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.

Keeping vertical

The boss sent a load of us home early from our staff conference yesterday afternoon.  The sun was shining, what else to do but a Bonus Bike Ride!  As you do, in idle conversation, I mentioned to the BMX coach (single, suntanned, my age ...) just one of my many missing skillsets. 

It does bug me that I can't on the new this year Boardman bike manage to get my front wheel off the ground.  The old decathlon bike was balanced differently and I could do it.  Most of my problem, though, is that I'm scared.  Scared that if I take my weight too far back on the bike then it will pirouette, dumping me unceremoniously on the ground.  It was time to tackle this.

The plan, therefore was to go about conquering the front wheel lift.  Better descriptions than I could possibly come up with here:

http://www.forestry.gov.uk/pdf/skillstipmanualfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf/$FILE/skillstipmanualfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf

http://www.forestry.gov.uk/pdf/skillstippoweredfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf/$FILE/skillstippoweredfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf

The BMX coach sadly didn't offer me any one to one time, but did offer me a wee exercise.  Suggestion was I lowered the saddle, put on flat pedals and went about the lifts as described but moving my body weight all the way back, and as the bike lifted up the plan was to step back with the low / rear foot onto the ground, all safe and non spontaneous in contact with the floor with other body parts. 

My fear of pirouetting was completely unfounded due to the lack of ability to get the front wheel off the floor other than by the manual wheel lift when I might just be able to bump up a kerb.  Still, lots of trying it reassured me that maybe one day I will manage it, and until then will keep practicing; right up to the point where my back twinges (as it did yesterday).

At least the fear is now a lot less.

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.

Will Travel

Have car,  have bike, will travel.

As someone who had experienced cycling only ever as a form of transport prior to 2010, it was a novelty to think about moving the bike which was essentially transport in or on another form of transport.  Weird.  I was brought up in the 1970s in a family without a car, so the bike represented a new form of freedom.  I could travel spontaneously from home more than walking distance, and without having to stay on a bus route.  Also, this was a release from parental supervision as at that age a parent has to make a decision - go out with my just short of teenage child on a bike or perhaps stay at home and let her get on with it.  So, the bike was freedom but unlike other kids it was more about getting from A to B.  My experience even at that age was of cycling as something serious to be undertaken in the context of travel.  It certainly wasn't for fun, and not about excitement either, and my experimentation and therefore skills development was pretty retarded if the truth be told.

When I made the move to Manchester in 1998 I brought with me the bike I had bought for my paper round in 1983.  It was a ten speed men's peugeot road race bike with brake levers on the flats and the drops.  Most importantly it was red.  That was my first touch of the frivolous with regards to a bike.  It became apparent that the bike was not wholly satisfactory.  Not only was it pre-indexed gears, but actually when it really came down to it, it had been bought for me to grow into.  Bit unfortunate therefore that I stopped growing at 15 years old, and never actually got big enough for the bike to be a good fit.

Still taking the attitude that cycling was a matter for serious and earnest consideration only I looked at my next steed to make a commute to work possible.  Here with a little help from a friend I was kitted out with a Ridgeback commuter bike which looked a bit like this:

Having a bike that worked and fitted was a bit of a revolution to me.  I started to accessorise.  Things were purchased.  There was a back rack, then there were panniers, there was a rechargable light, then pedals with SPD one side and flat the other and new shoes ... and it went on.

Not realising this was a symptom of having caught the cycling bug, for no apparent reason after a couple of years of great fun (it worked on not too challenging off road paths too) I upgraded.  Or, with hindsight, perhaps one of the reasons was finding myself in competition with my mum (of all people) for the best commuter transport.  This was my next beastie, just take a look at this bad boy.

Then some friends introduced me to Llandegla and hire bikes, having persuaded me I'd be better on a hire bike than the slick road going tyres of the above road warrior.  That was towards the end of 2009.  A few off road experiments later on the Trek proved to me that this was in fact not working for me on the trails so, just in case I didn't enjoy it as much as I thought I would, the most basic mountain bike ever was on my January sales shopping list in 2010.


This little filly joined the stables:

She was the last year's model in one of the unwanted sizes (that would be small then), and a bargain.  We did miles and miles together, we did a skills course so I could at least bump up a kerb without disgracing myself.  I could almost wheelie on her, and I could most definitely go down flights of steps and scary drop offs.  I took my new darling to the physio with me for a bike fitting to try to minimise the damage possibilities of my middle aged legs with knees which go their own way, and sure enough accessories followed.  Speedplay frogs were added to the bike (these are pedals for the uninitiated), and together me and the Decathlon steed danced and played throughout 2010.

