Chorlton Loop

So yesterday I had an escorted ride.  My book club is based in Chorlton and last time I tried to negotiate my way on the bike from work to there I messed up.  More than once.  And the 8 or 9 mile route took me closer to an hour and a half than the 45 minutes I might have anticipated.  The next book club is planned for 3rd August, so I'm on a schedule.

One of my work colleagues has this as her regular route home so on Tuesday I negotiated an escorted ride to Chorlton after work on Wednesday.  The bribe being a blackcurrant, cherry & raspberry dorset cereal bar.  Food of the gods.  The ride to Chorlton was fabulous.  Sunny day, off road the entire way and just us two girls riding together.  Not often you see women out in pairs on the bikes curiously enough, and on the way many many cyclists of all shapes, sizes and genres.  A previous discussion had fortunately prevented us from wearing matching Team Sky jerseys or riding our matching Boardman MTBs and we were in simple T-shirts, and me on the Trek hybrid.  We alighted at the St Werburgh's Road tram stop to go our separate ways.


To my delight, after just a mile or so of road I discovered an off road route home.  Hopped onto the canal towpath at Stretford tram station and was on my way.  The map showed the route as taking me into Trafford Park and then onto the road, but reality was far far better.  How often does that happen?  Within a mile of my house all the way on the towpath.  Not sure I'd do it at night mind.  There were a few less cycling friendly bits and some absolute joys.  The gentle bridge with steps going up where I had to walk the bike, but then the descent the other side down 6 or 7 well spaced steps with one having a huge drop off (for someone on foot anyway) of a foot or so.  All this on the no suspension hybrid which stood up to it all most admirably.


Even more lovely was to realise that I'd managed to get in a fabulous hour and a half ride after work and still be home in daylight and with a thirst to attend to the allotment.

Dog - Rabbit

Let the dog see the rabbit.  What on the earth is it with my mindset, why when I see another cyclist ahead who is without lycra and road bike do I get the bit between my teeth and start to stalk.  Seriously I focus on nothing else other than the rider at 50 to 100 yards ahead.  My body position changes, my shoulders move inwards, my cadence gradually increases, I may even add a gear on and push a little harder.  And it's measured, incredibly measured.  There is no unseemly rush or sprint, it's a gradual gentle stealth approach but the acceleration is there, quiet, gradual and sustainable.  I want that rider's scalp.  Fortunately for me this morning the prey animal turned off to the left before I snuck into their wheel.  I say fortunately because I was definitely feeling yesterday's brave towing effort in my glutes, in my thighs, in my knees, in my lungs ... need I go on. 

It's a good feeling though, the reminder that yesterday I really put something into it.  Because that feeling alone tells me that this is a future gain, the effort of yesterday will reap its fitness reward in days to come.  I hope.  Does it work like that?  I don't know, but I sure as hell am enjoying fooling myself into believing it.

I was overtaken 6 times on my journey to work this morning.  Hopelessly left behind, feeling like the mature lady I am as the lycra clad men, and one bearded guy on a similar straight handlebars number to my own cruised on by.  I felt old, unfit and frankly a little despondent.  Will I ever be able to effortlessly ride at that pace?  How do people get to that point?  Is the bike important?  Is it truly, all about the bike?

Woman's pride

Pride is a scary thing.  Or is it a closet competitive nature which is bursting out of me in middle age.  If so, where the hell was it in my early twenties when perhaps it could have been of some use, maybe even helped to make me a career woman instead of a steadily cruising secretarial type.

The ride home today I planned on taking it easy, and the plan started badly.  First set of lights and there in front of me in my sights is a woman on a road bike.  She looks young and slim and fit, and suddenly I feel like I'm in the Tour de France, that rider who's hanging off the back of the bunch, with the unattainable goal of regaining the peleton too far ahead to be reached.  But nonetheless, as though she is a magnet I try on the long level stretch of road to make up the distance and get onto her back wheel.  Eventually I do, but in honesty am then relieved when we go separate ways as frankly that was hard work. 

I make it through the city centre without incident, but there at the lights at the bottom of Liverpool Road something unusual happens.  There, in the cyclist stop box are three other cyclists.  I assess their general appearance, clothing, age, weight, bike, and position myself where I feel I should be in the lineup.  It's a tricky and delicate thing this, and male pride could get involved.  Basically I don't want to find I've placed myself immediately behind someone who is a dawdler as opportunities to safely overtake will be few and far between and that's just plain frustrating.  Also, I don't want to put someone else in that position of having to hang behind me waiting their chance to carry on and get on with their own journey home. Tricky, eh?  Here in particular the men and the boys get separated.  It's a long uphill drag with a steeper lip at the top just before reaching lights.  Doing this at my own pace is crucial for my survival!

