I've finally found the local trails. Looping figure of eights to get lost in 800ft slog up the hill outside the door. It's a tarmac slog but not so bad at 7:30am. Left the rode and the curious horses staring at the panting girl, found a cat, lost the cat, found the cat again, dinged the cat to save it. Rode left, turned left again, somehow ended up coming back down the first left I'd taken. Round the other side up the side of the stone wall, turn left, miss a turning that looked interesting, take the 2nd turning, come out down the 1st turning that looked interesting. Growing suspicion that someone else has been here before me, many times, by the berms developing in the ruts in the corners of the mud. Sticky gloopy mud stuck to tyres, back down the road, ding ding ding as the bits of stone and tree hit my spokes then my rims then the road and me.
Arrive back at the house dripping, covered in mud from my tyres and with a bloody big grin on my face. Arrive back just in time to see boyfriend off to work. Laughter as he looks at my bike 'found the mud again then'.
Always find the mud. Doing that again.
Next time I might even remember my bottle.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Idiotic ideals
I suppose everyone has a list of things they'd quite like to have. Once upon a time it was my fitness back. I wanted to run up stairs and not be out of breath at the top, I wanted to go on holiday and yomp around all over the place without being the red faced knackered person at the top of the random hill in the middle of the pretty random town.
I think I'm mostly there. Certainly, walking has no fear for me any more, except uphill where ironically the issue now being something else utterly unrelated to respiratory systems being the issue. But I wanted something and I've worked a bit hard for it and I've got it.
I still get the usual comments though. People look and don't see what I am doing to fix the problem, instead assuming that I haven't realised there is a problem and am still compounding it. They don't stop to ask how many miles I rode last night - instead I get sniped for not riding tonight. There is a relentless expectation of fat people: lazy, can't be arsed, find something too difficult and never bother again, only excercise is lifting a pint or a fork, smelly, sweaty, uninteresting, no energy, no determination, no willpower, no participation in life.
I'm tired of feeling judged and desperately wanting to scream at people about sometimes things being wrong that you can't actually see and there are many things I can't do right now and you know what, sod you because I'm doing everything I actually can and you don't know what it costs and do enjoy those painkillers for that hangover you've got, do enjoy the luxury mate, because I don't drink more than 2-3 glasses of wine a week because I know there's calories in them glasses and it's calories I've not got time to burn and oh boy wouldn't it be nice, wouldn't it be oh so nice to have the soothing mist of Ibruprofen descend and take it all away.
It wasn't always like this of course. I got fat because I just wasn't paying attention. I was a size 18 before I did pay attention and started going to the gym 3 times a week and it made not the slightest bit of difference at all. I went for 3 months, 3 times a week, cut right down on food and watched everything I ate and lost not a pound. Knowing what I know now, I should have packed myself off to the doctors and asked the obvious question, but of course I didn't, I just got miserable and irritated and disheartened and gave up.
I didn't know what I know now, about very many things. I didn't know because the medical profession hadn't discovered it yet because the research simply hadn't been done. If I had known, I'd have understood a little better why the exercise wasn't working and why simply cutting down on food didn't work and changed my diet entirely, changed the contents of the food I ate entirely so that it did make a difference, so that bits of my body stood a fighting chance of processing the food I was giving it. Stupid, really, in retrospect.
I wasn't always so stupid.
I was the sporty girl at Middle School. Played hockey, starter bod on the 4 x 100m relay, somewhere in the midst of the 4 x 400m relay team, top 10 in the boys and girls cross country running races (never happier than sliding down a hill on my behind - nothing changes). Got glasses, got braces, got.....quiet. Very quiet. Got distracted by books and learning stuff and more books. Lots of books.
Secondary school came and went with a passing venture into javelin throwing and the humiliation of the Country Championships where I discovered everyone else knew how to run and throw bar me. Brief dalliance with rounders in the last ever match of the last year as my House team discovered they were one down and needed someone with two legs to stand in. Discovered javelin arm also meant batting arm also meant no hope of anyone running faster to reach the ball than for me to run around a tiny little loop. Too little, too late, confidence dissipated into the wind and that was it. No more exercise bar podium dancing 3 nights a week in a local club full of rave music while at university. It was enough combined with skint student diet to ensure I was a size 12. I looked ridiculous. I am not designed to be a size 12. Seriously. No, really, seriously. I looked like a cartoon character and not in a good way, in a ridiculous way. Never again.
Then I moved to London and it all went wrong. Too many take aways (what a novelty), earning money, living on my own, too many ready meals because I hadn't a clue how to cook, and eventually when earning more money too much eating out. I just didn't.....notice. I didn't. And by the time I had the gym wasn't working and I just didn't know what to do.
So what would I like now?
I'd like to be smaller. But more than that, I want to be fitter. I want to be fit enough to sit in my saddle for 8 hours straight, hammering around and around red routes, pedals turning as fast as my legs can push them, faster and faster and faster. I want to be faster and fitter for me - a recurring them of the exercise I have enjoyed the most has been the element of competition with myself and no one else. I don't want to beat anyone else, I don't want to be first, I want to only know that I pushed myself as hard as I possibly could and that there is no whispering guilt that I could have tried harder. I want to know how hard it's possible to push my body and for how long and find the edges of what I am capable of, both mentally and physically. Eventually, I'd like to run across fields and up hills again, the exhileration of flying down the side of a hill in the mud, occasional slides into piles of nettles optional. I'd like to find myself again, the 12 year old version of myself, who wasn't self conscious or hesitant, who did things for the love it and for no other reason than that.
Sometimes there doesn't have to be any other reason. Sometimes I ride my bike, not to get fitter, or lose weight, or to get home. Sometimes I ride my bike because I can, because I love it and it really is as simple as that.
I've got the day off tomorrow. I'm spending the weekend bouncing around a field to really rather good music. But my alarm will be set for the normal time, because a day off without sneaking an hours riding in would be a waste.
Life. Changed. Attitude. Changed.
I think I'm mostly there. Certainly, walking has no fear for me any more, except uphill where ironically the issue now being something else utterly unrelated to respiratory systems being the issue. But I wanted something and I've worked a bit hard for it and I've got it.
I still get the usual comments though. People look and don't see what I am doing to fix the problem, instead assuming that I haven't realised there is a problem and am still compounding it. They don't stop to ask how many miles I rode last night - instead I get sniped for not riding tonight. There is a relentless expectation of fat people: lazy, can't be arsed, find something too difficult and never bother again, only excercise is lifting a pint or a fork, smelly, sweaty, uninteresting, no energy, no determination, no willpower, no participation in life.
I'm tired of feeling judged and desperately wanting to scream at people about sometimes things being wrong that you can't actually see and there are many things I can't do right now and you know what, sod you because I'm doing everything I actually can and you don't know what it costs and do enjoy those painkillers for that hangover you've got, do enjoy the luxury mate, because I don't drink more than 2-3 glasses of wine a week because I know there's calories in them glasses and it's calories I've not got time to burn and oh boy wouldn't it be nice, wouldn't it be oh so nice to have the soothing mist of Ibruprofen descend and take it all away.
It wasn't always like this of course. I got fat because I just wasn't paying attention. I was a size 18 before I did pay attention and started going to the gym 3 times a week and it made not the slightest bit of difference at all. I went for 3 months, 3 times a week, cut right down on food and watched everything I ate and lost not a pound. Knowing what I know now, I should have packed myself off to the doctors and asked the obvious question, but of course I didn't, I just got miserable and irritated and disheartened and gave up.
I didn't know what I know now, about very many things. I didn't know because the medical profession hadn't discovered it yet because the research simply hadn't been done. If I had known, I'd have understood a little better why the exercise wasn't working and why simply cutting down on food didn't work and changed my diet entirely, changed the contents of the food I ate entirely so that it did make a difference, so that bits of my body stood a fighting chance of processing the food I was giving it. Stupid, really, in retrospect.
