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.
Friday, 22 July 2011
Thursday, 21 July 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
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 ...
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 ...
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
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.
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.
Monday, 18 July 2011
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.
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.
Monday, 4 July 2011
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, 1 July 2011
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.
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.
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