Funny how a comfort zone ride left me grinning on
Sunday.Well, actually it didn’t just
leave me grinning post ride; I ratherthink I grinned the entire way.Back to the same old, same old, Rivington but as ever, with a
difference.Ringing the changes with
doing it in the direction I tend to think of as in reverse, but doing a bit of
the loop I normally skip and skipping a bit I normally ride.It was one busy old place this weekend, with
some long lost sunshine making an appearance and bringing out, well everyone
really – walkers, road cyclists, mountain bikers, horse riders, Go Ape
whoopers, cafe goers, 4x4 drivers.It
was one busy place, truly.
The mountain bike felt curiously light and somehow playful
despite simple maths and scales telling me that actually the new wheels were
slightly heavier than the loan ones I just returned.The bike was skipping and so indeed was
I.
Giggling as I made choices that perhaps in a long forgotten
time I wouldn’t have made.Opted for the
longest road climbs I knew, all for the joy of a piece of bridleway I love for
no obvious reason. Well, to me there is an obvious reason.The Belmont Road is proper cobbled, and not
in any slick pretty Coronation Street fashion, more in the way you imagine a
drovers track created for horses to gain access across the hills, the kind of
horses you imagine carrying goods or dragging carts. It’s a wide
bridleway.It’s mostly on the level,
perhaps a little upwards towards the Tower, and it skirts along what feels like
a ridge line.All the way you can marvel
at the industrial North West’s views.Particularly on a day like Sunday with clear blue skies and bright
sunshine on the cold moors.Snow lay
fairly thick on the ground, slushy in places, hard packed in others, fluffy and
drifted in others.Some of it I could
ride, others it was a bit like a kid on a balance bike, feet scooting along the
ground, other bits I dug the bike into the groove of a 4x4 drive vehicle tyre
track and made my way along.Insanely
glorious.Pedal, pedal, pedal.
Hmm, never really actually properly listened to the lyrics of Stairway to Heaven. Now, being me, I am over analysing them. Possibly because I have time. The lovely luxury of time and I can spend hours just inside my head thinking, mulling, considering. I'm so relaxed it's bizarre. A welcome side effect is that my TMJ thingy which is basically knackered jaw cartilage is leaving me well alone, as the occasions when I'm holding my jaw tense are pretty much zero, and indeed my diet has moved to softer foods such as cake ... it's a good life. This picture shouldbe on my inspiration noticeboard at home really. Along with the Dove advert wiomen, a silhouetted cyclist, Bear Grylls and a Guinea pig ...
Open Uni next unit has started, and from initially thinking oh well, it'll be what it'll be, I'm feeling moderately optimistic it might just work quite well. Free from distractions I'm a lot more likely to knuckle down to my books, and with an imminent departure to the continent (next week) with no TV, limited English speaking radio, and likely to be limited Internet, well, evening distractions are likely to be few, aren't they? I'm feeling really happy about leaving next week too. I am trying, well, possibly over trying to maintain friendships, and feel kind of reasonably comfortable with where I am. It's important to me, and I try hard, not really a needy thing about wanting to be loved, but something much more fundamental to me. A sense of community and belonging which somehow encompasses an understanding that things shift and change, and happiness is a state that embraces that movement. Flippin' 'eck, studying Buddhism for the first unit of the course, alongside this travelling malarkey may change me ...
Yesterday and today have been about getting stuff done, seeing folk, baking cake, that kind of thing, saving myself for this evening's MTB night ride out there in the Peak District. May be time for winter clothing, methinks.
And I leave here pondering Led Zeppelin ...
"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking."
So, today is a rest day. If I could even understand what that means. It started quite well with PJs on until about 9:30. Who knows what I was dithering doing until that time. From there on, it got busy with the Fiamma Bike Rack. Oh my, what a world of bits and pieces. Why don't manufacturers send these things out a little nearer complete? There are bits left over. But then my very competent mechanical husband always used to say "you can tell it's a good job when there's bits left over". There are a couple of random things which look like they should have somehow been vital to the construction but I still can't quite see how ... anyway, the rack is on and maybe I'll use it, maybe I won't. Maybe due to the time taken assembling I'll make damn sure I use it.
I've done three days consecutive on the bike and I didn't die. In fact, I don't feel the faintest bit fatigued today and am wondering just why I elected to declare today a day of rest. I don't actually think I need it. Something suggests to me that maybe the days I thought were kind of hardish really weren't. Maybe I am a rider who could begin to absorb 6 hour days perhaps?
Saturday was a road ride around the Peak District. Five hours around the back roads and a fair amount of ascent and unfortunately me descent. However, my mountain bike handling skills do seem in some ways to be vaguely serving me well, one almost certain "off" was definitely prevented by some bike memory from the MTB. Can't corner on either bike though, why is that I wonder ... although every time I do a corner ringing in my ears are the words of my friend Dan - never ever brake unless you are vertical. Which kind of works for me. I almost hear the rebuke if I even consider trying to brake during a corner.
