This is supposed to be a relentlessly positive blog. The rant about the attitude of the UCI World Cup organisers at Dalbys' attitude to people with mobility problems didn't go in here. The attitude of sneering mechanics didn't go in here either.
If I don't get the following of my chest, nothing will come after, and hell, I like writing this blog because the relentless positivity reminds me of why I get my fat ass of the sofa, so I'm afraid, you're going to need your scroll bar, because this one, this one is for me.
Yesterday, I was invisible.
I have a friend. Bear with me here, it's going somewhere. I have a friend who is a senior lecturer and child psychologist. An incredibly well respected one too. She's been on Womans Hour and Radio 4. She deigns to talk to me with no patronising, no condescension, and no judgement on the things which I find fascinating about people, and she is kind in her willingness to tolerate my more random meanderings on the subject. We get on really well, frankly. I look up to her a lot, she is never over emotional or inappropriate, instead she expresses herself so eloquently and with such grace that in that respect, she is everything I wish to be.
She's also obese. Shocking, isn't it? I could tell you why, but it is absolutely none of your godamn business. She's successful, earns a long way towards a lot of money each year, she is middle class, beautifully spoken, elegant, composed and self possessed, and she is fat. There is a bloody good reason why she is currently fat. Such a good reason, that frankly I would crucify anyone with no holds barred for suggesting she should be anything but right now after the frankly appalling cards life has decided to deal to her. And believe me when I say, when I am angry, I tend to step away from keyboards because in the same way I like to play nicely verbally, I also like to play nicely using the written word, and an ability to use written words to evoke responses and reactions is absolutley no excuse for letting fly at someone. If anything, it is the biggest reason of all to walk away. Grace comes not only through the way you hold yourself, it is in the way you choose to communicate. I'm not walking away from this one.
Yesterday I gave everything I could to someone who needed it because it was the right thing to do. I didn't give a flying donkey about anything else, at the time, than keeping that bloke warm and talking to me. 24 hrs later and some things are, frankly, really pissing me off, and I don't swear lightly either.
Point the first. Why the frikking hell did it take an ambulance 30 frikking minutes to get to a man sat outside in the cold and wet and wind, in the middle of a forest, where he would clearly be struggling with hypothermia? Why did it take 30 minutes and when they did finally manage to turn up, they went the wrong frikking way? Why did they not have maps? Why did they park at the frikking entrance of the frikking car park and not drive down the frikking fire roads? Why did they get there at the same time as the air ambulance? Why did no one at Gisburn know there was even an accident until today when I told them? Why did it have to be me that told them? I didn't want to get involved, I didn't want to stick my sodding head above the parapet and get involved in yet another battle which is not my fight, when I have enough frikking battles of my own to fight. I can't even work out where the nearest ambulance station is to send a barrage of questions at them and get some answers to this. I've suggested better information for the ambulance crews - it turns out there is a procedure and they didn't frikking follow it. Communication. Where the frikking hell was the communication? What broke down? Who didn't have the number? Why was nothing said or done?
More to the point, why is that when they all finally turned up, I explained what was wrong, and all the crews, to the very last, turned to the thinner than me man and proceeded to completely blank me, refuse to look me in the eye, and in fact, looked distinctly uncomfortable every time I tried to talk to them? Is someone going to explain to me why the injured blokes friend could barely look me in the eye either?
I don't want thanks for fucks sake. I don't. I am just sick to bloody death of being invisible. I am not invisible. I am a human being. I have a brain. It works quite quickly, ta very much. I like to think I'm reasonably smart, certainly reasonably well informed about the world around us. I understand quantum mechanics, I ride my bike reasonably well for someone who hasn't been doing it for so long, I push myself as hard as I can, I am relentless in my determination to keep a commitment I made to my nutritionist and I am. not. invisible.
I am fat. I am a girl. I am bored of the rules which say you don't need to acknowledge me. I am sick of not sticking my head above the parapet, and I am sick of trying not to rock the boat. So on Tuesday, for my own peace of mind, I am going to be firing off difficult to answer emails to people. And I bet you I get a response, and do you know why I will get a well reasoned, well thought out, well researched response? Because you cannot tell I am fat from the way I write. You cannot see the wobbles and bulges, and you do not have to keep the barely disguised disgust from your face when I am talking to you.
This is not the way I expect NHS professionals to act. And frankly, I don't give a flying donkey whether it was my gender or my weight which led to my being instantly dismissed as not knowing anything and not having anything to contribute to the situation, despite sitting there completely alone with my other half and the injured party for 20 minutes, worrying and fretting and panicing and keeping all of that out of my voice and out off my face, it is not the way you act. It isn't. And I'm not letting this one drop, one way or the other, because an ambulance crew going the wrong fucking way when there's a man in serious trouble is not a fuck up I am prepared to turn the other cheek to and pretend never happened. It needs rectifying and it needs rectifying frikking quick smart, because woe betide what happens when the next serious problem is a spinal injury or a heart attack. The failure will be a little more public than one not so tiny pissed off little woman writing on her blog in the backwaters of an East Lancashire mill town, I will tell you that for nothing.
Sort.it.out. I don't care what it is you have to do, I don't care what it is that led you to your assumption that either girls can't contribute or fat people don't exist, but sort.it.out. Sort out the communication, and sort out your preconceptions. You judge too quickly for people who are supposedly there to care for others. It's left a bad taste in my mouth on a day which was absolutely nothing at all to do with me. Some of this edit is about me. But most of it is about my incredibly anger at the cock ups which happened yesterday. I believe the trail guys will sort it. I believe they will ensure that this wont happen again. I believe them absolutely when they tell me that. Sadly, it is not the volunteers attitude that I have an issue with, they are stars and I have the utmost respect for them. It's the paid professionals who left me feeling irritated and angered yesterday, and that is not the way it should be.
Now. Hopefully I can sleep tonight. I do not get angry, as a rule, and nor do I whine about peoples attitudes to fat people. I am used to it, barely notice it. Had 'who ate all the pies' shouted at me once too often. But fuck me sideways, I didn't expect such an attitude to come from the people it did yesterday.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Gisburn gets gnarly
It's always the way. You arrange a ride out with someone in the suns shining rays, and by the time the ride out comes around, the rays are no longer shining, and instead the air is filled with the damp wet reminder that you are on the British Isles and nothing will ever be predictable with the weather. Turns out, the riding is not that predictable either.
I'd read trail grades depend on the weather. I never appreciated that until today. In fact, I've learnt many things today including how frikking fast a mountain rescue helicopter can fly when it needs to.
The car park at Gisburn was uncharacteristically quiet. It wasn't raining that hard and it's been dry here most of the week so we didn't think much of it. Some brake fettling later (mate rides a hybrid, swapped slicks for knobblies last night, didn't go too well) we were ready. In the process I heard a couple having the same conversation me and Al have every time we go out alone and no one is listening 'why am I doing this, do I have to, I'm going to get covered in mud, this isn't fun'. She was riding a Trek of some kind, nice bike, slip of a thing, and in passing I registered that perhaps it doesn't matter how small you are, only how fit you are, and that confidence or the lack of it can bite everyone no matter how small they are. That was lesson one.
Lesson two was that, as quickly became glaringly clear, our mate was epically fitter than us. I made the mistake of trying to keep up. Bad move. I should know better by now, but we ride with other people so rarely due to my hideous levels of self consciousness when it comes to my fitness level that I missed the trick.
The third lesson was that the first bit of proper singletrack on the blue had turned from a smooth rip roaring rollercoaster into a disintegrating wheel shifting nightmare in the wet. Fell off. Twanged wrist, twisted hip (though I didn't notice for a few hours afterwards), dented confidence. Decided to take the shortcut and go home - mate was long gone by this point and completely missed this little detour.
The fourth lesson was a rather more serious one. I don't like Northshore at the best of times, as previously documented, though Scotland cured me of some of my dislike. Gisburn has a nippy bit of singletrack which is awesome fun, and then you're thrown into the forest on this silly path constructed of horizontal tree trunks and small ones at that. It's twisty, turny, shares itself with the red route, and for good reason. It turns out, it's easier and safer with a covering of snow. Rain turns it into a bit of a slipfest, especially with no chicken wire on it.
So we round the first corner to find a chap sitting on the side of the wooden track. My first thought is 'what a frikking donkey, what the hell is he doing'. My second thought is 'there are some people here who really don't know what the frikking hell to do and who are looking a little bit shocked'. Turns out, man sitting on Northshore has flown off the side of the Northshore and neatly created a second ankle above the first one with a very neatly broken bone.
Friend of A (I'm not putting his name here, it's not fair) returned and explained the farmhouses were all locked up, which we'd just passed. So he went off to find signal in the car park and phone for help. The other people milling around sodded off. So there seemed nothing else to do but to plonk down next to A and do the only two things I know what to do with broken people, which is keep them talking, keep them with me, keep them warm and keep them from passing out and try, desperately, to stave off the shock for as long as possible and when it hits to distract them so much they wont notice.
Time passed. People passed. I tried to keep them moving on because I remembered something about not crowding people and he was feeling horribly self conscious, I think, though I'm only guessing but that was the impression he gave. Al sorted traffic control, kept an eye out for ambulances and friends and more time passed.