I wasn't always so stupid.
I was the sporty girl at Middle School. Played hockey, starter bod on the 4 x 100m relay, somewhere in the midst of the 4 x 400m relay team, top 10 in the boys and girls cross country running races (never happier than sliding down a hill on my behind - nothing changes). Got glasses, got braces, got.....quiet. Very quiet. Got distracted by books and learning stuff and more books. Lots of books.
Secondary school came and went with a passing venture into javelin throwing and the humiliation of the Country Championships where I discovered everyone else knew how to run and throw bar me. Brief dalliance with rounders in the last ever match of the last year as my House team discovered they were one down and needed someone with two legs to stand in. Discovered javelin arm also meant batting arm also meant no hope of anyone running faster to reach the ball than for me to run around a tiny little loop. Too little, too late, confidence dissipated into the wind and that was it. No more exercise bar podium dancing 3 nights a week in a local club full of rave music while at university. It was enough combined with skint student diet to ensure I was a size 12. I looked ridiculous. I am not designed to be a size 12. Seriously. No, really, seriously. I looked like a cartoon character and not in a good way, in a ridiculous way. Never again.
Then I moved to London and it all went wrong. Too many take aways (what a novelty), earning money, living on my own, too many ready meals because I hadn't a clue how to cook, and eventually when earning more money too much eating out. I just didn't.....notice. I didn't. And by the time I had the gym wasn't working and I just didn't know what to do.
So what would I like now?
I'd like to be smaller. But more than that, I want to be fitter. I want to be fit enough to sit in my saddle for 8 hours straight, hammering around and around red routes, pedals turning as fast as my legs can push them, faster and faster and faster. I want to be faster and fitter for me - a recurring them of the exercise I have enjoyed the most has been the element of competition with myself and no one else. I don't want to beat anyone else, I don't want to be first, I want to only know that I pushed myself as hard as I possibly could and that there is no whispering guilt that I could have tried harder. I want to know how hard it's possible to push my body and for how long and find the edges of what I am capable of, both mentally and physically. Eventually, I'd like to run across fields and up hills again, the exhileration of flying down the side of a hill in the mud, occasional slides into piles of nettles optional. I'd like to find myself again, the 12 year old version of myself, who wasn't self conscious or hesitant, who did things for the love it and for no other reason than that.
Sometimes there doesn't have to be any other reason. Sometimes I ride my bike, not to get fitter, or lose weight, or to get home. Sometimes I ride my bike because I can, because I love it and it really is as simple as that.
I've got the day off tomorrow. I'm spending the weekend bouncing around a field to really rather good music. But my alarm will be set for the normal time, because a day off without sneaking an hours riding in would be a waste.
Life. Changed. Attitude. Changed.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Disproportionate expectations
Last night I posted on Twitter that 127 miles was looking doable and what next. Or at least that's what I thought I'd posted, but my sister seemed to read it entirely differently. Her reply seemed to intimate that I was somehow boasting, that somehow riding 127 miles across 3/4 days was all I should be satisfied with and I was somehow wrong for looking to do anything more.
It's brought me up short. She knows I'm a big lass. Admittedly she's not seen me for 2 years or so because the promised visits from her and my mother never seem to transpire, but she must know I'm no sylph, haven't been since my early 20's. She also knows I was never into exercise either. But she also doesn't read the blogs or forums that I do and doesn't know that most of the mountain bikers I now know/know of could ride 127 miles in 2 days without breaking sweat and some of them could ride it in 1 quite quite easily.
So the question becomes - who am I comparing myself to here? And does it matter?
I am forgetting that there are people who ride a few miles each week and don't need to do any more. There are people who go to the gym once a week and it keeps the weight off. I am never going to be that kind of person. I need a challenge, I need adrenaline, I need to compete with myself and I need to motivate myself. I also need to do a world more hours of exercise per week to simply stay the same weight. I don't mind that, don't even notice it most of the time because biking doesn't feel like exercise, but it annoys me a little that sometimes people seem to think that talking about what I do and intend to do is somehow bragging.
It's going to hurt. Lets make no bones about that. I don't care. I don't care because it's worth it to me - because I have made my profit and loss statement and the profit far outweighs the loss. I want to do more because I want to become fitter, because I want to lose weight, because I want to have a goal and something to aim for.
There could even be the argument that perhaps somewhere deep down I believe that the faster I ride the slower the bad things happening to my body will catch up with me. It certainly can't do any harm at this stage.
I have always been a determined and driven person intellectually. I have always wanted to know everything about everything. I still ask questions at the rate of a 8 year old, if I am allowed to, but mostly I direct the questioning at the safety of books. That attitude is simply transferring to physicalities. I am not changing, nothing is changing, I'm simply approaching biking with the same attitude I've approached most things in life, at 100mph.
Believe me, please believe me when I say, there is no arrogance here, no complacency, no taking things for granted, no bragging and no boasting. Anyone, and I truly mean absolutely anyone with the physical ability to pedal could do what I'm currently doing and planning to do. The only difference is choice. But I appreciate every second I have of the luxury of spinning my pedals, of feeling my muscles work in beautiful harmony, of the point where my breathing settles into its rythmn and there is the suspicion that the rythmn could be maintained for very many hours. It's a wonderful place to be, everything shifting focus into a tunnel visioned view of the world where this is no behind, only in front and the curiosity to see how fast I can cover it.
In the grand scheme of the mountain biking world, I am nothing. A little drop in a massive ocean of better, faster, more focused, more determined, thinner, fitter and stronger people. I wont ever forget that.
It's brought me up short. She knows I'm a big lass. Admittedly she's not seen me for 2 years or so because the promised visits from her and my mother never seem to transpire, but she must know I'm no sylph, haven't been since my early 20's. She also knows I was never into exercise either. But she also doesn't read the blogs or forums that I do and doesn't know that most of the mountain bikers I now know/know of could ride 127 miles in 2 days without breaking sweat and some of them could ride it in 1 quite quite easily.
So the question becomes - who am I comparing myself to here? And does it matter?
I am forgetting that there are people who ride a few miles each week and don't need to do any more. There are people who go to the gym once a week and it keeps the weight off. I am never going to be that kind of person. I need a challenge, I need adrenaline, I need to compete with myself and I need to motivate myself. I also need to do a world more hours of exercise per week to simply stay the same weight. I don't mind that, don't even notice it most of the time because biking doesn't feel like exercise, but it annoys me a little that sometimes people seem to think that talking about what I do and intend to do is somehow bragging.
It's going to hurt. Lets make no bones about that. I don't care. I don't care because it's worth it to me - because I have made my profit and loss statement and the profit far outweighs the loss. I want to do more because I want to become fitter, because I want to lose weight, because I want to have a goal and something to aim for.
There could even be the argument that perhaps somewhere deep down I believe that the faster I ride the slower the bad things happening to my body will catch up with me. It certainly can't do any harm at this stage.
I have always been a determined and driven person intellectually. I have always wanted to know everything about everything. I still ask questions at the rate of a 8 year old, if I am allowed to, but mostly I direct the questioning at the safety of books. That attitude is simply transferring to physicalities. I am not changing, nothing is changing, I'm simply approaching biking with the same attitude I've approached most things in life, at 100mph.
Believe me, please believe me when I say, there is no arrogance here, no complacency, no taking things for granted, no bragging and no boasting. Anyone, and I truly mean absolutely anyone with the physical ability to pedal could do what I'm currently doing and planning to do. The only difference is choice. But I appreciate every second I have of the luxury of spinning my pedals, of feeling my muscles work in beautiful harmony, of the point where my breathing settles into its rythmn and there is the suspicion that the rythmn could be maintained for very many hours. It's a wonderful place to be, everything shifting focus into a tunnel visioned view of the world where this is no behind, only in front and the curiosity to see how fast I can cover it.