Sunday was a mountain bike ride, and somehow it didn't seem that long. When did I become the kind of person who thinks a 4 hour ride is relatively short and easy. It was blissfully lovely though, riding with a group where rather than being at the back I was actually in the middle. Even when I'm not at the back though I am really mindful of those who are because I've been there myself almost every ride that I do. Being mindful of them doesn't mean assuming their feelings are the same as mine are at the back mind you. I suspect I am in the extremes of reaction to the situation because I get a female feeling of guilt for holding the group up, and I tend to turn myself inside out to try not to be a hindrance. Not everyone does that, and I envy those who can take a relaxed approach and realise that far from holding the group up they are an integral part of the group and it's not just a case of "nobody minds", it's really a case of that's normality of group riding and nobody even notices let alone actually minds. Well, possibly only the occasional testosterone driven bloke.
Monday again on the MTB but this time transferring to Ruthin, North Wales. The Over the Top route from the Ride the Clwyds website. What a fantastic local council they are to provide these routes which are genuine mountain bike rides, not some sugar coated tow path. They are fun, not all surfaced wide tracks. Brilliant. Hats off and all that. Funny thing about the Ruthin ride is that the first time I did it, the ride was 5 hours plus. The timing has gradually improved, partly as a result of actual knowledge of the route and partly less breaks, less walking and generally being a bit more gnarly on the bike. Under 3 hours these days. I do believe it's time to add a loop to it ...
Ruthin was in the mist and cloud, and it was a kind of amazing feeling of being isolated in a white landscape with the occasional luminous orange autumnal tree looming at you. And the occasional sheep. I always feel high up when I am in the clouds, like nothing could possibly be above me In heaven perhaps.
Ah, and today we're on Guns & Roses.
"Mama put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That cold black cloud is comin' down
Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door"
This weekend I did what's been a long term dream of mine; completed the Mary Towneley loop on the mountain bike. It's a two day circular ride through the Pennines, and for whatever reason, it has been one of those things which instantly had me yearning to complete it. Some desires aren't logical, and this was one of those which just resonated with me without having to have a rational drive to do it. Just something that lit a flame which kept alight. When I tentatively posted it as a facebook event three months ago I wasn't sure what to expect, and in reality I was so set on it, I would have done it without company. When this weekend came, the group was a compact threesome, me, Viv & Jason, with Viv's dad joining us on the Sunday, and the weekend couldn't have been more perfect. After a summer with no summer, the sun shone on us all day Saturday and most of Sunday, interrupted only by brief but heavy rain showers to provide a welcome cooling effect. It was just a glorious glorious two days at leisurely pace, riding through the landscape, being part of the hills not just an onlooker. I don't really do onlooker.
I was in the unusual position of being the one with the camera, having been reminded to bring it beforehand. Normally I don't really bother with pictures; so many friends with photo addiction and so many mobile phones around that I haven't ever felt I've missed anything not taking a camera with me. But I did as I was told. Having had cause to reflect on the purpose of photographs, I confess I'm pretty much a non photo person. When I cleared out Dave's old photo albums they were meaningless to me, lots of landscapes which could have been anywhere, where I didn't know what the background was, what kind of day they formed part of, nothing, just mental blanks because they weren't part of my life or my set of memories. Looking at my own pictures, I realise that when I take pictures of landscapes or surroundings the impact is equally meaningless. It's just not the way my brain works, I don't remember things through photographs of hills or trees or skies or beaches, I remember things about people. Yet I don't need photos to remember what's important, there's a whole catalogue stored in my head and it doesn't require a photo to trigger it. So I don't really take photos. Words, however, there's a different matter. Words can conjure up entire scenes, days, moments, everything really, much more so than photos. That's why I write. Words are my pictures, and if I can't express things right then the memory becomes clouded not crisp and jagged, pointy even.
But yes, I was made to take charge of the camera, although thankfully others did take on the burden occasionally, particularly when I was otherwise engaged ...
And today was brought to you by BabyBird
"You took an instamatic camera
And pulled my sleeves around my heart"
Cue hyperventilation as I enter the last two working weeks with British Cycling. Suddenly there is substantial knee quivering, gut gurgling terror, and I'm starting to worry about things which are just gremlins and goblins. Some of this I can clearly do something about so I'm trying to put the irrational in its place behind me, and facing up to the things which I'm hiding from. There's a clean page in front of me if I can only sweep aside the dust and cobwebs, and of course it's one of those times where anything worth doing is going to take proper proactive action, not a passive crossed fingers approach.
