Yeay, a gratuitous Hasselhoff moment! It's a flimsy fabrication of an excuse to go check out his website really, but it is I understand (for those who experience weekends) Friday night and somehow that seems like reason enough.
Actually, I went night riding last night (see how tenuous the link is), my first time ever, and as part of a group which included an off road tandem. That takes some strength of relationship really. Imagine the trust, and also picture just how much tandem time bickering it must have taken to get to the point where they could publicy appear on a bicycle made for two? My limited experience of a similar situation is spending three days in a two person canoe with my ex. Who was already my ex at the time. Which perhaps might explain the three days of gentle bickering and provision of amusement to those with us. Three days going down the River Wye with all our kit in a blue plastic barrel (just as I believe was used by the original indian tribes). The difficulties over steering, where we're going, who was responsible, and hilarious (retrospectively) criticism of each other's efforts. Any rapids were actually a welcome relief because at least then we'd both shut up and just attempt to get through them the right way up. To ride on a tandem with a partner must be a form of living hell I suggest. Or perhaps make or break a partnership. Steer clear I suggest.
And the ride was endurable, although I confess I spent the entire thing in a state of severe apprehension and misgiving and general out of my comfort zone status. Which is fine because my comfort zone is becoming a little unfamiliar these days. I say this as I pack light for my next trip which kind of starts Monday as I meander down to my mum's in the Home Counties. Oh yes, I am originally from Hertfordshire, be in no doubt as my estuary accent hardens itself up in readiness for a return. A ferry to be caught with a vehicle followed by driving on the right. And that's only the start of the newness.
Hmm, never really actually properly listened to the lyrics of Stairway to Heaven. Now, being me, I am over analysing them. Possibly because I have time. The lovely luxury of time and I can spend hours just inside my head thinking, mulling, considering. I'm so relaxed it's bizarre. A welcome side effect is that my TMJ thingy which is basically knackered jaw cartilage is leaving me well alone, as the occasions when I'm holding my jaw tense are pretty much zero, and indeed my diet has moved to softer foods such as cake ... it's a good life. This picture shouldbe on my inspiration noticeboard at home really. Along with the Dove advert wiomen, a silhouetted cyclist, Bear Grylls and a Guinea pig ...
Open Uni next unit has started, and from initially thinking oh well, it'll be what it'll be, I'm feeling moderately optimistic it might just work quite well. Free from distractions I'm a lot more likely to knuckle down to my books, and with an imminent departure to the continent (next week) with no TV, limited English speaking radio, and likely to be limited Internet, well, evening distractions are likely to be few, aren't they? I'm feeling really happy about leaving next week too. I am trying, well, possibly over trying to maintain friendships, and feel kind of reasonably comfortable with where I am. It's important to me, and I try hard, not really a needy thing about wanting to be loved, but something much more fundamental to me. A sense of community and belonging which somehow encompasses an understanding that things shift and change, and happiness is a state that embraces that movement. Flippin' 'eck, studying Buddhism for the first unit of the course, alongside this travelling malarkey may change me ...
Yesterday and today have been about getting stuff done, seeing folk, baking cake, that kind of thing, saving myself for this evening's MTB night ride out there in the Peak District. May be time for winter clothing, methinks.
And I leave here pondering Led Zeppelin ...
"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking."
So, today is a rest day. If I could even understand what that means. It started quite well with PJs on until about 9:30. Who knows what I was dithering doing until that time. From there on, it got busy with the Fiamma Bike Rack. Oh my, what a world of bits and pieces. Why don't manufacturers send these things out a little nearer complete? There are bits left over. But then my very competent mechanical husband always used to say "you can tell it's a good job when there's bits left over". There are a couple of random things which look like they should have somehow been vital to the construction but I still can't quite see how ... anyway, the rack is on and maybe I'll use it, maybe I won't. Maybe due to the time taken assembling I'll make damn sure I use it.
