A Holiday

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 …

Going In

So here we are in post Olympics slump, and I'm clearing out my desk drawers.  It feels glum.  Until now I've felt kind of excited, giddy, jubilant, all those kinds of words and now I'm feeling, well, just pretty pants really.  Tiredness plays a part to be sure.  I feel somehow peripheral.  In my own life, which isn't what I signed up for.  I either need to go out and annihilate myself or curl up in a corner and refuse to engage with the world.  A whole load of endings coming at once.  The Olympics, the job, and general stuff.  It should feel like a beginning.  Why doesn't it, I wonder?

Yes, tired, I guess.  Thursday saw me out on the mountain bike, Friday cycled to work on the road bike, and Saturday and Sunday I biked on the hybrid from my campsite to the Hadleigh Farm Olympic mountain bike stadium.  There's a 5  year old inside me who just wants to cry and say nobody cares.  But fortunately I'm a big grown up woman of "a certain age", and I won't do that.  Although I kind of want to.

The come down is kind of dramatic.  It's been a few months of highs, and definitely a weekend of stupendous awesomeness during which I've camped at the side of a fishing lake and learned about anglers. I learned that they arrive at 6am, that they have machines that go beep, that they shout when they land a fish, that they have hurricane lamps and curiously down in Essex they have WivesAndGirlfriends who wear black velour tracksuits with writing on the back and UGG boots.  Also they wear down gilets while I wear T-shirt and shorts.  They lean towards the heavy side too.

And because it really has felt like this for a couple of months, even if it doesn't right now, I bring you Jennifer Lopez:

"Tonight, feels like, Tonight, feels like, the best night of my life
I'm goin' in, I'm goin' in, I'm goin' in, I'm goin' in, hey!"

Two feet

So, the weekend's attempt at doing my mountain bike leadership course didn't go so well.  Which is a shame because I was committed to it and had put a lot of behind the scenes work in.  I'd worked hard on making sure my log book was complete and not a work of fiction, I'd funded my two day outdoor first aid course and taken leave from work to do it, I'd read the paperwork, I'd had the bike into the bike shop to try to make sure it was roadworthy before the course, I'd paid out for the course and accommodation.  And I jibbed after day one.  For reasons both logical and emotional.  And that's enough of that.

I did, however use the Sunday to attempt to lose some of my feeling of inadequacy, the sinking realisation that I have no place on a bike due to reasons of slowness and shit skills.  And it went rather well.  Whinlatter's red run is within my ability level; there's no problem with the ascents, the roots, the drop offs.  There is a problem with the downhill sharp gravelly berms but nothing that can't be overcome by a dignified get off and walk position on the matter.  And I know it is a horrible gloating bad thing which puts me into a really bad light, but at the end of the day, I am grateful to the two fellas going up the fire road who were slow enough that I not just could overtake but really had to overtake to avoid the holdup.

And I've been brave, and had the difficult conversation on the phone with the man who ran the course, and I've provided feedback to the folk who ultimately have responsibility for the course, and have been offered a couple of options to do the second day in a less intimidating group of people.  I'll think about it.

And today my internal song is sisters are doing it for themselves. Standing on their own two feet ...

Alone now

After some extensive research (OK, one google and then RTFM) I juggled with the front derailleur last night.  It won't go into the small ring. Dabbled with cable tension, dabbled with the Hi and Lo screws and generally fiddled with the evil scourge of satan thingy.  And the manual said to test it while riding.  So I did.

In the spirit of general Can't Be Arsedness I didn't bother with the Thule wonder bike rack, just took the wheels out, put some vague pieces of cardboard between the brake discs in case of accidental pushes on the brake levers, took down the mini seats and bunged it in.  No drama, no class or finesse.  Off we went to Rivington because frankly where I live there are no hills.  Well, not unless you keep going up and down the bit of road which bridges the canal.  Which is not exactly satisfactory.

Rivington and feeling playful I took the map and some attitude with me.  Started on my normal trundle down to the folly on the side of the reservoir, which looks like the ruins of a small castle, but I suspect was built that way.  Doing this in an evening is interesting.  It is class hang out area for Yoof, but was quiet and still and litter free as I pootled on by.  The first small climb of my natural route goes up alongside a school yard.  It is muddy, always, whatever the weather, and there are tree roots and the funniest thing is being made to jump out of your skin abruptly by the pig noises from the school's mini farm set up which you ride alongside.  This is the first point at which I have to get into little ring; and it doesn't go.  Which is fine because I am prepared with a) some knowledge and b) a screwdriver and an Allen key.  So I dabble with the Hi and the Lo and something seems to make sense but still no small ring.  So I reach down and plonk it in with my gloves.  Somehow the rest I've had at the bottom of this hill to mess with things I know nothing about has had an effect because I think for the first time ever I make it to the top of the hill still pedalling.  The slightly (and trust  me, it is only slightly) technical nature of the small incline has always had me off before, but today I am distracted by my gears and just keep moving). 

