Nice legs

Not so nice legs. I am a little concerned about a Christening I'm attending in around 10 days time and the implication of the enormous bruises on my legs on the proposed outfit for the occasion.  Wondering, in fact, if I might be wisest to make the decision now to swap to maxi dress or indeed to trousers.

Following a wee tumble at Dalby Forest last weekend the bruise which is approximately 7 inches in height on the back of my calf has gone through yellow and red and black to now having a black circumference and a relatively normal appearance centre.  It has, however been joined by minor incidental bruises from touches on the pedals or rocks or frame or indeed gardening incidents with spade, fork, etc.  So much bruising has happened on my legs that in the bath last night trying to wash off the gardening grime I was somewhat surprised to find my leg remained mostly dirt coloured after a good body scrub.  Ooops.  I am bruised.

It's been fun though, wearing shorts and 3/4 length trousers.  I imagine I look committed to the cycling cause and like some desperado woman who is hard core and not scared to push it.  Pretty much a reflection of reality in some ways.  I look 'ard.  Don't mess with me.

Sheep Bells

So, a four day weekend has nearly come to an end, and it has been a good one for me and the bike.  Saturday took me here: http://www.ridetheclwyds.com.  A hearty route, starting at the Ruthin craft centre and doggedly climbing and climbing and climbing until you hit a forest at the top when you get to do a lovely downhill section through wide and open grassland (so you can see walking folk coming and not hit them), followed by a long hard drag up a fireroad and then you travel and travel and travel.  I very much enjoy it.

Both fortunately and unfortunately I suffered a minor and preventable but ride limiting mechanical issue.  Having finally found the perfect saddle, the prologo which makes me inordinately happy, it turns out my wrist action is not the finest in the world at securing said saddle to the Ritchie saddle post.  Sadly the first I knew of my error was after 2 hours of climbing when the front end of the saddle began pointing airwards.  Got off, checked and dammit, one of the two securing bolts has gone missing.  Tightened the remaining bolt but it's rapidly clear that it isn't enough to keep the saddle at a viable angle.  So, with some regret we turned round to head back down all the bits we'd just ground our way up. 

I say with some regret.  However, I've never done this route in reverse, and kind of longed to be able to whizz down those hills I normally climbed, so with saddle somewhat secured by a man's wrist action on the one remaining bolt down we zoomed, and zoomed and zoomed.  It's fun going down grassy tracks.  Normally trail centres etc. have no grass left on them, such is the popularity, it's all rock and dirt and gravel never sleepy grazing land.  One of the noteworthy points of grazing land is that things graze it.  Fluffy things.  Sheep.  There, in the middle of the path ahead I saw her, the sheep.  So, being a unique kind of an individual who actually has a bell on her mountain bike I started to ting the bell, and ting the bell and ting the bell to get the sheep to move.  I think in reality she shifted because the bellows of laughter coming from behind me and subsequently from me were loud and weird enough to alarm the poor beasty into moving well away from the strange people.  I liked ringing my bell.

The route down the hill which had taken over two hours to climb took just 45 minutes to descend.  Whee.  Indeed.

Work horse

My normal commute bike is a hybrid (grammatically speaking wondering if that should be an hybrid).  It has umpteen gears, a big wide padded sofa of a saddle, slick tyres and a back rack to take panniers.  It offers no resistance to the road, and if I'm honest not a lot of grip either; cornering is with caution.  It goes a lot quicker than the old mountain bike would on road rides.

This week, though, I've been pottering in on the mountain bike for purposes of saddle trials.  Anticipating the bike having huge resistance I expected a week with a bit of a work out as my legs were going to have to push me through every revolution of the wheels.  I also felt a bit of a fraud commuting on the roads with my hardtail.  Therefore I went exploring.  I've a few routes to work, tried and tested, familiar and uneventful, but using the mountain bike, surely I thought I can add a twist.  So I did.

Getting out my Cycle GM maps I checked out any off road options, canal tow paths, riverside etc. and came up with a cunning plan.  Route 86 from the city centre out to the velodrome looked just the thing.  Unlocked the front suspension (because I could rather than because I needed to), and went for it.  Half way along the path which criss crosses roads it petered out.  Puzzled, I studied the map.  Where has the path gone?  Asked a workman from the tram works and he simply advised I got on the road.  Where's the diversion, I asked?  He shrugged.  Crap.  Back on the road on a route I avoid because it's frankly horrible on a bike, with no warning and no choice.  Wrote to Manchester City Council - after all, the rules of the land are that footpaths are sacrosanct and if closed there must be suitable signposted diversions.  Really rubbish job of enforcement there, Manchester.

