The gales, the rain and the generally miserable winter weather have definitely been a test of this rider’s cycling resolve. Saturday’s outing over Warnell Fell, near Caldbeck, was one of the worst so far.

It’s a fifty or so mile loop that seems to have become my default Saturday jaunt. In fairness, the forecast predicted everything that came to pass. The rain started on cue, the wind duly increased and by the top of Warnell the hail was driving in. Like being pebble dashed in a freezer. This was the middle of the day, but visibility was none existent. Oh, and the battery in the bright, flashing newly acquired rear light chose this moment to pack in. Plus, I’d flatted at Welton. Punctures have been a regular feature of winter rides, so it didn’t take long to change, but in the downpour with fumbling fingers inside sodden gloves (waterproof? …having a laugh!!) it did nothing to improve my mood.

The long downhill to Wigton, normally a well-earned joy, brought the challenge of crosswinds and, by now, despite a wearing a baselayer, winter jacket and a rainshell, I was shivering like crazy. Fortunately the rain eased at this point and the return leg through the Solway villages of Kirkbride , Glasson Dumburgh and the like was, if not a pleasure, more bearable. The average speed was pitiful, but this was a day when just completing a decent length ride was cause for some satisfaction.

To my surprise, I encountered more fellow two-wheeled sufferers than on many a better day. A wave and a nod. We’re all in this together, you know. A glance ahead to next weekend’s forecast shows little improvement. The aching winter bones and complaining, groaning, shockingly ill-maintained, winter bike will doubtless set out on another ordeal. Though I must vary the route!

When the weather does, eventually, improve and all the other riders come out like bright brand new daffodils in springtime, I’ll have that smug inner glow as I wonder: “And where were you in darkest January?” The answer is, probably, that they have more sense or at least a turbo-trainer (still the work of the devil, to my mind….but I am beginning to toy with a little temptation). For me, riding a bike is all about outside and exercise, the experience, encountering nature up close. It isn’t always a pleasure. It can be a pain. It is a personal challenge, even if that is just overcoming the desire to sit in a warm armchair. But, by goodness, you know you’ve done it. There’s no time for the cares of the week, just focus on the road and plough on. It’s a particular satisfaction and I can well understand it’s not for everyone, but I knew I’d earned my Saturday night bottle of beer and slept most exceeding well.

Today, Sunday, just a dozen or so miles for the heck of it. But the rain is pouring and the wind is even stronger – see, I chose the least evil day for the “big ride”, I’m not daft – but it’ll feel like double that.* And may just earn me a fireside snooze to top off the afternoon.

*PS It did feel like double that – in part because of two more punctures…in the rain. My own fault, it’s a new “puncture protection” tyre, but it’s a very tight fit, hence two pinch punctures when resorting to tyre leavers. Anyone with a sure fire tip to beat these?

I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s a “structure” to my cycling endeavours, but the last couple of years have been planned around two major rides. Though if a proper cycling coach were to check on my approach and methods, I’m sure there’d be a lot of head shaking. Whatever, it’s worked so far. Just about.

First there’s a May offensive ahead of the Fred Whitton ride/ordeal/torture. Having now completed this twice, I wish to announce that I have officially retired from future Freds. My wife has asked me to make this clear.

Then there’s a slight easing off, with the exception of July’s Virgin Money ride around Northumberland, before August and the thoroughly splendid but taxing Inishowen 100 in beautiful wild, windy and rather gradient abundant Donegal. The final piece of the Moss Masterplan is to hope that whatever fitness accrued lingers into September and the Rivers Ride. After which things settle down and I pootle through the winter months at a more leisurely pace.

The Inishowen ride features a range of bumpy bits. Up and around Malin Head, Ireland’s northernmost point, is simply stunning but the two bruisers are the seemingly never ending climb out of Kinego Bay, which comes after about 75 miles, but way before that, the very first climb of the day, is the stuff of local legend.

It is known as “The Gap”. The full title is the Gap of Mamore. It’s a mountain pass. The sportive tackles it from the southern side – which is dead straight and dead steep. You can see every bit of pain coming your way. I’m told it peaks at around one in three. Although it comes after only fifteen miles, a fair chunk of the field will be pushing up the final yards. They always are. This was the fifth, or maybe sixth, time I’ve ridden the event. This year a sizeable chunk of Atlantic Ocean was turned into ominous dark cloud and further transformed into lashing Donegal rain at precisely the moment I reached the top. The equally steep, but horribly winding descent was so treacherous that many opted to walk downhill as well.

It’s an incredibly characterful and friendly ride with local clubs well represented and mighty craic. I can heartily recommend. Derry based Foyle Cycling club are the organisers. They’re a fine body of folk.

After the legs had rested for a day or three and became my own again, I then mounted a couple of assaults on The Gap from the northern side. That’s the steep and windy approach. The one with a grotto near the top. Believe me, you will be in need of prayer at this point. The reason for this choice of route was by way of preparation for my Rivers Ride nemesis, Honister. The distance climbed is similar and the gradient slightly steeper, according to my Garmin. For some reason I can manage The Gap, either straight or twisty. I can manage Honister from Borrowdale. But Honister from Buttermere. Nope. The steep bit is just too steep for my old legs. Always time for a short walk and push. So will my Irish training have paid off? …or will it have been negated by my post ride rehydration strategy: Guinness.