In the grand scheme of the mountain biking world, I am nothing. A little drop in a massive ocean of better, faster, more focused, more determined, thinner, fitter and stronger people. I wont ever forget that.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Difficult dimensions and MP's in lycra
Yes, you did read that right.
This morning I entered into one of those conversations which by turns seems the most natural in the world but also quite the oddest. I ended up advising an MP on how to ride a bike through London safely and without chafing and how to not have his steed nicked at the other end. The MP in question isn't quite the normal MP aside from this, which is why I am following him on Twitter, because despite not being a massive fan of the party he is a member of, he asks the right questions and listens to good sensible answers when it comes to matters IT which is something for the other blog I write but which basically encompasses the ludicrous Digital Economy Act and the fact that the man disobeyed whip instructions for the first time in his career because he believed something was so wrong and stood up and clearly stated so. I respect the man immensely for that, not all of us would be so brave in that position, thought it may be easy to catcall and deride from the comfort of our sofas.
Anyway, jokes about hiding lycra aside the bloke asked, to his credit, so I answered as best I could with helmet and glove recommendations and pointed him at either M & S cycling shorts or other makes should he get bitten more seriously by the bug. Which of course he will, because everyone does once they've tasted the joy of just getting on and going. Or at least I hope so because we could be less blessed with a vocal promoter of our favoured mode of transport, believe me.
Leaving politics well and truly behind because that's a story for another day and usually relates to public access in terms of this blog, I am having dimension issues.
You'd never believe the agonising the size of my hydration pack rucksack could cause. Actually, possibly men wouldn't believe it - I suspect those among you of the fairer persuasion may understand where this is going immediately. I am, in 1 week, embarking into hitherto unchartered territory and I haven't got a damn clue what I want to pack into where. So, because the inevitable will happen and this blog will become slightly Leeds Liverpool focused for a bit, my packing list stands at:
1 litre bottle on bottle holder on bike
2 litres water in hydration thingy
Rucksack to hold this and to also hold:
pump, basic toolkit, inner tube, waterproof gloves, spare socks, camera (?), iphone, earphones, buff, jelly babies, cash, lock(?), flapjacks, waterproof poncho thingy (?), mile matrix for the canal from town to town.
I'm going to be coming home each evening. I live 2 miles from the halfway point of the canal, my other half was supposed to be coming with me and sodding off for 4 days entirely without him seems callous, and frankly cheap is good and I want my own bed. I'm also not quite brave enough to do something entirely by myself. There, I said it :O) I'm also planning on getting in a bath full of painfully hot water & not coming out again until my muscles are convinced they'll never be cold again. I am however, utterly overwhelmed and grateful for the offers of crash space. The people responsible have been filed under 'epic' and plans are afoot for cake swapping to not be entirely 1 way (I've got to learn to bake a cake first!)
I am so excited. Honestly. There's bits of trepidation in there and I know from experience of things long ago that I shall be a pile of nausea & dizziness at Liverpool come the start, but I don't know anything quite as blissful as discovering the unknown on the back of a bike. And as someone pointed out earlier, if riding my bike normally destresses me and allows me to think and come up with bonkers ideas heaven only knows what's going to have occured by the time I get to Leeds. Probably the next idiot idea.
Still haven't decided on nail varnish colour. But it's going to have to go with pink and grey with lilac highlighted gloves.
This morning I entered into one of those conversations which by turns seems the most natural in the world but also quite the oddest. I ended up advising an MP on how to ride a bike through London safely and without chafing and how to not have his steed nicked at the other end. The MP in question isn't quite the normal MP aside from this, which is why I am following him on Twitter, because despite not being a massive fan of the party he is a member of, he asks the right questions and listens to good sensible answers when it comes to matters IT which is something for the other blog I write but which basically encompasses the ludicrous Digital Economy Act and the fact that the man disobeyed whip instructions for the first time in his career because he believed something was so wrong and stood up and clearly stated so. I respect the man immensely for that, not all of us would be so brave in that position, thought it may be easy to catcall and deride from the comfort of our sofas.
Anyway, jokes about hiding lycra aside the bloke asked, to his credit, so I answered as best I could with helmet and glove recommendations and pointed him at either M & S cycling shorts or other makes should he get bitten more seriously by the bug. Which of course he will, because everyone does once they've tasted the joy of just getting on and going. Or at least I hope so because we could be less blessed with a vocal promoter of our favoured mode of transport, believe me.
Leaving politics well and truly behind because that's a story for another day and usually relates to public access in terms of this blog, I am having dimension issues.
You'd never believe the agonising the size of my hydration pack rucksack could cause. Actually, possibly men wouldn't believe it - I suspect those among you of the fairer persuasion may understand where this is going immediately. I am, in 1 week, embarking into hitherto unchartered territory and I haven't got a damn clue what I want to pack into where. So, because the inevitable will happen and this blog will become slightly Leeds Liverpool focused for a bit, my packing list stands at:
1 litre bottle on bottle holder on bike
2 litres water in hydration thingy
Rucksack to hold this and to also hold:
pump, basic toolkit, inner tube, waterproof gloves, spare socks, camera (?), iphone, earphones, buff, jelly babies, cash, lock(?), flapjacks, waterproof poncho thingy (?), mile matrix for the canal from town to town.
I'm going to be coming home each evening. I live 2 miles from the halfway point of the canal, my other half was supposed to be coming with me and sodding off for 4 days entirely without him seems callous, and frankly cheap is good and I want my own bed. I'm also not quite brave enough to do something entirely by myself. There, I said it :O) I'm also planning on getting in a bath full of painfully hot water & not coming out again until my muscles are convinced they'll never be cold again. I am however, utterly overwhelmed and grateful for the offers of crash space. The people responsible have been filed under 'epic' and plans are afoot for cake swapping to not be entirely 1 way (I've got to learn to bake a cake first!)
I am so excited. Honestly. There's bits of trepidation in there and I know from experience of things long ago that I shall be a pile of nausea & dizziness at Liverpool come the start, but I don't know anything quite as blissful as discovering the unknown on the back of a bike. And as someone pointed out earlier, if riding my bike normally destresses me and allows me to think and come up with bonkers ideas heaven only knows what's going to have occured by the time I get to Leeds. Probably the next idiot idea.
Still haven't decided on nail varnish colour. But it's going to have to go with pink and grey with lilac highlighted gloves.
Ask and ye shall receive
Except I didn't ask.
Nevertheless, I have received - offers of beds for the night from people I've never met (some of whom are about the most quietly inspiring people I've ever come across), cake, tea, send off parties, greeting at the other end bods, endlessly epically useful advice which I am already acting on - there's an order for another pair of fingerless riding gloves out there - and I'm slightly overwhelmed by the encouragement and shine coming from people I've never met.
It's a wonderful thing. I think it might be a thing. I noticed it among climbers before I stopped going thanks to the inability to stand on tip toe suddenly for more than 10 seconds (it's kind of crucial, you know?). The camraderie, support, encouragement and twinkle which comes from a community who perhaps know that from the outside looking in their sport looks a bit bonkers but love it so much and with such dedication that sharing it and passing it on is as natural as breathing.
I'm planning more for this little trip than I've ever really needed to plan for anything before. It feels like a mini adventure, something entirely for me - and I don't ever do anything entirely for me. I am not the sort of person to choose to be alone for long hours at a time. But I'm also not the person I was 12 months ago either, and the joy of pedalling and exploring unknown territory will keep me going.
I'm not going to do a recce of anything but the pass over the top of Foulridge tunnel - because there isn't time, and because of the lure of the unknown. I've always been the kind of person who, as a passenger, would buy a Michelin map and proceed to direct my lovely other half down 'interesting' roads - one memorable occasion resulted in arm cramp from the number of successive hairpins in the Pyrenees. But you can't view life from behind a car window - the spirit is obviously there - I read of others noticing tracks disappearing off the side of the road and thinking 'that looks interesting' and I do too. The only difference is fitness and a skill level which could deal with anything the trail could throw at me.