At the start of the long hard slog up the hill on the uneven cobbled type paving I have another go.  Somehow what I do now means that not only do I not have the small ring, I no longer have the large ring.  Which is OK because I only checked it was working experimentally; can't actually remember the last time I used the damn useless making up the weight object.  And we muddle through.  Then the phone rings, and I think blimey, I have phone reception so stop and chat, and again the rest is good because once the call is done I trundle on and on and on up the up.  In fact, it's going so well, and the mist is so alluring that when it comes to my normal straight on and descend I don't. I take the sharp right and keep going up.  The next choice I take the left and keep on going up.  I'm going up and up and up and up with the mist around me.  It actually gets to the point where the old track is approaching the road section and I realise the visibility is so poor that actually, even with the lights on there's a sense of danger from other folks in cars.  And the Common Sense Bear kicks in and I part descend my knobbly track.  Smiling.  Naturally.  Not a route I'm familiar with at the next junction but I go what the hell, take a new path and I do, and I want to cry.  Picture a bouldered river bed without water, and this is what it feels like I'm descending.  Big rocky loose stuff, tricky to find a line, surfaces that move as you go over them.  And then there's a weird central platform of tarmac, probably 18 foot in length and I aim at it.  Brake at the end as I realise the drop off, although manageable, would take me onto a bizarre landing point.  So I get off and edge my way down the rest, sighing with relief as I make a familiar landing stage.  I've climbed so far it's now all about the descending, and I choose routes at random in the hope I'll make it back to the car park, and now I'm smiling. There are drainage ledges across the pathway and to my surprise I find I'm pumping and taking air as I go over these.  And I'm smiling.

Still no small ring and now no large ring.  Mechanics are calling.

Singing "And we tumble to the ground, and then you say, I think we're alone now."

Except I had no tumbles and there was no we.

Porta Bog

So, I guess I have to face up to it.  The question of toilets and indeed ablutions whilst on the go.  I've started making initial exploration into a T5 conversion.  I don't need anything flash.  It doesn't need a paint job from out of a designer's handbook, it doesn't need alloy wheels or lowered suspension or blacked out windows or a straight through wide bore exhaust.  What it does need is a bed and a space for a bike, and some solar panelling so I can charge my phone (oh yes, I'm all over this wilderness thing, hehehehe), and rather than having the calor stove roaming free, perhaps a hotplate might be an idea.  And you can get really carried away with oh and such and such would be good.  But at the end of the day I'm a camper at heart and don't understand the need for onboard heating and shower.  I have a sleeping bag and I have a bucket.  Surely that's all that's needed.   It may be allowed furry dice though.

Looking at all kinds of options.  Buying something someone else has already converted and has either upgraded from or retired from.  Buying a second hand van and taking it to someone to convert.  Buying a van and plonking a thermorest in it (that's so not going to happen) or simply handing over my specifications to someone and saying make it happen.  Turns out, when it comes to looking at re-sale that some kind of double bed is indicated.  Which makes me sulk as a Bridget Jones style singleton.  Priority is more making sure the bike and I can snuggle up together at night all safe and warm, with me caressing it's perfectly formed lines and feeling at one with it, possibly more so than when I'm in the saddle.  Hmm, pink would be a good colour for a van ...

Bimbles off singing quietly:

"You got to learn to fly, learn to live and love so free
When we hear the voices sing"

Riding free

So, after the moorland bleakness, I'm back on a short stretch of unadopted road which is the kind of descending you could probably do with your eyes closed.  My legs, eyes and brain all relax briefly ... until the next junction when the map and compass are once again eagerly employed.  Past a cottage it says then turn right on a waymarked bridleway crossing a stream.  Immediately I am suspicious.  This guide book has form on stream identification.  And indeed the stream is a later cause of some confusion.  The waymarked bridleway though is a dream to find ... even if the signage turns out a little too accurate in terms of incline and direction ...

Eventually after some worry about where the stream actually is, I do arrive at it, after a long slog upwards on pleasantly bumpy and firm earth.  The book makes brief reference to the ground being a little boggy and I eye it with suspicion and anticipate sinking to my neck in marshland.  In the event it is in fact perfectly possible ... to carry the bike over.

