Social night

Last night was social night.  My first ever with my new club.  I like saying that, "my club".  It gives me a proud glow of satisfaction, a sense of belonging and a feeling of commitment. I am now officially a proper cyclist not just a commuter.  That's what it does for me.

So, the meet being in Warrington at 8pm I opted to drop in to my in laws who live the other side of W from the meet up point.  This turned out to be a most excellent plan as my 16 year old  nephew likes to bake.  Apple cake to eat in and lemon drizzle to take away.  Add to that a cuppa and some great company from nephew and SIL Heather and all was lovely.  I had printed myself directions to get to the club and allowed 30% more time than google suggested and off I went.  Discovered a lot of interesting back roads but found the sports club in the end.  Went upstairs to find the bar and hadn't a clue who I was looking for.  Back down the stairs and asked at reception.  Followed directions and was somewhat taken aback by what I saw.  Men.  Nothing but men.  Lots of men.  Ages from maybe 30 through to potentially 70 (this could be an exaggeration).  Absolutely terrifying to try to walk into that group unsure of myself.  Fortunately there at the bar was Karl, the rider I'd met twice before, once on my first club run at Wildboorclough and secondly at Llandegla when nobody else turned up.  Fortified with an orange juice and lemonade and with Karl by my side I advanced into the group seeking a chair.  In honesty I  have to say not one welcoming glance / eye contact from this group of strangers, not a warm smile.   However, I have a right to be here so I plonk myself down and focus on intermittent chat with Karl and checking out my surroundings while waiting for the speakers.

Three really informative chats from club members, first one on Audaxes (these sound like the cycling geek's equivalent of heaven), second on Go Race, an initiative headed up by my own organisation I knew nothing about and third Time Trials (the traditional blazer wearer's cycling option).  All in all, I warmed to the place, laughed, even spoke to a stranger and paid up my membership fee.

I am a club member.

Lantern Pike

Having made some somewhat rickety plans for the weekend involving Penmachno trail and camping, Friday night loomed, and the weather looked dodgy so opted to stay in Friday with a box of red wine at my side and get out Saturday somewhere local instead.

I decided to try out another of the magnificent Henry Tindell Mountain bike routes.  This is his ace little book on Amazon.  Outside of that, the man appears to have no fame and fortune.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mountain-Bike-Guide-North-Midlands/dp/0948153776


His books include little throwaway comments such as "requires skill and stamina", and you know damn well that if that's the case one or other will eventually fail you and you'll end up pushing the bike.  But it does give a girl something to aim for.  Opted for his lovely little route starting at Roman Lakes

http://www.romanlakes.co.uk/

Doesn't it look lovely?  Reality is it's basic but has everything you could need.  Parking, toilets and a kiosk selling tea in polystyrene cups to be drunk on the outdoor picnic tables.   A darling little route took me round by Rowarth and lovely sounding places such as Lantern Pike.  One day I will learn that the word "Pike" in an English place name generally means highest place around, watch out for exposure and climbing.  For there was much climbing and also pushing of bike. 

It was just over half way, outside this lovely place that some kind of minor disaster struck.  http://www.moorfieldarms.com/ not quite a puncture but not quite manageable.  On trying to pump up a slightly soggy tyre, the valve came off the inner tube in my hands.  Took the wind right out of my sails.  Shoulders sag, the works, even though in reality the change of tube only takes ten minutes tops, and the weather wasn't bucketing down.

Some  navigational defects (oops) led me the wrong way around a golf course so I ended up sailing down steps which were very long and very many in quantity before sloughing round to some cottages and getting myself back on track.  I can, however say the best fun descent of the day was coming down from Linnett Clough scout camp down a rocky muddy downwards bound bridleway and encountering scout patrol after scout patrol.  Leaders had them gently scatter to either side and on sailed I.  Back to the end for a nice cup of tea and a deep breath.