See you in Keswick! Slange.

Want to know my most recent moment of sporting embarrassment, of which there have been many over the years? Read on…

In the meantime, back to the latest blogging…
Despite the rise and rise of cycling on these shores, opportunities to watch top level professionals “in the flesh” are relatively few. The Tour of Britain – coming to Cumbria the day after the Rivers Ride – is, of course, one. The National Championships, which were held over the weekend in Glasgow,
are another.

The road race took place over a tight city centre circuit and three quarters of the Moss family were persuaded to make the trip. Not that this member of the family took any persuasion.
Notoriously unsporty Mrs M travelled as did daughter Rebecca. Both enjoyed themselves. Or so they told me.

Scattered through the field were a series of riders just days away from the Tour de France – three of whom, Mark Cavendish, Ian Stannard and David Millar – were the three podium finishers. I was among the crowd six deep at the finish and caught the briefest of glimpses of a high speed Cavendish, alarms aloft, celebrating his moment of doing what Cav does better than anyone else.

When anyone asks what was the greatest sporting moment I’ve seen, the answer is that it was Jimmy Glass’ moment of glory. The goalkeeper scoring in the last minute of the last game of the season to see Carlisle United avoid being relegated from the Football League. These moments are rightly rare – the powerful additive drug that pulls us back to sport. That briefest flash of flying Manxman wasn’t too far short of “the Jimmy Glass moment” on my personal “Mossometer”.

Yes, I was a bit excitable. I had been throughout the afternoon. In fact, discerning that I knew more about cycling than at least some of those watching, I committed the sin of cockiness, by offering opinions and analysis to anyone who would listen. I even recognised the riders well enough to shout out their names. Not that I did, until the moment Team Sky’s Ben Swift , riding solo, swept past. I wanted to encourage the lad. I did. Loudly. “C’mon Ben, keep it up”.

Great. Apart from the fact that it was actually Luke Rowe, Ben’s Sky team-mate. He must have heard me. By this time he was way down the road and I had no opportunity to make good. My face matched the pink of the Giro d’Italia cap I was wearing. (Pretentious moi?). Scanning the watching spectators, it didn’t appear as though any of them could tell their Lowes from their Swifts either. But I kept quiet after that. For a while.

As to my own cycling accomplishments – using the term in the loosest conceivable sense – this weekend will be the third century ride of the year. May brought the Drumlanrig Challenge and the Fred Whitton. On Saturday we have the Virgin Money Cyclone in Newcastle. While the Fred is reckoned to be just about the toughest, this is one of the biggest. Naturally unsociable (my wife tells me), I don’t really like lining up with thousands of others, but once you’re out in rural Northumberland, the constantly rising and falling route soon breaks things up.

After last weekend’s return to cool temperatures and strong winds, surely we’re due a decent day….surely..

Year three of the Rivers Ride…and I’ll be back for my third spin around the West Cumbrian circuit. But I’ll level with you, I had to think long and hard about it. Why? Well, the 2012 ride was the most wet and miserable day imaginable.
It poured all day. Chucked it down. And then some. It was only after the event that I learned riders were being turned back from Newlands and Honister passes, due to the appalling conditions. I’d somehow made it over a little before that decision was made. Made it over after a fashion. It was awful. I didn’t see another cyclist and now I know why! It’s a cliche about roads being turned into rivers, but that’s what Newlands Pass resembled.

So, given organiser Andy Beeforth has personally guaranteed a dry, sunny and pleasantly warm September Sunday for 2013, I’m willing to give it a go. Andy’s a chap you can trust. He told me so.

Also, the lure of riding a chunk of a Tour of Britain stage just a day pefore the pro-peloton proved a key selling point. I suspect they won’t find Honister as horrible as I do, but I know they won’t exactly enjoy it.

The Rivers Ride 2012 has since been trumped on my league table of wet misery by this year’s Fred Whitton Challenge, reckoned by most to be the toughest one-day sportive. It includes all of the main Lake District passes.

Driving, freezing rain in the latter stages forced some riders to abandon. There were cases of hypothermia. Shivering lycra figures huddled in silver survival blankets at the end created a scene reminsicent of a casualty clearing station. I knew I wasn’t in a good state over the closing miles. I’ve never been as close to quitting a ride. Arguably a triumph of obstinacy over good sense, although my wife would say simply riding the Fred Whitton amounts to that. And a puncture coming down Wrynose didn’t help. My tyre/wheel combination is ridiculously tight fitting at the best of times. How I managed to change it with shivering, shaking hands, and shivering, shaking everything else…well, I don’t know. So, that’s 2013’s grim horrible ride out of the way. Everything else will be fun, fun, fun! Excepting, possibly, Honister.