Seems 30 minutes passed, though it seemed longer. We talked, we made silly jokes, the rain fell, he shivered. Another person turned up who knew what they were doing because they were a mountain biking leader, who had a shelter to wrap around A and some sensible advice and calm words and who very blatantly knew exactly what he was doing. We piled all the clothing we had onto him and the shivering stopped. We heard tales from passing bikers of the ambulance going the wrong way, so the same bikers turned around and dashed off to retrieve them. The sound of a helicopter floated across.
Lesson five. Nothing on frikking earth is a more welcome sight in the middle of a forest, than a number of green and high vis bedecked people, some from ambulances, some from air ambulances. A took pictures for his website, to explain to his cycling club why they donate to mountain rescue teams. He fretted about returning fleeces and waterproofs. He passed on his email address and fretted some more. Shock.
At which point, because there was nothing else to do except get in the way, we retreated - back to the safety of the singletrack and the quick way home, not along the Northshore. I'll email, not because I want my clothes back, I couldn't care less, but just to touch base, just briefly, with someone I learnt a lot about in 30 minutes in an effort to keep him focused, talking and conscious. I succeeded at something that I couldn't have not so long ago - keeping calm. And I retreated because bits of me go white in the cold and I was damed if I was going to be no 2. I still feel bad about that, you can probably tell.
So we land back in the car park. There's a note from mate who no doubt has wondered where the hell we've got to - he's gone to ride the red route. The helicopter flies by with A on board at a speed I've never seen a helicopter travel at. The girl who didn't want to go out riding but did anyway landed back in the car park, doing the comedy 'I'm frikking knackered I am' stagger but grinning her face off - I grinned back, because I know how that feels, our mate arrived back at the car park with a badgered back brake to add to the front brake he'd left with and tales of falling off the Northshore in exactly the same place as A had just got lifted from, but he'd somehow landed on his feet, and finally, the mountain bike leader and A's mate got back to the car park, where the friend looked supremely uncomfortable and didn't say much and the mountain bike leader, J, was lovely at me because I wobbled a bit at him.
The sixth lesson?
Mountain bikers, whether they ride their road bikes during the week and only bike at the weekends, are mountain bikers. I don't care what you ride, I don't care whether you ride faster or slower than me, whether you can't ride slow or you want to bomb around the track, you're a mountain biker. I don't care about anything, except that if you fall over, you get looked after. You get sorted. People stop and care. People stop and offer help. A very very small amount make it clear you're an inconvenient obstacle in their way. They weren't mountain bikers, for that attitude alone. Mountain bikers wear different colours, come from different backgrounds, go out in trainers and t-shirts and Adidas tracksuit bottoms because they can't afford anything different. Mountain bikers go out on days like this because we want to ride our bikes and the need to ride our bikes sometimes overrides any sense. Mountain bikers are friendly, caring, supportive, insane, loony, sound as hell, have varying levels of passionate enthusiasm but there will always be some there. Mountain bikers are probably some of the fittest people you will ever meet, who will only ever bother the NHS when they break something mountain biking. Helicopters cost money. The first thing mentioned from Mr Broken Ankle today when he heard the whir was 'oh my god how much does one of those things cost to send out, oh no'. But I resolutely, absolutely, and totally believe that that man will cost the NHS less in total than most during his life.
Mountain bikers deal in risk. Whether we acknowledge it or not, think about it or not, there but for the grace go I. I know this, I accept this, we all do, I think. But you can't stop walking across the road because you might get hit by an out of control stolen car. You can't live your life like that. Life is for exploring, pushing, breathing, adventuring. It's for doing whatever it is you need to do to have fun within reason. It's for knowing you are alive to some. Not everyone needs to do this, not everyone wants to do this. I do. I am one among many.
But today I learnt mountain bikers come in every shade under the sun that wasn't shining. 99% of them have a heart of gold. Cheers folks, you restored my faith in the world. I hope I am a sound enough person to belong to your tribe, because it is a tribe that I assure you, you can be very very proud of.
I'd read trail grades depend on the weather. I never appreciated that until today. In fact, I've learnt many things today including how frikking fast a mountain rescue helicopter can fly when it needs to.
The car park at Gisburn was uncharacteristically quiet. It wasn't raining that hard and it's been dry here most of the week so we didn't think much of it. Some brake fettling later (mate rides a hybrid, swapped slicks for knobblies last night, didn't go too well) we were ready. In the process I heard a couple having the same conversation me and Al have every time we go out alone and no one is listening 'why am I doing this, do I have to, I'm going to get covered in mud, this isn't fun'. She was riding a Trek of some kind, nice bike, slip of a thing, and in passing I registered that perhaps it doesn't matter how small you are, only how fit you are, and that confidence or the lack of it can bite everyone no matter how small they are. That was lesson one.
Lesson two was that, as quickly became glaringly clear, our mate was epically fitter than us. I made the mistake of trying to keep up. Bad move. I should know better by now, but we ride with other people so rarely due to my hideous levels of self consciousness when it comes to my fitness level that I missed the trick.
The third lesson was that the first bit of proper singletrack on the blue had turned from a smooth rip roaring rollercoaster into a disintegrating wheel shifting nightmare in the wet. Fell off. Twanged wrist, twisted hip (though I didn't notice for a few hours afterwards), dented confidence. Decided to take the shortcut and go home - mate was long gone by this point and completely missed this little detour.
The fourth lesson was a rather more serious one. I don't like Northshore at the best of times, as previously documented, though Scotland cured me of some of my dislike. Gisburn has a nippy bit of singletrack which is awesome fun, and then you're thrown into the forest on this silly path constructed of horizontal tree trunks and small ones at that. It's twisty, turny, shares itself with the red route, and for good reason. It turns out, it's easier and safer with a covering of snow. Rain turns it into a bit of a slipfest, especially with no chicken wire on it.
So we round the first corner to find a chap sitting on the side of the wooden track. My first thought is 'what a frikking donkey, what the hell is he doing'. My second thought is 'there are some people here who really don't know what the frikking hell to do and who are looking a little bit shocked'. Turns out, man sitting on Northshore has flown off the side of the Northshore and neatly created a second ankle above the first one with a very neatly broken bone.
Friend of A (I'm not putting his name here, it's not fair) returned and explained the farmhouses were all locked up, which we'd just passed. So he went off to find signal in the car park and phone for help. The other people milling around sodded off. So there seemed nothing else to do but to plonk down next to A and do the only two things I know what to do with broken people, which is keep them talking, keep them with me, keep them warm and keep them from passing out and try, desperately, to stave off the shock for as long as possible and when it hits to distract them so much they wont notice.
Time passed. People passed. I tried to keep them moving on because I remembered something about not crowding people and he was feeling horribly self conscious, I think, though I'm only guessing but that was the impression he gave. Al sorted traffic control, kept an eye out for ambulances and friends and more time passed.
Seems 30 minutes passed, though it seemed longer. We talked, we made silly jokes, the rain fell, he shivered. Another person turned up who knew what they were doing because they were a mountain biking leader, who had a shelter to wrap around A and some sensible advice and calm words and who very blatantly knew exactly what he was doing. We piled all the clothing we had onto him and the shivering stopped. We heard tales from passing bikers of the ambulance going the wrong way, so the same bikers turned around and dashed off to retrieve them. The sound of a helicopter floated across.
Lesson five. Nothing on frikking earth is a more welcome sight in the middle of a forest, than a number of green and high vis bedecked people, some from ambulances, some from air ambulances. A took pictures for his website, to explain to his cycling club why they donate to mountain rescue teams. He fretted about returning fleeces and waterproofs. He passed on his email address and fretted some more. Shock.
At which point, because there was nothing else to do except get in the way, we retreated - back to the safety of the singletrack and the quick way home, not along the Northshore. I'll email, not because I want my clothes back, I couldn't care less, but just to touch base, just briefly, with someone I learnt a lot about in 30 minutes in an effort to keep him focused, talking and conscious. I succeeded at something that I couldn't have not so long ago - keeping calm. And I retreated because bits of me go white in the cold and I was damed if I was going to be no 2. I still feel bad about that, you can probably tell.
So we land back in the car park. There's a note from mate who no doubt has wondered where the hell we've got to - he's gone to ride the red route. The helicopter flies by with A on board at a speed I've never seen a helicopter travel at. The girl who didn't want to go out riding but did anyway landed back in the car park, doing the comedy 'I'm frikking knackered I am' stagger but grinning her face off - I grinned back, because I know how that feels, our mate arrived back at the car park with a badgered back brake to add to the front brake he'd left with and tales of falling off the Northshore in exactly the same place as A had just got lifted from, but he'd somehow landed on his feet, and finally, the mountain bike leader and A's mate got back to the car park, where the friend looked supremely uncomfortable and didn't say much and the mountain bike leader, J, was lovely at me because I wobbled a bit at him.
The sixth lesson?