I'd finally learned that cycling was fun.

Red Run

So after a week of glorious sunshine the obvious plan by Friday was to head to Llandegla trail centre on Saturday to get a trail or two under my biking belt.  Trail centres aren't my favorite form of mountain biking, but they do serve a couple of useful purposes - they have well signed trails, large car parks, cafe and toilet facilities.  The trails are graded so you know you're going to attempt something you should be technically suited to, the distances are designed to last maybe a couple of hours tops, and no roads or road crossings are involved. 

The reasons they aren't top of my list are that I feel part of a treadmill of riders following each other's tails and don't feel like I'm travelling, but enclosed in a man made maze.  They do, however, provide exercise, a sociable ride, safety, security and a fine place to fine tune your skills.  I don't have a lot of skills to fine tune so this should really be something I embrace.

One day I may look to time myself around the red run and put down a personal best marker.  Yesterday wasn't to be that day, however.  I have amazing early season fitness, and may well not see the like of this again, and indeed all fitness is anticipated to vanish by summer as the realist in me accepts that at some point I probably will get injured in some way and find myself with weeks off the bike.  It would be nice to put down a time.  This time, however, I have company which is nice, and sociable and gives me something to measure myself against in a positive way.  I learn not to go full tilt, but to use the time to experiment, to see what happens if I take a rocky line, to concentrate on moving my balance backwards and forwards while going over humps, to try to improve my hill climbing gear selection and even check out how I do corners.  I'm not good at going round corners.  Not sure why.

It's kind of fun standing in strategic places awaiting the arrival of your trail partner for the day.  Young fit men come past you and you can watch their bums receeding into the distance.  

Yesterday I decreed a 4.5 degree temperature as shorts weather.  That's not like me at all, a nesh individual if ever I knew one.  Lulled into a false sense of security by mid week sunshine.

Road positioning

Ah, it has all changed since I was a lass.  I remember as a cyclist waiting in queues of traffic at traffic lights feeling slightly apprehensive and uncomfortable, and remember hugging the kerb in an apology for existing.  I also remember riding without a helmet.  Lots has changed.


There are now cycle lanes marked on the road and the freedom to take any road position I please within these, keeping me away from traffic and making me feel secure in going out around drains, glass, tin cans, and general debris.  Much much safer.

Having spent 20 years hugging the kerb, all has changed.  I don't know if it's advice that has adapted or if I've only just listened to debate on the subject, but I'm now a fully signed up member of the claim the road gang.  The theory here is that however far you are from the kerb, that's approximately the amount of space a car driver will give you when overtaking.  No more  near brushes between wing mirror and handlebar with any luck.

My conversion took place following a bit of analysis of one of  my cycle commute daily near death incidences.  I like to mull over how I could have avoided being in such situations.  What happened is on a kind of normal residential road so not all that wide, a lorry overtook me.  I was, as was my practice a couple of years ago, sedately travelling maybe 8 - 10 inches from the kerb, perhaps not even that far away.  As the lorry went past me he began to move back towards the nearside to keep within the lane I presume.  The impact of this was that as his rear wheels drew level with me he was close.  Really close.  So close in fact that I had to use all my room for manouevre and was so close to the kerb that  I didn't dare risk bringing my left pedal down for fear it would hit the pavement and I would fall under the lorry.  He brushed my handlebars.  I reckon this situation would have been avoided if I had been more like 12 - 18 inches from the kerb, highly visible, and instead of something he just passed without having to make a pulling out decision I would have been a proper obstacle and my chances of remaining alive would be greatly enhanced.  The Institute of Advanced Motorists puts this forwards as their view too.  Which is nice.


Us old burds are somewhat slow to change our ways sometimes, and another thing I have had to grow into are the advanced stop lines for cyclists.  Having cautiously attempted to use a few of these, I now love, adore and embrace them.  So much so that when I find naughty motorists not complying I have been moved (recently) to write to my MP suggesting a poster campaign so that motorists goddam use them.  Our highway code advises thusly:

"Motorists, including motorcyclists, MUST stop at the first white line reached if the lights are amber or red and should avoid blocking the way or encroaching on the marked area at other times, e.g. if the junction ahead is blocked"