Club ride

So, there being a distinct shortage of people to go mountain biking with, I did some research and came up with the possibility of joining a club.  Somewhat apprehensive in case they are all fit and fast and I hold the group up, I went for my first club ride with North Cheshire Clarion on Sunday.  Wildboarclough, a ride billed as 20 miles long.  Well, that shouldn't be a problem, thinks me. Say we set off by 10am, back to the pub for 1pm.  But indeed no, it was not to be, and 5 hours duration later we got back to the pub, muddy and happy.  I think.

I enjoyed it.  Weirdly the club ride turned out to be the ride leader, a club member who hadn't been out for a good while and three newbies.  It would have been a strangely low turnout, methinks, without the new peeps.  And I think it worked, largely.  Possibly not for Carl who was young, skinny and kind of fit looking and who rode away, certainly from us two girls, up the hills.  Technically none of us were bad, and nobody was so weird that everyone avoided them.  In fact, I'd go as far as saying it was a good group and I enjoyed the company of everyone on the outing.

My age and experience and independance does give me away though.  Having looked at the route map, I'd also printed it out, highlighed it in red pen, got out a full OS map and put red crosses and dotted lines on that at key points.  Well, it was a 30 year old map already held together with sellotape and I did have a second one of the same area at home so figured a little map defacing wasn't going to end the world.  And indeed did kind of show up my scary independant stand alone streak when we found ourselves somewhat confused by where we were, having taken a wrongish turning somewhere.  We were on the edge of the map print out, and the edge of the map the leader had.  When I say on the edge, we were over the edge.  The only thing to do was fess up, get out the big map and have a discussion.  So then everyone knew.  I was weird enough to bring map and compass, and the ability to use them.  As I explained, I'm used to going out on my own or having to take responsibility for myself and I wasn't about to abscond from that responsibility on a group ride.  And there was me, trying to blend in.  I did a good sales job though on selling them the merits of the Nav course at Plas y Brenin. 

Riding pretty

Finally, the bike got dusted off, I dusted myself down and lo and behold we left the house together.  Perched the bike on the rack on the back of the car and took myself off to Culcheth for a spot of sneaky parking village centre.

This was a new thing for me.  Taking the hybrid out on the road, not for a journey to get to somewhere but for leisure, even for fun, if you like.  Not done that before.

The thing is, I'm trying to join a cycling club.  I want to belong to a club so I have people to go mountain biking with, people who will stretch me perhaps, add a social element to occasions and have good regular reliability for riding in and around my area.  Also I want to know what cyclocross is and if I could do it.

My chosen club is: this one:
http://www.northcheshireclarion.co.uk/
They have sections in all kinds of cycling, regular runs, and mid week evening club meets with information.  They also have club colours but I'm not sure about them.  In contacting them they seem nice, welcoming, informative, they actually respond to e-mails and are not snotty about my lack of ability, just asking questions to establish information, nothing more unpleasant.  I anticipate going on my first MTB ride with them next weekend.

But one thing they did was flag up that my hybrid would be welcome on their club runs.  If of course the rider was up to it.  I have no idea what my average speed is, and realised it needs to be 16mph on the road to be comfortable in that company.  So, one way to find out, test it out.  Found some maps of their club runs and gave one a lonesome test run:

http://bikeroutetoaster.com/culcheth

Actually I did kind of enjoy it.  The lanes are obviously something they've selected through experience; traffic is light, gradients are manageable and the views are lovely.  Never felt in danger or even threatened by fellow road users.  I did wonder though if others doing similar routes go in a clockwise direction such was the volume of cyclists seen coming the other way.

I'm not at race pace for their Saturday ride though.  Another club sped past me like I was stationary on the way up to Warburton Bridge, which was cool to go over, given that in the car it costs 12p a journey - it's free to go by bike!

Last night

So, while Manchester and Salford rioted last night, this innocent old lady was out on her bike.  I had been contributing to a thread on a climbing forum (stay with me on this), and somebody very very local to me was looking for a club to get back on to his road and MTB in the future.  He stipulated easy stuff.  I made contact with him to see if he might be interested in an occasional evening MTB ride partner and bingo we're hot to trot.