Mountain bikers, whether they ride their road bikes during the week and only bike at the weekends, are mountain bikers. I don't care what you ride, I don't care whether you ride faster or slower than me, whether you can't ride slow or you want to bomb around the track, you're a mountain biker. I don't care about anything, except that if you fall over, you get looked after. You get sorted. People stop and care. People stop and offer help. A very very small amount make it clear you're an inconvenient obstacle in their way. They weren't mountain bikers, for that attitude alone. Mountain bikers wear different colours, come from different backgrounds, go out in trainers and t-shirts and Adidas tracksuit bottoms because they can't afford anything different. Mountain bikers go out on days like this because we want to ride our bikes and the need to ride our bikes sometimes overrides any sense. Mountain bikers are friendly, caring, supportive, insane, loony, sound as hell, have varying levels of passionate enthusiasm but there will always be some there. Mountain bikers are probably some of the fittest people you will ever meet, who will only ever bother the NHS when they break something mountain biking. Helicopters cost money. The first thing mentioned from Mr Broken Ankle today when he heard the whir was 'oh my god how much does one of those things cost to send out, oh no'. But I resolutely, absolutely, and totally believe that that man will cost the NHS less in total than most during his life.
Mountain bikers deal in risk. Whether we acknowledge it or not, think about it or not, there but for the grace go I. I know this, I accept this, we all do, I think. But you can't stop walking across the road because you might get hit by an out of control stolen car. You can't live your life like that. Life is for exploring, pushing, breathing, adventuring. It's for doing whatever it is you need to do to have fun within reason. It's for knowing you are alive to some. Not everyone needs to do this, not everyone wants to do this. I do. I am one among many.
But today I learnt mountain bikers come in every shade under the sun that wasn't shining. 99% of them have a heart of gold. Cheers folks, you restored my faith in the world. I hope I am a sound enough person to belong to your tribe, because it is a tribe that I assure you, you can be very very proud of.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Girls gone biking
This is one of those cobbled together in 30 seconds posts. It may also contain some wrong conclusions, some assumptions and it's all about girls, their mentality and their attitude to each other. Some of it might be wide off the mark and I might not make friends with this post but I'm intrigued by what I just noticed - I think it's interesting.
The first link in the chain was discovering the outcome of the womens qualifing for the World Cup Downhill racing currently being held in Maribor, not from the myriad of mountain biking organisations, magazines and manufacturers/sponsors I follow, but from Miss Atherton herself. No mens results had been posted either at that point, I Googled. Cool, I thought, it's ace she bothered to tweet that, it looks like I'd never have known otherwise. I was a bit less happy about the content of her tweet, being as how it referenced an injury I didn't know she'd picked up, and that said injury was seriously twanging. Here we go again, I thought.
The second link in the chain was a tweet from @dirtmagazine linking to an article on the Mens Downhill results. The results are notable, admittedly, because the difference between 1st and 2nd is, quite literally, into the 100ths of a second. That's close. That's exciting. That's what people want to read about.
I wonder how Rachel Atherton did, I thought, and looked for a link to the womens results, and sure enough there was an article already written on Dirt Magazines website. No tweet link to this one though.But they wrote it, which hopefully means someone other than me cares about the womens Downhill as well as the mens.
So I read though the results, misread the difference between 1st and 2nd as being in the 100ths again, reread and discovered that actually, no, it's 10 seconds that Rachel Atherton has won by. And there's a sense of here we go again, because the 2008 womens World Cup Downhill, I seem to remember that involving the gap between 1st and 2nd being quite hefty too.
Now, I want you to bear with me on this next bit. I think it's absolutely fascinating. Compare this picture of the men on the mens podium (courtesy of Dirt Magazine) to this picture of the women on theirs (courtesy of Dirt Magazine).
Notice anything?
Nope, not talking about the blonde girl scratching her head. Not talking about the slightly unfortunate look on Pugins face. Certainly not talking about Jonniers Monster Energy socks though I am still argueing with myself about whether they're the worlds biggest fashion faux pas or so totally cool I want a pair.
Look at all their legs. And tell me the only person who is still covered in mud. Now go back to the mens podium shot and tell me how many of the blokes bothered to go back to their pits and have a quick wash and brush up. None. Now this is a leap. I know it is, and it's a massive one. But I wonder how much of the attitude that puts you on the podium still covered in mud, also takes 10 seconds off everyone elses time. I wonder whether when other people are focusing on something entirely different, whether she is focusing on nothing but racing and pushing and finding more mud. I wonder if it's all about attitiude, focus and determination, and less about skill and technique. I wonder if technique comes from attitude, focus and determination. I wonder if fearlessness comes with getting covered in mud and not caring. I wonder if growing up with 2 brothers who push and push and push the limits of own boundaries and bodies has an intrinsic and irreversable effect on the way you approach life. I wonder if watching 2 lads hurtling and hooning switches something on inside someone watching, whether they one day decide that not only are they going to have a go, but they're going to try and beat the boys at their own game. I wonder if the limits which most girls have imposed on them from the moment they're born (pink, don't do science, don't do math, don't play football, wear dresses, don't live in jeans, wear high heels not trainers, always wear make up, don't play with lego, play with the Barbie) disappear when you spend a lot of time in the company of two blokes who expect so much of you that the lines between genders disappear, because they're not acknowledged as existing, never mind being a constraint.
That picture - just one picture. If I could interview anyone, dead or alive, sit them down in a worn out locals pub in the middle of nowhere, with a decent darts board and a pool table and a few hours to kill, it would be Rachel Atherton. Because I want to know how 1 women out of a row of 5 comes to be standing there still covered in mud. I want to know if she notices. I want to know if she cares.
I'll never get the chance, of course. But it really has made me ponder the nature of gender when it comes to sport in general, but mountain biking in particular.
What is it that makes someone want to beat everyone?
The first link in the chain was discovering the outcome of the womens qualifing for the World Cup Downhill racing currently being held in Maribor, not from the myriad of mountain biking organisations, magazines and manufacturers/sponsors I follow, but from Miss Atherton herself. No mens results had been posted either at that point, I Googled. Cool, I thought, it's ace she bothered to tweet that, it looks like I'd never have known otherwise. I was a bit less happy about the content of her tweet, being as how it referenced an injury I didn't know she'd picked up, and that said injury was seriously twanging. Here we go again, I thought.
The second link in the chain was a tweet from @dirtmagazine linking to an article on the Mens Downhill results. The results are notable, admittedly, because the difference between 1st and 2nd is, quite literally, into the 100ths of a second. That's close. That's exciting. That's what people want to read about.
I wonder how Rachel Atherton did, I thought, and looked for a link to the womens results, and sure enough there was an article already written on Dirt Magazines website. No tweet link to this one though.But they wrote it, which hopefully means someone other than me cares about the womens Downhill as well as the mens.
So I read though the results, misread the difference between 1st and 2nd as being in the 100ths again, reread and discovered that actually, no, it's 10 seconds that Rachel Atherton has won by. And there's a sense of here we go again, because the 2008 womens World Cup Downhill, I seem to remember that involving the gap between 1st and 2nd being quite hefty too.
Now, I want you to bear with me on this next bit. I think it's absolutely fascinating. Compare this picture of the men on the mens podium (courtesy of Dirt Magazine) to this picture of the women on theirs (courtesy of Dirt Magazine).
Notice anything?
Nope, not talking about the blonde girl scratching her head. Not talking about the slightly unfortunate look on Pugins face. Certainly not talking about Jonniers Monster Energy socks though I am still argueing with myself about whether they're the worlds biggest fashion faux pas or so totally cool I want a pair.
Look at all their legs. And tell me the only person who is still covered in mud. Now go back to the mens podium shot and tell me how many of the blokes bothered to go back to their pits and have a quick wash and brush up. None. Now this is a leap. I know it is, and it's a massive one. But I wonder how much of the attitude that puts you on the podium still covered in mud, also takes 10 seconds off everyone elses time. I wonder whether when other people are focusing on something entirely different, whether she is focusing on nothing but racing and pushing and finding more mud. I wonder if it's all about attitiude, focus and determination, and less about skill and technique. I wonder if technique comes from attitude, focus and determination. I wonder if fearlessness comes with getting covered in mud and not caring. I wonder if growing up with 2 brothers who push and push and push the limits of own boundaries and bodies has an intrinsic and irreversable effect on the way you approach life. I wonder if watching 2 lads hurtling and hooning switches something on inside someone watching, whether they one day decide that not only are they going to have a go, but they're going to try and beat the boys at their own game. I wonder if the limits which most girls have imposed on them from the moment they're born (pink, don't do science, don't do math, don't play football, wear dresses, don't live in jeans, wear high heels not trainers, always wear make up, don't play with lego, play with the Barbie) disappear when you spend a lot of time in the company of two blokes who expect so much of you that the lines between genders disappear, because they're not acknowledged as existing, never mind being a constraint.
That picture - just one picture. If I could interview anyone, dead or alive, sit them down in a worn out locals pub in the middle of nowhere, with a decent darts board and a pool table and a few hours to kill, it would be Rachel Atherton. Because I want to know how 1 women out of a row of 5 comes to be standing there still covered in mud. I want to know if she notices. I want to know if she cares.
I'll never get the chance, of course. But it really has made me ponder the nature of gender when it comes to sport in general, but mountain biking in particular.
