So today was spent mostly in Wales, in the saddle. A proper good day out in fact. In the blazing 26 degree sunshine, Viv and I set out in sensible fashion, sunblock everywhere we could reach and some places we couldn't. Even the bikes were getting it in the end. 2.5 litres of water apiece and we drank nearly the whole lot.
We did the "Over the Top" route from Ride the Clwyds. With some navigational stop starting we made decent time. Frankly one of the best days riding I've had. Viv and I are of a pace, she's quicker descending, and I'm quicker uphill and on the flat ... well, we chat. And oh my word did we chat, of all manner of things, bikes and bike equipment, brakes and saddles, life and dreams, many a female issue.
I can't even manage to express the joy of the ride in the sunshine, how I took my trousers off part way through the ride, how Viv handled a combination of trainers and caliper brakes, and we laughed, laughing is so important. And at the end of the ride there was cake and there was lemonade a la Secret Seven. And I found myself saying to Viv that with friends like her I could happily bounce along without a man. And life was oh so good. Another night I'll struggle to sleep as I try to bring my bouncy brain back down to earth again, suitably subdued for a Monday at work.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Friday, 25 May 2012
Passion killers
This morning's bike ride was brought to you by pain and suffering. Decided I was feeling "on it" this week and it was time to do the slightly hilly route (note this is purely by my standards). It's weird, same start point (home) and same destination (work) and yet there's one route which has three excruciating short climbs and yet no noticeable descents and another route which is pretty much flat. Where do the hills come from?
In a moment of let the dog see the rabbit I did even find myself attempting to chase down a man on a bike, who, from my somewhat distant view looked kind of achievable, and had the kind of arse I felt was worth pursuing. But that was the first hill of the ride, and in honesty I was relieved when he turned off down a left turn as I carried on and the pressure was off. It's not a chatty route, the hilly one. It's a route which avoids the town centre which is a way that always offers up some kind of company. A solitude route on the whole, shunned by other cyclists for reasons I can only comprehend if they too are not feeling the hilly love. And today I mostly sung as I pedalled to the tune, words and rhythm of Wilson Phillips.
I feel a need to over share. Passion killers. Cycling shorts by DHB. I suspect this stands for Damage Her Behind. And I'm being kind with that acronym. I am at the bottom of the cycling shorts drawer. The choices this morning left to me were the DHB death to my lady bits shorts or the Altura, well, we are lycra but frankly were purchased when Alison's arse was more a size 14 than a size 10 and the padding drifts around all over the place, and indeed we are stupid and not sure why we are in the house at all shorts. So I chose the DHBs. Fortunately I'm on the hybrid which has a saddle I would be humiliated to use on a bike of any sporting nature. It has gel. Let me say no more. But the DHBs leave me often relieved that there are areas of my anatomy I clearly no longer have a use for ... saying no more.
Let me leave you with:
"I know that there is pain but if you hold on for one more day and break free from the chains"
Humming.
In a moment of let the dog see the rabbit I did even find myself attempting to chase down a man on a bike, who, from my somewhat distant view looked kind of achievable, and had the kind of arse I felt was worth pursuing. But that was the first hill of the ride, and in honesty I was relieved when he turned off down a left turn as I carried on and the pressure was off. It's not a chatty route, the hilly one. It's a route which avoids the town centre which is a way that always offers up some kind of company. A solitude route on the whole, shunned by other cyclists for reasons I can only comprehend if they too are not feeling the hilly love. And today I mostly sung as I pedalled to the tune, words and rhythm of Wilson Phillips.
I feel a need to over share. Passion killers. Cycling shorts by DHB. I suspect this stands for Damage Her Behind. And I'm being kind with that acronym. I am at the bottom of the cycling shorts drawer. The choices this morning left to me were the DHB death to my lady bits shorts or the Altura, well, we are lycra but frankly were purchased when Alison's arse was more a size 14 than a size 10 and the padding drifts around all over the place, and indeed we are stupid and not sure why we are in the house at all shorts. So I chose the DHBs. Fortunately I'm on the hybrid which has a saddle I would be humiliated to use on a bike of any sporting nature. It has gel. Let me say no more. But the DHBs leave me often relieved that there are areas of my anatomy I clearly no longer have a use for ... saying no more.
Let me leave you with:
"I know that there is pain but if you hold on for one more day and break free from the chains"
Humming.
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Bike mechanic
... wanted. I have some strong girlie tendencies when it comes to approaching all things mechanical, or indeed skillful. Last night saw me sitting on the sofa with various bits of bike scattered around me as well as some random props such as track pump and superfluous tyre levers. My spacial awareness is so appalling that with the bike upside down I simply cannot work out which way to put directional tyres onto wheels, and much flipping of the bike took place to try to get it right. Oh, and I was lied to by a colleague at work who suggested that the sidewall of the tyres would have a simple arrow advising me of the directionality (is that even a word?). But nonetheless, somehow wasting a perfectly good inner tube I managed to upgrade both tyres to something that actually has tread and this morning they remain fully inflated. Win.