I've done three days consecutive on the bike and I didn't die. In fact, I don't feel the faintest bit fatigued today and am wondering just why I elected to declare today a day of rest. I don't actually think I need it. Something suggests to me that maybe the days I thought were kind of hardish really weren't. Maybe I am a rider who could begin to absorb 6 hour days perhaps?
Saturday was a road ride around the Peak District. Five hours around the back roads and a fair amount of ascent and unfortunately me descent. However, my mountain bike handling skills do seem in some ways to be vaguely serving me well, one almost certain "off" was definitely prevented by some bike memory from the MTB. Can't corner on either bike though, why is that I wonder ... although every time I do a corner ringing in my ears are the words of my friend Dan - never ever brake unless you are vertical. Which kind of works for me. I almost hear the rebuke if I even consider trying to brake during a corner.
Sunday was a mountain bike ride, and somehow it didn't seem that long. When did I become the kind of person who thinks a 4 hour ride is relatively short and easy. It was blissfully lovely though, riding with a group where rather than being at the back I was actually in the middle. Even when I'm not at the back though I am really mindful of those who are because I've been there myself almost every ride that I do. Being mindful of them doesn't mean assuming their feelings are the same as mine are at the back mind you. I suspect I am in the extremes of reaction to the situation because I get a female feeling of guilt for holding the group up, and I tend to turn myself inside out to try not to be a hindrance. Not everyone does that, and I envy those who can take a relaxed approach and realise that far from holding the group up they are an integral part of the group and it's not just a case of "nobody minds", it's really a case of that's normality of group riding and nobody even notices let alone actually minds. Well, possibly only the occasional testosterone driven bloke.
Monday again on the MTB but this time transferring to Ruthin, North Wales. The Over the Top route from the Ride the Clwyds website. What a fantastic local council they are to provide these routes which are genuine mountain bike rides, not some sugar coated tow path. They are fun, not all surfaced wide tracks. Brilliant. Hats off and all that. Funny thing about the Ruthin ride is that the first time I did it, the ride was 5 hours plus. The timing has gradually improved, partly as a result of actual knowledge of the route and partly less breaks, less walking and generally being a bit more gnarly on the bike. Under 3 hours these days. I do believe it's time to add a loop to it ...
Ruthin was in the mist and cloud, and it was a kind of amazing feeling of being isolated in a white landscape with the occasional luminous orange autumnal tree looming at you. And the occasional sheep. I always feel high up when I am in the clouds, like nothing could possibly be above me In heaven perhaps.
Ah, and today we're on Guns & Roses.
"Mama put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That cold black cloud is comin' down
Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door"
Battered. I am driving my body quietly and at my own pace beyond anything I've done before. And I'm shrinking. Or at least weirdly independantly a number of my ex work colleagues commented on how tiny I was looking when I popped in for coffee this week. My theory, which the bathroom scales at home support, is that I'm smaller without my job. Not in a way that bothers me at all, but I no longer have to assert myself or take a lead on anything whatsoever. I don't have to be a big person any more, nothing like larger than life, all I am these days is me. And that's quite enough, thank you. Sometimes perhaps a little too much.
Being away does odd things to your relationships with people. In a lot of ways it does good things because it leads you to a point of absolute clarity as to what's important in life, and it is as ever it is, the people. Which means I make a conscientious effort to maintain the valuable people in my life. Hard work sometimes, but good worthwhile hard work which is important to me. Internet connections aside, I have time, and want to make the best use of the blocks of time I'm spending at home. This has meant that from returning home on Sunday, I've done lots of things with lots of people, some really unexpected, things I didn't even know I was doing happened, and friends have also been making efforts to pin down my availability. It's lovely, I feel somehow held, supported, some kind of metaphysical arms around me the whole time. I'm humbled by my mates, truly grateful and truly humbled.
Yet funnily, I'm itching to be on the road again. Eager as the proverbial mustard to get over to the continent, with the ferry now booked for 31st October. I carry with me the people who are important to me, hand luggage, not hold, I keep them close to my thoughts and to my heart.
Funnily enough, this song was going round my head today on the road ride with three guys. Mostly because of the line "left behind" because as is my way, I was at the back. But trying hard.