Sitting comfortably?

I've been niggling on about the discomfort of the mountain bike sitting position for a while, and have discussed with ... well, anyone who will listen but without taking an awful lot of action.  Last weekend once again the end of a day on the MTB and once circulation returned to my nether regions I was having issues yet again.  Really predictable as I had done nothing to change my situation since my last moaning attack on this subject.

So, this week I did something about it.  I spoke to yet more people, and as a result, three second hand saddles appeared on my desk as if by miracle for trial, sale or return.  Ball now being in my court, I had to knuckle down and make sure I did the necessary exploration to make sure I got the thing right.  Being mid week this meant to test the things properly I needed to manufacture some MTB rides pretty quickly.  Decision made.  Use the MTB to cycle to work - a sense of weirdness in itself.

With relief and allen key the original saddle with all its pain was removed from the bike, and the first trial saddle put in place.  I had chosen of the options I had been given the Selle Italia for first trial based on the simple logic that to me it looked more like the shape of my bum than the others.  Did the home to work journey in, and ouch.  Either I'm lopsided or the saddle is lopsided or it just plain doesn't fit.  Ditched that one with no great ceremony in a lunchtime sneak visit to the work bike store.  Next saddle up was there purely on looks.  It was a thing of beauty, even matched the bike in its whiteness.  The Pro Logo.  Cycled home on it, mmm, not bad.  Cycled to work on it again and home on it again.  Finally, I have the saddle, and yes, I'm sitting comfortably.

Tummy Tuck

The sunny weather brought out the lycra.  Big time.  On  me.  This brought with it unexpected vanities.  Dressed in a fitted but not tight t-shirt I paired this up with a pair of proper cycling shorts a la Aldi supermarket supplier of choice to Alison.  Found myself struggling on the long drag into town with breathing and position, and realised to my horror the shorts made me do it.  Made me hold my stomach in.  Which was obviously stopping my lungs operating as effectively as they might.

Weird, the old bugbear of vanity.  Once I was aware of it, obviously my first reaction was to be horrified that I was as shallow as the next woman, and indeed obviously far more shallow.  I'm no super model but I'm not a wallowing whale.  Having reached the grand old age of 42 without going through childbirth I don't have the perfectly understandable post pregnant woman issues of love handles and saggy tummy, just a firm and acceptable slight curve in that general vicinity.  So what am I doing trying to hold my belly in?  Cars pass me, cyclists pass me, I pass cyclists, I pass walking peoples (can't quite get my head round the word pedestrian sometimes), and frankly a) I see them for a fraction of a minute and b) I won't ever see them again.  Still the logic is weird, because having said my first reaction was one of horror, my second was one of trying to relax the old tum.  Every time my attention lapsed though, there it was again, stomach being held in.

The moral of this story?  Baggy Shorts.

Happy Talk

Beautiful weather this week and more of the same forecast.  The plan is to get on the bike today (ticked that box), tomorrow and Thursday.  Thursday it's kind of incorporated in the errand of dropping the car off for service on the way to work.

So today's journey at various pointless red lights I chatted with fellow cyclists.  Two in all.  Wondering now if I can set myself a lunatic old woman target of upping this number each day.  First guy we mutually tutted at the other cyclists who set off on red light as soon as the pedestrian beeping begins.  Not giving cyclists as a whole a great name, that kind of caper.  Angers motorists and angry motorists can become aggressive and dye everyone with the same cloth.  The first guy was Afro Caribbean and had an accent which sounded like sunshine on a beach.  The second guy was some grey haired racing whippet type who made conversation and then cycled off into the middle distance.

Bugged me as at three consecutive sets of lights the same guy went on pedestrian crossing lights, and each time I'd caught up with him by the next set of lights without any particular effort.  Really, if he wants to go faster perhaps just put a bit more weight on the pedals and he'd be going the same pace as us law abiding types.  It does infuriate me, in fact, it annoys me more when I'm on the bike than when I'm in the car.  I'm a peaceful car driver who doesn't get rattled easily, after all, I'm normally on my way to work and therefore never in a hurry.

Everybody hurts

Yes indeed, everybody hurts sometimes, and when it comes to my body, fortunately my experience has mostly been of good hurts.  So I am walking a little stiffly today due to the gluteus maximus muscles having had a bit of a pasting Saturday but at least it is a good hurt.