Feeling encouraged by the seemingly successful upgrading of tyres I felt inclined to check out the gear cabling and at least investigate whether I could possibly without the aid of the phone a friend option or the RTFM option persuade the bike that the inner ring was indeed an option, a desirable option. OK, it took me a while, and I did some stupid things but it does look now as though with minimal persuasion it will go into inner ring and indeed all other rings, and without that curious I'm slightly out of alignment rattle. The girl did good. One day I might even work out how to get the brake pads aligned properly. But not today.
A latecomer really to the world of cycling, it never fails to amaze me how some of the basics others take for granted are a Wow, it works like that experience for me. Spent last night's journey home tentatively experimenting with Stuff Wot I Read in a Book. My brain in disbelief that corners, in fact, could or possibly should be taken with the bike being the thing that does the leaning while the body stays more or less vertical. This is terrifying. With the bike at an angle, the bruising possibilities seem to depend on a crazy tyre / road contact point which, if I think about it ... well, actually, best not to think about it. I've always been a lean my body into the bends person. So gentle baby steps, and I keep on stepping forwards, but at least it's in the sunshine right now!
Could get into this commuting malarky. Plans to get back on it Friday, and some optimistic soul which evidence suggests must have been a pre Christmas me seems to already have stacked the locker at work with clean underwear and work tops. Who was that woman?
Feeling encouraged by the seemingly successful upgrading of tyres I felt inclined to check out the gear cabling and at least investigate whether I could possibly without the aid of the phone a friend option or the RTFM option persuade the bike that the inner ring was indeed an option, a desirable option. OK, it took me a while, and I did some stupid things but it does look now as though with minimal persuasion it will go into inner ring and indeed all other rings, and without that curious I'm slightly out of alignment rattle. The girl did good. One day I might even work out how to get the brake pads aligned properly. But not today.
A latecomer really to the world of cycling, it never fails to amaze me how some of the basics others take for granted are a Wow, it works like that experience for me. Spent last night's journey home tentatively experimenting with Stuff Wot I Read in a Book. My brain in disbelief that corners, in fact, could or possibly should be taken with the bike being the thing that does the leaning while the body stays more or less vertical. This is terrifying. With the bike at an angle, the bruising possibilities seem to depend on a crazy tyre / road contact point which, if I think about it ... well, actually, best not to think about it. I've always been a lean my body into the bends person. So gentle baby steps, and I keep on stepping forwards, but at least it's in the sunshine right now!
Could get into this commuting malarky. Plans to get back on it Friday, and some optimistic soul which evidence suggests must have been a pre Christmas me seems to already have stacked the locker at work with clean underwear and work tops. Who was that woman?
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Summer time
... and the living is easy. But before I wander off humming Gershwin classics to myself, let me offer up a little praise to the possibly temporary arrival of a British summer (we all know what this means don't we).
There is no avoiding it, this week is prime cycling to work weather, and the excuses are becoming rapidly more flimsy. So transparent in fact that last night I admitted it to myself, I was going to need to cycle in or accept that I am simply no longer a bike commuter. So tyres were pumped (unlike the owner) on the hybrid, pannier was stuffed with spare inner tubes and tyre levers and basically I was committed.
Put out all kinds of appropriate biking clothing last night. Then this morning got out of bed and ignored all my carefully selected baggy trousers and microfleece type top in favour of a simple T-shirt and cycling shorts. Yes, cycling shorts. Lycra as an outer layer. Lycra. Me. All those wobbly bits on display. Suffice it to say I slunk out of the house avoiding the eyes of the mountain bike as I quietly wheeled out the hybrid.
Ah, the joy of the bike ride. Instead of sitting in traffic jams in the car fiddling with the heater / air con to try to get the temperature right, instead of changing radio channel every five minutes to avoid arguing people but still find out what's happening in the world, instead of being in such interminably slow traffic that my left buttock starts to ache from the clutch change. Instead of all this I was in control of my commute, and my lungs were pumping, my legs were hurting, I was doing this. Then something happened which never happens in the car. At red lights I chatted. Another cyclist came up from behind. He nodded and smiled. I nodded then smiled. And the lights stayed red. And I opened conversation, he reciprocated. Two miles later on we were still cycling side by side chatting. Ahem. He was chatting. I was panting somewhat. And it just wouldn't happen in the car and I saw that it was good.
"One of these mornin's, you're gonna rise up singin'; You're gonna spread your wings And take to the sky."
Humming.
There is no avoiding it, this week is prime cycling to work weather, and the excuses are becoming rapidly more flimsy. So transparent in fact that last night I admitted it to myself, I was going to need to cycle in or accept that I am simply no longer a bike commuter. So tyres were pumped (unlike the owner) on the hybrid, pannier was stuffed with spare inner tubes and tyre levers and basically I was committed.
Put out all kinds of appropriate biking clothing last night. Then this morning got out of bed and ignored all my carefully selected baggy trousers and microfleece type top in favour of a simple T-shirt and cycling shorts. Yes, cycling shorts. Lycra as an outer layer. Lycra. Me. All those wobbly bits on display. Suffice it to say I slunk out of the house avoiding the eyes of the mountain bike as I quietly wheeled out the hybrid.