Following some solo days, it was pretty bloody marvellous to be joined by the splendid Carl for climbing on the Isle of Skye. Carl has a brain the size of a planet, is well over 6 foot of blonde intellect with his own van and an encyclopedic knowledge of climbing, climbs and climbers. I'm fortunate to have a climbing partner like him in my life. He has a near obsessive passion over weather forecasting and comes complete with a sparcely equipped Toyota van. Nothing like the plus luxury of Shazza. A huge advantage of climbing with Carl is that the two of us giggle like school children with regularity.
So he arrived on the Saturday with plans. Big plans. Because, hey, he'd come a long way for this "weather window" and had also got brand spanking new ropes following the Alison and Pembroke sea cliffs incidents earlier this year. So before I knew it, we were walzing off towards Crioch crags for a spot of mountain type routes. And oh my, they were high and fearsome. Knee tremblingly huge immense, a scale like nothing I'd contemplated climbing before. Walking, yes, or looking at from a distance in admiration, also, all over that. But climbing them. Flippin' 'eck. But yes, we attempted a multipitch ascent. Then we got lost. A little unfortunate to be sure but by no means marred the day because we were then presented with a team challenge of retreat down unknown paths which was a silly experience we both did together. I actually love the dual reliance on each other, and with Carl, frankly it's a pleasure. We work well as a team.
Monday was mostly a wash out so we did the climbers version of tourism. First we visited our intial planned goal for the day of sea cliffs but then we toured Old Man of Storr, Rhuada beach cliffs and finally ended up at Neist point for an overnighter with a cragging day in mind for the Tuesday. And all was mighty fine, and as ever we slept with beautiful views, rivers, fountains and general fresh air stuff all around. And Carl having forgotten to bring his own trowel, oh yes, we bonded, knew more about each other than folk really ought to know.
Tuesday was Neist Point crags. Mmm, cragging. Quite a lovely thing to do with all the time in the world, sea breezes and importantly no other folk. Imagine that, crags with climbs at all grades and nobody else in sight other than the occasional walking type tourist pointing out that my red top made me visible climbing for some distance. And it was a good workout, and there were many laughs, there was the type of concentration where Carl was looking down on me going through a particularly tricky sequence of moves being quite impressed that at this somewhat tense time I was still carrying out conversation ... that is until I told him to shut up. Which was fine because when I'd completed the horrid horrid moves he was giggling at me. Lots of laughter, that's what climbing should be all about. To hell with those serious tick listers, I like to laugh.
Arrival at the bothy was with some trepidation. The first door I opened was one of those oh shit moments when I thought the tent I'd caringly carried all that distance was going to come into its own ... but further investigation revealed the proper bothy.
Welcoming looking, eh? It's weird stepping in, no idea what to expect in terms of space, "facilities" and whether anyone else will be resident. Because of the various items left over time, you can't entirely be sure if these are the temporary trappings of a returning hiker or whether these are "useful things" left for the enjoyment of others. There was a sleeping mat and a sleeping bag there amongst all the usual debris of candles, tea bags, flip flops, a discarded waterproof etc. but as darkness arrived it became apparent I was on my own for the night.
Except I wasn't alone. Before I finally caved in and retreated to my bed in the unheated metal roofed hut, I was pleased to make the acquaintance of the bothy mouse. With that for company and the roaring of rutting stags, it was going to be one hell of a long night. But I was warm and I was dry, and all I needed to do was sit it out until morning. I slept with my tea light on for the whole of the night, working on the theory that the flame might just put the mouse off actually coming onto the bed platform. And the stag noises were at least predictable, and I believe I did actually sleep, snuggled up in the 4 seasons down bag.
Early to rise the next morning at first light (I couldn't wait in honesty), morning saw the normal tea and porridge routine which I seem to carry with me wherever I wake up. And then, aching everything, it was time to go find the van. Just another four hours of walking to go, but at least this time, with the load lightened by the consumption of food and water the previous day. Up and at them for the rolling restful walk back to Inverkirkaig via Lochinver and the moorlands.