So, the weekend involved "camping" - if indeed staying in a camping pod is truly camping.  The only thing missing, after all is the tent.  Sleeping bag and thermorest and bikes chained to the car were all constituents of the weekend.  Beautiful camp site in the middle of Dalby Forest, just a pedal stroke from the trails at High Rigg Farm.  Saturday saw us out on the bikes early doors.  Maybe.  No watch on and it felt early.  An abbreviated red run was completed with a coffee stop in the middle.  Coffee stops, it seems are the norm on a road bike or club run but on a mountain bike, in my experience, an unheard of luxury.  The route was beautiful, swooping up and down, gnarly bits, tree roots, rocky bits, grassy stuff, sand and grit.  Most of the gears got a workout.

Only fell off the once.  Training need; I really must learn to go round corners.  Kind of performance limiting.   The bruises are interesting.  Won't wear a skirt for a bit then.

Gender difference

It must be a testosterone thing.  If I go past another cyclist it's not because I'm out to prove anything, not really, it's simply to get past an obstacle that's slowing me down.  It does give me a little hint of a buzz but it's personal to me, not about putting someone else down but a sense of reassurance to me that yes, I am of a reasonable fitness for a woman in her 40s.  It's self affirming.

I have noticed, though, that out on the road cycle commuting men behave differently.  I can understand it if it's a "training ride" (whatever they are) or a club run or similar that people are out to gain a training effect and to test themselves against others perhaps but on a commute some things just don't make sense.  The thing that didn't make sense last night was a guy on a bike not dissimilar to mine I would think, although maybe more knobbly tyred than my hybrid who overtook me on an uphill stretch, and then totally failed to maintain his speed or accelerate but instead left me wheel sucking.  Poor lad kept looking behind only to see me still on his tail.  Just cos I have pannier bags and age is not on my side is no reason to under estimate my plodding pace.



The commute home on the bike is always a bit fraught and has a little too much excitement anyway.  The way to work is lovely - I'm so early morning that there's not a lot of traffic on the road.  The way home is busier and brings out the mental cases.  I reckon I have a couple of near accidents every single journey.  That just doesn't happen in the car.

The most irksome incident yesterday was at a traffic lighted crossroads.  I was on the main road, and the lights were green.  Proper green, no hint of a red or an amber etc. but unfortunately the time I was crossing there weren't other vehicles going my way, just me, going straight on, through a green light, on a main road.  So obviously a van coming the other way wanting to turn right across me decides to do just that.  Thinks he has right of way as a motor vehicle?  Thinks I'm going to slow down (really, would he expect another car to do that?).  Outcome of incident is that he has to brake sharply, stop and allow me to continue on my journey.  I don't tend to take chances of injury / death when I'm on the bike, and had my hands on the brakes and was ready to have to be forced into a sharp left turn if the van carried on his way.  I was prepared, but also determined.  There's one incident like this for me every single evening commute home in Manchester.  You have to live on your wits.  Yet they are looking in the UK to bring in a law on death by dangerous cycling.  Need to look a little harder at other road users in my opinion.

Making Conversation

Another cycle commute today.  Because I'm committed I took the hilly route.  Actually it's because I'm anxious that my mountain bike ability is suffering because on the hybrid commute I never willingly tackle any kind of incline.  The hilly route isn't really hilly, it just has three or four short sections where it goes up a bit, just a little bit, enough so that I can create different ways of making it harder for myself.  Masochistic tendencies are coming to the fore.

So, as you do, I noticed in front of me, approaching the top of the steepest incline of my journey another bike rider.  Clearly male, with thighs encased in lycra.  Somewhat eye arresting thighs if I'm honest.  Big built in a tall not wide way and on a road bike.  Man meant business.  This of course gives me options for tackling the hill.  The lights at the  top are red, and I know they stay red there for a bit as we're the minor road of a major junction.  So the question is "What kind of condition do I want to be in at the top".  So I low gear, high cadence it and am able to still speak through my breathing when I reach my goal (the man) at the top.

It's funny, because I can't imagine any other circumstances I would happily strike up a conversation with this guy.  I wouldn't approach him in a bar, waiting for a bus, walking my imaginary dog or at the cabbage display in Asda but on a bike at the top of a hill at a red light I'll happily start chatting, and indeed I do.  I mention the hill, and say I'm relieved sometimes to find the lights red at the top so I can recover a little.  He smiles and engages in conversation saying that he hates it if he's getting to the top when the lights are on green and start to change - the brow of the hill is beyond the line so there's a period of being slow.  We both agree on the fact that the next stretch of our ride is a pleasant leisurely downhill.  Then the lights change and I watch his bottom lift off the saddle and wriggle off into the distance.  Then I chase.

