#TeamWrong

I don’t want to post this one in some ways.  I did something foolish which makes me feel uncomfortable.  But nobody died.

Monday was return home from Scotland day.  So with a six hour drive ahead of us, we decided to make the driving time worth it, we should get another full hill day under our belts. Me and the lodger, that is.  After some alcohol on Sunday night and some books, talking and maps, we established a plan.  Then we woke up on Monday and established another plan.  It turned out both of us had dreamed for some years of going up that iconic entry to the highlands of Scotland hill – the Buachaille Etive Mor.  Being a Munro type of hill, and covered with snow, what wasn’t to like.  It did, in fact, sound like an impressively good idea, on the way home and everything.  Ideal, eh?

There was a discussion over how best to get up this snow filled gully thing (I can’t emphasize enough quite how much snow ...)  which was dominating the scenery, and a discussion over what to take with us in terms of equipment.  One of those chats we’d come back to time and time again in our final descent off the hill ... hindsight being the wonderful thing it is. 

Gently we bimbled across the river, along the stony path past the climbers hut, walking poles rhythmically clanging ahead of me.  The path started to climb, all big boulder stuff, and we had occasional touching base conversations to check we both felt the same route would work for the next section.  And most amicable it was, although as we got closer, also daunting.  There was a lot of snow.  But undeterred we carried on, confident with the guidebook information which had suggested the rocky pathway to the west of the gully as a workable and indeed pleasant perhaps route up the hill.  A few decisions later and we found ourselves on scrambly terrain with solid smooth glistening balls of ice in place of steps.  Oh.  Interesting. Let’s go round it, we thought.  And so we did.  Until the point when all there was to the right and above us was ice balls, and to the left, well to the left there was this gully and some sheet ice and a whole load of snow.  

In agreement, we walked towards the gully, trying to make steps with the sides of winter boots, then front pointing with boots, then as one person with one decision we both took off rucksacks and ice axes appeared.  And we cut steps and we moved and then all there was ahead of us was icy snow slopes.  Steep snow slopes, and when it came down to it, not that snowy.  More like ice really.  Ice.  A rocky seat was found and the crampons went on.  We started to commit.  Zig zag walking across the gully.  Happily axe and cramponing it along, we were.

It got steeper.  The wind started to swirl eddies of snow around.  Anything we loosened with our crampons bowled down the gully, gathering pace and weight as it went.  The wind got stronger.  Matt almost idly wondered out loud, what do you suppose the avalanche risk is like.  Shit.  I know too much.  We’re committed, we’re over half the way up a snow slope that just got steep enough that the zig zag walking was no longer an option, and now I’m worrying about avalanche. Because I know enough to realise it wasn’t just an idle suggestion.  The slope is perfect avalanche gradient.  The snow when you grab a handful is just mobile enough and just sticky enough, and god only knows how deep it was and what the interface of old and new was really like. I was already sick to the stomach just thinking about it.  Snow was swirling at the top, there was a cornice and I just wanted the Scotty beam me up option. Frankly, I freaked. That’s a first.

Let me explain how I normally cope with perceived danger / risk.  In my head I constantly risk assess when I’m doing things which could potentially be dicey. It’s a simple system.  Two factors. I think about consequence. Is consequence low, medium or high. I think about risk, is it low, medium or high.  Provided only one of the two is high I’m kind of OK.  And in those situations I’m pretty calm. I’m more likely to allow myself the act of tizzy at a lower level when I have the time and brain space to spare for such luxuries. Normally in a fairly horrid situation I’m calm because it’s just more likely to help me out of a situation than the alternative.  Problem solving mode is my brain’s natural resting state and under stress it’s where you find me.  Kicking in with logic and calm because that’s how I’m going to survive.  When other’s are stress bunnying it’s even more likely you’ll find me calm in response. I don’t feed off others stress, because someone has to be the grown up, right?