So perhaps, ultimately, riding for the longest I've ever ridden (I'm not convinced I'm going to stop at 30 miles a day which is why people asking me where I'll be on certain days is proving tricky because I would like the option to keep going if there's anything in my legs to do so) on my own is not the challenge it appears to be. I know have the determination and focus and bull headed obstinancy, though I don't know where it came from, but here it is. It's fitness and stamina I don't have, but all I need to do is track the miles, pace myself, track my breathing and not let it get out of control and look ahead and that's it. That's all. The rest will come from the joy of freedom, I suspect, which I know sounds cheesy, but for someone who was once very timid, shy and nervous of the world, I think the victory will be mine 5 miles from Liverpool. Getting to Leeds will be the icing on the cake, but I'll get there.
Nevertheless, I have received - offers of beds for the night from people I've never met (some of whom are about the most quietly inspiring people I've ever come across), cake, tea, send off parties, greeting at the other end bods, endlessly epically useful advice which I am already acting on - there's an order for another pair of fingerless riding gloves out there - and I'm slightly overwhelmed by the encouragement and shine coming from people I've never met.
It's a wonderful thing. I think it might be a
I'm planning more for this little trip than I've ever really needed to plan for anything before. It feels like a mini adventure, something entirely for me - and I don't ever do anything entirely for me. I am not the sort of person to choose to be alone for long hours at a time. But I'm also not the person I was 12 months ago either, and the joy of pedalling and exploring unknown territory will keep me going.
I'm not going to do a recce of anything but the pass over the top of Foulridge tunnel - because there isn't time, and because of the lure of the unknown. I've always been the kind of person who, as a passenger, would buy a Michelin map and proceed to direct my lovely other half down 'interesting' roads - one memorable occasion resulted in arm cramp from the number of successive hairpins in the Pyrenees. But you can't view life from behind a car window - the spirit is obviously there - I read of others noticing tracks disappearing off the side of the road and thinking 'that looks interesting' and I do too. The only difference is fitness and a skill level which could deal with anything the trail could throw at me.
So perhaps, ultimately, riding for the longest I've ever ridden (I'm not convinced I'm going to stop at 30 miles a day which is why people asking me where I'll be on certain days is proving tricky because I would like the option to keep going if there's anything in my legs to do so) on my own is not the challenge it appears to be. I know have the determination and focus and bull headed obstinancy, though I don't know where it came from, but here it is. It's fitness and stamina I don't have, but all I need to do is track the miles, pace myself, track my breathing and not let it get out of control and look ahead and that's it. That's all. The rest will come from the joy of freedom, I suspect, which I know sounds cheesy, but for someone who was once very timid, shy and nervous of the world, I think the victory will be mine 5 miles from Liverpool. Getting to Leeds will be the icing on the cake, but I'll get there.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Je ne regrette rien
It's all Minxs fault.
Well actually it is, and it isn't. Fault is also the wrong attribute, really, it was more a collision of circumstances. Firstly, I was directed at the Minx Compendium, which is a blog of girly mountain biker inspiration. It contains tales of amazing things, amongst tales of simply pedalling. The combination lead me to muse much last night and I went to bed with ideas and aspirations whizzing around in my head. There were other things, of course, which contributed, which involved enthusing and much use of the words 'well why can't we?' or rather much of the sentiment embodied in those words, at least.
Fast forward to this morning and I saw a word I didn't want to see on my notes. I cried.
5 hours later, I discovered that the week I've booked off between old and new jobs because the next two weeks promise to be incredibly stressful as I try and squeeze 6 weeks work into 2, will be spent alone as he can't get leave to come and camp with me in fields of green near towns full of books.
So while I was packing my office up (long story, new roof on our portacabin, I currently work in a refuse depot, yes super glam I know), I started thinking. Better half and I had been talking about riding the Leeds Liverpool from end to end. It's 127 miles and we're pretty much exactly half way from either end. It's a known quantity, I love the view of life you get from the canal, I love the narrowboats, am fascinated by the engineering of the locks and the urban sprawl looks very different from it. My legs also don't hurt when I'm riding my bike, something which I must confess is quite attractive at the moment.
So I decided.
Thing is, once I've decided, well that's kind of it, really. So a vague plan is forming, lovely ladies are offering cake, and more importantly, many people are understanding why I want to do this without needing to know any of the background. And somehow, just knowing that there are people who think this is a perfectly normal sane thing to do means I am now viewing it as something perfectly sane and normal to do. Telling our admin girls what I planned to do was a bit of a bump back to earth but I think they too know why I want to and that even if you're not the sort of person who needs to ride/climb/hike/camp on something because it's there, perhaps there's an element of 'well I can see why you might want to but that's really not my idea of fun'.
I'll admit right now, it's point proving. It's utterly selfish. It is because it's there, but it's also because it's the first. I want it to be the first of many adventures, because I want to go on adventures. Recently, there has been a slowly growing realisation that there is a thin girl inside me trying to get out. I have a friend called Clare who does amazing things, who has run the Bob Graham Round in under 24 hours, who's run across mountains in the middle of the night and I know her and I know she is not super human, only super determined. For years and years I've watched this intelligent smart woman bound up and down mountains, run the OMM and nearly dissolve and push herself the absolute limits of her capabilities. Slowly but surely a curiosity has been building in me too, wondering if I could do that but on a bike. So this is where I start to find out, I guess, whether I can ride 30 miles something a day, every day for 4 days and just keep going, through the inevitable rain. Maybe this is where I start to prove that fat girls can ride hard and fast too and that in the process of proving that, the fat girl will actually become thin.
All I need to do now is decide what to wear and what colour nail varnish I'm wearing :O)
Well actually it is, and it isn't. Fault is also the wrong attribute, really, it was more a collision of circumstances. Firstly, I was directed at the Minx Compendium, which is a blog of girly mountain biker inspiration. It contains tales of amazing things, amongst tales of simply pedalling. The combination lead me to muse much last night and I went to bed with ideas and aspirations whizzing around in my head. There were other things, of course, which contributed, which involved enthusing and much use of the words 'well why can't we?' or rather much of the sentiment embodied in those words, at least.
Fast forward to this morning and I saw a word I didn't want to see on my notes. I cried.
5 hours later, I discovered that the week I've booked off between old and new jobs because the next two weeks promise to be incredibly stressful as I try and squeeze 6 weeks work into 2, will be spent alone as he can't get leave to come and camp with me in fields of green near towns full of books.
So while I was packing my office up (long story, new roof on our portacabin, I currently work in a refuse depot, yes super glam I know), I started thinking. Better half and I had been talking about riding the Leeds Liverpool from end to end. It's 127 miles and we're pretty much exactly half way from either end. It's a known quantity, I love the view of life you get from the canal, I love the narrowboats, am fascinated by the engineering of the locks and the urban sprawl looks very different from it. My legs also don't hurt when I'm riding my bike, something which I must confess is quite attractive at the moment.
So I decided.
Thing is, once I've decided, well that's kind of it, really. So a vague plan is forming, lovely ladies are offering cake, and more importantly, many people are understanding why I want to do this without needing to know any of the background. And somehow, just knowing that there are people who think this is a perfectly normal sane thing to do means I am now viewing it as something perfectly sane and normal to do. Telling our admin girls what I planned to do was a bit of a bump back to earth but I think they too know why I want to and that even if you're not the sort of person who needs to ride/climb/hike/camp on something because it's there, perhaps there's an element of 'well I can see why you might want to but that's really not my idea of fun'.
