him and that like many of his conquests, he had ended up sliding about going down around naughty bits sat on the top tube, both legs out of the stirrups. He also asked to go back to Field van camp master because he was cold. Tobin obliged by carrying him on his shoulders while the crowds cheered Richardson’s name. McAuliffe was still asleep, dreaming about bouncy castles and otters so the other three tidied up. Delaney now suddenly resurrected, was dancing around camp. Odd that the back injury eased just after the race was over….

With Camp packed up, the life giving fire was euthanized and the patio furniture was packed away. Finally McAuliffe was awoken as the three monkeys needed guidance and had no idea how to get their pants off their heads. The team opted not to go up to see the podiums, not because we didn’t want to but because trains and planes had to be caught and there was a blizzard already closing in on the Drumochter Pass, which McAuliffe and Delaney had to get over to get back to a roast dinner and beer. With a heavy heart and tired heads we made sure that we had erased all traces of us beig there, pushed the portaloo over and joined the queue leaving the Car Parks. Tobin and Richardson wanted to nip up to the big warm tent to buy some cheap USE lights and to check our final placings and after a 10 min wait we got down the road.
The front bench of the Mastervan was quiet, everyone reflecting on one hell of a weekend and what we had lost and gained during it. Tobin was wondering if the angry man from the beginning of the day had got around on a gear most of us would use for track league and Delaney was contemplating if the lad next to us, who quit half way, really did have hypothermia.
With the snow closing in the van deposited Tobin and Richardson at Inverness YHA, where they had to go to return one of Friday’s room keys and McAuliffe and Delaney crawled off into the snow to see if the pass was open.
The Puffer was over, but the tractors will be back.

Brixton Cycles Tractor Club/Outliers.cc finished 24th out of 139 in the Quads class and 35th overall, with 22 laps completed.

Lap times

Lap 1 - 53.57 - Tobin
Lap 2 - 57.49 - Richardson
Lap 3 - 1.08.07 - McAuliffe
Lap 4 - 1.02.43 - Delaney
Lap 5 - 55.07 - Tobin
Lap 6 - 53.39 - Richardson
Lap 7 - 1.08.40 - McAuliffe
Lap 8 - 1.05.40 - Delaney
Lap 9 - 1.01.00 - Tobin
Lap 10 - 58.34 - Tobin
Lap 11 - 56.35 - Richardson
Lap 12 - 01.05.47- Richardson
Lap 13 - 01.14.34 - McAuliffe
Lap 14 – 01.19.07 – McAuliffe
Lap 15 – 01.22.40 - Delaney
Lap 16 – 01.14.33 – Delaney
Lap 17 – 01.01.21 – Tobin
Lap 18 – 54.42 - Richardson
Lap 19 – 01.36.18 – McAuliffe
Lap 20 – 01.02.59 - Richardson
Lap 21 – 01.10.05 - Richardson
Lap 22 – 01.12.57 – Richardson

Total time elapsed - 24hrs 16mins 54s