How many other situations are there when you can actually physically give chase to a man?  I appreciate early on I can't catch him, but you know, the thrill of the chase is in just that, the chase.  I enjoy it.  My legs circling like billy ho, my gear changed up to big ring to take account of the incline.  I'm pushing, powering and accelerating.  I don't catch him.  Well, not until the next set of red lights anyway.  These young men, they do keep me fit.

Wiggle It.

Ah, yesterday was a golden opportunity with the weather picking up a few degrees in the April arrival of spring time.  Froze my fingers off in the morning all in the interests of being part of it by foolishly wearing fingerless gloves.  The optimism born of the weekend.

So ... trumpet fanfare ... yesterday saw the first public outing of the Shakin' My Arse T-shirt.  It was a glorious feeling, pedalling past traffic with a cheeky out of saddle bottom wiggle to emphasize the glory of the fitted pink T-shirt with resplendent wording on the back.  Rather than pissing off the motorists with political slogans designed to antagonise, and rather than doing all those morally unsound things by ignoring the rules of the road, why not, I thought, raise a smile, and hopefully I did.

Well, I suspect I did.  There was a set of lights or two which went green but traffic failed to move, hypnotised I believe by the T-shirt back.  Flaunted my wares at the odd other cyclist.  The very odd other cyclist indeed.  Unanticipated finding a 30s guy on a road bike (proper drop handle bars and everything) falling behind me on the one and only hill of my journey.  Nothing not to like there.

I really must get a photo of it.

Red Light

Something tells me this is a rant which will break out from time to time, just like squeezing a big pustulant spot, seeing all the white goo come out and knowing that in 24 hours more goo will, as if by magic, lurk all squelchy below the surface.

So, red lights, my fellow cyclists mean stop.  We are traffic, and the rules of the land do indeed apply.  You may think it does no harm to anyone, and indeed gets you on your journey in your own way, but what it does, is anger other traffic, often the four wheeled variety, and the people in their tin boxes, they then snarl at the wrongness you have committed, and indeed believe this is a trait of all two wheeled folks who then, in the eyes of the motorised box drivers deserve to die.  So indeed your actions of going through the red lights do endanger poor little old me, all vulnerable in my quaint helmet and with my Old Skool pannier bag on my Sit Up and Beg Bike.

Actually, I too resent red lights and the requirement of the law for me to sit at them behind the white line. Yes, folks, behind the white line - take note, that too is the law.  They are irritating and frustrating when the road is clear, and what's weird is I don't have this attitude in my car.  I cogitate.  After all, I have time, I'm sat at a pointless red light.

It seems to me that when I'm on my cycle commute I never stop.  Never, not unless I'm at a red light.  There aren't a lot of Give Ways on my journey and I'm early enough that if there is, a quick glance right, left and right while I'm moving is all that's needed and I carry on, no stopping.  I don't get caught in traffic queues.  I really do never stop, and red lights interrupt my flow.  Nothing else out there slows me down.  Well, maybe the odd hill.  When I was a little less fit I used to appreciate red lights.  Time for a little rest, and indeed a desperate gulp at the water bottle.  Now, they just irk.  But they are the law.

Blazing saddles

There are times when I feel my developmental level as a bike rider is somewhere around that of an 8 year old.  I just don't get saddles, bike positioning and how to make the two work together.  Mostly luck has got me through, and I have had some remarkably comfortable rides.  I note my current hybrid has a Bontrager comfy girls saddle with quite a wide rear end (as have I), and that my previous Decathlon MTB had a f'i'zi'k (I have been generous with the apostrophes here) saddle which was skinny and not padded but also never gave my bottom any cause for concerns.  The current MTB is mortifyingly painful.  A Boardman women's specific saddle in the most impractical white.  It is hard, narrow and I suspect the front end is angled slightly upwards.  I tend to be forced into a sitting position where my front bits are under pressure from the hard pointy end rather than sitting comfortably with my saddle bones on the saddle.