So Suilven. Big fat mountain or possibly hill. I'm not particularly fussy about such details. A challenge is what you make it. Having driven into the Assynt area, it dominated the approach, and yes, it had to be achieved somehow. I hesitate to use the word "climbed" because to me these days that involves ropes and rock shoes and clanking of jingly jangly shiny odd things. Walked perhaps or maybe scrambled. I may have spent too much time mulling over my current reading matter of Muriel Grey's First Fifty about her Munro bagging exploits. No relation to Fifty Shades of Grey I must add. I expect she's quietly tittering about that possible connection. Maybe she has had more sales because of it, who knows. Readers expecting the same thing will be disappointed, but me, I'm enjoying the book, although it's the slowest read ever for me because evenings consist of the night falling around the van, followed by me turning off the light knackered by 8:30, with only a chapter read. I'm doing worn out rather well.
This is the kind of view that drew me in.
With a little help from the Cicerone Scottish guide book and the Backpackers Highlands book I identified the perfect route. Not the shortest route, where's the fun in that, but the route from Inverkirkaig past the Kirkaig Falls. Picture here explains why that was a good plan ...
Autumnal or what, eh? The route had me approach Suilven from the south side, after a walk in of over 3 hours. It was a two dayer, so I was packing weight. 50 litre rucksack, which to my credit I did not fill, after all, just because there's room doesn't mean you should load it, does it? And I tried to travel light, despite the obvious need for water, sleeping bag, thermarest and the just in case tent.
After walking with that weight and feeling it in shoulders and hips, I stood at the base of the mountain (or hill, whatever ...) and thought oh shit. This is bloody immense, it's high, it's steep and oh joy of joys, it's a scree scramble, my favorite (said with an enormous treacle coat of sarcasm). And there I was, already feeling the weight of the world (well, OK my rucksack) on my shoulders, strength and balance all uncertain. But there was still a hill to be scaled (neatly avoiding use of word climb there), and there was all the time in the world. As the words at the top of my stairs at home say, Every Journey Begins with a Single Step. In other words just start moving and then keep moving. Simples, eh? The ascent (see, another non climb word) was slow and painful but at least it was steady, every footstep placed with care, every angle of my body considered with rucksack weight balanced. And I reached the first saddle (or are we calling it a Col) in the sunshine. Which conveniently turned to cloud just as I made the west pinnacle of Suilven. No photo opportunity there then. A simple slide, shuffle and scamper took me down the north side, and included a lengthy chat with a tattoed and pierced geyser I found lurking on the Col (we talked about the state of our knees; I felt old), followed by a discussion with men with guns and camo gear which was a tad disconcerting if I'm honest. I suspect my burgundy Rab Alpine jacket saved me from being shot at though by standing out from the scree and heather as the hunters eyed up the stag I nonchalently walked past. The ongoing walk took me along peaty moors, lowland lochs, unpathed navigation to a landrover track, and just as the rain began once again to show its strength, there it was, the bothy. Home for the night.
And because it somehow makes sense, a little Lily Allen to brighten the day.
So left to my own
devices after departing the company of Alan & Lilian, I did what
every rational person would do … and followed the weather.
Actually the weather forecast was appalling for pretty much
everywhere, but I did my best.
Sunday night I headed
north, surprised as I was to find there was much north left in the
UK. But yes there was and I parked up in a layby somewhere near to
the Kyle of Sutherland mountain bike trails. Unsurprisingly then,
the Monday morning saw me keen and early out on the trails, well,
after a now obligatory amount of faff. In a fit of brave, because
somehow I really do want to improve on the bike, I went for the black
run. It wasn't an ill informed decision, reading up on the topic had
revealed some experienced folk felt it was somewhere between black
and red. Excellent. Do-able. The track had some uphill, but
frankly since the Pyrenees, no amount of up feels either steep or
lengthy right now, but it was also a slabby bouldery mecca. For
those who like that kind of thing. Which possibly isn't quite me.