It seems to be a time to re-focus, pause, breathe, look down, look up, breathe again and make a thoughtful forwards movement just as I do every single time I come off the mountain bike. I know this from much weekend experience. It's become a really odd ritual for me whenever the bike or the hills beat me. Back in the saddle, look down, breathe, look up, breathe, plan and enact. Ever watched a rider prepare to ride the Kilometre time trial on the track; it has that feel of bringing in calm focus where once was frenetic brain activity. Cycling and life, maybe they work the same?
I've ridden with other people and groups a lot over the last couple of weeks, and can't remember any more the last time I rode alone other than the work commute. I need to ride solo again, need to dance to the beat of my own drum on the bike, my pace, returning a sense of me, of confidence, of grinning joy. I need to slow it down, even if briefly. Cycling and life, maybe they work the same?
And in the words of Michael Jackson:
"You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it
You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes
You're paralyzed"
I fear I may never wear a skirt again. Well, perhaps in hippy drop out style an ankle length something or other, possibly tie died, maybe with layers. But definitely nothing that reveals my shins. The weekend involved a sideways slide into a ditch and a certain amount of whipping with nettles. Sounds a little Fifty Shades of Grey, eh? All the rain has kept people off the paths and trails and has also encouraged growth in the undergrowth. Nettles are so high that there is a danger of slapping strands of foliage across not just your legs and lower arms but even your face. All a little interesting for the very average rider who kind of struggles to maintain direction on a narrow single track at the best of times, so when you try doing it with your eyes closed to avoid the worst of the nettles ... well, just interesting shall we say.
The weekend was one of those where plans were made, plans were changed, and everything worked out just about right anyway. Possibly with the exception of the Sunday afternoon downpour anyway. A sneaky Friday off work saw me in the Lake District on Thursday night, where giggles and wine seemed to be the order of the day followed on the Friday by a rather sedate walk which included coffee, streams, information boards and gardens. A sense of how I might have been in my 40s if life had somehow been different kind of lingered, but that was one of the many parallel Alisons who seemed to exist this weekend. Friday night was expected to see a move to the South Lakes, but a stop in a layby and a study of the weather forecast (aren't Smart Phones a great thing?) saw an abrupt change of direction. Peak District it was.
Peak District. There are a lot of ... well ... Peaks there, aren't there? I think we found a number of them (Garmin tells me 1000m of them). My legs stopped recovering after the hills, which I've never known before. They hurt, proper hurt, not the kind of hurt you can just tell yourself to Man Up and deal with. Ow. But I didn't cry that much ... ... ... staying off the bike for a few days this week. Curiously.
And because I love this song by Train, the way the words move:
"On the other side of a downward spiral
My love for you went viral
And I loved you every mile you drove away"
In the past decade I think there have been three occasions in total when I've stopped dead in my tracks and gone wow, I feel fit. And fleetingly, that seemed to happen to me yesterday. Woke up feeling strangely fresh and vibrant, somehow almost floaty, featherlight. Fortuitously it was a day for a bike ride. Once again, and I appreciate this starts to sound samey, Rivington. But it's not samey for me. On a hot summer evening, with a good friend, and a bike apiece, it's bloody awesome. It felt like me and the bike were dancing, a ride when somehow it would have been appropriate for multi coloured butterflies to accompany me up and down the hills. I could almost sense them dancing through the air around me, enjoying the sunshine, the breeze and the movement. Not a long ride, but a totally brilliant one, legs and lungs both on board with the process, and miraculously (well, if a sneaky early depart from work can be considered a miracle) we arrived back at the Great Barn cafe in time for toasted ham, mozzarella and basil ciabatta. Loving those summer opening hours.
It's a funny old week, kind of a one out, one in type of a week as far as the car and equipment have been concerned. Tuesday morning in went the road bike and the climbing kit. Wednesday evening out came the road bike and climbing kit. Thursday morning in went the mountain bike. Thursday evening the mountain bike came out, got cleaned, and camping stuff accumulated in the hallway. Friday morning wheels back on the road bike and off we go to work. Friday night and the hybrid will take its rightful place in the car. It's all change, change, change, and having earned a beer last night it was, in honesty a push to finish it sat in my pyjamas on the sofa (where I was discovered by my lodger on his return from his Morris dancing evening).
And I lay there in bed wondering why my buttocks ached, but this morning I still got up, got on the road bike and pedaled my way to work. In record time. It takes the hybrid 45-50 minute commute down to 35 minutes. It's some kind of a miracle (that makes two then). Bloody marvelous.
And in celebratory tones we're humming along with Eurythmics today while cheering to the TV in the hope it'll help Shanaze Reade who's representing GB in the Olympics BMX today ...
"Now this is a song to celebrate
The conscious liberation of the
female state!
Mothers - daughters and their
daughters too.
Woman to woman
We're singin' with you."