Wouldn't it be wonderful if they did stop at the first line and not in my box.  I get all possessive.  The wonder of these boxes is that rather than sit within a queue of traffic where, once it all gets moving I will be a frustrating obstacle to those behind me, I move safely into the advance box, and stand there proudly, hogging centre stage if I'm honest, and once the lights change, that's it, I'm off.  I find it funny still that with very little effort the first few pedal strokes away from the line is consistently faster away than the cars move away from the lights.  I'm out of the way before they are moving, an let's face it, it only takes a distance of maybe 6 foot to ride into enough space that the car drivers can get through and all are happy.  Where, as is frequent in Manchester City Centre, cars instead of waiting behind block these lanes it does pose a problem.  If there is enough traffic that I haven't realised my coveted green box is occupied then I'm moving to the front of the queue only to find there is nowhere legal to go.  All I can safely do is plonk myself in front of the car and in front of my box, often with a compromised view of the lights.  Awkward and puzzling.  My safe at  home debriefs have reached only the conclusion that motorist education not my education is at fault here.

Night Rider

No, unfortunately this isn’t an entry regarding the older woman’s scrummy heart throb that is David Hasselhoff.  That would be sheer self-indulgence …

Last night I went to the theatre.  If you’re interested it was a truly tremendous performance of King Lear at the Lowry with Derek Jacobi in the lead role.  A beautiful cloudless spring day, and on this occasion no requirement to meet up with my mobility impaired friend to assist her transport; a free agent in fact.  Logically, with the theatre only 5 miles away, and with the parking fees there somewhat exorbitant (in my opinion), the bike made sense.

However, the quivering jelly mess of emotion that is my brain put up a few objections:

1. Where will I leave the bike, and will it get nicked; my flexi locks are ancient and one of them I only need to pull and it opens up, wibble.
2. What on the earth do I wear that will work for cycling and then for theatre?
3. Really, you want to cycle back through Langworthy at 11 at night, are you crazy?
4. Gibber, blip.

Broken down into pieces it’s quite easy to tackle such matters.  Locks, well, that’s an investment which will reap rewards long term so let’s do it, let’s buy new locks and perhaps spend slightly more than £2.50 on them.  So off I go to Halfords.  As a British Cycling member I get a 10% discount on Halfords, but it’s a reward only for the well prepared planners and as such I don’t qualify with a same day want.   Basically the deal for the highly organised customer is to call Halfords customer service desk which is actually awesome and helpful and advise of the intended value of your purchase as it is on the shelf, and give the secret code for members out.  They then calculate a 10% off – so a £55 purchase, they will take £50 off your credit card and put vouchers for £55 into the post for you which arrive pretty damn quick.  Last time I did it, I ordered at 2pm on Thursday and postie caught me in my dressing gown at 07:30 on the Friday morning.  However, you pay a penalty for failure to plan so off I went to Halfords prepared to pay full price for two new flexi locks.  Getting there I found Halfords had a 3 for 2 offer on such things which was cool as I came out with two steel cable locks and also a new U lock.  Heavy as hell and £50 down but worth it for the reassurance.

I’ve nothing to wear.  How many times have I used that phrase in the average, oh, week anyway?  When it came down to it, the restrictions made it simple – it’s got to be leggings and a tunic top really with the FMBs in the biking rucksack for a sneaky change of footwear.  I don’t really do leggings and it was only an odd conjunction of planets which meant there was actually  a pair of Dunnes best £2 leggings lurking in the bottom of the pyjama drawer.  On those went over a pair of padded knickers (oh yes, such things do exist).  Clothing wise, all that was left for me to do was avoid sweating.

Night riding.  I have lights (another heavy investment this year), what on the earth am I wittering on about.  They are really good lights, I can actually see stuff in the road if I angle them right.  Besides which, having a stern word with myself, my 67 year old mother frequently cycles to choir practice and theatre performances throughout the year in the evenings.  I should be made of better stuff.

So, I get on my bike and I ride.  And it’s tremendous.  I pretty much spin on the way there to avoid sweating, and it’s a fresh kind of spring evening anyway.  The 5 mile journey is over in no time, seemingly 20 minutes, and I have friendly jokey interaction with car drivers in Langworthy and all is well.  I also get to cycle through Media City which is all fresh and new and pleasant.  When I get to the Lowry I look for somewhere to park the bike – can’t believe such a modern place has no dedicated bike parking.  I finally find a bike which looks more expensive than mine and tether mine up adjacent to it.  And yes, it’s still there when the play is over. 

And the ride home at quarter to eleven.  My, the ride home.  Awesome, fantastic, amazing are words which spring to mind.  I owned the road, I owned the night, I own the world.  Endorphins and adrenaline so high after the ride that sleeping was quite difficult, what with bouncing off the ceiling.  Perfect.

Superfluous picture of the Hoff.