Anyway, I did a lap of the black and I didn't die, even though I
walked maybe 30% of it, and repeated several sections. Most of the
trouble I had was picking the right line across the boulders, and
keeping enough momentum so that when large gaps appeared between
rocks the wheels went over it instead of grinding to a rather sudden
and in my view unnecessary stop. I was encouraged enough that I did
the trail a second time and fared much much better on how much of it
I actually rode. Still feel that somehow I didn't do enough riding,
and sadly I won't be on the bike again for a bit. I miss not being
on the bike, and also I worry that when I do get back on I will have
lost all fitness and ability. I really am desperate to make the
cycling work for me, mostly because I am so fed up with being at the
back of groups panting like a steam train when others haven't even
had to open their mouths or build up a sweat. I resent time not on
the bike in an odd way, yet lack the discipline to do more.
Monday night I drove
into the Assynt area, and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of
the hills. An evening read up told me the hills which were singing
to me so loudly were Stac Pollaidh and Suilven. Both looked
intimidatingly huge and steep and unachievable, and both terrified me
with the thought of walking up them, particularly alone. I guess it
is a year of being brave for me. I really am so scared sometimes of
the prospect of things like this that maybe I should be at home
knitting and drinking cocoa and stop trying to pretend to be
something I'm not. Or am I? I really don't know why I do what I do
because I spend so much of the time in fear that it's hard to see how
sometimes it qualifies as fun. I'm guessing it's more about keeping
the endorphins high and holding at bay the horrible feeling I live
with when I don't exercise.
So Tuesday in the
interest of facing my fears I walked Stac Pollaidh. It was
ridiculously easy, particularly in route finding terms. The path
pretty much a “tourist” trail, upgraded with slabby rocks and
impossible to lose your way on. There's a massive discouragement to
straying from the path too as the mountain has unbelievably
(believably) become damaged by the footfall and it's there to protect
it. Bless it. Two and a half hours I was back at the van thinking
“is that it?” along with “what do I do with the rest of the
day?”. Somehow the answer was prepare for the next day.
Wednesday morning then
saw me prepared and ready. I had a map, I knew the route and had
packed the 50litre rucksack with as little as I thought I needed. It
had sleeping bag, thermarest, tent, water, a filtration bottle,
stove, saucepan, carefully measured pasta, one person pasta sauce pouch, mug,
spoon, gas bottle, toothbrush and toothpaste, first aid kit, and dry
layers too. I was climbing Suilven, oh yes, that's what I was about
to do ...
I am on a campsite
tonight near Lochinvar. There is a small sandy cove, sheltered and
private. After sunset I walked along the beach, just on the edge of
the tide, the occasional bat swooping nearby, the sound of the waves
moving millions of grains of sand in a mesmerising rhythm. Breathing
through my nose to savour the smell of woodsmoke wafting on the
autumn evening air. I'm only slight, and a solitary figure in jeans
and trainers, fleece hoodie with the hood up because of the slight
chill on my neck, and a down gilet snug to my body for warmth. I'm
walking incredibly slowly, pace after pace which could be soundless
if there was anyone to hear.
A thought arrives, and
I suspect it heralds change. I find the phrase “you can stop
running now” writing itself in the sky and in the sand, and I feel
the relief from the cold tired feet through to the tension in my jaw.
I can stop running now.
When asked in the early
days after Dave had died, “how's Alison?” my mum fell into the
habit of saying “she hit the ground running and hasn't stopped”.
Maybe now I can stop. Why couldn't I stop before? I didn't even
know I was still phrenetic, running. And here's the thing. Most
people who chuck it all in, make a change, travel do it because they
want to run, to run away from something. Who would have known that
I, as usual, have it in reverse, I want to stop running.
Then I'm walking still
steadily, along the beach but now I'm crying, tears unstoppable salty
as the sea falling down my cheeks and I'm crying, because I want to
stop running but I don't really know how.
Chumbawamba didn't make
it into the van music collection, mostly because in honesty their
albums are on tape not CD, but also because they represent me of 20
years ago, and maybe that's not what's needed on this latest journey.