I've heard so much of the National Anthem during the last few days of Track Cycling at the Olympic Games that curiously it's now the song which seems to strum its way through my head when I'm out on the bike. Ah yes, the bike. I've been out on it again. The road bike, on what, on the face of it, were proper roads. Sunday's brief excursion was a drag strip along the A57, all about simply working out how to balance on the thing, how the gears worked, the brakes work, and oh hello, yes, reacquaint myself with the clip in pedals. Yesterday took things a step further because there were actual hills, hilly hills none less. Gears are not my forte but at the high level of mistakes I've been making all points towards the possibility of a fast learning curve, after all, finding out so many things I can do wrong certainly provides me with a lot of potential areas for improvement. So it's all mostly well out on the road, I think (hope).
I probably shouldn't be writing today; it feels like a really lack lustre morning. Combination of things I guess. Track cycling has finished, we're now moving on to BMX and MTB XC, and for cycling I'm guessing the medal rush has eased off, although there are in reality 3 opportunities in those 4 events. I'm tired. There are hormones. And something elusive is missing.
Still, administration to be done - e-mails to young hopefuls to be responded to, and maybe I'll sort out some bike and travel insurance. A dose of caffeine and up and at them required.
It's been busy. The London Olympics finally arrived, 7 long years after I stood in Manchester Velodrome reception with work colleagues watching on the TV as London was announced the winner of the affair. It felt like a long time away, perhaps one of those things which would never actually become real. Yet here we are, and somehow I am in the same job, the same house, but everything else has changed.
One of the things changed today, in fact, with the taking in of a new two wheeled friend into the household. The Road Bike Arrived. It's a Kinesis Racelight, it's red and black, and as a girl, that's pretty much all I need to know about it. OK, so I show an interest in the modifications. It has, for example, a compact chainset. I don't really know what that is but am assured by several people I trust that, for me, it is appropriate. It has also had narrower handlebars put on. Again, I am assured that, for me, this is required. It's news to me that handlebar width relates to shoulder width. Who would have thought it? So, we're a three bike household these days. Two of them seem to be in several pieces right now, and the dining room is beginning to look a little ... well ... unfeminine if I'm honest. Nobody said I was a girly girl, right?
Drum roll. I have been to London for the second time this week. I was given a ticket to the Track cycling at the London Velodrome. UCI, the world's governing body for cycling had a few discretionary tickets available, and somehow I was deemed worthy, and even got a choice of when to go. It was a quick no brainer decision for me. The women's Team Pursuit. Not only an event I felt we'd be in a good position to win gold in but also, for me, the one I feel most connection to because I genuinely like all three of the riders. The emotional relevance was overwhelming and the choice was easy. And in a moment of crazy joy, I got a call in my bedroom at 8:25 on the Saturday morning. If I could be down in reception by 8:30 I could get tickets to the morning session. Could I be packed, and vacate the room in 5 minutes. Of course I could, for a once in a lifetime opportunity, count me in.
So, I cruise gently towards the final day at work, and the weekends and days between are booking up which somehow brings the final date closer and closer and closer. Gulp. It'll be fine.
Today I bring you Tina Turner, because the athletes are real people with real depth and yet somehow those I don't know seem so remote to me, so faceless, so unidimensional, and yet somehow it's normal for the public to feel they know each person intimately. Private Dancers, and for the women you wonder if, like Vicky Pendleton appears to to my mind what they really dream about is marriage and children, and that's their true yearning ....
"I want to make a million dollars
I wanna live out by the sea
Have a husband and some children
Yeah, I guess I want a family
All the men come in these places
And the men are all the same
You don't look at their faces
And you don't ask their names"
It feels like it's been an extraordinarily lazy few days, limited exercise (hmm, scrub that, no exercise), no forward planning but a whole load of living in the present. Which has been strangely good for my equilibrium.
It was kind of frustrating to find myself at the Lee Valley Water Park watching the crazy and rather splendid sport of Kayak Slalom while my first love cycling was taking place out on the roads of London. Text and twitter updates were avidly pursued between every slalom competitor to see what was happening in both the women's and the men's time trial. Having worked in the vicinity of Bradley Wiggins for 14 years there was a vested interest in properly truly wanting the gold for him, in believing it was not his right, but somehow yes, maybe that, his right to demonstrate that in this event, he is the best the world has to offer. A worthy winner. Equally an interest in Chris Froome, having been busy during 2007-8 assisting and supporting with the paperwork to confirm his fundamental Britishness. An Olympic bronze and he's in the background. But he's happy with where he is, he knows his time will come. A true team player, cyclists in the UK honour his achievements, maybe quietly but we know what he's done and gently doff our hats to him.
Back in the office for a break now ... I've done lots of reading and writing on the train, and am feeling a fundamental faith in myself and a feeling of solid confidence in my future.