I have no idea how to change things to make it right.  Do I need to move the handlebars forwards so my reach is perhaps more similar to my hybrid?  Do I need a new saddle, and if so, how do I chose one, what if the next one, after lots of pennies have been parted with is equally uncomfortable.  Maybe I need to adjust the position and angle of the current one which would, I note, require me investing in an additional allen key or perhaps one of those fancy gadgets with a bewildering array of tools for the would be mechanic.  Toyed with switching the saddle from the hybrid onto the Boardman in a moment of experimentation but realised the saddle is too wide to work for mountain biking as getting my arse over the back wheel would mean some odd frog like position to get my legs either side of the saddle.  Not simple.

With all these things chasing round my mind I took the opportunity this weekend to take a seat on my mum's bike.  She is 67 years old and travels everywhere on her steed which comes equipped with a rear pannier and a rear rack bag and a basket on the front.  It is a proud upright beastie.  It has, though, an amazing saddle.  Sat on it, and every time I moved, it popped, it swayed, it bounced like a bucking bronco.  Further examination revealed a zebeddee type spring from saddle to bike enabling any shock to be absorbed through ... well, I'm not sure.  It was a revelation, and if my mum can manage with that, then maybe, just maybe I'm being a little too fussy.

Scrumptious Scarborough

Ah, another illicit evening spent poring over an ordnance survey map.  This time OL27 was the subject of my clandestine activity.  Somehow I have managed to book a camping wigwam (for this please read wooden shed with nearby toilet and shower facilities) near Dalby Forest at the weekend of the National Points Series. (NPS)  Bit of an own goal as the purpose of being in that location was to get down and get dirty with the Red route at Dalby which it now seems is partially closed for the NPS event.  I actually investigated the possibility of entering the race simply in order to ride the route ... but I'd be a bit of an obstacle to the other riders really.  Besides which, what would I wear?

Anyway, never one to let a minor obstacle become a major impediment, an alternative plan in the area is now under scrutiny.  Shall I do a coastal route, find another bridleway and make a journey rather than complete a trail.  Will I take cake? (of course).

It's a weekend with three mates, one of whom is some kind of lightweight racing whippet with youth, talent and skill on her side.  Don't you just hate people like that?  Another is her bloke, a somewhat thickset Dane but nonetheless with sufficient skills on the bike to whoop my arse.  Bringing up the rear is the Scottish midget and of course me.  I've spent the last three months not getting left behind so this one's going to be a reality check for me.  I need that.

Endorphins please

I am grumpy.  Really grumpy.  After my bike pootle on Tuesday to assess the feasibility of Route 55 I came down with a head cold.  Not of man flu proportions, clearly, but enough to make me have a grown up talk to myself about how the chances are I will make matters worse if I go pushing it doing intense exercise.  I'm not really capable of going on a bike ride that is gentle ...

I'm just glad I went out for a ride Tuesday because it's now been two days without exercise, and I confess I am an addict to the endorphins.  Get proper grumpy if I don't get to feel my lungs gasp.  This is in fact a very real problem.  Like many growed up persons I do have an episode of mental health issues in my past, and maintenance of sanity and mood is a little dependent on the rush from exercise.  Add a cold into the equation and sleep disturbance and then square the effect of everything by adding in the PMT optional extra and I'm tamping mad.

The bike does, generally give me endorphins like no other exercise can within just a period of 30 to 45 minutes.  Running does it too but I can't sustain a goodly period of running and indeed I damage easily and the works physio really doesn't need to be helping to mend me every single week.  Indoor climbing is my other sneaky pleasure in accessing my drug but comes in longer blocks - 3 hours and then frankly getting to sleep is impossible with some freakish brain activity, the like of which Caffeine can simply not replicate.

Sigh, I am a person of hormones.

Route 55

Although I clearly pretend to be a newcomer, what with all my evangelical views on commuting to work on the bike, in reality I have a history, provenance if you like.  It has to be at least ten years since I first tried the cycle commute from my current home to my current work place.  Oh yes, I  have staying power and have remained in the same places for 13 years.

It started to get boring, the same options of routes in and routes out. I had two routes, one which took me north of Manchester City Centre and another which takes me into town and out again with a couple of mild diversions I can select between depending on whim and where I think the fittest blokes will be seen.