The female singer has the most amazingly, distractingly sweet voice,
and yet the lyrics so often contrast almost jarringly with the
sweetness of the voice with the coarseness and brutality of the words
and concepts. Time Bomb isn't the most extreme discords but it has
an element of it. Check it out.
Next up on the Frank
Turner CD … “I was born in middle England and not in Nashville,
Tennessee, and the only person in this band is me”. I know how he
feels. He's a discrepancy, something which came about but doesn't
quite fit the accepted norm. I'm middle class. It's something I
feel down in my gut, although, if you're only considering parents,
their vocations and level of qualifications and income, then yes,
there's a working class background there somewhere. Except my parents
on paper were different beings to the real folk who were really
middle class in outlook in a way which again is hard to put on paper.
I think they valued education, and in some way appearances. They
didn't want to be looked down on. Actually, I'm not sure about
education, because they were surprised by both me and my sister's
ambitions to go a step further than A level. It wasn't by that
memory something they actively encouraged, they were surprised. Hmm.
It does summon up the
question where do I fit, where does the 44 year old nomad who has
quit her job and normal life fit in? Is there a category for me, I
wonder?
Post Pyrenees I have
been busy. Had a hectic two and a half days turnaround to get my
shit together for the next skirmish with travel. With hindsight,
maybe it wasn't enough of a turnaround, it certainly felt like a
sprint effort. The Monday appeared to be spent on faff, paperwork,
things which somehow still need to be done even in a life of no plans
and ultimate flexibility, because Monday afternoon I was walking with
friends from Edale, where we went up Grindbrook in the pouring rain,
walking on and on and on in the effort to find a safe crossing point.
Tuesday I was up early to take the road bike into Alf Jones in
Wrexham where it was due it's six week service. Six weeks, eh? I
have done a few miles … and then Wednesday was financial adviser
day (yeay, I am solvent) followed by a rapid exit up to Scotland.
Simples.
Scotland was up to
Dalraddy, a holiday park near to Aviemore where my friends Lilian and
Alan have a static caravan. There are showers and a laundry and all
in all it's a gentle start. Alan, bless that man for his creativity,
foresight, his knowledge of the area, his versatility and his
determination to “get things done” had many plans, all of which
could change at a moment's notice. I'm in safe hands with A & L,
and we're currently planning next year's holiday in the Alps …
Anyway, it was superb.
Day one we got on the road bikes and pedalled from Dalraddy up to the
Cairngorn ski station. It was a fab road ride up there, followed by
an immense descent, although somehow neither felt anything like the
steepness or duration of France where I'd done worse on the MTB which
was good because it was low effort on the whole. Ride home included
a cafe stop for cake and coffee. Near obligatory on the road bike I'd
say. Day two was a “rest day” when we walked 20K, although on
the flat. Average kilometre speeds being 11 minute to 14 minute.
Alan was no so happy with mine and Lilian's take on a gentle amble.
Third day was a wash out. No other way to describe it. It should
have been a two Munro bagging day but was kind of a car journey
followed by some sea cliff bouldering / big boots soloing. And all
was well. Fourth and final day saw us at Wolftrax giving the
mountain bikes some exercise. We like to keep moving ...
I have never been much
of a sit and listen to music person, in fact, I'm not really a sit
down person at all, which perhaps explains the lack of the ability to
simply chill, doing nothing, just soaking up lyrics, rhythm and tune.
It's not that I don't like music. Get me to a music festival and I
will embrace the sit down on the grass and listen thing in absolute
contentment, no impatience or irritation at it being all I'm doing,
because it's what I'm there to do. Listening is in itself a purpose.