For so many reasons, this song is on my mind today as the Olympic Games heads to the velodrome:
Thanks to Spandau Ballet for this one:
"oh but I'm proud of you, but I'm proud of you
there's nothing left to make me feel small
luck has left me standing so tall
gold
always believe in your soul
you've got the power to know
you're indestructible
always believe in, because you are
go"
Saturday was delicious. After a Friday night out in Manchester, drinking champagne, eating good food with an old friend at Jack Spratt we found ourselves watching the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony in Manchester's Corn Exchange Square on the big screen. Along with a suitably mellow and multi nationality crowd who cheered at seemingly random intervals at the different flag bearers. Personally I couldn't speak for gaping at the Fijian lead athlete. But because I had an appointment with the television Saturday afternoon (men's Olympic road race) Saturday morning had to be early and slick if I was going to sneak out into the countryside with the trusty Boardman hardtail.
A slightly disappointing start to the day when Tesco were out of almond croissants but a guilty pleasure instead of starting the day with chocolate as the substitute chocolate croissant was selected. And then there was me and the bike, in the car travelling along the motorway to the good old reliable Rivington. Which proved as much pleasure as ever, and indeed possibly more.
There's something rather wonderful about Rivington. It feels so personally mine, a quiet and solitary pleasure, something which feels like it's there just for me. A hum of belonging and love. Today, I mixed it up. Changed the route. Searched for more joy and was not disappointed. I took my normal route and reversed it. Realised that normally the hardest climbs are the knobbly ones, which is absolutely fine but somehow leads the the most glorious descents being on the road. Surely, I thought, I can do better than this on the downhill. And it proved beautifully and perfectly true. The swooping lanes I normally glide down became slightly less than unrelenting climbs, perfectly do-able and a medium challenge which mostly related to a mud induced reluctance of the bike to get into the inner ring (note to self, bike maintenance ...). And the normal climbs became rather perfect descents.
I admit to myself quietly I am attempting something you could possibly, if you were being particularly probing describe as "training". A bit of an anathema to me really. Bike riding is just that, riding, it's not training because implicit in the word training is a longer phrase of "training for ..." which does actually start to fit the bill now flights are actually booked for a MTB holiday in the Pyrenees. Me, spend consecutive days in the saddle? Long days? Oh. To properly enjoy it, I realise I should at the very least make sure I can cope with being in the saddle for longer periods, which is more a shorts and saddle issue than anything else. So I'm working on it, OK? With this in mind, I added loops to the Rivington ride.
The first loop I added in was Healey Nab, a delightful volunteer purpose built mountain bike single track run through the hillside woodland. I've never done it before because previously the Rivington route has meant that this is somewhere towards the back end of the ride and I'm always worried about how long it will take and will I survive. But doing the route backwards means it's in the first quarter, so what the hell and why not, and crack on were phrases in my head. And it was spectacularly solitary, that feeling of just you sweeping through a forest, even though you know it's a somewhat contrived trail, it feels suitably real, and indeed joyous.
Much to my own surprise I also added in a lengthy road climb. Just to have the joy of being here: Belmont Road which is a relatively flat (well, a slight incline then a slight descent) bridleway of a few miles in length. It's so knobbly there is no point trying to pick a line. The road fights the bike, the bike fights you, and it's a masochist's fest of sheer love, delight and frankly ecstasy. Somehow in my head as I ride it Nights in White Satin races through my head and leads to a crescendo of "oh how I love you" which in my mind is being sung by a chorus of increasing size because the song has to encompass a love of being, of the bike, and of the whole damn world of semi cobbled trails. Which is why I leave you with:
"Gazing at people, some hand in hand, Just what I'm going through they can't understand. Some try to tell me, thoughts they cannot defend, Just what you want to be, you will be in the end.
And I love you, yes I love you, Oh how I love you, oh how I love you."
And because I am an old burd, and this may not be familiar to many:
It's truly been all about the bike for the last few days. Like buses they come in threes. It all started with a Saturday plan to hit the trail centre with the mountain bike. Then there was a promising weather forecast and a leaning towards the idea of getting out on the Friday night and camping. Which was a blinding plan. Somehow I decided to tack onto the front end of the weekend a Thursday night ride too, feeling kind of somehow unexercised and lethargic.
Thursday night though I took out the hybrid on the uncomplicated muddy off road trails near to home, and after a bit of planning found a loop which was so much fun I did it twice. The hybrid tackled it all with a curiously elegant ease, having larger wheels and somehow a far more reliable gear set up than the MTB. Covered in mud, the hybrid looked oddly ungainly, being more a sedate road beast of burden with generally no more than the splashes of oil, grease and grime from the tarmac road. Somehow the ride was right though, and the hybrid stamped its stamp of rightness on the activity, and we fell in love all over again.
The third of the buses related to shopping. Every girl's favorite activity for sure. Marshalling the troops in the form of one old boyfriend and one random encounter cyclist, as a group of three we made our way here:
It'll be coming home within a week. I am excited. It is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
Sunday was the final day of pedalling, out around Hayfield way. And I confess I was tired, so tired, the last half hour of the ride I knew my shoulders had dropped, and things which had worked before, such as legs for example were no longer operational. And by the evening walking uphill was hurting. I'm not used to consecutive days on the bike, but it has to happen as I have plans, peeps, big plans. As ever.