I'll admit right now, it's point proving. It's utterly selfish. It is because it's there, but it's also because it's the first. I want it to be the first of many adventures, because I want to go on adventures. Recently, there has been a slowly growing realisation that there is a thin girl inside me trying to get out. I have a friend called Clare who does amazing things, who has run the Bob Graham Round in under 24 hours, who's run across mountains in the middle of the night and I know her and I know she is not super human, only super determined. For years and years I've watched this intelligent smart woman bound up and down mountains, run the OMM and nearly dissolve and push herself the absolute limits of her capabilities. Slowly but surely a curiosity has been building in me too, wondering if I could do that but on a bike. So this is where I start to find out, I guess, whether I can ride 30 miles something a day, every day for 4 days and just keep going, through the inevitable rain. Maybe this is where I start to prove that fat girls can ride hard and fast too and that in the process of proving that, the fat girl will actually become thin.
All I need to do now is decide what to wear and what colour nail varnish I'm wearing :O)
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A reasonable silence
It's a bit quiet in here.
I'll be honest, because generally I am. I've started Physiotherapy for my legs. Official verdict? Climbing and mountain biking, because they're all exercise which involves pushing through the toes, have caused contraction. My upper back calf muscles contracted pulling on the lower ones. The lower ones got narked with this and as a result eventually contracted. This meant twice as much pull on my achilles tendon. It didn't like it much either, so guess what it did? Contracted. The muscles across the bottom of my feet are now moaning at me. Eventually it will reach my toes, I expect.
I've not been climbing for 2 years and I did explain I'd only been seriously pedalling since Feb and before that hadn't been since September last year, and that the pain has been getting progressively worse for 2 years, but it just fell on deaf ears. I'm all out of argueing. So walking uphill was hideous for a reason which is surprisingly reassuring to know. Llandegla riders will no doubt understand why the double steep hill or whatever amusing name it's been called nearly had me nailing my other half to the path for telling me it was half the length it actually transpired to be. It was a great incentive to not get off my bike and ride the first bit without dabbing though. Amazing, the motivation you can find. In fact, the second part of double steep hill is the only, and I seriously mean the absolutely only time I have got off my bike and walked up a hill since February. I am proud of this in the same way that I suspect others are proud of their not stopping til they've got to the top of the hill rule. Or in some loons cases, not stopping until the absolute end of the ride rule.
Result, of course, is having my legs hammered by the physio on a weekly basis. I've got knots in my leg muscles, same way others have knots in their back from sitting at desks all day. Some of them are rock solid, literally, according to Miss physio. I can't feel a thing, they're numb, but apparently it's bad. So I've been given stretches. Lots of stretches. They hurt. Mrs Physio knows this, I know this, we both know this but still they must be done. Eventually the hurt turns to numbness, but for a while, because the muscles have been allowed to contract for so long, they fight back and whine and moan at me and desperately try to contract every second I try and convince them they want to stretch.
I'm trying to carry on riding my bike. In fact, as ever, the only time nothing hurts is when I'm riding my bike, because my legs are warm, and my shin pads get worn all the time, earning me snarky looks form other bikers on towpaths who assume everyones bodies behave just as theirs do and have no clue about the wonderful stupidity bodies can inflict on you with no warning. My shin pads are my little heaters and they get me home and no snarky comment or snidey glare is making me take them off. Difficult and challenging and stupidly the most fun things of all, the off roading, is being parked a little, mostly because I am nervous as all hell the second someone says 'lets just go up here and see what it's like' and the embarassment of having to admit to something people can't see is wrong is just cross making. And cross isn't what mountain biking is supposed to make me, happy is what mountain biking is supposed to be making me.
What I am not managing is to remain positive. Well, I am positive, positive that it's fixable and eventually my muscles will get the message but I'm not quite as happy bouncy full of the joys of spring as I usually am. So just bear that in mind.
Now. If the weather could just warm up because cold makes muscles, yes you've guessed it, contract, I'd be a much happier bunny. So if someone somewhere could just do a nice little sundance for me, I'd be so grateful.
I've turned comments off, and I shant be tweeting about this post either. The simple act of writing this post has made me determined to ride my bike tomorrow, because worse things happen at sea, and this is where I stop moaning, WTFU and just get the hell on with it. Northern grit. I lost mine for a bit, but I think it might be back.
I'll be honest, because generally I am. I've started Physiotherapy for my legs. Official verdict? Climbing and mountain biking, because they're all exercise which involves pushing through the toes, have caused contraction. My upper back calf muscles contracted pulling on the lower ones. The lower ones got narked with this and as a result eventually contracted. This meant twice as much pull on my achilles tendon. It didn't like it much either, so guess what it did? Contracted. The muscles across the bottom of my feet are now moaning at me. Eventually it will reach my toes, I expect.
I've not been climbing for 2 years and I did explain I'd only been seriously pedalling since Feb and before that hadn't been since September last year, and that the pain has been getting progressively worse for 2 years, but it just fell on deaf ears. I'm all out of argueing. So walking uphill was hideous for a reason which is surprisingly reassuring to know. Llandegla riders will no doubt understand why the double steep hill or whatever amusing name it's been called nearly had me nailing my other half to the path for telling me it was half the length it actually transpired to be. It was a great incentive to not get off my bike and ride the first bit without dabbing though. Amazing, the motivation you can find. In fact, the second part of double steep hill is the only, and I seriously mean the absolutely only time I have got off my bike and walked up a hill since February. I am proud of this in the same way that I suspect others are proud of their not stopping til they've got to the top of the hill rule. Or in some loons cases, not stopping until the absolute end of the ride rule.
Result, of course, is having my legs hammered by the physio on a weekly basis. I've got knots in my leg muscles, same way others have knots in their back from sitting at desks all day. Some of them are rock solid, literally, according to Miss physio. I can't feel a thing, they're numb, but apparently it's bad. So I've been given stretches. Lots of stretches. They hurt. Mrs Physio knows this, I know this, we both know this but still they must be done. Eventually the hurt turns to numbness, but for a while, because the muscles have been allowed to contract for so long, they fight back and whine and moan at me and desperately try to contract every second I try and convince them they want to stretch.
I'm trying to carry on riding my bike. In fact, as ever, the only time nothing hurts is when I'm riding my bike, because my legs are warm, and my shin pads get worn all the time, earning me snarky looks form other bikers on towpaths who assume everyones bodies behave just as theirs do and have no clue about the wonderful stupidity bodies can inflict on you with no warning. My shin pads are my little heaters and they get me home and no snarky comment or snidey glare is making me take them off. Difficult and challenging and stupidly the most fun things of all, the off roading, is being parked a little, mostly because I am nervous as all hell the second someone says 'lets just go up here and see what it's like' and the embarassment of having to admit to something people can't see is wrong is just cross making. And cross isn't what mountain biking is supposed to make me, happy is what mountain biking is supposed to be making me.
What I am not managing is to remain positive. Well, I am positive, positive that it's fixable and eventually my muscles will get the message but I'm not quite as happy bouncy full of the joys of spring as I usually am. So just bear that in mind.
Now. If the weather could just warm up because cold makes muscles, yes you've guessed it, contract, I'd be a much happier bunny. So if someone somewhere could just do a nice little sundance for me, I'd be so grateful.
I've turned comments off, and I shant be tweeting about this post either. The simple act of writing this post has made me determined to ride my bike tomorrow, because worse things happen at sea, and this is where I stop moaning, WTFU and just get the hell on with it. Northern grit. I lost mine for a bit, but I think it might be back.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Hello, Bonjour, Hallo, Hola!
The other thing is also, sadly, a mini-rant. Mostly, when it comes to biking, I am relentlessly positive, enthuse at everyone within a mile radius, drag other people into the 'sport' and say hello to every non mountain biker I ride past because I refuse to be the biker walkers moan and whine about when they get home.
But somethings gone a bit wrong round 'ere. I'd be really interested to know if it's just round 'ere because I suspect it's not.