Keep the stream on your right says the book.  So I try.  The path here is winding, tight, ascending and bumpy and I'm no longer out for a bike ride but indeed a walk with the bike acting as a handy thing to lean on as I traverse the path.  Then the stream fades out, the path fades out but I pick my way along the nearest thing I have to a path.  A couple of miles further on, and the instructions are no longer making sense.  Referral to a sweet section of single track for example has me scratching my head as this is what I survey ahead of me ...

No.  There is no way this can be right.  However, I think I can see where I ought to be and I keep trudging onwards.  Ending up at the top of a cliff.  Below me I see the watery thing I am meant to be aiming for.  I check the map, the compass, the shape of the water, the shape of the land, the presence / non-presence of roadways alongside the water.  Let's face it, I'm lost.  3pm in the afternoon and I'm on the top of a hill in open featureless moorland.  From where I am and from the map there is no way down to that water other than descending a cliff.  Frankly way beyond my skill set.  So I admit it, I'm going to need to backtrack.  I'm half way through the ride on distance with more hills to ascend.  I've been out here for 4 hours, I've drunk 2 litres of water and the ride was only scheduled for 3 - 4 hours.  I study the map for an escape route so I don't have to do the whole route back, and I turn around.  And I don't cry.  Well, not more than a welling up of my eyes and a lump in the throat anyway. I am a woman after all.

There is no shame in a turnaround.  There is, however, confusion.  It's more by luck than judgement I spotted one of the boundary posts or I would have managed to get myself even more lost.  The escape route is down a beautiful B road and then leads me onto a family trail ... which perhaps I should have stuck to in the first place.  But there is then icecream.  And cake.  And mixed olives to go with my campfire tea.

Pushing it

So, on the Thursday of my hols I thought I'd get a big ride in, a big cross country hilly effort taking me to places I'd never been before.  With this in mind, I found a route out of the village of Rhayader.  It started out not so well, with a wrong turn taken probably within ten minutes of starting the ride.  But after riding through a random orchard, getting out map and compass I managed to treat it not as a getting lost incident but more as having taken an alternative route to get to the same point as planned. 

I arrived as per the instructions at a farm house where the bridleway was described as going in front of the farm house.  It didn't look that friendly.  No sign post, and an awful lot of dogs.  I checked the map and checked again and there was no alternative.  Just as I was getting up the courage to get on with it on the bike though, along came a landrover and trailer, equipped with ancient farmer complete with flat cap.  He was kindly and advised I was on the right track ... but that if I went that way right now, right this minute I would be trampled underfoot by a herd of 30 cows which were making their way round the corner.  Having a completely daft fear of cows I listened up and listened well, and made my way to some high ground to watch the little dears parade past.

The next step was the descent shown above, cruising down to a point where a stream crossing was indicated.  This was said stream:

Simples, eh?  Followed a road up to "the top of the hill" which turned out not to be the top at all, but in fact a bridleway leading off the summit of the road and heading off onto a summit all of its own.  A trig point was indicated, and a gentle ascent which found me in the  middle of nowhere, no traffic noise, no planes, no nothing.  Still, peaceful, interrupted only by the birds and the sheep.  Gratuitous picture here:

The route then indicated some marshland, some pushing, some banks and some meandering blindly through the middle of featureless landscape and I realise I have reached the point where the book says, all nonchalent "ford the stream".  It looks somewhat innocent this stream.  More like a puddle in fact ...

This is the view taken after I've plunged into this lake like feature of the landscape.  The rocky bit is the run in to the river, so you descend that and then cross the innocent looking puddle.  Not a couple of feet in and you find that with parallel pedals you are up to your ankles and it's deepening.  Cruising through is no longer an option and pedalling like a demon you endeavour to keep moving against the resistance of the water just to avoid having to put your foot down and find yourself up to your knees or wobbling over in the water.  And we lived to see another day.

At this point, I'm maybe three hours into the ride.  The map is showing I'm maybe 1/3 of the distance through it, and the worst is yet to come ...

Lost girls

Having driven at relaxed pace from Eastbourne up to the Forest of Dean, my arrival at the woodlands was somewhat late afternoon, well at least in comparison to the time I'd hoped for.  I contemplated just heading off to the campsite for an afternoon nap but no.  I have dragged the bike all this way with me, I'm damn well going to Man Up and use it.  So, after some deliberation, and consideration of the only advertised bike trail through the forest (advertised as a "family" trail and therefore not sounding massively exciting) I decided on a start point for my journey through the woodlands.