And here, gratuitously after the best day for British riders in the Tour de France is a photo which brings a smile to my face as Bradley Wiggins feels the joy of the National Anthem ... consider it my celebration.
And today is brought to you by Simon and Garfunkel:
"Slow down, you move too fast, you've got to make the morning last
Just kickin' down the cobble-stones, lookin' for fun and feelin' groovy"
After one of those days which at first seemed inexplicably restless and slightly annoyed, the options were clear - either do some exercise, get some sleep or wash it all away with a glass of wine. I took option A.
After spending good money on a Thule tow bar mounted bike rack, somehow I have slunk into the lazy girl option of taking the wheels out of the bike and popping it into the mini. Back seats down. So that's what I did. It all seems like a fine way forward when you leave home, but actually when you get to destination there's often a chance that the brake levers will have engaged and pushed the disc pads together. Also on the way home you're suddenly faced with putting a filthy bike into the car. But the car's interior is not exactly spotless right now anyway so thoughtlessness rules and the bike goes in. This of course will all change once the van is in my possession. That's due end of August. Which is exciting. I hope it's finished to schedule, but if not, know I'll just tweak plans and it'll all be fine in a no stress, no detail kind of a way.
So the bike went in the car, and Rivington Old Barn was the destination, and as I drove the sun came out. It was always going to be a rushed ride because I had opted not to put the lights in the bag and work had been a hellhole of a place so departure was delayed. Which meant no messing. Bike out, wheels on, helmet on and we're away. Big grin on my face.
It's a funny ride for me, the Rivington one, and one which I hold kind of dear. I guess it was the first ride I ever did which wasn't trail centre. Traditional mountain bikers would probably hate it. All the longest, steepest descents are on the road, making me wonder sometimes if it would be best ridden in reverse of the order I take it. There's quite a bit of road, but there's a goodly amount of technicalish climbing. Well, by my less than 20% skill standards. The first time I did the ride it took 3 hours. Now apparently it takes one and a half, and there was never any danger of the world turning dark. There are two climbs I can now do which I couldn't before and one gritty little devil of a thing I can only make up in perfect conditions, both on the ground and in my head. It depends on me getting the line perfect, and it relies on me moving my body weight, getting the fine balance between a lifting front wheel and a skidding back wheel. And yesterday I failed. Nearly went back and tried again but it's by my standards so steep I get pretty pooped with just the once. Maybe if next time I tried out of saddle ...
And the ride was blissful and involved a peacock in the road. Which responded with a welcoming squawk to the squawk of my disc brakes. Which was a moment of surreal for me.
And now I'm busy ordering a road bike. Because I can.
And today's tune and title comes to you from Fort Major:
"This is 10% luck,
20% skill,
15% concentrated power of will,
5% pleasure,
50% pain,
And 100% reason to remember the name!"
You know that phrase your mum said to you when you were little? Something along the lines of pull a face like that and if the wind changes it'll get stuck like it? Might have accidentally done this in a weird way.
*HEALTH WARNING* really really contrived metaphor. Those of a squeamish nature with views on use of such contrivances please walk on by.
Being a proactive type and all about the change and the navel gazing, kind of decided at some point this year to try to get rid of the prickly shell I hang onto, horse chestnut style (you've been warned). I mean, horse chestnuts are pretty sturdy beasts anyway without the shell, so why not just let the prickly bit go, vanish, let folk see the shiny conker (this is dreadful isn't it?). So I did it. Left myself open. But inside the prickly cover there wasn't a conker, there was a smartie. Soft and sweet with a shell that could be cracked by a very determined guinea pig (even I'm hating this direction now ...). And somehow, having let the shell go, and revealed my inner smartie (sigh) the wind must have changed because it's now part of who I am; it's got stuck like it. Which actually I'm mostly OK with. I mean yes, I'm vulnerable to gentle hammer action but it's OK because there are plenty of smarties in the tube (ick).
So what has this got to do with anything active, you may hear yourself ask? Well, it's something that now pervades my entire sense of me, and with an unfortunate side effect of making my confidence knockable. Which isn't really the proper me. I am confident, maybe not always competent but I have a steadfast inner core who knows who I am, what I can do, and isn't afraid of being me and being clear about who that me is. Yet somehow my bike confidence has taken a huge bloody knock over the last month.