What is it that makes someone want to beat everyone?
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Day Six - Drumlanrig Castle Blue
Of all the days we spent riding last week (we've now arrived home), Drumlanrig is the most difficult one to write about. It's nothing to do with the route, and everything to do with my body finally crumbling under the pressure I'd put it under the previous few days.
Drumlanrig Castle is, I suppose, predominantly just that. An imposing pile of pink stone, parapets like icing with a sweeping pink driveway to match. The mountain bike trails are famously built and curated by Rik Allsop, an ex XC and DH nutter - as a result you'd hope he knows his trail building. As it turns out, he does.
The Blue starts innocuously enough - the ascent somewhat predictable by this point. Except, actually, it's not. The surface of the Red route is much talked about, involving as it does most of the tree roots on the estate in one way or another. The surface of the Blue is never mentioned and it's a shame. It provides certain challenges, especially if you are used to ascents being on fire roads, and lets face it, Blue routes rarely ascend on anything else apart from Glentrool's. Drumlanrig's is a fascinating mixture of broken rocks embedded in compacted mud but where the rocks protude just enough to throw you off if you're not careful, the odd root here or there, surfaces akin to cobbles and many others besides, and on the descents it veers from gentle swooping compacted mud and track sections to bits where a trailer-load of fist sized and bigger rocks have been dumped, providing a somewhat moving sliding surface to try and find traction on. It's an interesting lesson in weight distribution, not being lazy about picking lines when ascending, and letting go and having faith on the descents.
The other thing I learnt was that sometimes you need to get off and smell the coffee. Drumlanrig is a working estate, but there's a reason someone decided to build a massive castle here and I'm willing to bet the beautiful River Nith, plunging in places and meandering in others though the ravines it's etched out through the years, was one of them. It's stunning, and both the Blue and Red routes reward riders who resist the lure of plummeting down the gorgeous swooping tracks and instead pause momentarily to take a quick detour to see the rapids in all their glory - from 50 metres above.
It may be clear from the above that I was not in attack mode. I wish I had been, Rik recommended a perfect route mixing Blue and Red which on any other day we could have done but which today would have been asking for trouble. He's very friendly, very approachable, very knowleagable and very good with kids. If you're looking for somewhere where, quite literally, the whole family can go riding, you can't go wrong. If you're looking for somewhere that feels like riding with nature instead of across it, this too is the place you're looking for. It's not manicured, it's not over hacked and slashed, it's not neat and tidy and ordered. It is fun. A really rather large amount of silly fun.
Drumlanrig Castle is, I suppose, predominantly just that. An imposing pile of pink stone, parapets like icing with a sweeping pink driveway to match. The mountain bike trails are famously built and curated by Rik Allsop, an ex XC and DH nutter - as a result you'd hope he knows his trail building. As it turns out, he does.
The Blue starts innocuously enough - the ascent somewhat predictable by this point. Except, actually, it's not. The surface of the Red route is much talked about, involving as it does most of the tree roots on the estate in one way or another. The surface of the Blue is never mentioned and it's a shame. It provides certain challenges, especially if you are used to ascents being on fire roads, and lets face it, Blue routes rarely ascend on anything else apart from Glentrool's. Drumlanrig's is a fascinating mixture of broken rocks embedded in compacted mud but where the rocks protude just enough to throw you off if you're not careful, the odd root here or there, surfaces akin to cobbles and many others besides, and on the descents it veers from gentle swooping compacted mud and track sections to bits where a trailer-load of fist sized and bigger rocks have been dumped, providing a somewhat moving sliding surface to try and find traction on. It's an interesting lesson in weight distribution, not being lazy about picking lines when ascending, and letting go and having faith on the descents.
The other thing I learnt was that sometimes you need to get off and smell the coffee. Drumlanrig is a working estate, but there's a reason someone decided to build a massive castle here and I'm willing to bet the beautiful River Nith, plunging in places and meandering in others though the ravines it's etched out through the years, was one of them. It's stunning, and both the Blue and Red routes reward riders who resist the lure of plummeting down the gorgeous swooping tracks and instead pause momentarily to take a quick detour to see the rapids in all their glory - from 50 metres above.
It may be clear from the above that I was not in attack mode. I wish I had been, Rik recommended a perfect route mixing Blue and Red which on any other day we could have done but which today would have been asking for trouble. He's very friendly, very approachable, very knowleagable and very good with kids. If you're looking for somewhere where, quite literally, the whole family can go riding, you can't go wrong. If you're looking for somewhere that feels like riding with nature instead of across it, this too is the place you're looking for. It's not manicured, it's not over hacked and slashed, it's not neat and tidy and ordered. It is fun. A really rather large amount of silly fun.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Day Four - 7 Stanes (Dalbeattie)
Day four – 7 Stanes (Dalbeattie)
The day isn’t a misprint. Discretion being the better part of valour, we opted to have an off-bike day on day three, and a very pleasant day wandering around a book town was had too.
Anyway. Dalbeattie. The day didn’t start off on the best of footings, with a complete misery permeating everything. The weather was the usual – cloudy with occasional breaks of sunshine – but sleeping was proving elusive and sleep is a little bit vital at the moment. As a result, we didn’t turn up in the car park with me in my usual state of raring to go. I dribbled out of the car, spent too long over shoe choice and was generally hesitant about the whole thing.
Dalbeattie doesn’t have a Trailhead in the traditional sense of the word. The bike wash is a standpipe with a hose attached and a log to rest your bike against. There are no toilets, no café, no showers, no one at all. There is a distinct absence of everything that there is to be found at all the other Stanes Trailheads that we’ve visited so far. There’s a car park, a shelter with some maps on it, an empty box where the mobile form of the map should be, and that’s your lot.
Hidden depths.
We set off, following the signs past the skills area to the ‘Main Trails’. The usual uphill slog began. So far, so normal. And then suddenly, the rules of the game changed and we weren’t in Kansas any more. Our experience to this point of Northshore has involved Gisburn’s attempt on the Blue route – a short and brief spurt which gives you a taste of the unnerving feel of rolling across narrow pieces of wood slatted together with a bog lurking below – Dalbeattie’s Northshore is not short. It’s long, forgivingly wide, winds you through some incredibly soggy looking ground and whilst treating you very gently, gives you a lovely introduction to the slightly weird sound the wood makes beneath your tyres. I pootled along it, I admit.
Eventually the usual fire road appeared, and things seemed to return to situation same as. Then the trail darted off the fire road and we were presented with some singletrack gorgeousness. Somewhat tellingly, the feel of it was a little similar to Kirroughtree, but with a day between me and the nightmare, things seemed to have clicked and we both flew along it. Emerging the other side, a little breathless and with very big grins, glad we’d bothered to get out of bed seemed somewhat of an understatement.
More fire road. And more. And yet more. The Blue at Dalbeattie is 14km long, a bit of an epic for a Blue route even by Scottish standards, and my trail centre guidebook tells me that not a lot of it is singletrack. Well, frankly, it’s not. But that’s not the point of Dalbeattie. The point of Dalbeattie is to learn how to deal with hills. Little ones and big ones alike, there are many of them there. Let me tell you about hills. If you’ve got no energy left in your muscles, hills are pootled up in bottom gear on the granny ring because that’s all the energy you can muster, and 70 year olds whizzing past you be damned. Once your muscles are in that bad place, even when the track evens out, you’ve not got the power to build up the speed to attack the next hill properly, and so every single damn hill turns into an epic, as you start from the bottom in the lowest gear with no momentum to take the sting out of the t(r)ail.
We got to 8km, the point where we’re usually looking for the end of the route, and I was struggling. Humidity levels were making the forest feel like a Brazilian one, the sun was by turns beating down mercilessly or hiding behind a cloud, my balance had decided to take a temporary holiday and a muscle in my left thigh was twanging quietly to itself. We were, absolutely literally, miles from anywhere. Felling machinery could be heard in the distance, but the last person we’d seen was a runner 6km back and there was no escape route, and no easy way home.
That’s where you learn. That’s when you stop messing about, grit your teeth, get your head down and decide that holding energy reserves back constantly is getting you nowhere anyway, so sitting down for 15 minutes, gathering yourself, getting some liquid and food down and thinking about something else and then manning (womanning?) up and going for it is the only thing left to do.
So I did. I attacked the trail instead of pootling over it. I forgot about the curious incident of the LouLou going over the handlebars in the daytime and just pushed and pushed and pushed. Suddenly, the hills which I’d been pootling up? Momentum was getting me halfway up and determination was doing the rest. My muscles felt nicely warm instead of filled with acid, my breathing went oddly quiet, my heart rate wasn’t spiking all over the place, the earth moved…..
Okay, so the earth didn’t move. But I did, and fast. Singletrack appeared and got the same treatment, and suddenly, without a second thought, everything just clicked. More Northshore appeared and was ridden properly, I ended up on top of blind horizons with just enough momentum that there was a pause to scope the trail in front before dropping down again, berms were ridden properly, the little ups were attacked and disappeared into nothing and I landed at the car park with the biggest grin on my face ever.