The Ultimate Answer

42 is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe etc.  Clearly being that very age, this means I have all the answers.  Or  not.  Maybe it is all downhill after this year and therefore I must  make the most of the few months I have remaining.

The joy of commuting to work on the bike at this age is that really, whoever overtakes you on their two wheeled pedaling machine you accept it with equanimity.  It's no problem at all, after all, you have excuses (reasons).  Firstly hey, I'm middle aged, secondly, well, I'm female and prepared to use that to my advantage.  Thirdly I am not a mountain goat / whippet type person and indeed do not have a history of fitness or competitiveness.  This enables you to watch the world pedal by without a care in the world.

Show me, however, a whiff of a mudguard in the road ahead which appears to be getting nearer and it's like a McDonalds to an American.  I cannot resist, and every focus becomes the arse in front which is gradually looming larger.  Like a slinking stealthy predator I reach a maintainable cadence and gently click up a gear so I'm pushing pushing pushing.  I learned early on that a sprint is not maintainable.  And yes, I take the victim who is not only unsuspecting but generally also uncaring, simply cycling their way from A to B. As of course am I.  It's not a competition, just a personal achievement and feeling of joy.

Much more fun is to be had, I find as a law abiding cyclist of sitting quietly at the red lights whilst other less conscientious individuals steal past on their naughty steeds.  Drifting gently past them once the lights are green is more fun than a girl could have, and perfectly legal.  There's a stretch of road on my way home I've happily repeated this sequence 5 times with the same cyclist in one journey.  All the while the mantra is going round in my head "I'm old enough to be your mother".

It's not a competition, it's a commute.  I know that, but isn't it fun to watch the youth of today take you on as an easy overtake and at the first up hill section fall behind you as you glide past on your sit up and beg bike?  Sometimes I even go slower on the flat to entice them in.

Belt and Braces

When I first got back on the bike as an adult in my 30s I made a commitment ... a financial commitment initially.  I needed a bike.  The Ridgeback hybrid came into my life as my commuter machine.  At the same time, clothing reared its ugly head.  Somehow it was no longer de rigueur to cycle in jeans with clips to stop them catching in the chain.  Also, comfort came into it.  How come as a teenager cycling saddles never gave me a moment's ... um ... difficulty?  Anyway, I was handed a pass me down pair of cycling shorts by my then boss, and so I approached the world of lycra with a pair of Gan shorts (professional cycling team of the 1990s).  That really was the start of a gentle but slippy slope up which I will never return.

So, clothing.  I gradually acquired, mostly through Aldi supermarket seasonal offers, various pairs of cycling shorts, then a cycling top or two (longer in the back and with zipped pockets on the back).  Then there was an end of season sale jacket with longer back and vents under the arms and no hood.  Fantastically well suited to cycling.  There was of course a helmet too.  Since those days many items have been upgraded, the first jacket was replaced by a second, was replaced by a third, each more tailored somehow to a cycling need - waterproof, windproof, breathable - all these words have entered my cycle clothing vocabulary.

Some fashion disasters have crept in; things I love for their practicality and definitely not appearance.  The infamous Ronhills.  These are wonderful - Ronhill bikesters.  A very practical black, close fitting but not the lycra which wraps round your skin (definitely a plus when you're no longer 18).  An inside pocket for keys, reflective stripes on the back, straps which go under the feet which stop them riding up.  They are ugly but they will never die.  I have fallen off in them acquiring copious bruises, gouges and scratches myself and not a mark on the damn pants.  They dry in no time and mud simply brushes off.  Fashion faux pas but what do I care, it's all about the bike.

These days I make a lot more effort on the bike than I used to, and gasp my way up rocky terrain on various hillsides of the North West.  Cycling shorts in these circumstances impede my breathing somewhat, the elastic seems to get me just where my lower lungs are feebly attempting to push against the shorts which are determined to hold me all in like a good control knicker.  Combine that with a low bent over position on the bike and we have a problem, or at the very least an issue.  Talking to a sports scientist (as you do, or I do anyway in my line of work), he advised that when young people (who it seems are made of elastic) train and become fitter and lung capacity increases it's normal for this to be visible in body changes with the chest increasing in size.  When old burds such as me get fitter, assuming we were not in the habit of fitness in our  youth (valid assumption) the lung capacity increase is reflected in body shape with the abdomen increasing as our lower lungs expand with the desperate need for more oxygen supply.  This would explain my shorts elastic issues.  This year, therefore, I think is the year to invest in bib shorts.  Just hope they don't cause nipple abrasions.