Since the early days when I first worked out my routes, Sustrans, it seems, have been busy and now in place are all these clearly numbered routes.  So, methinks, let's give one a go.  Because I'm a worrier, and I worry about being late to work through schoolgirlerror (getting lost) I did a Recce on Tuesday night of Route 55.   This is the boy:  http://www.sustrans.org.uk/what-we-do/national-cycle-network/route-numbering-system/route-55

What was interesting was seeing how someone else, someone possibly more experienced approached the route planning.  Also obvious was that it wasn't someone in a hurry to get to town!  The first bit of the route took me around some back streets instead of the direct route out of my local area.  All very well but the roads were as pot holed and bumpy as they come and even if it didn't slow me up, it definitely had every not firmly attached bit of the bike rattled to death.  Then weirdly there was a Cyclists Dismount sign.  A brief length of alley way then appeared.  That, in my view, is Not The Cyclist's Way.  Why would you create a bike route where you have to dismount?  It wasn't the only time.  Pedalling on a bit further and the time comes to cross the motorway.  There are perfectly good roads that go over this.  One has a traffic lighted roundabout but Sustrans feeling is clearly that the pedestrian bridge and another jolly  Cyclists Dismount sign is appropriate.  No, it's not.  I am trying to get to work, and I want the journey to be as flowing and quick as it can be; I'm not out for a leisure dawdle here folks.

From there on it was kind of decent, took me along a long stretch of really really flat road (felt weird, no hilly bits at all), with cycle segregation or cycle path all the way.  Some of it shared with pavement which always slows me up a little as people walking are less predictable than cars, and will randomly step in front of you and then there's small children, cats, push chairs etc. to contend with.  Signage could have been a little better - in two places the section I was on suddenly broke and recommenced in the right hand lane of traffic meaning crossing the traffic without warning.  The final bit as I got into town took me unexpectedly onto the pavement on the other side of the road where there was cycle provision.  That would have been complex in rush hour I feel.

What I realised is that these are routes for dawdling pedallists, not for a woman on a mission.  Horses for course I guess, and it has added some options into my ride possibilities.

Lyrical feeling

Today your handlebars
were the antlers of a stately stag in rut.
Yesterday they were coathangers,
wires flexing with my clutch.
Some days they are noodles
twitching just beyond my reach,
but today they were proud and poised
leading me on my way.

Your pedals today were nonstick pans,
feet floating off each prance,
your pedals are outsized jam lids,
the screws don't fit my shoes.
But yesterday, oh yesterday they were as cut
diamonds set in gold,
holding my legs as precious stones,
they were bright, beautiful and bold.

Your saddle, you'll be sorry to hear,
is sharpened, shining razor wire.
The leather is as polished hardwood,
beautiful but duty misunderstood.
The shape is as an arrow's head
pointing, firing, taking aim, shooting
angry shafts at my oh so tender rear.

Your frame is as Isambard Brunel
designed his elegant structures,
clear lines and functional,
an object of much desire.
Your frame is as strokable
as a kitten's softest fur,
an animal grace all your own;
I'm humbled to be yours.

First Light

Being away in an amazing part of the country for a weekend of workshops it seemed a shame not to explore the area on the bike.Convinced that somehow I would fit in a sneaky Bike Ride, and inspired by the current 30 days of April challenge to get on your bike each and every day of the month, I committed.  Strapped the bike to the car for the drive to Mankinholes Youth Hostel.

Getting there on Friday night an hour before tea I took my first opportunity to explore the area, a tempting bridlepath beginning just next to the hostel entrance.  I'm a bit of a city girl and still have some of the southerner in me, and generally expect to see bridlepaths as wide and smooth entities.  To my surprise and great delight the path was rocky and gnarly and with a bit of a gradient.  Wicked fun.  Back to the hostel for a shower so cold it brought on an ice cream headache!

The timetable being shared with us, Saturday looked pretty committed.  Breakfast 9am to 10am, workshops 10am to 12pm, with lunch 12pm to 2pm, workshops again 2pm to 4pm and 4:30pm to 6:30 pm with departure for pub grub at 7:30pm.  That was a challenge which required some drink to get my head round.  Saturday morning arrived with a lack of sleep and if I'm honest maybe a smidgeon of a headache.  7am though saw me in lycra with map and helmet at the ready.

I had a plan - stick to very clearly marked not too dangerous looking bridleways, 30 - 40 minutes out and turn round. Simples.  Can't get lost.  It wasn't even 7:15 before I found myself puffing and panting and in the little ring on the mountain bike up a gnarly trail on a deserted foggy hillside.  The incline became shallower and the views opened up.  I took off my gloves and my coat and was down to a baselayer.  Five minutes later at the crest of the hill in cloud, jacket on and raincover on the rucksack.  I'd never been on the mountain bike so early in the morning and a more fantastic start to the day I couldn't imagine.  Best hangover cure ever.