I am quite strongly of the opinion that everyone should be allowed to ride a bike, be welcomed at trail centres and given gentle advice when things go a bit wrong. In fact, when we first started riding gently last year, the amount of people who offered smiles, hellos, assistance with mechanicals and generally were totally ace blew me away.
Not any more. Today, 3 people said hello. Groups of 4's passed me and only 1 person said hi. It wasn't quiet at Gisburn this morning, it really wasn't and I've never come across a bunch of more miserable sods in my life. I left wondering why anyone had bothered, to be honest, because there didn't seem to be an awful lot of fun being had, I'll tell you that for nothing. In fact, most people were kind enough to look at me as if I had a spare alien growing out of the side of my head. I got progressively more and more annoyed as I rode the wrong way back down the blue route - yes, I was contraflowing. I was deliberately contraflowing. I suspect some of the horrid stares and glares were down to this - for information, I broke one of my brake levers and I wasn't carrying on the horror that is Gisburn with only one brake. But no, never crossed anyones mind I might be riding the wrong way through choice. Nor did it cross anyones minds that perhaps I might be lost - which I might well have been. No one asked. No one said hello. Just glares. Same in the car park. Same when I was going the right way around. Frankly, by the end of the ride I was starting to wonder if I'd wandered into a parallel universe of mountain biking where only unfriendly people had got on their bikes.
That's before we get to the group of, frankly, idiots riding a slew of hired Treks off down the road from the Dog and Partridge with no helmets, having drunk two pints each, bumped into our car more times than I can count, completely blocked all access to the bike wash in their determination to park all their bikes together and just generally been inconsiderate pack animal idiots. Their progress down the hill consisted of ridng 3 abreast down towards Cocklets and lots of weaving across the road. I await reports of a mass death.
I don't know what's happened but it needs sorting. When we go out on a Thursday night riding around Roddlesworth, everyone to the very last from dog walkers to roadies are friendly and polite and frankly lovely. I hate to say it, but none of the accents I heard today were local. So on the one hand, thank goodness our local sense of politeness and friendliness is not lost, it's people coming from other places who don't know any better who are being.....taciturn. But that's not the way we do it here. We stop and chat. We're friendly. We offer spare bits and pieces and we pick it up and pass it on. We smile even if we've no breath for a Hello. We are quite a loose community but there is, at the very least, an acknowledgement that we are all doing something we love very much and that's why we're out in the wind and the rain. No other reason would get you out of the door on a morning like this one.
So, if you're going to come and ride in East Lancs, pack a smile. Remember a hello. Because a few of us are getting hearty sick of your riding two abreast and not moving over to let us past, your determination to leave your bikes at exits of singletrack and your attitude that you don't need to bother to acknowledge other people because it's all about being too cool or something. We don't do cool here. We do heart, and soul. We do love of riding like few other places can. We don't care if it's blowing a gale or pissing it down, we're still going riding cos we said we would and if we didn't, we'd never ride. We love our mill towns and our hills and we're actually really quite proud of the network of fantastic, absolutely completely fantastic trails which are springing up around us at quite a rate of knots. I think I can safely speak for almost every single East Lancs (and, actually West Yorks) rider when I say, we love where we live because we are absolutely spoilt when it comes to places to ride. We're quite proud and we're quite attached to it.
If you come and take advantage of those trails, we don't ask you to pay. We don't charge you for parking at the moment. But blow me backwards, if we started charging in smiles, half of you lot wouldn't get in. Lighten up, if it's not fun, go home. If you drove however long it took you to get to us, one assumes you wanted to be here. You've wearing the kit from head to toe, you've obviously spent a lot of money on something you seem to love doing. Your bike is shiny and looked after. You look exactly like a mountain biker, but I'm sorry, in my book I didn't meet a lot of mountain bikers today and I don't understand if it's cos I don't look like one but I'm out on the trails anyway, or whether you're all just a little bit ignorant and rude.
I am confused, dear readers. Very very confused. And quietly praying that this is not the start of some horrid trend but a mere abberation due to the weather or how early it was, and indeed that somehow it was me, us, our little group, that something about us meant people didn't say hello. But I've got a sneaky suspicion it might not be that at all.
But somethings gone a bit wrong round 'ere. I'd be really interested to know if it's just round 'ere because I suspect it's not.
I am quite strongly of the opinion that everyone should be allowed to ride a bike, be welcomed at trail centres and given gentle advice when things go a bit wrong. In fact, when we first started riding gently last year, the amount of people who offered smiles, hellos, assistance with mechanicals and generally were totally ace blew me away.
Not any more. Today, 3 people said hello. Groups of 4's passed me and only 1 person said hi. It wasn't quiet at Gisburn this morning, it really wasn't and I've never come across a bunch of more miserable sods in my life. I left wondering why anyone had bothered, to be honest, because there didn't seem to be an awful lot of fun being had, I'll tell you that for nothing. In fact, most people were kind enough to look at me as if I had a spare alien growing out of the side of my head. I got progressively more and more annoyed as I rode the wrong way back down the blue route - yes, I was contraflowing. I was deliberately contraflowing. I suspect some of the horrid stares and glares were down to this - for information, I broke one of my brake levers and I wasn't carrying on the horror that is Gisburn with only one brake. But no, never crossed anyones mind I might be riding the wrong way through choice. Nor did it cross anyones minds that perhaps I might be lost - which I might well have been. No one asked. No one said hello. Just glares. Same in the car park. Same when I was going the right way around. Frankly, by the end of the ride I was starting to wonder if I'd wandered into a parallel universe of mountain biking where only unfriendly people had got on their bikes.
That's before we get to the group of, frankly, idiots riding a slew of hired Treks off down the road from the Dog and Partridge with no helmets, having drunk two pints each, bumped into our car more times than I can count, completely blocked all access to the bike wash in their determination to park all their bikes together and just generally been inconsiderate pack animal idiots. Their progress down the hill consisted of ridng 3 abreast down towards Cocklets and lots of weaving across the road. I await reports of a mass death.
I don't know what's happened but it needs sorting. When we go out on a Thursday night riding around Roddlesworth, everyone to the very last from dog walkers to roadies are friendly and polite and frankly lovely. I hate to say it, but none of the accents I heard today were local. So on the one hand, thank goodness our local sense of politeness and friendliness is not lost, it's people coming from other places who don't know any better who are being.....taciturn. But that's not the way we do it here. We stop and chat. We're friendly. We offer spare bits and pieces and we pick it up and pass it on. We smile even if we've no breath for a Hello. We are quite a loose community but there is, at the very least, an acknowledgement that we are all doing something we love very much and that's why we're out in the wind and the rain. No other reason would get you out of the door on a morning like this one.
So, if you're going to come and ride in East Lancs, pack a smile. Remember a hello. Because a few of us are getting hearty sick of your riding two abreast and not moving over to let us past, your determination to leave your bikes at exits of singletrack and your attitude that you don't need to bother to acknowledge other people because it's all about being too cool or something. We don't do cool here. We do heart, and soul. We do love of riding like few other places can. We don't care if it's blowing a gale or pissing it down, we're still going riding cos we said we would and if we didn't, we'd never ride. We love our mill towns and our hills and we're actually really quite proud of the network of fantastic, absolutely completely fantastic trails which are springing up around us at quite a rate of knots. I think I can safely speak for almost every single East Lancs (and, actually West Yorks) rider when I say, we love where we live because we are absolutely spoilt when it comes to places to ride. We're quite proud and we're quite attached to it.
If you come and take advantage of those trails, we don't ask you to pay. We don't charge you for parking at the moment. But blow me backwards, if we started charging in smiles, half of you lot wouldn't get in. Lighten up, if it's not fun, go home. If you drove however long it took you to get to us, one assumes you wanted to be here. You've wearing the kit from head to toe, you've obviously spent a lot of money on something you seem to love doing. Your bike is shiny and looked after. You look exactly like a mountain biker, but I'm sorry, in my book I didn't meet a lot of mountain bikers today and I don't understand if it's cos I don't look like one but I'm out on the trails anyway, or whether you're all just a little bit ignorant and rude.