I place myself second in the lineup.  Behind the tall skinny guy in red lycra but ahead of the 50ish year old in jeans.  There's also a guy on a mountain bike, probably my age, not wearing lycra, carrying a couple of pounds perhaps but not obese.  I take the chance that superiority of steed will win me the day.  This turns out to be a good assessment of ability.  The guy in jeans is lost behind all of us.  I can't get on the wheel of red lycra man, and although MTB guy is obviously present behind me (I can hear him panting) it seems to work out.  A mile later though, he's still kind of there.  He gets dropped, gets back on, gets dropped, gets back on.  We chat at the lights and he smiles and comments about making me do all the work.  I narrow my eyes "yes, so I saw" I say cheekily.  Then we're off again.  Problem though with knowing that I have someone working his pants off to stay on my wheel is I feel I have to keep going.  And going.  And going.  For me this is a long sustained effort, because I'm really trying, there's no slacking here.  3 miles of this and eventually he goes his own way.

But what was it made me try harder because I knew he was there?  It felt more like an effort to not hold him up than an effort to demonstrate superiority.  Whatever it was, I'm pooped!

Other folk

Cycling to work would be fine if it wasn't for other people.  Finally ran out of excuses why not to get on the bike to get to work today and hopped on at 7:30am with the intention of merely pootling in.  Good job really, given it was a really heavy gravity day - heavy legs, heavy bike and particularly heavy head courtesy of half a bottle of Chardonnay last night.

I get really irked by other cyclists who pull alongside me when I'm sat patiently at red lights and then pull away while it's on the pedestrian phase.  We're traffic.  Not pedestrians.  Most irked of course when they do this repeatedly as I catch up with them at the next set of lights and we have a yo yo thing going on.  Worse still if I actually have to keep pulling out into the traffic to go round them between lights.  Working for who I do, I really don't think disobeying the highway code is an option for me when on the bike.  Having said that, I'm the kind of woman who wouldn't flaunt the law knowingly anyway.  Red lights mean stop, the pavement is for pedestrians.  I have moral standards to uphold. I just wish other people had the same standards.

Just one near death experience today so that's a good day of cycle commuting.  Manchester has some beautifully marked out cycle lanes, and there's one of these which takes the cyclist around a parking lane which becomes a left turn lane, and it can look / feel as though you're somewhat in the middle of the road.  But the lane is beautifully marked out.  Bright green fresh paint, white paint marked cyclist logo things and a white line either side of the lane.  It's clear.  It becomes even more clear, I fancy, what it is when there's an actual cyclist in the lane.  That would be me.  However, apparently not clear enough to the corsa who felt that they should venture into the lane and attempt to  physically push me out of it.  It was somewhat close, and I can't help but wonder what they thought they were doing, why they felt it was OK to physically intimidate me.  Worse still, because they came from behind me it was completely unexpected and I really wasn't ready to have a car so close to my arse as it attempted to nudge me over.  Hell is other folk.

Not alone

The fourth day on the bike on holiday was finally not alone!  For three days I have kept my riding well within my safety comfort zone, afraid to push it either in terms of technical ups or downs or in terms of speed knowing that my wellbeing was solely dependent on me and that in remote areas I needed to stay safe.  Finally a day where I'm out with friends and can enjoy the freedom ... except I've done three days on the bike and I'm knackered.

So, revise that.  Finally a day where I can work hard on conserving as much energy as possible, hide behind people's wheels, do the bare minimum needed to stay up, and make careful decisions on gears, drinking and feeding.  Oh yes, that's much better.

So the fourth day was the tried and tested Llandegla after a night of camping in the pouring rain.  By 10am the weather though had brightened.  Or perhaps just stopped raining.  So off we went to the red run.  And on the technical descent bit I lost much time to the others, but hey, I didn't care, I'd carefully positioned myself at the back of the group so I didn't need to feel under pressure and could just roll along the track, and all was fine.  Between you and me I was a little shocked at how much distance I did lose here.  But hey ho, I can blame the heavy legs for sure.  Punctured the rear tyre some way into the route, and in proper Welsh fashion this was the moment the rain started to fall, and the midges started to bite.  Lovely.  Not.  Other than that, an incident free day.  With cake.

Marin challenge

So, not content with a fairly epic (in my terms) ride at Rhayader, and ignoring the very adverse weather forecasts for North Wales the Friday of my holiday was planned for the Marin Trail.  I am a woman on a mission.  I want not just to get a personal best time for the trail but I want to smash it. 