Yesterday (today is day five) I rode like I meant it. I rode as best I could, as fast as I could, with as much commitment, focus and determination as I could. I didn’t hold back. I didn’t meander mindlessly around the trails. I switched up, looked sharp and pushed. For about 45 minutes, all the fat on my body disappeared, my muscles and lungs were those of someone far fitter than me, and my mind? My mind, I think, was in ‘the zone’. The happy place. The place where it doesn’t actually matter what the trail throws at you, you’ll deal with it. If there had been drop offs I’d have done them, if there’d been jumps I would have had a go. From a morning of utter apathy and sadness came one of the best rides I’ve ever had, where I found something buried inside myself that I didn’t know I had.
I bought a Marin because I loved it. Now, finally, I am starting to believe I can be the rider that this daft as all hell bike deserves. I also understand that unless I am prepared to ride like I want to be there, push hard and learn from my own mistakes, that I have no right calling myself a mountain biker. Everyone is allowed off days. Absolutely everyone. But yesterday wasn’t one of them, and yesterday I became a mountain biker. Something changed. I don’t think it will ever change back.
The day isn’t a misprint. Discretion being the better part of valour, we opted to have an off-bike day on day three, and a very pleasant day wandering around a book town was had too.
Anyway. Dalbeattie. The day didn’t start off on the best of footings, with a complete misery permeating everything. The weather was the usual – cloudy with occasional breaks of sunshine – but sleeping was proving elusive and sleep is a little bit vital at the moment. As a result, we didn’t turn up in the car park with me in my usual state of raring to go. I dribbled out of the car, spent too long over shoe choice and was generally hesitant about the whole thing.
Dalbeattie doesn’t have a Trailhead in the traditional sense of the word. The bike wash is a standpipe with a hose attached and a log to rest your bike against. There are no toilets, no café, no showers, no one at all. There is a distinct absence of everything that there is to be found at all the other Stanes Trailheads that we’ve visited so far. There’s a car park, a shelter with some maps on it, an empty box where the mobile form of the map should be, and that’s your lot.
Hidden depths.
We set off, following the signs past the skills area to the ‘Main Trails’. The usual uphill slog began. So far, so normal. And then suddenly, the rules of the game changed and we weren’t in Kansas any more. Our experience to this point of Northshore has involved Gisburn’s attempt on the Blue route – a short and brief spurt which gives you a taste of the unnerving feel of rolling across narrow pieces of wood slatted together with a bog lurking below – Dalbeattie’s Northshore is not short. It’s long, forgivingly wide, winds you through some incredibly soggy looking ground and whilst treating you very gently, gives you a lovely introduction to the slightly weird sound the wood makes beneath your tyres. I pootled along it, I admit.
Eventually the usual fire road appeared, and things seemed to return to situation same as. Then the trail darted off the fire road and we were presented with some singletrack gorgeousness. Somewhat tellingly, the feel of it was a little similar to Kirroughtree, but with a day between me and the nightmare, things seemed to have clicked and we both flew along it. Emerging the other side, a little breathless and with very big grins, glad we’d bothered to get out of bed seemed somewhat of an understatement.
More fire road. And more. And yet more. The Blue at Dalbeattie is 14km long, a bit of an epic for a Blue route even by Scottish standards, and my trail centre guidebook tells me that not a lot of it is singletrack. Well, frankly, it’s not. But that’s not the point of Dalbeattie. The point of Dalbeattie is to learn how to deal with hills. Little ones and big ones alike, there are many of them there. Let me tell you about hills. If you’ve got no energy left in your muscles, hills are pootled up in bottom gear on the granny ring because that’s all the energy you can muster, and 70 year olds whizzing past you be damned. Once your muscles are in that bad place, even when the track evens out, you’ve not got the power to build up the speed to attack the next hill properly, and so every single damn hill turns into an epic, as you start from the bottom in the lowest gear with no momentum to take the sting out of the t(r)ail.
We got to 8km, the point where we’re usually looking for the end of the route, and I was struggling. Humidity levels were making the forest feel like a Brazilian one, the sun was by turns beating down mercilessly or hiding behind a cloud, my balance had decided to take a temporary holiday and a muscle in my left thigh was twanging quietly to itself. We were, absolutely literally, miles from anywhere. Felling machinery could be heard in the distance, but the last person we’d seen was a runner 6km back and there was no escape route, and no easy way home.
That’s where you learn. That’s when you stop messing about, grit your teeth, get your head down and decide that holding energy reserves back constantly is getting you nowhere anyway, so sitting down for 15 minutes, gathering yourself, getting some liquid and food down and thinking about something else and then manning (womanning?) up and going for it is the only thing left to do.
So I did. I attacked the trail instead of pootling over it. I forgot about the curious incident of the LouLou going over the handlebars in the daytime and just pushed and pushed and pushed. Suddenly, the hills which I’d been pootling up? Momentum was getting me halfway up and determination was doing the rest. My muscles felt nicely warm instead of filled with acid, my breathing went oddly quiet, my heart rate wasn’t spiking all over the place, the earth moved…..
Okay, so the earth didn’t move. But I did, and fast. Singletrack appeared and got the same treatment, and suddenly, without a second thought, everything just clicked. More Northshore appeared and was ridden properly, I ended up on top of blind horizons with just enough momentum that there was a pause to scope the trail in front before dropping down again, berms were ridden properly, the little ups were attacked and disappeared into nothing and I landed at the car park with the biggest grin on my face ever.
Yesterday (today is day five) I rode like I meant it. I rode as best I could, as fast as I could, with as much commitment, focus and determination as I could. I didn’t hold back. I didn’t meander mindlessly around the trails. I switched up, looked sharp and pushed. For about 45 minutes, all the fat on my body disappeared, my muscles and lungs were those of someone far fitter than me, and my mind? My mind, I think, was in ‘the zone’. The happy place. The place where it doesn’t actually matter what the trail throws at you, you’ll deal with it. If there had been drop offs I’d have done them, if there’d been jumps I would have had a go. From a morning of utter apathy and sadness came one of the best rides I’ve ever had, where I found something buried inside myself that I didn’t know I had.
I bought a Marin because I loved it. Now, finally, I am starting to believe I can be the rider that this daft as all hell bike deserves. I also understand that unless I am prepared to ride like I want to be there, push hard and learn from my own mistakes, that I have no right calling myself a mountain biker. Everyone is allowed off days. Absolutely everyone. But yesterday wasn’t one of them, and yesterday I became a mountain biker. Something changed. I don’t think it will ever change back.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Open access requires effort
This post is sponsored by CROW, spending a week in Scotland where the word reasonable means very many things, someone thinking I look like a power ranger because I choose to not end up in A & E, Singletrack magazine doing the right thing, and having a mother who has, I think, walked every notable mountain in the Lakes, Peaks and Dales.
I am my mother's daughter. I believe passionately in open access. I believe passionately in reducing trail and pathway erosion - I've seen the mess the Fixing the Fells bunch have made in the lakes and want no repeat of that in any other National Park. I believe in my right to ride my bike, to use it to explore new paths and trackways, to chuck panniers on the back and a tent and set off into the wilderness with nothing but a map, compass and a sense of adventure. My bike and I, we have big plans for Pennine Bridleway epics, Coast to Coasts, for picking a Glen and just seeing where it goes and one day, for ascending Snowdon. The whole point, to me, of a bike is that it will take me further, faster. I don't want to always go around in circles, damnit.
In 1932, a very large amount of people descended on to Kinder Scout in the Peak District to protest loudly and successfully at the restrictions then in place on people's right to roam.
In 2000, the Countryside Rights Of Way Act was passed, which further enshrined ramblers rights to roam freely, off foothpaths and into the wildnerness on land designated as:
Moaning about it, and riding on them anyway is not going to help anyone. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a cheeky little trail near their house which they know they're not supposed to ride, but they do. The impact of this will vary on any number of different things - how you look, how you conduct yourself when meeting other path users, the evidence you leave of your passage along the path, the litter you drop, the noise you make, whether you know by name the other people you may meet on that path.
There is a fine line between tolerance and righteous indignation. Most of us walk the right side of it, leaving no trace, being courteous and polite, always slowing when seeing other path users, passing the time of day and making eye contact. The amount of riders using the path will also make a huge difference, because it will be the difference between an intimidating faceless mass of bodies kitted out in black hurtling towards someone who is out for an evening stroll and wind down after a hard day at work, and two people being friendly and smiling, commenting on the weather and then hurtling off into the distance leaving a perturbed smile behind.
There is no doubt that the law in this country needs to be changed. The amount of us turning to our bikes as ways to lose weight, maintain fitness, recover from operations or injuries and for stress relief is on the rise. This is not a bad thing, no one could possibly argue that it was. But with increasing numbers comes increasing curiosity, increased impact, and the need for somewhere for these people to go and play. Trail centres satisfy this, at least in part. They provide easy routes, waymarked, accessible, safe, and with the assurance that you are not going to round a corner and land in a river with no warning. But they don't give people the same sense of adventure that setting off into the wilderness does. Some people just want to go exploring; they want to know what's over the next brow of a hill, what's at the end of that valley, where the source of that river is. It's those people, who are familiar with a map and compass and the role of the Mountain Rescue teams, who in frustration at the impossibility of a feasible ride based solely on public bridleways are turning to illegal footpaths to get their fix.