I am confused, dear readers. Very very confused. And quietly praying that this is not the start of some horrid trend but a mere abberation due to the weather or how early it was, and indeed that somehow it was me, us, our little group, that something about us meant people didn't say hello. But I've got a sneaky suspicion it might not be that at all.
And this isn't going to win me any friends either.....
I hate Gisburn.
There. I've said it. I've tried and tried, and I've fallen off more on their blue than I have anywhere else. It's destroyed my confidence, left me hating mountain biking and generally I wish I'd never stepped out of the house this morning.
I appreciate trail grading is a subjective art. I appreciate Gisburn wouldn't exist at all without the love, hard work and attention of a very small and dedicated group of people and I have thanked them repeatedly for that - hell, at least they've bothered with a blue, many trails centres don't even grace us beginners with a nod, instead assuming we're all useless and at best providing us with a green route which involves nothing but fireroads.
Great for families, but not what I'd actually call 'mountain biking'.
Unfortunately, what I think is an appropriate trail to send someone down whose taste of 'mountain biking' has hitherto been nothing but fire roads and what other people feel is appropriate do not match. Or, rather they do not match when wet. And here, right here, we arrive at the fundamental problem with Gisburn in its entirety. It's in East Lancashire. It might be in the Forest of Bowland, that might make it sound quite upper class and fabulous, but frankly mate, it's East Lancs. Lets not get any airs and graces here. Actually, that's another thing but we'll get to that later.
It rains in East Lancs. It rains really rather a lot. So tell me, please do tell me why, we have a trail centre which is slippy as all hell and twice as treacherous, which is disintegrated a little more every time I ride it, in which erosion seems to be providing a never ending challenge to the trail builder, and which rain and wet seem to be the arch enemy both of the trail builders and the riders, in East Lancs?
I've read a lot of threads today on forums, discussing the relative merits or not of Gisburn. Wrong kind of soil, apparently. No flow. Some love it with a complete devotion but others call in on the way from the South to Scotland and end up coming away disappointed and frustrated. In the process of reading these posts, the penny dropped. It's me. It's not the trails. Okay, so the trails really are becoming looser and more eroded every time I ride across them, and in the wet I fall off at a different bit every time - there's no one hotspot, no one nemesis, my focus wanders off and 1/2 inch misjudgement turns into a painful slam into the most unforgiving mixture of sand and rock I've found yet. The mix of tight berms, little humps that as a blue route rider, I'm really not going to attempt jumping, the small rocks which are jutting out everywhere meaning a line, whichever one you pick is full of them, the bits falling off the track at the side, the punishment for 1/2 inch of misplacement meaning sliding off the track.....it's not somewhere to go and regain confidence. Actually it's not somewhere to go to gain confidence. The trail is slippy, the Northshore is slippy and the point where I found a route easier to ride in the snow than in the wet is the point where I just give up and go home. It's not fun. Mountain biking was supposed to be fun.
That's before we've even got to the proportion of 'interesting bits' to fireroad on the blue route. So, this is where I concede defeat. Gisburn is for techheads. People with way more skill than me. People way fitter than me. It is not for me. The reason I fell in love with mountain biking was the speed. Lacks finesse, yes, I know. Lacks challenge, well yes, I know. But nothing on earth, absolutely nothing on earth is better than swooping down switchbacks on beautifully compressed, properly compressed mud, finding your lines, pumping the dips which have been artfully placed with care and precision, railing around berms because you are confident in the trail builders by that point and know you're not going to be punished for commiting 100% to it. I can ride just about well enough to hammer down the side of Electric Blue. I don't jump the little jumps there either but somehow, it's less of an issue there, and it's less of an issue because of the trail quality, the substance of it, and knowing exactly where my wheels are and relying on their footprint to carry me through. I am not good enough to deal with disintegration and crumble on the other side, nor with the tight turns thrown in for fun.
I also know, absolutely know, that I am not alone. There are two camps developing in mountain biking - hell there may well have been two camps right from the start. Actually, no, make that three. There are the people who are comfy in Calderdale. There are the people who grin at Glentress and there are the brave people who stick to the countries bridleways and footpaths, piecing together routes themselves.
I'm a Glentress girl. It's where my heart is. It's where I don't have to throttle back. It's where the magic happens and I can do anything with my bike. I have absolutely nothing against the other camps, nothing at all. As soon as I am fit enough to dig and barrow I'll volunteer at Gisburn because it's important to, because it's local, because they need help, because I can help to build the beautiful shiny playgrounds for other people to play on even if I can't ride them, and it would be ignorant not to at least offer. But somewhere along the line, maybe way way way down the line, I can still dream that one day, there will be a little piece of track with the ethos of Glentress's blue routes built round the corner from me. Until that point, Llandegla is going to be getting an awful lot of my money because there I found a glimpse of the same ethos.
So, the next time someone asks why people love Llandegla, I'll be explaining this - people love Llandegla because it's the closer you can come to flying on wheels without the slog up the M6.
There. I've said it. I've tried and tried, and I've fallen off more on their blue than I have anywhere else. It's destroyed my confidence, left me hating mountain biking and generally I wish I'd never stepped out of the house this morning.
I appreciate trail grading is a subjective art. I appreciate Gisburn wouldn't exist at all without the love, hard work and attention of a very small and dedicated group of people and I have thanked them repeatedly for that - hell, at least they've bothered with a blue, many trails centres don't even grace us beginners with a nod, instead assuming we're all useless and at best providing us with a green route which involves nothing but fireroads.
Great for families, but not what I'd actually call 'mountain biking'.
Unfortunately, what I think is an appropriate trail to send someone down whose taste of 'mountain biking' has hitherto been nothing but fire roads and what other people feel is appropriate do not match. Or, rather they do not match when wet. And here, right here, we arrive at the fundamental problem with Gisburn in its entirety. It's in East Lancashire. It might be in the Forest of Bowland, that might make it sound quite upper class and fabulous, but frankly mate, it's East Lancs. Lets not get any airs and graces here. Actually, that's another thing but we'll get to that later.
It rains in East Lancs. It rains really rather a lot. So tell me, please do tell me why, we have a trail centre which is slippy as all hell and twice as treacherous, which is disintegrated a little more every time I ride it, in which erosion seems to be providing a never ending challenge to the trail builder, and which rain and wet seem to be the arch enemy both of the trail builders and the riders, in East Lancs?
I've read a lot of threads today on forums, discussing the relative merits or not of Gisburn. Wrong kind of soil, apparently. No flow. Some love it with a complete devotion but others call in on the way from the South to Scotland and end up coming away disappointed and frustrated. In the process of reading these posts, the penny dropped. It's me. It's not the trails. Okay, so the trails really are becoming looser and more eroded every time I ride across them, and in the wet I fall off at a different bit every time - there's no one hotspot, no one nemesis, my focus wanders off and 1/2 inch misjudgement turns into a painful slam into the most unforgiving mixture of sand and rock I've found yet. The mix of tight berms, little humps that as a blue route rider, I'm really not going to attempt jumping, the small rocks which are jutting out everywhere meaning a line, whichever one you pick is full of them, the bits falling off the track at the side, the punishment for 1/2 inch of misplacement meaning sliding off the track.....it's not somewhere to go and regain confidence. Actually it's not somewhere to go to gain confidence. The trail is slippy, the Northshore is slippy and the point where I found a route easier to ride in the snow than in the wet is the point where I just give up and go home. It's not fun. Mountain biking was supposed to be fun.