The first time I did the trail it took 4 hours.  The next time was, I think 3hrs 15 but I totally blamed this on my riding companion and his complex issue with hills.  I wanted to smash this, to prove to myself I could get up there with the better times for the trail.  In honesty I wanted 2 hours but would be happy with 2hrs 15 or 2hrs 30. 

This is the trail:

http://mbwales.com/marin_trail.aspx

As can be seen from the overall route description, 2 hours should be feasible.

So, I get to the head of trail somewhat later than anticipated due to grandad driving from cars on the long windy single carriage way A roads and dive into my sandwiches in the car park.  Best to fuel up early, I think.  In spirit of optimism, the sun comes out and I load my bike with just one single bottle.  I am going to be speedy.  Not much water required.

It starts well.  I am punishingly harsh to  myself.  Using frequent reference to watch, I refuse to stop more frequently than once every 15 minutes no matter how hard it feels, and this does indeed spur me on, and after the first couple of stops I become more comfortable with going for 30 minutes plus without break.  The trail has some diversions and this is frustrating, particularly when I fail to find the signs pulling me back onto trail and end up downhill and back uphill as I realise I have gone wrong.  It's also a little scary finding that a trail I've done before and is clearly marked still holds potential for getting lost.  Time keeps marching on.

Another side effect of being a woman alone on a trail in the midweek is the lack of other riders and walkers on the trail.  It's quite isolated and you feel very much alone.  As a result, I am noticeably more cautious about the descents, realising falling off just isn't an option, and although romping up the hills, I am meandering down the flowing woodland singletrack at sedate pace.  I am staying well within my comfort zone as far as risk taking is concerned.

The final diversion is a nightmare.  There is a cross roads where those who are 2 hours in cross paths with those who have just done the 15 minute climb out of the car park.  Yet, the diversion sign for the near completers takes them along the same direction as those who are 15 minutes in.  Surely this can't be right, there's no way off this trail, it's going to make me go round again my head needlessly panics.  And I get out the map and chat with a couple of blokes who have appeared on their bikes at the start of their mid afternoon ride.  Fortunately they turn out to be local, and know the diversions and know where I need to go.  In fact, they offer to escort me and show me the turnoff I need to take after the next climb and sweeping descent.  I protest, having been out for 2 hours I don't want to hold them up.  No worries say they.  So, giving it all I can to avoid delaying and spoiling their ride I go up the hill with them.  Chatting as I go, and making sure I stay a wheel ahead of the guy I am conversing with.  After all, I don't want to hold him up.  It's only when we get to the top of the climb I realise we dropped the other guy half way up the hill. 

They drop me off at the bottom of the descent and I'm on my way again.  Finally I reach the end 2hrs 32mins after starting, and I'm pleased with that.

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 ...

Death toll

Lots of chat in the news about the number of deaths on the road - pedestrians, cyclists and motorists.  http://www.guardian.co.uk/road-deaths-fall-record-low.  Makes interesting reading, particularly if you check out the table which shows how well it's comparing to 20 years ago for cyclists.  Nothing giving an idea of why this is so though.

The comments below the guardian article were interesting reading though (at least until I got bored and stopped).  Someone tongue in cheek flagging up about cyclists who ride on pavements and go through red lights.  It reminded me of an Alison in car versus cyclist incident yesterday.  I have to turn right out of my street onto a more major thoroughfare.  The more major route is often pretty busy with traffic and I do sit for sometime waiting for a suitable gap.  In recent years, however, just to the right of my street on the main road is a pedestrian crossing, one of those where you press the button and wait.  On busy traffic days this can be a godsend if someone on foot wishes to cross the road and makes the lights go red.  Suddenly traffic is stopped and I can actually pull out across one empty lane and poke my nose into the now stationary lane of traffic I'm looking to join.  It was an impossibly busy day yesterday but to my joy the lights were pressed by someone and went red. 

Call me naive but I expect traffic to stop at red lights, so I edge my nose out, and we're talking slow here because I got maybe a foot out into the road and there he is, the cyclist, who has just gone through the red lights.  And I've put him in danger by pulling out.  But, on the other hand, he wouldn't be in that position if he'd just bloody obeyed the rules of the road and stopped at the sodding red light.  I always stop on the bike if the light's red.  Even if nobody's crossing.  It's the law godamit, the law, and by disobeying it, the cyclist was the one placing himself in danger, not really me.  Having said that, nobody died, nobody swerved, I was moving so slowly I simply stopped.  Bloody idiot though.  Definitely old enough to know better, reckon he was a 50 year old man and not a testosterone driven youth.