Some provision for these people needs to be made. Either we need more bridleways and waymarked routes like the Pennine Bridleway, or some of the old bridleways which have become disused and overgrown need to be opened up. Or, and this is rather a radical suggestion I know, we need an English version of the Scottish Open Access Code which treats people like grown ups and puts the onus on us, the bikers, to act reasonably, and make a decision about the impact of our riding and whether it is an acceptable one. Ramblers, through pressure, eloquence and contacts managed to produce the CROW Act which allowed them to wander freely. I see absolutely no reason why mountain bikers, as a group, cannot do the same. The work which some people are doing to bring facilities to my local area for mountain bikers which were sorely lacking even 18 months ago are testimony to the power of determination and passion. Imagine if every mountain biker in the country who wanted to wander off the beaten track wrote to their MP and asked them to consider such an Access Code.
Spreading the impact of our tyres can only be a good thing. Erosion is a real problem, on footpaths, towpaths and bridleways. Concentrated footfall and tyre tracks create ruts which can never be repaired unless done in an ugly manner such as laying great slabs of stone over the top of the trails. Spreading impact reduces the damage we all inevitably leave. Spreading impact also results in a much friendlier shared space - if you've not seen anyone for the last five miles, you're far more likely to be friendly and communicative with the only other person you've just tripped over on the moor. If I ride over a rare plant species and no one follows me for another two months because they're all riding over different bits of the moor, that plant has far more of a chance of recovering. Trusting people to act like adults generally encourages that behaviour. Those who are not comfortable using a map and compass will stick to the waymarked trails or to trail centres, and those braver soles will venture out prepared and will no longer be breaking the law for having a basic human instinct, which is to explore.
There has to be a resolution to this because as things stand, tempers are fraying and the fires are kindling, and as the 4x4 crew found out to their great cost, annoying the wrong people when out in the countryside might seem funny when it happens, but tends to wipe the smile off your face a year later when all mountain bikers are entirely banned from the countryside and actively restricted, through the placement of gates and narrow posts and rangers patrolling, to trail centres. If that sounds dramatic, check out what happens when you irritate the wrong people paying particular attention to the rebranding of Byways Open to All Traffic to Byways which in 2000 removed vehicular access to these roads. I leave it your powers of reasoning to work out who was behind that rebranding.
The more people who mountain bike off road, the more people there are to annoy regular footpath users. However it is worth remembering that those very same people are voices to be added to the request for more open access. It's our choice which way this goes.
I am my mother's daughter. I believe passionately in open access. I believe passionately in reducing trail and pathway erosion - I've seen the mess the Fixing the Fells bunch have made in the lakes and want no repeat of that in any other National Park. I believe in my right to ride my bike, to use it to explore new paths and trackways, to chuck panniers on the back and a tent and set off into the wilderness with nothing but a map, compass and a sense of adventure. My bike and I, we have big plans for Pennine Bridleway epics, Coast to Coasts, for picking a Glen and just seeing where it goes and one day, for ascending Snowdon. The whole point, to me, of a bike is that it will take me further, faster. I don't want to always go around in circles, damnit.
In 1932, a very large amount of people descended on to Kinder Scout in the Peak District to protest loudly and successfully at the restrictions then in place on people's right to roam.
In 2000, the Countryside Rights Of Way Act was passed, which further enshrined ramblers rights to roam freely, off foothpaths and into the wildnerness on land designated as:
- Mountains
- Moors
- Heathland
- Downland
- Registered common land
- take responsibility for your own actions
- respect the interests of other people
- care for the environment
Moaning about it, and riding on them anyway is not going to help anyone. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a cheeky little trail near their house which they know they're not supposed to ride, but they do. The impact of this will vary on any number of different things - how you look, how you conduct yourself when meeting other path users, the evidence you leave of your passage along the path, the litter you drop, the noise you make, whether you know by name the other people you may meet on that path.
There is a fine line between tolerance and righteous indignation. Most of us walk the right side of it, leaving no trace, being courteous and polite, always slowing when seeing other path users, passing the time of day and making eye contact. The amount of riders using the path will also make a huge difference, because it will be the difference between an intimidating faceless mass of bodies kitted out in black hurtling towards someone who is out for an evening stroll and wind down after a hard day at work, and two people being friendly and smiling, commenting on the weather and then hurtling off into the distance leaving a perturbed smile behind.
There is no doubt that the law in this country needs to be changed. The amount of us turning to our bikes as ways to lose weight, maintain fitness, recover from operations or injuries and for stress relief is on the rise. This is not a bad thing, no one could possibly argue that it was. But with increasing numbers comes increasing curiosity, increased impact, and the need for somewhere for these people to go and play. Trail centres satisfy this, at least in part. They provide easy routes, waymarked, accessible, safe, and with the assurance that you are not going to round a corner and land in a river with no warning. But they don't give people the same sense of adventure that setting off into the wilderness does. Some people just want to go exploring; they want to know what's over the next brow of a hill, what's at the end of that valley, where the source of that river is. It's those people, who are familiar with a map and compass and the role of the Mountain Rescue teams, who in frustration at the impossibility of a feasible ride based solely on public bridleways are turning to illegal footpaths to get their fix.
Some provision for these people needs to be made. Either we need more bridleways and waymarked routes like the Pennine Bridleway, or some of the old bridleways which have become disused and overgrown need to be opened up. Or, and this is rather a radical suggestion I know, we need an English version of the Scottish Open Access Code which treats people like grown ups and puts the onus on us, the bikers, to act reasonably, and make a decision about the impact of our riding and whether it is an acceptable one. Ramblers, through pressure, eloquence and contacts managed to produce the CROW Act which allowed them to wander freely. I see absolutely no reason why mountain bikers, as a group, cannot do the same. The work which some people are doing to bring facilities to my local area for mountain bikers which were sorely lacking even 18 months ago are testimony to the power of determination and passion. Imagine if every mountain biker in the country who wanted to wander off the beaten track wrote to their MP and asked them to consider such an Access Code.
Spreading the impact of our tyres can only be a good thing. Erosion is a real problem, on footpaths, towpaths and bridleways. Concentrated footfall and tyre tracks create ruts which can never be repaired unless done in an ugly manner such as laying great slabs of stone over the top of the trails. Spreading impact reduces the damage we all inevitably leave. Spreading impact also results in a much friendlier shared space - if you've not seen anyone for the last five miles, you're far more likely to be friendly and communicative with the only other person you've just tripped over on the moor. If I ride over a rare plant species and no one follows me for another two months because they're all riding over different bits of the moor, that plant has far more of a chance of recovering. Trusting people to act like adults generally encourages that behaviour. Those who are not comfortable using a map and compass will stick to the waymarked trails or to trail centres, and those braver soles will venture out prepared and will no longer be breaking the law for having a basic human instinct, which is to explore.
There has to be a resolution to this because as things stand, tempers are fraying and the fires are kindling, and as the 4x4 crew found out to their great cost, annoying the wrong people when out in the countryside might seem funny when it happens, but tends to wipe the smile off your face a year later when all mountain bikers are entirely banned from the countryside and actively restricted, through the placement of gates and narrow posts and rangers patrolling, to trail centres. If that sounds dramatic, check out what happens when you irritate the wrong people paying particular attention to the rebranding of Byways Open to All Traffic to Byways which in 2000 removed vehicular access to these roads. I leave it your powers of reasoning to work out who was behind that rebranding.
The more people who mountain bike off road, the more people there are to annoy regular footpath users. However it is worth remembering that those very same people are voices to be added to the request for more open access. It's our choice which way this goes.
Day Two – 7 Stanes (Kirroughtree)
Everyone has a wake up call. Or at least, I’d guess so. Mine was the Kirroughtree Blue route. The clues were there, if I’d looked close enough – someone on Singletrack’s forum mentioned Dalbeattie and Kirroughtree’s Blues were ‘the best’ Blue routes of the 7 Stanes, and I should know well enough by know that what a competent Red route rider deems best is probably not actually a Blue route but a Blue route cunningly disguised as a bit of a Red route without the drop offs and jumps. The other clue should have been the map at the Trailhead, showing as it did that the Blue and Red shared really quite a lot of track – something which is quite unusual down in that there England.
None of this had actually registered in my enthused state of mind. I had a new bike, Glentrool had gone well overall, I had brakes, what was there to worry about?
Not all singletrack is created equal, let me tell you that for a start. Singletrack, until I went to Kirroughtree, was at least 40cm wide, didn’t have sheer drops at the side of it, and no one was evil enough to put boulders on the insides of corners at the crests of hills, waiting to jump out and grab you given half the chance.
Kirroughtree was my wake up call. Specifically, the first descent at Kirroughtree was my wake up call. Sometimes, the uphills all merge into one, but I have a good memory for the descents, because each one so far has been unique in the challenges which it presents. Each trail centre has a character, a sense of itself, and the memories they leave are coloured in some way. Or in this case the nightmares.