Spin Dating

I am not a newcomer to the world of spinning having dabbled a little last year in the lung gasping, arse breaking exercise that is the spin class.  There is nowhere to hide on a watt bike with the numbers and cutesy little graphs staring you in the face.  You can look at  your watts, your calories, speed, a peanut shaped graph showing quite clearly that your left leg is doing more work than your right, and indeed your revs per minute.  It was a bit of a surprise to me (to understate) to find the instructor advising our baseline cadence should be 90rpm.  Previously I had considered that a bit of a sprint.  Always one to listen to teacher, however, I attempted to plateau at 90rpm between efforts, and tried to convert this into the outdoor world of commuting and mountain biking.  Previously, I'd always been a bit of a grind it up the hills kind of a girl.  Now, I had more options.

The next thing the spinning classes taught me was Out of Saddle Climbing.  This was a whole world of horror.  I wanted to die, or to throw up or to faint but none of these things actually happened.  Instead, I learned how to come out of the saddle, what gear to use, what position to take and what leg speeds were possible.  Now, I enjoy it.  Short gnarly sections of steep uphill are a joy on the mountain bike as I launch out of the saddle, giving the guys behind a view of me shakin' my arse, shakin' my arse, shakin' my arse.  I like to disseminate pleasure to the world.

Spinning classes are very much a removal of excuses.  It's not a gym, but a pay as you go, and the classes take place in the building I work in.  There's not a reason in the world not to attend ... except ... cycle commuting.  If I bike to work, it stands to reason I don't spin, and I save myself the £4 for the spinning class, and about £2 in petrol for every day.  As the mornings and evenings get lighter the spinning classes start to become a thing of the past. Now, indeed, they are a punishment for not cycling to work.  An interesting punishment as every time I get on the spinning bike I push myself more, learn something more about my limits and ways to break through them.

Weirdly, my spinning tutor has offered to accompany me on a mountain bike ride.  A natural sceptic I ask myself why.  The options are thusly:

• he is a kind man who has seen my bruises and wishes to support my skills development
• he is horribly fit and wants someone to bike with who makes him look good
• he has no mates and is desperate for biking buddies
• he finds me daft and funny and good entertainment with the possible bonus of getting to see me fall off
• he wishes to get horizontal with me
• hmm.

The Cult

So, as January 2011 dawned all fresh and hopeful with a blank calendar for a new year a friend of mine via facebook status sought followers to join her cult.  She proposed a weight loss / healthy living competition where anyone wishing to go up against their mates for a period of 10 weeks simply parted with a tenner to her, the cult leader, which would then be placed in a pot.  After 10 weeks a gold, silver and bronze medal would be awarded to the lucky winners.  The rules were simple - weights in kilograms because we're all too old to make sense of them and they don't seem real.  She would publish pretty graphs each week showing percentage body weight lost.  No rules on how to get there; whichever variant we pleased of the eat less, move more persuasion was legitimate.  Some talked about high GI diets but mostly we all did our own thing.

I realised early on that I'm not great at discipline over food, and didn't want to be a slave to a diet.  So, with the eat less option curtailed somewhat, although not ignored I went ahead with the second option; move more.  I planned to meet the government standard on the thing, 30 mins exercise 5 times a day and looked into how "exercise" was defined.  Raised heart rate and lungs in use.  OK, I could do that.

I tend to make excuses.  But I also have anal tendencies towards planning.  So every Sunday in January I sat down and planned out just how I was going to manage in the following 7 days to get to that amount of exercise in one week.  Before long I was doing spinning classes after work twice a week, and every weekend had a plan, whether it was a few hours walking, the geeky geocaching or a mountain bike ride.  If I wasn't going to do a spinning class I made sure I at least walked to the library.  Before too long, 3 hours exercise a week became 4 which became 5, which soon became 6 or 7.  6 seemed to be my minimum by the end of February.

With the increase in fuel prices something interesting started to happen.  Finally cycling to work had tangible savings to be made.  £2 a day in petrol for every return journey made by bike ... also, I reasoned, if I cycled then I would also not need the £4 a throw spinning class.  So, that's a saving of £6 every time I biked to work.

The weight loss "Cult" is going well; I'm in bronze position with the final weigh in tomorrow, reduction from 68.8 kilos to under 63 with any luck.  If I need a kick start from a plateau, I simply get on the bike.

I fell over

I'm middle aged and a late starter. I ride a bike, and I fall off.  That's because on the mountain bike my enthusiasm outstrips my skills.  I also commute on the bike in fair weather and try not to die.