The trouble here is that I really do like to ride with other people, I like being part of a group, I like rapport, jokes, gentle teasing, and mickey taking for those inevitable stupid trail moments. I like the shared talking over a cup of tea afterwards, the feeling of a shared experience, of belonging, being a part of a collective, even if it's for the fleeting time of a day. I like reminiscing with other people over great days out, indifferent days out, and sodding awful days out. It's a part of the joy of the bike for me. Yet my confidence has taken an immense battering. I have gone out of my way to try to increase the pool of people I ride with, and the result seems to have been a feeling of inadequacy courtesy of having shifted that prickly conker exterior. I am slow. This is not modesty. I am slow. And although not a testosterone rich bloke who has a problem with being at the back, I do have a problem with feeling that I'm taking away some of the joy from other people who are having to wait or worse still babysit me. I don't want to be that sucker of living souls. I'd rather ride alone.
Don't get me wrong, I also love to ride alone. There's a massive joy to doing things at exactly your own pace, a freedom to do whatever you want to do, the challenge of attempting things which you maybe wouldn't with an audience just to experience and to experiment. I am too shy to try these in company. Again ... don't want to slow anyone down.
Anyway, where's this leading? It's leading to the fact that I'm now nervous of even trying to find new riding folk. I have probably three people now who ride at my pace, and as they are all particularly brilliant people to get along with, then frankly what on the earth am I fussing about?
And because I am an exceptionally old burd, I leave you with the Fun Boy Three Tunnel of Love circa god only knows when.
"consequences altered cases
broken noses altered faces
my ego altered altered egos
wherever i go so does me go"
Climbs all have names, and mischievous some of them are too. Bank Holiday Monday saw me doing no routes at all with any relevance to her Majesty's Jubilee, but did see me doing climbs named such things as Sheer Delight, Chopping Block and Cannonball Express. And it was a gentle start to the day.
I am a bitch. Let me explain further ...
A few years ago I did a navigation skills course with a friend of mine. She carries the kind of karabiner you'd put your keys on and a bit of cord on the outside of her walking rucksack. Her purpose in doing this is (IMHO) so she can identify herself as being "a climber". It gives her a sense of one upwomanship and prestige I suppose. Logic and reason suggest this is a crap idea because actually if you're doing scrambling through small gaps etc. you really don't want something on your bag which can snag and get you tangled. So, when the instructor challenged her as to why she was carrying the bit of tat on the outside of her bag, she was flustered and put on the spot and made the outrageous and simply untrue statement that she'd "abb'd off that". Which was laughed down. Being the bitch I am, I spread the tale to a few mutual friends so much so that it became an in joke "I've abb'd off that".
And this is why an Asda mug with a karabiner handle became, on the face of it, part of our Ab system.
And weirdly, even with the mug in situ (along with three other sturdy points) other folk didn't pay attention and descended the same rope without question. Nowt as queer as folk I guess.
And the whole Abseil experience became a positive joy ... not quite so certain of the climbing though!
In the words of David Bowie:
The Jean Genie lives on his back
The Jean Genie loves chimney stacks
He's outrageous, he screams and he bawls
Jean Genie let yourself go!
By the end of my first day of sea cliff climbing I felt I was handling my abbing with a certain aplomb. Things had become smoother, far less jerky and indeed completely non exhausting on my right arm. I suspect there is a certain male advantage to some of those hand movements. But nonetheless, things progressed. Each time I arrived at the oh so carefully selected belay ledge Carl was patiently stood on the widest flattest part possible a suspicious look was given to the sea. And indeed to Carl. And things went from strength to strength. Half way up I even deigned to raise my hand in a cheery wave as the oh so familiar face of Steve peered down at me from the top of the cliff. But the weather began to change, and despite the sure and certain knowledge I could get no wetter, somehow rain stopped the playing, and the trudge back to the car park was made. This was also the last day I attempted to fit all the paraphernalia into a 25 litre daysack. Mistake. Ropes a dangling from all manner of places, and that thing where you hang your helmet as a nice rattling ornament from the side of your bag, swishing from side to side and interfering with your elbows.
And the evening was spent in the pub describing to my friends the torment and torture the evil man had put me through. Little did I know what was to come ...
and courtesy of Simon & Garfunkel
"She said a bad day is when I lie in the bed
And I think of things that might have been"
After a midnight arrival at the St Petrox campsite, erecting the darling tent by the light of the van headlights, a still night changed into a bird song dawn all too soon. In the spirit of joy at the little things the teeny gelert calor gas burner was ignited, kettle was on and the customary camping breakfast of tea and oats so simple in the somewhat over the top packaging pots was quickly achieved. For this morning we had a military briefing to attend. Off to Range West with high, high hopes. Dreams of men in khaki uniform were foremost in my mind. And we arrived, and there were a motley crew of climbers awaiting the briefing. Scruffy for the most part and somewhat weather worn if the truth be told. My climbing partner embraced the spirit of camaraderie and that weird appearance of being part of some exclusive and strange "scene" by knowing some of the stranger looking characters and idly making chitchat as we awaited permission to proceed to site.