But put me in a high consequence, high risk situation and it seems I express it.  I react.  I don’t flap or do anything odd physically, in fact, I don’t cry either (that’s more a relief later thing), but I do make it pretty damn clear to anyone around that I am feeling the pressure.  I wanted to get to the side, I wanted to downclimb, I wanted to do anything that wasn’t sensible all in the absolute desperate urge to just get off and get off as quickly as possible. Because I was scared beyond scared. I could picture my cartwheeling figure bouncing down the mountain in the middle of a turmoil of moving snow.

But Matt broke it down into steps.  Talked to me, set small targets.  First the rock patch, then a calm discussion of options (it turned out there were none), then a head to the side where there were rocks I could potentially traverse on (it turned out I couldn’t), then there was nothing for it but to climb the mountain.  Or the fucking mountain as I believe I may have affectionately nicknamed it.  

In fact, there was quite some swearing that day.  I swore at the mountain, I swore at the crampons, I swore at the French. I don’t think I swore at Matt though.  The French are, in my eyes, responsible for the most goddamned uncomfortable form of walking known to man, and one I resorted to on the return down the slope simply in order to change muscle groups.  Flat footing it. Makes sense on ground which is steep but not too steep, makes good contact with the snow as you place your feet at an angle to make sure all ten points make contact with the snow.  Ankles aren’t designed to bend like that time and time again. In my view anyway.  Fucking French.

Finally there was front pointing.  And there was ramming a 30 year old wooden Alpenstock axe into the ice like a crazy mad woman hoping the damn thing would hold me if perchance the crampon contact let me down.  But all the while also making sure the crampons contact with ice was secure and hoping not to have to deal with the axe having to do its job.  My body but not my head remembering it’s perfectly feasible with enough friction to take your body weight on your toes.  As I read up after the event on the necessity of rigid soles and well fitting sharp crampons I kind of want to gibber all over again.   The B1s were of course fine.

 

Finally getting over the top steering as much as we could away from the cornice, mentally I felt slightly driven over the top on encountering two climbers at the top.  Fully equipped.  They were abbing off to get down the slope I’d just climbed with a thirty year old wooden axe and B1 boots.

It was about then we checked the map and knew for absolute fact that the easiest retreat route was the vertical snow slope we’d just ascended ... 

Funnily enough, it turns out I’m good at descending.  Happy, fast, safe.  Ten two technique (I learned this one in New Zealand at great but it now seems value for money expense) facing the snow slope, happily ramming the axe in and moving down. Then back to zig zags and the occasional French related blasphemy. And at the end there was a high five, and later there was cake.

And returning to the hindsight discussion at the start of the walk, we both realised we might just have been happier with more than one axe apiece ... and maybe a rope, and perhaps some ice screws but a great big dose of MTFU seemed to do the job.

And I leave you with this quote about the “walk”  from www.trekkingbritain.com ...

“In the depths of a Scottish winter, the Coire na Tulaich is no place for just any walker. Only those with expertise in winter skills and a proven experience of mountain walking ...”

#TeamTaylor plus one

Sunday dawned, and it dawned very fine.  Despite two kind of crowded bike days, and a spot of alcohol (damn that Bombay Sapphire), I woke up with the sun.  The van has that effect.  Trundled into breakfast and listened in to see what other folk were doing that day.  Vaguely expressed my earnest desire to do something on foot that day, further defining it by saying there should be a hill, perhaps a ridge and my vision was of a day somewhere between four and six hours in length.  Definitely not longer than six, and definitely not on the bike.

Half an hour later, the mountain bike was on the back of someone else’s car and an incongruous outfit had been selected.  The kind of outfit suited to a 7K ride to the start of a walk followed by achieving summits of two Munros.  Hmm.  That took a little doing in fairness.  Lost count at the number of times I’ve  smiled at the ludicrous wearing of B1 winter boots on the mountain bike, followed by walking up two Munros with cycling padded shorts on underneath the alpine pants.  Cycling shorts provided a surprisingly comfortable additional layer of clothing.