I wasn’t expecting it, was the thing. By now, uphills are a pretty regular pattern of my calves and quads burning and cramping for the first 2km, at which point they concede defeat, all goes quiet, my gear selection muscle memory returns and all drifts into a rhythm of hill section, stop and pant for 2 mins, hill section, pant for 2 mins and pretty much rinse and repeat the whole way up. So when the trail disappeared off the fire road with a sign next to it which clearly stated a graphic of a sloped triangle innocuously marked ‘Descent,’ I just didn’t register it.
All I remember is thinking ‘oh my god, I can’t do this’ constantly for 3 minutes. I don’t get scared (yet another story for another day, but the quick version is, I wasn’t born with the fear chip activating in the right place) but the confluence of 20cm singletrack, sweeping curves with drops on the inside and stones littered all over the place when I was in uphill droning lalaland resulted in a serious denting of confidence. I finally caught up with my partner at the other end and darkly muttered something about escape routes.
We carried on, of course. There are two things that are written in my mountain bike rulebook currently. One, thou shalt not walk up any hill ever, no matter how many times you have to stop and pant and die quietly, and two, thou shalt not return to the Trailhead in any other way than by following the little blue arrows, unless a) you’ve got a migraine b) you can’t stand up or c) you can’t see/breathe any more. Being scared is not a valid reason for aborting anything – this applies to no one else and if my other half had ever had enough we’d back at the car park quicker than you could yell ‘eeeep,’ but I used to wuss out way too easily and the rules stop that happening.
Things, as they usually do, came together. Pedal positioning is something I have hitherto been entirely lazy about. If I switch my left pedal down to go around a left cornering berm, the left foot stays down. When a rock is placed on the exit of a berm for the sole reason of throwing you off your bike for your laziness, you quickly learn. It took, I’d say, about 10 minutes for the message to sink in.
Then there was the narrow track. Somewhere along the line, that sunk in as well. By the time we were doing the last bits of descent of the route, I wasn’t even aware of it, and whizzing between tree trunks not so far off the end of my handlebars wasn’t registering either – something I’d been hesitant about when reading of such things. Rocky Road happened somewhere in there too – and I must confess I walked it. I do not understand what on earth it was doing there, I do not understand how you are supposed to be able to ride that on a hybrid, I do not understand where the line between momentum and a very painful impact is, and I do not understand what the hell it was doing on a Blue route with no chicken run next to it. But then, this is Scotland. There are no chickens here, only cows. No frightened mountain bikers here. Only ones made of rubber-coated titanium.
Also in the middle of this, right after Rocky Road, I encountered someone who, frankly, deserves a medal. Whilst landing from the adrenaline rush, along with a few others (breaks in descents on singletrack where it crosses fireroad are guaranteed gathering points for the lesser spotted mountain biker) a racer went by.
Nope, that wasn’t a typo. A man, on a road racing bike, with dropped handlebars and road brakes, no suspension and a bloody big grin went by. Mouths hit floors. The smell of WTF gave the air a certain frisson. The echo of a ‘wahoooooo!’ echoed up from the next bit of singletrack as he descended without a pause for breath. His partner, somewhat apologetically mentioned in a brief pause for breath that ‘he hadn’t got round to hiring a mountain bike’.
Anyone who thinks they’ve got grit? You try it. On road tyres.
After that, any hesitation and fear I felt sort of went out of the window. I mean, I’ve got a bike made for this stuff sitting under me and this bloke has just made me feel really rather an embarrassment. So off we went again. This time, the track looked a little different and my mindset was a little better and things really did start to come together, though I still wasn’t having quite the day at the office I’d hoped for. Car parks were arrived at, sneering bike shop assistants were endured, bikes were washed, coffee was gulped. A brief conversation was had about going around again. It was brief.
As a footnote, I’d like to say thank you to the lovely couple who chatted with me at the top of the very final descent. I’m sorry I didn’t ask where you were from, and indeed didn’t manage to observe any of the social rules of engagement acknowledged amongst mountain bikers. I was absolutely exhausted and I’m very sorry. You were lovely, and disguised your shock at our plans to ride 5 of the 7 Stanes in one week very well :O)
None of this had actually registered in my enthused state of mind. I had a new bike, Glentrool had gone well overall, I had brakes, what was there to worry about?
Not all singletrack is created equal, let me tell you that for a start. Singletrack, until I went to Kirroughtree, was at least 40cm wide, didn’t have sheer drops at the side of it, and no one was evil enough to put boulders on the insides of corners at the crests of hills, waiting to jump out and grab you given half the chance.
Kirroughtree was my wake up call. Specifically, the first descent at Kirroughtree was my wake up call. Sometimes, the uphills all merge into one, but I have a good memory for the descents, because each one so far has been unique in the challenges which it presents. Each trail centre has a character, a sense of itself, and the memories they leave are coloured in some way. Or in this case the nightmares.
I wasn’t expecting it, was the thing. By now, uphills are a pretty regular pattern of my calves and quads burning and cramping for the first 2km, at which point they concede defeat, all goes quiet, my gear selection muscle memory returns and all drifts into a rhythm of hill section, stop and pant for 2 mins, hill section, pant for 2 mins and pretty much rinse and repeat the whole way up. So when the trail disappeared off the fire road with a sign next to it which clearly stated a graphic of a sloped triangle innocuously marked ‘Descent,’ I just didn’t register it.
All I remember is thinking ‘oh my god, I can’t do this’ constantly for 3 minutes. I don’t get scared (yet another story for another day, but the quick version is, I wasn’t born with the fear chip activating in the right place) but the confluence of 20cm singletrack, sweeping curves with drops on the inside and stones littered all over the place when I was in uphill droning lalaland resulted in a serious denting of confidence. I finally caught up with my partner at the other end and darkly muttered something about escape routes.
We carried on, of course. There are two things that are written in my mountain bike rulebook currently. One, thou shalt not walk up any hill ever, no matter how many times you have to stop and pant and die quietly, and two, thou shalt not return to the Trailhead in any other way than by following the little blue arrows, unless a) you’ve got a migraine b) you can’t stand up or c) you can’t see/breathe any more. Being scared is not a valid reason for aborting anything – this applies to no one else and if my other half had ever had enough we’d back at the car park quicker than you could yell ‘eeeep,’ but I used to wuss out way too easily and the rules stop that happening.
Things, as they usually do, came together. Pedal positioning is something I have hitherto been entirely lazy about. If I switch my left pedal down to go around a left cornering berm, the left foot stays down. When a rock is placed on the exit of a berm for the sole reason of throwing you off your bike for your laziness, you quickly learn. It took, I’d say, about 10 minutes for the message to sink in.
Then there was the narrow track. Somewhere along the line, that sunk in as well. By the time we were doing the last bits of descent of the route, I wasn’t even aware of it, and whizzing between tree trunks not so far off the end of my handlebars wasn’t registering either – something I’d been hesitant about when reading of such things. Rocky Road happened somewhere in there too – and I must confess I walked it. I do not understand what on earth it was doing there, I do not understand how you are supposed to be able to ride that on a hybrid, I do not understand where the line between momentum and a very painful impact is, and I do not understand what the hell it was doing on a Blue route with no chicken run next to it. But then, this is Scotland. There are no chickens here, only cows. No frightened mountain bikers here. Only ones made of rubber-coated titanium.
Also in the middle of this, right after Rocky Road, I encountered someone who, frankly, deserves a medal. Whilst landing from the adrenaline rush, along with a few others (breaks in descents on singletrack where it crosses fireroad are guaranteed gathering points for the lesser spotted mountain biker) a racer went by.
Nope, that wasn’t a typo. A man, on a road racing bike, with dropped handlebars and road brakes, no suspension and a bloody big grin went by. Mouths hit floors. The smell of WTF gave the air a certain frisson. The echo of a ‘wahoooooo!’ echoed up from the next bit of singletrack as he descended without a pause for breath. His partner, somewhat apologetically mentioned in a brief pause for breath that ‘he hadn’t got round to hiring a mountain bike’.
Anyone who thinks they’ve got grit? You try it. On road tyres.
After that, any hesitation and fear I felt sort of went out of the window. I mean, I’ve got a bike made for this stuff sitting under me and this bloke has just made me feel really rather an embarrassment. So off we went again. This time, the track looked a little different and my mindset was a little better and things really did start to come together, though I still wasn’t having quite the day at the office I’d hoped for. Car parks were arrived at, sneering bike shop assistants were endured, bikes were washed, coffee was gulped. A brief conversation was had about going around again. It was brief.
As a footnote, I’d like to say thank you to the lovely couple who chatted with me at the top of the very final descent. I’m sorry I didn’t ask where you were from, and indeed didn’t manage to observe any of the social rules of engagement acknowledged amongst mountain bikers. I was absolutely exhausted and I’m very sorry. You were lovely, and disguised your shock at our plans to ride 5 of the 7 Stanes in one week very well :O)
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Day one – 7 Stanes (Glentrool)
As perhaps has been previously mentioned (though perhaps not, I lose track), holidays are a one sided planning affair in our household. The usual conversation goes along the lines of ‘shall we go on holiday?’, he replies ‘sounds like a plan’ and I wander off and hammer Google for 2 weeks straight, trying to find somewhere which treads the fine line between comfortable, peaceful (me) and near to a pub (him).