Speech House road and a handy and also free arboretum car park grabbed my attention, and into the car park I trundled. Nice wooded car park, lots of nooks and crannies. Which was just as well as having driven there in civvies the plan was indeed to change knickers into cycling shorts.  Public nudity and changing hold very few fears for me any more; it's all the sea kayak activity which has led me down this route.  I change without incident, grab the water bottle, the bike, the map and compass and I'm off out onto the road, and what's more, I have a plan.  A flawed plan as it turns out.

My first move is to get to the start point of the off road section of the ride, and it is with some consternation I find the first stretch involves a road descent at 17%.  Which although lovely to zoom down holds some concern as I immediately start contemplating just how horrible it's going to be at the end of a ride when tired, hot and dusty I realise I'm going to have to climb to get back to the safety of the car.

It turns out my map in good old Alison tradition is fairly old, and the trails are in no way reflected on the 1:50000 map I have dragged out of the house.  So, inevitably after bimbling around bits of the forest trails for some time I am lost.  At this point I simply keep going, safe in the belief I'll hit a road at any time.  As indeed I eventually do, and by great chance the opening is opposite a petrol station with the name of the area handily forming part of the petrol station name.  So, Brierley it is then.  I check the map and head into the woods with a plan.  Keep going left and occasionally right.  That's the plan, and to an extent it works.

Eventually after going past the same small fishing pond twice I realise I need a little more detail in my plans.  Map out, scratch head.  Turn map up another way.  Scratch head.  Bother.  Compass.  Putting the map away I pop the compass in the trouser leg pocket and at every subsequent junction take whichever turn comes somewhere between South and East, and eventually life becomes a lot simpler.  Then just the simple matter of working out a) which arboretum I parked at (who would have thought there'd be two) and b) which entrance to the damned arboretum I'd used (who'd have thought entrances existed on two separate roads).

From there, the sense of satisfaction really set in.  I  have done it.  I have made a plan, I have taken my bike on my solo holiday and I have started out as I meant to go on, by truly using it, by daring to go out into the woods alone, and I have done what I set out to do.  I am happy and confident, and head off to my overnight campsite for an evening of sitting in front of the tent overlooking the Severn, sipping red wine and watching the sunset, car and bike behind me, wetsuit and buoyancy aid drying out over the handlebars of the bike.

Holidays!

I've been on holiday.  She says, stating the obvious.  A 9 day break involving car, bike, tent and incongruously a wetsuit.  The break took me from North Wales down to Watford, on to Eastbourne then heading North through Wales from Lydney to Rhayader to Llandegla before returning home to Manchester.  This was the itinerary:

Friday night drive to North Wales
Saturday MTB at Llandegla
Sunday drive to Watford, walking with Mum
Monday walk with Mum, drive to Eastbourne
Tuesday one to one day of coaching in a sea kayak
Wednesday drive to Lydney via MTB ride in Forest of Dean
Thursday drive through Brecon Beacons to Rhayader, bike ride through the Welsh hills
Friday drive to Llandegla stopping off to do the Marin Trail at Betws y Coed
Saturday MTB at Llandegla
Sunday drive home and sleep.

There will be photos and write up.  Shortly.

Cwmcarn

My weekend plan of choice this Saturday gone was Cwncarn - http://mbwales.com/Cwmcarn.  And a mighty fine plan it was too.  The trail down in the south of Wales was beautifully served by a fine campsite, situated next to a flowing river, visitor centre and of course the head of the trail.  http://www.caerphilly.gov.uk/cwmcarnforest.

Trail time was a little slower than anticipated, and once again, I blame Jason who was pacing himself on the uphill stretches.  The uphills were a challenge, technically, with rocks and roots and general lack of smooth pathway - which is one of the things mountain biking is all about, and serves as a reminder to me that skills work as well as fitness is something I should be working on if I want to improve at (and enjoy more) this game.  The weather was beautiful and sunny, and the two hour bike ride was done and dusted by lunchtime, when we returned to the campsite to enjoy the squashed rolls we'd carried in our bags for the previous two hours.

Drum roll here please.  Did my first ever section of black run.  Well, did 95% of it. Had a brain refusal moment at going round a tight bend on a track maybe 8 inches wide swooping towards a descent through a pipe.  Did the descent though.  All in all, a pleasant day out with no noticeable additional bruises, cuts, injuries etc. Roll on the next time out ...