That's before we've even got to the proportion of 'interesting bits' to fireroad on the blue route. So, this is where I concede defeat. Gisburn is for techheads. People with way more skill than me. People way fitter than me. It is not for me. The reason I fell in love with mountain biking was the speed. Lacks finesse, yes, I know. Lacks challenge, well yes, I know. But nothing on earth, absolutely nothing on earth is better than swooping down switchbacks on beautifully compressed, properly compressed mud, finding your lines, pumping the dips which have been artfully placed with care and precision, railing around berms because you are confident in the trail builders by that point and know you're not going to be punished for commiting 100% to it. I can ride just about well enough to hammer down the side of Electric Blue. I don't jump the little jumps there either but somehow, it's less of an issue there, and it's less of an issue because of the trail quality, the substance of it, and knowing exactly where my wheels are and relying on their footprint to carry me through. I am not good enough to deal with disintegration and crumble on the other side, nor with the tight turns thrown in for fun.
I also know, absolutely know, that I am not alone. There are two camps developing in mountain biking - hell there may well have been two camps right from the start. Actually, no, make that three. There are the people who are comfy in Calderdale. There are the people who grin at Glentress and there are the brave people who stick to the countries bridleways and footpaths, piecing together routes themselves.
I'm a Glentress girl. It's where my heart is. It's where I don't have to throttle back. It's where the magic happens and I can do anything with my bike. I have absolutely nothing against the other camps, nothing at all. As soon as I am fit enough to dig and barrow I'll volunteer at Gisburn because it's important to, because it's local, because they need help, because I can help to build the beautiful shiny playgrounds for other people to play on even if I can't ride them, and it would be ignorant not to at least offer. But somewhere along the line, maybe way way way down the line, I can still dream that one day, there will be a little piece of track with the ethos of Glentress's blue routes built round the corner from me. Until that point, Llandegla is going to be getting an awful lot of my money because there I found a glimpse of the same ethos.
So, the next time someone asks why people love Llandegla, I'll be explaining this - people love Llandegla because it's the closer you can come to flying on wheels without the slog up the M6.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Fear of falling
It comes to us all, I think. So I've been told and so I believe. The moment when you finally appreciate what it is you're actually doing. The moment when reality knocks you fist first, where you suddenly realise that all that's between you and A & E is your own skill and concentration. Then the doubts set in, you start throttling back, you start hesitating, you watch your friends disappear into the distance troubled by no such qualms and suddenly you're on your own with your doubts and fears.
So what have I learned?
Not talking about being afraid of something is worse than being afraid of something. It is not irrational to be afraid of flinging yourself down the side of a hill at speeds sometimes exceeding 15mph. It's not irrational to find cornering on slippery planks of wood in the rain a little daunting. It's certainly not ridiculous to have a moment of self doubt when you're hanging so far off the back of the bike the saddle starts to become an issue. None of these are normal states of affairs, none of these are things that the general populace would ever consider doing.
Which is not to encourage elitism, because that is not the point. I am no better than anyone else because I happen to have found a form of exercise, after many years of trying, which I enjoy. No, it's more a case of not disappearing into the rationale of the mountain biking world which assumes all these things are situation normal, where the default is speed and attacking everything that comes at you. Little is said in the mountain biking press of how to deal with a bad day. Loss of mojo is rarely acknowledged. Perhaps it reflects that this is a blog written by a girl that it is even mentioned here.
I am honest about many things. I don't see the point in not being. I write this blog to share things and sharing things means sharing the negative as well as the positive. We don't always live in a shiny world where everything clicks, everything comes naturally and we are all freeriding backflipping superstars. Lord knows I'd love to be, but I don't think, somehow I ever will be. That's okay. I don't have to be comfy with my wheels off the ground to go ride some of the most beautiful countryside in the world. I don't have to backflip my way down the side of any hills if I don't want to. I don't have to be the first to the bottom on every ride I go on. I don't have to always be fearless.
Ultimately, the crux of the issue, the horrible fear, is that I don't ever want anyone to look at me and think 'she's doing well for a girl'. I so desperately want mountain biking to be the one place in the world where that doesn't matter. I don't think it does matter, on reflection, to anyone but me. I think the only person thinking 'heh I cleared that without dabbing, not bad for a girl' is me. So I guess this is me kicking my own behind into touch. No more thinking about gender. It's irrelevant. No more trying to prove something because everyone is judging the fat girl. They're not. No one else matters except me. When I'm out mountain biking I am allowed to be selfish, I am allowed to think only of myself, I am allowed to go at my own pace both up and down hill. I am allowed to stop and pant, I am allowed to stop and look at the view. I am allowed to combine the two if I damn well want to. I am allowed to fall off and yelp a bit, I am allowed to go a bit squicky if there's lots of blood. I am allowed to go all maternal when I trip over someone in pain and hurting, I am allowed to enthuse at people randomly. None of these things are illegal, none of these things hurt anyone else. All of these things are things everyone else does too, I am just so busy feeling self conscious that I just don't see it.
You might have noticed that this post is very much all about me. Selfish. But in being so afraid of failing, I was. I think I can stop that now, get back on my bike and just go and ride with no expectations of myself or anyone else. Back to simplicity. Push the pedals, chill the hell out, be friendly and just stop stressing.
So what have I learned?
Not talking about being afraid of something is worse than being afraid of something. It is not irrational to be afraid of flinging yourself down the side of a hill at speeds sometimes exceeding 15mph. It's not irrational to find cornering on slippery planks of wood in the rain a little daunting. It's certainly not ridiculous to have a moment of self doubt when you're hanging so far off the back of the bike the saddle starts to become an issue. None of these are normal states of affairs, none of these are things that the general populace would ever consider doing.
Which is not to encourage elitism, because that is not the point. I am no better than anyone else because I happen to have found a form of exercise, after many years of trying, which I enjoy. No, it's more a case of not disappearing into the rationale of the mountain biking world which assumes all these things are situation normal, where the default is speed and attacking everything that comes at you. Little is said in the mountain biking press of how to deal with a bad day. Loss of mojo is rarely acknowledged. Perhaps it reflects that this is a blog written by a girl that it is even mentioned here.
I am honest about many things. I don't see the point in not being. I write this blog to share things and sharing things means sharing the negative as well as the positive. We don't always live in a shiny world where everything clicks, everything comes naturally and we are all freeriding backflipping superstars. Lord knows I'd love to be, but I don't think, somehow I ever will be. That's okay. I don't have to be comfy with my wheels off the ground to go ride some of the most beautiful countryside in the world. I don't have to backflip my way down the side of any hills if I don't want to. I don't have to be the first to the bottom on every ride I go on. I don't have to always be fearless.
Ultimately, the crux of the issue, the horrible fear, is that I don't ever want anyone to look at me and think 'she's doing well for a girl'. I so desperately want mountain biking to be the one place in the world where that doesn't matter. I don't think it does matter, on reflection, to anyone but me. I think the only person thinking 'heh I cleared that without dabbing, not bad for a girl' is me. So I guess this is me kicking my own behind into touch. No more thinking about gender. It's irrelevant. No more trying to prove something because everyone is judging the fat girl. They're not. No one else matters except me. When I'm out mountain biking I am allowed to be selfish, I am allowed to think only of myself, I am allowed to go at my own pace both up and down hill. I am allowed to stop and pant, I am allowed to stop and look at the view. I am allowed to combine the two if I damn well want to. I am allowed to fall off and yelp a bit, I am allowed to go a bit squicky if there's lots of blood. I am allowed to go all maternal when I trip over someone in pain and hurting, I am allowed to enthuse at people randomly. None of these things are illegal, none of these things hurt anyone else. All of these things are things everyone else does too, I am just so busy feeling self conscious that I just don't see it.
You might have noticed that this post is very much all about me. Selfish. But in being so afraid of failing, I was. I think I can stop that now, get back on my bike and just go and ride with no expectations of myself or anyone else. Back to simplicity. Push the pedals, chill the hell out, be friendly and just stop stressing.
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