The first uniformed individual greeting us was, much to my disappointment, female. The next man up was a somewhat sturdy gentleman sporting a beret and a rather stereotypical moustache. And we were informed about routes through, about times of activity, quantities of ammunition, nesting birds, seals, all manner of housekeeping details. Then as I glanced along the row, suddenly I felt part of this bedraggled community, because randomly there was a familiar face. Denial was my first reaction. Because the face I thought I knew was a sea kayaker with his own base in Cardigan, and he was with a woman and children and to the best of my knowledge if he was the man I thought he was, he was a childless singleton. I know, it's just a detail. And I dismissed the possibility that this could be the Steve I knew ... until the close of the briefing when I came face to face with him at the handing in of the "I have listened to everything and the army has no liability" forms. And from that point onwards, it seemed wherever I strayed along the Pembroke coast, so did Steve. If I climbed a cliff, there he was at the top.
From there we headed to Flimston Bay. I had a deeply patient and extremely detailed lesson in how to set up an ab. Anchor points were jointly identified and discussed. And then came the moment where I had to practice with the prussik loop. After quite some time, a latent memory rose to the forefront of my chimping out brain (there was a certain amount of me that was pretty much just going wibble with fear by this time). I am a left handed prussiker. Simply cannot manage it on my right hand side. Not a clue why not, but back in the good old tree climbing days of yore (those were much more bruised days even than now), I have a weird near ambidextrous thing going on. I say this as I type looking at my left hand mouse; a true deterrent to others using my computer. And the first abseil down the cliff was jerky and slow, and by the end of it my right arm was wondering how it was ever to climb back up the cliff again.
A veritable cats cradle of ropes, slings, and pieces of wire were set up to secure me and my gibbering chimp to a teeny and rocky ledge of extreme discomfort. Small splashes were occasionally tickling my ankles and all was well. And then Carl left. Climb when ready was, in my head, similar to "please don't leave me" but somehow that's not how it was interpreted. And up he went, and left hand belaying also took place, and there were squawking birds and there were interested seals popping their heads up. And Carl reached the top. At which point it was a cue for a freak wave to hit me. Chained to the cliff as I was in my cowardice and some degree of terror this was interesting. At least it wouldn't sweep me away, but at the same time, there was no escape. Carl was in the fortunate position of having topped out and being in a place to look down and observe when he heard the sound of the sea change. And down he looked and nowhere was I to be seen. Then the wave cleared and my red helmet was once more visible, with a laughing (possibly hysterically) Alison. Then the second wave hit me and somewhere in all this, Carl had me on belay. For once, with no messing, the wires, slings etc. were removed. The first ten feet of climbing to get me above the wet rock was uncannily quick. Who would have thought I could move so nippily. And that was just the first day of drenched salt stained trousers ...
And I leave you with Belinda Carlisle singing "When I'm lost at sea I hear your voice and it carries me. In this world we're just beginning to understand the miracle of living. Baby I was afraid before, but I'm not afraid anymore."
Four days camping in Pembroke attempting to climb sea cliffs have just been and gone. For we love royalty and the generosity in sharing a double bank holiday. The mountain hardware refuge tent decided to accompany me for the trip. That once much detested piece of equipment has worked its way somewhat sneakily into my heart. And learning to finally love this tent is, for me, symbolic of learning to love me; to do more than accept those times of solitude, but to simply enjoy whatever experience comes along. I can love that space, the feeling of smallness I have there. My thermorest taking up only a fraction of the greedy space, and me in turn taking up just a portion of the mat. Because I feel small here, small and curled up in the ultimate friendly space. The tent itself tiny at the edge of the field and the field just a part of the patchwork of agricultural land that spreads across Britain. Yet here, in this infinite space, where I am small to the point of insignificance, I am also huge. Because my thoughts fill my body but they also expand and soar, without boundaries, and without limits and there is nowhere that isn't home. And this is why it will be OK to travel alone.
But I'm not in Pembroke alone. I have a driver. Who is also my lead climber, my teacher, my mentor and someone who I'd be honoured to feel I could finally think of as friend. Because it remains a new and raw acquaintance. And it's two people who find we can talk of anything, and we share the kind of conversation I seldom share outside my head. And the joy here is that I am no longer restrained to just one perspective. Ideas bounce, together we twist subjects, we both change and we both build on ideas which are curling like smoke in our heads. Concepts come from each other and jostle and nestle up to pre-existing ideas, turning them into something new. And if he would just stop attempting to kill me, maybe we could be friends.
He has an infectious enthusiasm somehow incongruous with a 6 foot 5 man near to 50 with a brain the size of a small planet, and makes sea cliff climbing an awesome experience I'm privileged to have shared. And when I'm in a less whimsical mood I'll explain further.
Until then, I want my love, my joy, my laugh, my smile, my needs. Not in the star signs or the palm that she reads. Courtesy of Beautiful South.
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.
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.