The one we are currently in the midst of went a little differently. ‘Shall we go on a mountain biking holiday?’ I proposed. ‘Sounds like a plan’ he said. From there things took a slightly different route. Location was reduced to ‘is it near one of the 7 Stanes trail centres’, comfort involved ‘does it have a bike store and a passing familiarity with people turning up looking like they’ve gone two rounds with a mud monster’ and near a pub became a bit of an irrelevance.
So, here we are in Castle Douglas. It’s perfectly located, the apartment has a bike store and a hose pipe (though suspicions are high this is accidental as it’s also located next to the only flowerbed), and the weather is being Scottish. By which I mean to say, it’s neither sunny or raining, but a weird mix of indeterminable origin where the weatherman says it will rain, it feels frequently like we’re riding in a rainforest and occasionally the heavens open with a viciousness henceforth only seen on TV in the dramatic bits of films.
We’re also in a bit of a bike tangle. I’ve got my new Marin, only ridden so far along towpaths and not in anger. The other half (who I really should introduce properly at some point, but there’s a comic to go with it and it’s in draft so must wait) does not have his shiny new bike as TNT delivery services didn’t, and so he has a Marin full sus on loan from the very very nice man at Blazing Saddles in Hebden Bridge. Be nice to your Local Friendly Bikeshop and my gosh will they be nice to you.
As a result, we approached Glentrool, our first 7 Stanes Blue route with something approaching quiet apprehension. I’d read Glentrool was quiet. The quietest of all the Stanes trail centres. They weren’t joking. Roll call involved two other cars; one exploding Scottish male mountain bikers in full voice and raucousness, and the other with no occupants and no bike rack either (it’s funny how you start assessing people on the accessories attached to their car, isn’t it).
Raucous group of raucousness turned out to be there to do the epic Purple route – 58km of quiet roads and forest tracks taking them down what transpired to be beautiful scenery when we got high enough to see it. We muttered about insanity biting late in life and found the beginning of the Blue route. The usual traditions of the rides my other half and I embark on rolled out as usual – him being sparky and positive and me quietly dying after the first 0.5km – except this time there was something a bit different. My Marin weighs half what my old bike does. I noticed this with some smugness after the first 10 minutes, the smugness generated by the look of slight bemusement on my partner’s face, who for the first time got a glimpse into the drastic difference an extra few pounds makes when trying to generate enough power to pull you up a hill. The full sus he was on was a bus, and as a result the sparkyness quietly dissipated until he’d got used to the energy transference not quite working the way he was used to.
We slogged up the hill, got drizzled on, felt very isolated, slogged some more, started to wonder if there was another living thing within a 2 mile radius of us, saw some sheep running off in the distance, dodged some cow pats on the loop around the edge of felling operations and generally tried to get used to our respective bikes. Partner failed to jump his, I failed to make friends with mine. Levels of irritation rose as I started to wonder if I was cut out for this mountain biking lark at all.
Then we went around a corner and the view of the Galloway hills opened in front of us and finally something started to make sense. Another 1km or so and we got to the top, the very highest bit of the route. Below us were two lochs and unbelievably, the sounds of raucous group of raucousness echoing back up at us from the valley below. It was one of the most stunning views I’ve ever worked for. So we sat for a bit, and gathered ourselves and I moaned a bit about traction and other half let some air out of my tyres and I resolved to get rid of the Mountain Kings pretty much about then, I think.
I don’t remember a lot about the down, but I did learn one valuable lesson in about the safest place to do so – Marins and cheap GT’s are not created equal. I used to be able to leave my brakes alone on downs, just coasting along, using the track and momentum to get me a little way up the inevitable up the other side.
The sound of my hubs and derailleur disappearing entirely because I am going so fast is not a sound I want to be hearing again. Fast is good. Fast is what I live for. Fast is absolute bliss. Too fast is when you know that if you came off, there would be a bit of snap, crackle and pop going on and you’re not wearing any body armour at all. A time out was called. Wits were gathered. I got back on, and I learnt my lesson and I throttled back – way back, in some ways too far back, a theme which was to continue.
Glentrool is a lovely Blue route. Absolutely lovely. It’s not technical, it’s not particularly challenging, it’s not going to change the world. What it is going to do is remind you why you pedal push, because the views are to die for, the berms at the bottom are actually really quite clever and the waterfalls by the visitor centre are pretty epic when in spate. This is Scotland so that will be quite often. Don’t go there for adrenaline highs, go there to have the side of a hill entirely to yourself for the day. To have the views to yourself. Sometimes, I think, everyone needs to stop and look and this is a wonderful place to do it.
The one we are currently in the midst of went a little differently. ‘Shall we go on a mountain biking holiday?’ I proposed. ‘Sounds like a plan’ he said. From there things took a slightly different route. Location was reduced to ‘is it near one of the 7 Stanes trail centres’, comfort involved ‘does it have a bike store and a passing familiarity with people turning up looking like they’ve gone two rounds with a mud monster’ and near a pub became a bit of an irrelevance.
So, here we are in Castle Douglas. It’s perfectly located, the apartment has a bike store and a hose pipe (though suspicions are high this is accidental as it’s also located next to the only flowerbed), and the weather is being Scottish. By which I mean to say, it’s neither sunny or raining, but a weird mix of indeterminable origin where the weatherman says it will rain, it feels frequently like we’re riding in a rainforest and occasionally the heavens open with a viciousness henceforth only seen on TV in the dramatic bits of films.
We’re also in a bit of a bike tangle. I’ve got my new Marin, only ridden so far along towpaths and not in anger. The other half (who I really should introduce properly at some point, but there’s a comic to go with it and it’s in draft so must wait) does not have his shiny new bike as TNT delivery services didn’t, and so he has a Marin full sus on loan from the very very nice man at Blazing Saddles in Hebden Bridge. Be nice to your Local Friendly Bikeshop and my gosh will they be nice to you.
As a result, we approached Glentrool, our first 7 Stanes Blue route with something approaching quiet apprehension. I’d read Glentrool was quiet. The quietest of all the Stanes trail centres. They weren’t joking. Roll call involved two other cars; one exploding Scottish male mountain bikers in full voice and raucousness, and the other with no occupants and no bike rack either (it’s funny how you start assessing people on the accessories attached to their car, isn’t it).
Raucous group of raucousness turned out to be there to do the epic Purple route – 58km of quiet roads and forest tracks taking them down what transpired to be beautiful scenery when we got high enough to see it. We muttered about insanity biting late in life and found the beginning of the Blue route. The usual traditions of the rides my other half and I embark on rolled out as usual – him being sparky and positive and me quietly dying after the first 0.5km – except this time there was something a bit different. My Marin weighs half what my old bike does. I noticed this with some smugness after the first 10 minutes, the smugness generated by the look of slight bemusement on my partner’s face, who for the first time got a glimpse into the drastic difference an extra few pounds makes when trying to generate enough power to pull you up a hill. The full sus he was on was a bus, and as a result the sparkyness quietly dissipated until he’d got used to the energy transference not quite working the way he was used to.
We slogged up the hill, got drizzled on, felt very isolated, slogged some more, started to wonder if there was another living thing within a 2 mile radius of us, saw some sheep running off in the distance, dodged some cow pats on the loop around the edge of felling operations and generally tried to get used to our respective bikes. Partner failed to jump his, I failed to make friends with mine. Levels of irritation rose as I started to wonder if I was cut out for this mountain biking lark at all.
Then we went around a corner and the view of the Galloway hills opened in front of us and finally something started to make sense. Another 1km or so and we got to the top, the very highest bit of the route. Below us were two lochs and unbelievably, the sounds of raucous group of raucousness echoing back up at us from the valley below. It was one of the most stunning views I’ve ever worked for. So we sat for a bit, and gathered ourselves and I moaned a bit about traction and other half let some air out of my tyres and I resolved to get rid of the Mountain Kings pretty much about then, I think.
I don’t remember a lot about the down, but I did learn one valuable lesson in about the safest place to do so – Marins and cheap GT’s are not created equal. I used to be able to leave my brakes alone on downs, just coasting along, using the track and momentum to get me a little way up the inevitable up the other side.
The sound of my hubs and derailleur disappearing entirely because I am going so fast is not a sound I want to be hearing again. Fast is good. Fast is what I live for. Fast is absolute bliss. Too fast is when you know that if you came off, there would be a bit of snap, crackle and pop going on and you’re not wearing any body armour at all. A time out was called. Wits were gathered. I got back on, and I learnt my lesson and I throttled back – way back, in some ways too far back, a theme which was to continue.
Glentrool is a lovely Blue route. Absolutely lovely. It’s not technical, it’s not particularly challenging, it’s not going to change the world. What it is going to do is remind you why you pedal push, because the views are to die for, the berms at the bottom are actually really quite clever and the waterfalls by the visitor centre are pretty epic when in spate. This is Scotland so that will be quite often. Don’t go there for adrenaline highs, go there to have the side of a hill entirely to yourself for the day. To have the views to yourself. Sometimes, I think, everyone needs to stop and look and this is a wonderful place to do it.
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