Today for the first time as well, I took the surprise step of taking out the walking poles at the start of the walk.  They normally stay on the rucksack to be brought out in case of knee trembling descents.  I remember when the words knee trembling had another meaning.  But then again, I also remember when sleeping in the buff didn’t refer to having an extra snugly neck and ear warming layer on to defend from the cold.  The funny thing about having the poles out was that somehow it made it possible once snow slopes were reached to not have to put on crampons or get out the axe.  That in between kind of conditions where all you need is a little more reliable stability and the thing can be done in slightly sticky soled boots.  Delicate layer of snow on ice, perfect conditions indeed for the clothing.

The 7K ride in was interesting. In the way that it would be when you take a wrong turn at the very start and with a bit of retracing of steps end up doing a 12K before the walk can begin.  The previous two days bike riding made me make every effort to do as much as possible of it out of saddle. We’ll say no more.

The walk up was fab.  The first hill being one with an “indistinct” path.  For which read no path at all, just a load of streamlets, marsh land, heather and rocks.  We picked our way zig sagging up the slope to the snow line, passing a snowy white mountain hare on the way and hearing the ptarm things shriek as we went.  First summit arrived as snow started to blow in, and of course blow it really did, enforcing a rapid descent down towards the next hill.  More snowy slopes, blizzard conditions and the three of us walking carefully together as a group.  My water was the first to freeze, followed by Lilian’s squash until we were sharing Alan’s small bottle of Lucozade between us.  Pork Pies don’t freeze though, so all was well.  Funny experience of map-gate, with the guide blowing away and coming to rest behind a rock from where I retrieved it.  Later on, the return route was much aided by the recognition of the same rock.  The bastard summit term was coined for those false summits you keep getting out on the hills, just as you think you’ve made it, the next top appears until you feel you’ve been encouraged by the end point a dozen times.

At the top more snow, more wind, a cairn and two guys strapping on their skis.  Routes were discussed, and a gentle return down the valley took us back to the bikes in their not so well hidden river bank position, all cosily chained together and ready for the flit right  back down the hill.  Beautiful.  Simply beautiful.

#TeamOldDudes

The second day of being out and about, and the original plan for a long and hilly road ride had been canned. I felt the previous day’s ten hours in the saddle would do quite nicely as the long ride of the weekend safely in the bag.  So I was tempted out by a few others going out to the Nevis range for some delightful trail centre red runs.  What’s not to like?

The group included TeamTaylor, plus Mark and John.  John was busy claiming he was a novice mountain biker. He lied.  Bad boy.  Turned out what he meant was that he’d spent his entire youth  messing about in hills and woods on BMXs and old skool mountain bikes.  Also he gently dropped into conversation the couple of triathlons he did last year.  Ah.  Road bike robot like qualities were indeed apparent.  As indeed was the skill level he had on the off road.  After nailing the skills section at the start, off we went.  John in the lead.

Being the kind spirited motherly soul I am (John is a year older than me but you know what I mean) I realised that someone had to take some kind of responsibility for looking after the “novice”.  So I did my level best to at least keep him in sight.  Much harder work than I had pictured the day’s riding to involve, having been quite confident that my comfort zone would remain positively cozy.  It didn’t.  I pedalled like a loon to keep up, both up and down. I swung round corners, I remained on the pedals down rock gardens, I leaned over on the North Shore (boardwalk) sections.  I swooped and I flew.  Basically I pushed it between every group re-gathering.  And John just kept going and going and going.  Even leaving him behind on the straight forward fire road climbs was only rewarded by him wanting to do it all again; to repeat loops.  His infectious enjoyment and giddiness of feeling 12 years old again took over the group, and all of us did more distance and more technical stuff than we would have without him.  I’m grateful.

I’m reminded of how much riding is like being 12 again, and how that’s the totally natural response I instinctively have towards being on the mountain bike in the right kind of mixed group or on my own.  It’s really really nice being somewhere in the middle of a group not hanging off the back, despite the slimmed down opportunities of lycra bum following.  It was also good to be the baby of the group at 44 years old, and feel the lightness of heart from the day.