My tour

Oh dear, I'm really rather a long way from fit.  Not, however, beating myself up about it, I do all right for an old burd.  I started the week with some enthusiasm for cycle commuting, not even letting slightly iffy weather forecasts put me off, and made plans and cracked on.  Such was my ardour that undeterred by book club after work Wednesday I still planned to get on and ride it.

Last experience of trying to get to book club by bike had resulted in a somewhat stroppy e-mail to someone somewhere who might possibly have some kind of remit for signage.  I chose to ride into Manchester City Centre and follow bike route 6, a gritty route taking me through some areas I had in honesty considered no go places for a middle class middle aged Caucasian woman.  Getting lost there was both mortifying and a little scary, not wanting to stop and look at a map and therefore be seen as vulnerable.  The area has a reputation for violence.  When I say reputation, this is based on the fact that whenever you travel to work listening to local radio news you can predict that the news reporter will nearly always finish the sentence a fatal shooting / stabbing took place in the early hours of the morning with "in Moss Side".  It's that kind of place, high unemployment too and frankly I stick out like a sore thumb.  It's a vibrant area, no denying it.  Check this out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moss_Side but rightly or wrongly I find it intimidating.

So my visit plan this time was simple.  Not to get lost in Moss Side.  To this end I took guidance and advice from a work colleague on how to get from my place of work to Chorlton (place of book club).  It was a fantastic awesome route.  This bad boy.  Guardian Fallowfield Loop line.  OK, so I did get lost once and have to retrace steps and yes, it did add 20 minutes to my journey (I timed it from the point I was unsure to the point I returned there ...). 

All in all, yesterday I left the house at 07:15 to ride the 8 or 9 miles to work, then left work at 5pm for another 8 mile journey, and at 9pm was leaving Chorlton for the 5 mile ride home.  Frankly I was pooped, slept like a baby (but without the bed wetting and crying), and drove in this morning!

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.

Big plans

Big plans, people, big plans.  I spent last night illicitly poring over OL21, ordnance survey map covering Hebdon Bridge, Todmorden etc.  I am away for a weekend of workshops, but the timetable shows a sneaky Bike Ride opportunity for two hours on the Saturday so I am planning how to get the most out of it.  Most what, though, I ask myself?  Most lung exploding hills, most leg breaking monotonous climbs, most skill stretching single track?  Hmm, haven't a clue, just want to get out and feel my legs and lungs working.

I have reservations regarding the big scary world of the unknown.  Being a bit of a Billy No Mates with respect to a weekend cycling partner I know the safest thing to do would involve a trail centre, waymarked routes, no danger of getting lost and enough bike traffic that if I fall off and land turtle fashion in a ditch there will be someone along shortly to call the ambulance or administer mouth to mouth if I notice they are a bit of a looker and keep my eyes shut long enough.  But trail centres aren't my favourite form of punishment, I like to travel and to explore and to see things.

I realise looking for the most technical terrain is not the way to go if it takes me out on the moors and away from civilisation.  So, the map reveals a nice safe Penine Bridleway, boring but well surfaced wide tracks, probably with traditional speed restrictions such as push chairs and dogs.  Oh well, them's the breaks, and I'll make sure it's a worthwhile exploration regardless of limitations.  Might be a there and back route or a riverside towpath return journey.  Whatever.

Transporting transport

The weirdest thing about catching the mountain biking bug really was the realisation that this meant transporting the thing previously thought of as the transport.  Not one to hang around or make excuses for why I can't get out and ride, to the Manchester Tow Bar & Trailer Centre I drove.  Walked out lighter of the pocket and lighter in step with an appointment to get the Mini fitted up with a tow hitch, and having made a selection of suitable bike carrier and appropriate length trailer board.

Had car, had bike, could travel.  This was a big scary decision for me - obviously yet more money being chucked at making my life more fun, but also a commitment to the car, and the odd sensation of having nobody to approve or disapprove the decision.  I'm my own woman, by necessity not through choice.

The bike rack has made all sorts of things possible.  It's foldable and easy to store, sliding into the car boot or the lean to shed (ex outside toilet) at home.  The bikes fit so neatly within the profile of the car I never feel any need to take wheels or saddles off to make it aerodynamic.  I like to think I look incredibly competent as I set up the rack and secure the bikes to it with weird bungie objects from Aldi.  It makes me feel good about myself, this simple thing.

The bike rack is big enough for two (ahhh, how cozy), and has taken me to Llandegla, Coed y Brenin, Scotland, Rivington and no doubt places I have forgotten.  Weirdly the Mini is now the car of choice for weekends away despite not having the space of an estate.  Love the bike, love the car.  Feel the passion.