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"
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
The Gamut
I am made of stern stuff. She says, frowning and attempting to look somewhat daunting. Pushed aside the "oh but I really need to buy some calor gas for the weekend after work today" excuse, and simply put the bike lock in the bag. Because of course bikes can carry calor gas. And, it turns out a new t-shirt, pair of walking trousers and baggy cycling shorts. Because I am fed up of having clothes which only fit where they touch and that would be mostly where the belt ensures contact. I'm a teeny bit pleased with myself for accommodating shopping on the bike and not just opting for the car.
Sunny day and one of those weird journeys where cars have their windows open and you hear snippets of information. Traffic on the M4, today's going to be a scorcher (this one puzzled me overheard at 6pm). And because I'd veered across town to hit Go Outdoors up for the calor gas, my route home involved ... Langworthy.
First thing in the morning it's a pleasure to do this route, but in the evening you come to the top of a gentle rise, and into a long flat straight section. Which would be absolutely fine on a dark evening or a rainy day or an early morning. But on a sunny afternoon is treacherous. For it is here that I cannot forget the experience of being water bombed by the locals. So stealth cycling it is. Timing the lights so I don't have to stop. Being hyper aware of what traffic is about and staying nearer to the middle of the road than the kerb. Because children can surely only throw so far. Water bombs aren't the only thing the playful little dears have chucked at me along this stretch. There have been cans, and crisp packets and just general chaos and mayhem, and most of me is screaming I'm old enough to be your mum. But it makes for a good bike ride with clear focus and drive and determination ...
Sunny day and one of those weird journeys where cars have their windows open and you hear snippets of information. Traffic on the M4, today's going to be a scorcher (this one puzzled me overheard at 6pm). And because I'd veered across town to hit Go Outdoors up for the calor gas, my route home involved ... Langworthy.
First thing in the morning it's a pleasure to do this route, but in the evening you come to the top of a gentle rise, and into a long flat straight section. Which would be absolutely fine on a dark evening or a rainy day or an early morning. But on a sunny afternoon is treacherous. For it is here that I cannot forget the experience of being water bombed by the locals. So stealth cycling it is. Timing the lights so I don't have to stop. Being hyper aware of what traffic is about and staying nearer to the middle of the road than the kerb. Because children can surely only throw so far. Water bombs aren't the only thing the playful little dears have chucked at me along this stretch. There have been cans, and crisp packets and just general chaos and mayhem, and most of me is screaming I'm old enough to be your mum. But it makes for a good bike ride with clear focus and drive and determination ...
Everybody hurts
Ow OW Ow.
This entry is brought to you by Rule Five. My favourite.
I noticed maybe Saturday that it hurt to stand, to sit, to go up and down stairs, in fact, most things involving movement of legs. Big fat muscles in thighs giving it some welly on the stiffness. Sunday it was noticeable on the bike ride and I chose to ignore it. Last night climbing I realised how the muscles had been put in that condition, and carried on regardless. Today I cycled in, aware with every stop and start that the muscles were protesting. But it is a good ache and frankly MTFU. For indeed, everybody hurts sometimes.
I have very rapidly made an adjustment to the concept of lycra shorts without baggies on the commute to work. Tra lala as I leave the front door feeling virtually naked with the skimpiness of the clothing, for it's early and I'm in work before 8am so who knows, cares or sees. Except for the people at work but why would they be looking anyway.
The thing I'm actually slightly ashamed of, or perhaps just mildly embarrassed by is the bruises. There is a certain threshold over which it's awkward off the bike to have bare legs. There ought to be a classification of bruises along the lines of burns to decide on when it's appropriate to wear a) shorts, b) 3/4 lengths or c) long trousers whatever the weather. Notice the subject of skirt hasn't even occurred. So, shorts would be permissible with bruises at a grade one level or below. Below this hasn't actually happened for quite some time and is something of a fantasy state, similar to the concept of being in peak fitness. My imaginary grade one or below level would be maybe just one or two small bruises, restricted to below knee. This would be one per leg really in an ideal world. Grade 2 bruises would be a mix of colours, different vintages, potentially really only consisting of those more than 48 hours old so in a state of either grey or some fading yellow. There would also be a percentage leg cover relating to a grade 2 bruise, perhaps up to about the 25% of lower leg cover. Grade 3 bruises are a trouser only situation. These are a mix of fresh bruises in an eye catching tender red mix with grey, and some of these are raised. This is a 40% plus of leg cover, and may also include thigh and knee bruises.
There are also categories for bruises accompanied by grazes or by cuts. Bruises which are so sore you can't shave your legs. Bruises in really weird places where the pedal has smacked into you as you go down, and ankle bruises caused by climbing mishaps. Perhaps some sub categories for bruises which alone cover 5% of your leg as opposed to that level of cover being comprised of several small ones. There's clearly work to be done on this subject.
Singing along to REM because everybody hurts sometimes, everybody cries, but it's time to sing along ...
This entry is brought to you by Rule Five. My favourite.
I noticed maybe Saturday that it hurt to stand, to sit, to go up and down stairs, in fact, most things involving movement of legs. Big fat muscles in thighs giving it some welly on the stiffness. Sunday it was noticeable on the bike ride and I chose to ignore it. Last night climbing I realised how the muscles had been put in that condition, and carried on regardless. Today I cycled in, aware with every stop and start that the muscles were protesting. But it is a good ache and frankly MTFU. For indeed, everybody hurts sometimes.