Oh, and there was cake too.

#TeamStoopid

Scotland.  Or more accurately Roy Bridge March 2013.   I have just returned from the four most fabulous Scottish days away.  Every year since time began (or more accurately again, since the internet forums took off) there has been a UK climbing forums winter climbing meet up in Scotland. It’s my third year of attending, but never with any true intention of actually climbing on terrifying frozen waterfalls and general icy horrors.  The first year was a tentative walking and biking year, the second year I was overcome with illness and pain (discovery that I have a condition called temporomandibular jaw disorder which if unmanaged brings on trigeminal neuralgia), so this year looked really promising as I began my preparations with a temporary filling ...

Over the years, groups within groups have formed themselves at the “climbing” meet.  There are an ever increasing number of us  middle aged mountain bikers, and we don’t restrict ourselves to a once a year meet up any more but encounter each other with regularity through the seasons.  There’s a shared love of the more wild trails, the long ones, those with climbs best described as “interesting” or indeed “unrideable”.   Of the leaders we don’t have, the leading light of the group is known as Horse in honour of his initials of GG (you figure it out ...).  He will do anything to get a reasonable technical descent in but not of the downhiller extreme variety, just interesting, gnarly, protracted and above all fun.  He has dreams and suggestions and charisma and he carries us along with him.  It’s GG who has coined the phrase Team Stoopid for these days out.  Because we probably do try things which are not entirely conventional even within the mountain biking fraternity, and for sure not amongst the middle aged.

I’ve never felt I’ve properly earned my place in #TeamStoopid until this weekend.  I’ve always hovered on the outskirts, doing some of the dafter rides.  It’s a funny thing to aspire to. If he’d termed it Mad or Crazy I would have avoided it like the plague because I hate the pretension of people who describe themselves in those terms. I’m conventional, and safe and thoughtful and happy with that.

Friday saw #TeamStoopid or indeed a carefully selected trio of participants get in my van with three bikes and drive to Fersit.  Van abandoned, we were on our way.  Off we went to Corrour Station, somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  We had several plans.  One of them was the option of catching the 3:15 train back to Roy Bridge.  The trip to the station took us through woodland, through marsh, bog, fire road, rocky descents, a long single track moorland climb, every variety of mountain biking you could imagine.  Opening out onto the fire road where we anticipated a swift and easy ride, the wind took us somewhat by surprise.  The kind of surprise which can blow you sideways 12 feet and when encountered head on stop you dead in your tracks.  Funny what you can adjust to, though, and with the right gear, perseverance and an embracing of resistance training, we spread out and traversed to the station.  2:30 and we’d only covered 13 miles.  

The station cafe saw a serious conference taking place over soup and nachos.  The sensible options were discussed (the train), but Horse’s lower lip wobbled (well, as much as a 51 year old bloke’s face displays emotion) as he explained he’d always wanted to do the next section.  Faced with disappointing our glorious leader, how could we reach any other decision.  We were going to complete the ride.  Maps were consulted; soaking wet shoes were put back on, bikes mounted and at 3:15 #TeamStoopid set off, with a symbolic watching of the escape route train departing Corrour for Roy Bridge.  We had 25 miles to ride.

Once again into the hoolie TeamStoopid rode.  And the route continued to climb, taking us up bridleway, up into the moorland, wading through peak bogs.  Our glorious leader encouraged high team morale by finding us targets every few kilometres.  It was 3K to the bothy or 3K to the summit or 3K to the next bothy.  The first bothy stop saw acceptance.  We accepted at 5pm that this was going to be a ride through the late evening.  Lights were brought out of bags in a pre-emptive strike against the coming of the night.  In true team spirit we shared.  Karl, the 25 mile time trialler on his 14 year old mountain bike taking one of my two night lights.  And we set off on a bit of a hike-a-bike up hill.  Finally the summit was achieved, with some excitement from GG who had been looking forward to the descent.  We were up in the highlands, miles from anywhere, in the snow, in the dark and we were on mountain bikes.   At this point, Karl announced that he was packing Jaffa Cakes and that these would be made available at the next bothy.  We set off.