I don't have music on
as a soundtrack to my life either. It's not in the background while
I wash up or while I iron or do anything around the house. I'm kind
of happy in my own head with my own thoughts. I generally phase any
background music out; bewildering for anyone who talks to me about
the music playing on a car stereo or in the pub, bar or anywhere
else. I won't be listening, I'll be inside my head, doing something
completely different. It's the Quaker in me; I learned at a really
quite young age how to be still and silent and sift through thoughts,
allowing in threads of thinking and inspiration which don't always
tangibly seem to stem from inside me, but of course must. It's this
ability which makes me comfortable in my own company. A good thing
really as it's going to be largely my own company I will be keeping
for the next fortnight, and I'm OK with that, really OK with it.
There is, however, a
selection of music in Shazza the campervan. Carefully chosen and the
favourite travelling up to Scotland and today around the lanes as I
made my way to Knochan Crag Car Park, where, by the way, Campervans
are permitted to stay overnight, is Frank Turner. Frank is a singer
I first heard maybe three or four years ago, with one of my friends
who felt he is a true guru of rock & roll. To me, Frank is
simply a more current Billy Bragg. Like Billy, if you listen
critically you could also reach the conclusion he cannot sing. But
check him out and see if you agree for yourself. Linking is too
difficult on the move!!!
Anyway, today's Frank
song I'm mulling over is him singing about the commonish experience
of waking up, not knowing where you are, feeling slightly ashamed,
wanting to be in clean clothes, elsewhere and with a charger for your
phone. The theme running through the song is of waste, being halfway
through the best years of his life.
The song is "The Real Damage" and try as I might this internet connection is having nothing of it when I try to connect to you tube.
“I started out with
all my friends and ended up alone, you know I started out so happy
now I'm hungover ….”
So, when do those best
years start do you think, when do they finish, what are they, and
crucially, when indeed are you halfway? I like to think mine started
in my twenties and will cruise on until the end of my life. So, am I
halfway yet I wonder ...
It is somehow typical
of me that the start of my life as a lady of leisure began with … a
holiday. I mean, start as you mean to go on. But it was, in fact,
an actual holiday, involving flights and a hotel. Something in fact,
not typical of me. My life hasn't really been one with standard type
holidays; sometimes I wonder if, in fact, anything about my life has
ever really been standard. I aspire to standard. Holidays for me
have normally involved a tent, and seldom included a flight. I'm
either unadventurous or a cheapskate or perhaps just someone who
genuinely has never felt the need to pamper herself. Anyway, this
was a holiday with a difference. Because we took mountain bikes. It
was a guided mountain biking holiday (boot camp) in the Pyrenees.
As is normal for me, I
was the slowest in the group, but with a bonus prize of having
company at the back of the group from someone who started the holiday
as a stranger, but by the end of the third day of riding became a
partner in crime, a fellow giggler, and indeed someone with whom I
had developed bizarre in jokes with in a very short time. Who knows
what the others made of us? As with any cliquey association, shared
phrases began to crop up. The language which excludes other people,
even if only in simple ways. “it'll be fine”, “we can do this”
and the one which made me chuckle so I could hardly breathe was
“we're better than this”. And we laughed our way around the
trails.
The Pyrenees are high,
and there are a lot of them. Gradients steeper and longer than
anything I've ever ridden in the UK. Climbs which took what seemed
like hours, descents which took more, much much more time than ten
minutes, rocks which were in the places the landscape had put them,
not man. I rode for longer and I rode closer to my limit for longer
than I ever have before. Then, and I was not alone, after three days
riding I got sick. Proper sick. The entire hotel was filled with
the chorus of vomiting, spewing, hurling and retching. Instead of a
rest day, the Wednesday became a sick day, with Thursday a rest day
to recover. Yet strangely by Friday, despite being as bloated as a
jellyfish and as unable to digest anything as an acid worm bin, I not
only managed to ride, but actually felt good, bouncy, in fact. Even
though, after much serious consideration over what the hell my body
could actually try to digest, I spent the day on chocolate brioche.
When in France …
I've been back now for
… over a week, I guess. Already life outside work is peculiarly
affecting my ability to distinguish days from each other. I felt
hugely fit on my return, only to crash myself back to earth with a
lacklustre circuit of Llandegla trail centre. But this week, I've
been in Scotland and things have changed …