Ah, the joy of the bike ride. Instead of sitting in traffic jams in the car fiddling with the heater / air con to try to get the temperature right, instead of changing radio channel every five minutes to avoid arguing people but still find out what's happening in the world, instead of being in such interminably slow traffic that my left buttock starts to ache from the clutch change. Instead of all this I was in control of my commute, and my lungs were pumping, my legs were hurting, I was doing this. Then something happened which never happens in the car. At red lights I chatted. Another cyclist came up from behind. He nodded and smiled. I nodded then smiled. And the lights stayed red. And I opened conversation, he reciprocated. Two miles later on we were still cycling side by side chatting. Ahem. He was chatting. I was panting somewhat. And it just wouldn't happen in the car and I saw that it was good.
"One of these mornin's, you're gonna rise up singin'; You're gonna spread your wings And take to the sky."
Humming.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
With dignity
April saw me try out yet more new people in an effort to shift away from the solo rides. I am, after all, a social animal, and also, I fall off. First Aiders have their place. In my vicinity. So, I was informed (oh yes, indeed, it was that type of communication) that Colin would pick me up. Colin. With the tune of who the fuck is Alice going round my head I mused upon Colin and who he might turn out to be. Ah, but I had information. Colin owns an estate car. Which led to a whole world of more speculation. Hazy memories of me and the collective Facebook friends suggested something grandfatherly, and insisted the most likely colour of the car would be beige. I awaited the arrival of the stranger, bike clasped in slightly oily hand. And there he was. Complete with unexpected beard. And thankfully if I'm honest he was a mature kind of a guy.
Staveley bound we were to meet with yet more strangers plus Gill, who I knew and her hubby, who I'd met. Car Park revealed some fit looking men. All very well to look at I think but oh my word, I have to cycle with these folk? Suffice it to say they nailed me into the ground, and were able to take careful position ahead of me on the trail such that they could indeed film the entirety of any fall I made. Yes, I was slow, yes they were fast, and as usual ... I fell over.
Staveley bound we were to meet with yet more strangers plus Gill, who I knew and her hubby, who I'd met. Car Park revealed some fit looking men. All very well to look at I think but oh my word, I have to cycle with these folk? Suffice it to say they nailed me into the ground, and were able to take careful position ahead of me on the trail such that they could indeed film the entirety of any fall I made. Yes, I was slow, yes they were fast, and as usual ... I fell over.
Monday, 2 April 2012
Pump Track
So there may be people out there, and in fact I may be one of those who say that a 43 year old woman has no place on a pump track. With this thought foremost in my head, I waited until the end of the mountain bike ride on Sunday to stand on tiptoes and check out who was on the pump track at the close of the trail. Ah, the joy of discovering the testosterone levels were completely flat. Just one 12 year old (ish) lad there. Fine, I can cope with being completely out performed by a child that age. After all, it's what they are there for.
And the pump track experience was OK. Fine, so I didn't particularly take air, but I did really try hard at getting my pump good enough to boost me up the lumpy bits and tried hard to use it to go round the berm rather than pedalling. I even lowered my saddle. Check me out for being the professional.
And the pump track experience was OK. Fine, so I didn't particularly take air, but I did really try hard at getting my pump good enough to boost me up the lumpy bits and tried hard to use it to go round the berm rather than pedalling. I even lowered my saddle. Check me out for being the professional.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Nice Arse
After three months off sick with various different and irritating things, I finally got on my bike in celebration of the March sunshine. My plan was a 16 mile gentle circuit taking in the valleys of Werneth Low. I set off with ordnance survey map, copy of map with trail marked in pink pen, copy of written instructions, Garmin 800 Edge and i-phone. And somehow I got lost. Twice. At least.
The journey ended up being a 24 mile meander in the sun, taking in at least one hill somewhat larger than any which had been on the plan. Best laid plan. The final humiliation was to check the map, check the instructions, check the Garmin and still be none the wiser as to a) where I was, b) where I went wrong and c) how to get back on track. Rucksack on the pavement, I leaned down to accept the indignity of having to resort to the i-phone maps and handy little blue and red pin things. Then it happened. A hoot, a gesticulation, and words were shouted regarding my lycra clad bottom which was currently waggling in the air while I rummaged.
Still, at least I have a nice arse.
The journey ended up being a 24 mile meander in the sun, taking in at least one hill somewhat larger than any which had been on the plan. Best laid plan. The final humiliation was to check the map, check the instructions, check the Garmin and still be none the wiser as to a) where I was, b) where I went wrong and c) how to get back on track. Rucksack on the pavement, I leaned down to accept the indignity of having to resort to the i-phone maps and handy little blue and red pin things. Then it happened. A hoot, a gesticulation, and words were shouted regarding my lycra clad bottom which was currently waggling in the air while I rummaged.
Still, at least I have a nice arse.
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