The single track descent turned out a disappointment to Horse, and there was much cursing of the numerous snow patches which interrupted the flow.  But I grinned the entire way.  The bothy was reached and the promised jaffa cake goodness embraced.  But there was still much riding to be done.  The lovely thing about the next section was that I remembered having walked it two  years ago, there was a familiarity both of route and of terrain, and down we zoom zoom zoomed.  Pausing at a deer fence to update those back at the accommodation on our progress, or lack thereof.  Because there at 8:15pm we did team work on inner tube replacement for Horse’s puncture.  Finally we wore some of the spare clothing we’d all been carrying – the ride for all of us had included an upgrade from a 15litre or thereabouts riding rucksack to the full on walking daysacks.  

A return along the road took us back to the dinner which had been saved for us.  Ten hours later, 9:15 at night, 60K journey complete.  Oh.  Now, where’s that campervan ... oh yes, Fersit.  Where am I?  Oh yes, Roy Bridge ... 

My quotes of the day were from Karl – “don’t you ever stop smiling”.  Answer “why would I, I’m alive and having fun”.  “can’t you just get a little bit angry.  Or even swear?”.  Oh. Sorry.  I was having fun.  And from Horse "oh hello, looks like Alison's got the suit zipped up today."  (Man suit).

I don't want to write about ...

I don't want to write about feeling stuck.  I don't want to admit that perhaps returning to my old work place although feeling like family and home, also feels like some kind of caged existence.  I can see the world, but I can't move from the spot.  I thought the cage had changed, gone, expanded.  Something. I had ideas about the cage being more, well, gilded I guess.  But it's still a cage.

I don't want to write about the feeling of panic, the want to get away again. 
I don't want to write about decisions and mistakes. 
I don't want to write about how the trap is one I've made.
I don't want to write about how I know how easy it is to open the trap but somehow I won't do it. 
I don't want to write about the fact this isn't just about work.
I don't want to write about how afraid I am.
I don't want to write about my disappointment.
I don't want to write about why I'm not taking action.

I just want to stick to writing about shallow flimsy things and pretending that the world is swelling like a ripening pumpkin, glowing and warm, sugary and solid.

I ride

I ride and I ride and I ride.

Since going back to work, I reckon the pedal mileage has gone up rather than down.  All those commute journeys.  It's been tiring but it's kind of worked, and somehow despite not being somehow logistically able to back off, recovery seems to have happened.  The mix of cycling I've been doing is so different to the days when it was mountain bike, mountain bike, mountain bike and although I don't seem to have any uphill push at the moment, it's weird, but I have got cadence.  Provided it's flat.

I have abandoned the concept of a training programme in favour of simply doing preparation.  It feels better.  I want to stop thinking of every ride as a training thingy.  It's about the preparation.  The right jersey so I can get stuff out of the pockets.  The right stuff in the pockets, the right gloves, the right number of layers.  Thinking about bottle cages and water, thinking about saddles, the days before the ride.

I'll be honest, I love preparation.  I like lists.  I like the build up that preparing for something gives you.  I'm leaving for Scotland on Thursday night this week, and already am loving piling up clothes in the goods out space in my bedroom.  Posh word for the gap between the chest of drawers and the wall, but yes, the goods out is excitingly full of things.  Things with lycra and things of merino and things technical.  I could just prepare for weeks in the build up to something.  It's as much fun as setting off or being there or doing. Preparing.  It's good.

Today's ride has been all about the push.  I have, what, something like five weeks of prep left.  If the final two weeks are pretty much about maintenance with no gains to be made, then these are important weeks.  Final chance really to find some power.  So it's about the push. It's the high gears, it's monster shoving of bike pedals round.  Today has been about the push.