I have very rapidly made an adjustment to the concept of lycra shorts without baggies on the commute to work. Tra lala as I leave the front door feeling virtually naked with the skimpiness of the clothing, for it's early and I'm in work before 8am so who knows, cares or sees. Except for the people at work but why would they be looking anyway.
The thing I'm actually slightly ashamed of, or perhaps just mildly embarrassed by is the bruises. There is a certain threshold over which it's awkward off the bike to have bare legs. There ought to be a classification of bruises along the lines of burns to decide on when it's appropriate to wear a) shorts, b) 3/4 lengths or c) long trousers whatever the weather. Notice the subject of skirt hasn't even occurred. So, shorts would be permissible with bruises at a grade one level or below. Below this hasn't actually happened for quite some time and is something of a fantasy state, similar to the concept of being in peak fitness. My imaginary grade one or below level would be maybe just one or two small bruises, restricted to below knee. This would be one per leg really in an ideal world. Grade 2 bruises would be a mix of colours, different vintages, potentially really only consisting of those more than 48 hours old so in a state of either grey or some fading yellow. There would also be a percentage leg cover relating to a grade 2 bruise, perhaps up to about the 25% of lower leg cover. Grade 3 bruises are a trouser only situation. These are a mix of fresh bruises in an eye catching tender red mix with grey, and some of these are raised. This is a 40% plus of leg cover, and may also include thigh and knee bruises.
There are also categories for bruises accompanied by grazes or by cuts. Bruises which are so sore you can't shave your legs. Bruises in really weird places where the pedal has smacked into you as you go down, and ankle bruises caused by climbing mishaps. Perhaps some sub categories for bruises which alone cover 5% of your leg as opposed to that level of cover being comprised of several small ones. There's clearly work to be done on this subject.
Singing along to REM because everybody hurts sometimes, everybody cries, but it's time to sing along ...
Monday, 28 May 2012
Diversion ahead
I have typing diarrhoea. It's not enough to have a poetry blog, a navel gazing blog, facebook and twitter and a cycling blog. I want more. But in the interests of sanity and general good behaviour, I'm just going to broaden this beyond cycling and into the rest of my world. Because I have a weird world which like a balloon inflates and deflates, ties itself in knots and on occasion changes colour. And I'm excited because my normal balloon planet is changing. It's budding off and is becoming a most odd shape. I'm really excited about my future. And have now used the word excited rather too much. It's taking on a new shape, and it's one I semi direct but far from control. And almost every day something else like a slightly less annoying than normal mosquito draws itself to my attention.
Today, I climbed. Convinced the poor unsuspecting climbing partner who thought we were going bouldering (as if) that he was in fact a very able second and was essentially the guinea pig to my lead climbing and importantly (for him) my newly acquired skills in setting up a belay. A gorgeous evening dawned over North Manchester, and the quarry has a beautiful open aspect which means you can see hills, and the sun can reach whole swathes of clean sculpted rock. There are no mozzies, and no marshy spots (I may have climbed at Anglezarke one too many times). And it draws you in with a horseshoe shape, and the friendly sounds of other climbers, occasional calls, jingling of gear and muttering under breath. And I led a couple of routes and then was told (not asked, how manly) that I was going to climb a top roped E1 route. Which was somewhat of a surprise to me at the time. But always (ha) obedient and feeling in a mood for experimentation up it I swanned, with surprising ease and maybe even grace (which actually in my books means simply not using my knees). And life was good as with shaking knees I reached the top, staggered to a handy ledge and gasped those traditional words "I'm safe".
It is possible tonight might have been intended as a date. I'm not clear on these things. I don't think so, always safest to assume not and take the pressure off, and just be the pushy I'm going to lead while you second woman I am. In any case, I have a ringing familiarity with the phrase punching above my weight. And there was beer and there were ideas thrown about for the future I'm so excited about. The growed up gap year, or indeed as I'm thinking of it, the year of play planned from September pushed out a new weird bubble from the balloon tonight. A van. Why don't I get a camper van. And although the concept makes me wince slightly with the pretentiousness of it all, why don't I? Why not?
Today, I climbed. Convinced the poor unsuspecting climbing partner who thought we were going bouldering (as if) that he was in fact a very able second and was essentially the guinea pig to my lead climbing and importantly (for him) my newly acquired skills in setting up a belay. A gorgeous evening dawned over North Manchester, and the quarry has a beautiful open aspect which means you can see hills, and the sun can reach whole swathes of clean sculpted rock. There are no mozzies, and no marshy spots (I may have climbed at Anglezarke one too many times). And it draws you in with a horseshoe shape, and the friendly sounds of other climbers, occasional calls, jingling of gear and muttering under breath. And I led a couple of routes and then was told (not asked, how manly) that I was going to climb a top roped E1 route. Which was somewhat of a surprise to me at the time. But always (ha) obedient and feeling in a mood for experimentation up it I swanned, with surprising ease and maybe even grace (which actually in my books means simply not using my knees). And life was good as with shaking knees I reached the top, staggered to a handy ledge and gasped those traditional words "I'm safe".
It is possible tonight might have been intended as a date. I'm not clear on these things. I don't think so, always safest to assume not and take the pressure off, and just be the pushy I'm going to lead while you second woman I am. In any case, I have a ringing familiarity with the phrase punching above my weight. And there was beer and there were ideas thrown about for the future I'm so excited about. The growed up gap year, or indeed as I'm thinking of it, the year of play planned from September pushed out a new weird bubble from the balloon tonight. A van. Why don't I get a camper van. And although the concept makes me wince slightly with the pretentiousness of it all, why don't I? Why not?
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Cheap Seats
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.
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.
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.
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