I selected my partner well.  Recovering from serious injury (actually still carrying the prolapsed disc injury), aged 52 and not been on a bike for 6 months.  I was gambling that there would be a chance I could stay up.  We agreed a time and meeting place just down the road from me and agreed easy stuff, no technical, just off road made up pathways.  He advised he normally did about an hour.

This is where I went marginally wrong.  I should have a) asked how far he went in an hour and b) established that it was an hour out and an hour back.  So I meet the somewhat pleasant chap as planned, almost immediately realising I haven't told a soul where I'm going or who with and in fact could have placed myself in a highly risky situation.  But sometimes trust is all you have, and I'm willing to accept my fellow man for being only good.

Off we go, and we set a snappy kind of a pace, although do-able.  We hit an uphill road section and I'm in front.  By the time we get to the top I'm some way in front.  Back on the pathways and as soon as we hit tarmaced paths, he puts the hammer down and I'm not even able to get on his wheel.  I'm trying everything at this point as far as both cadence and gearing / power are concerned and no, simply can't do it.  Turns out to be a great two hour ride though as he doesn't always put the hammer down, quite often we're a really similar pace, and I don't always leave him on the hills.  Combination works out well.

He punctured on his rear wheel and urged me to leave him and simply follow the path home. Naturally I refuse, I mean, us girls just don't do that kind of thing, abandoning a friend (albeit someone who's not a friend quite yet but could be).  So I wait.  Turns out I do more than wait.  Turns out I loan my tyre levers out, I am the one who gets the inner tube in the right way (seriously he was trying to put the valve in from the spoke side), I assist with getting the tyre back on the rim and indeed I'm the one who gets the chain on correctly.  I think he may have been delayed a little if I'd left. 

It was a lovely two hours and he's mailed to thank me for my mechanical assistance.  And then I returned to the reality and horror of rioting in the streets just a couple of miles down the road from me.

Tomorrow ... SkyRide

So tomorrow I do something different.  I join an organised activity.  Lots of people, even ... brrrr ... entertainment en route.  Sometimes free water bottles, sometimes music,  kids racing, clowns on unicycles, families out having fun, children with their stabilisers on.

For yes, tomorrow, the roads of Manchester are closed (on a selected and carefully planned and stewarded route) and tomorrow, we Sky Ride.  I have no idea why I am going.  I seriously don't think I'm the target audience because I have no real major fear of roads with cars, so carless isn't really too much of a draw for me.  Also it's a family event, there's no dashing about, there's a lot of waiting patiently behind six year olds who can't get up a lot of speed on their bitty little kiddy bikes.  But it is fun, it is a lot of fun.  And there's that feeling of smugness and pride at being part of something bigger, in showing you stand up for something bigger than you, something you care about passionately.

Tomorrow Manchester Sky Rides.

I digress

I digress.  Oh yes I do.  For I have been away, and lord forgive me for I have sinned; I did not take the bike.  I totally digress.  I have been to a music festival.  I went, in fact, to Kendal Calling, apparently 2010 small festival of the year or some such voted title that it was proud of.  And 2011 Kendal Calling gets my vote.  Except for the toilets, they are wayyyyy down the pecking order.

Having discovered on my last random biking, driving and kayaking holiday the unexpected joys and pleasures of taking a solo holiday and actually enjoying the hell out of it, it was with some trepidation I headed off to a festival.  Not a new experience for me.  You only have to take a look at me and your mind will go, hmm, I bet she's been to a festival or two in her time.  And you would not be wrong.  This, however was the first middle aged lonesome expedition to a festival.  And I had concerns.  I worried I would spend three entire days with the only words I spoke being please could I have a pint of XYZ.  And thank you.  For manners are important.  I worried people would be bad to me and my tent when they realised I was alone and defenceless.  I worried about meanness of youth. 

In reality, all was good.  More than good.  It was excellent.  I could chose which stage I wanted to go to and when.  When I got there if I listened to a track or two and wasn't entirely convinced I didn't have to spend any polite time with friends hinting at the fact I thought they were shit - I could just move on.  I ate what and when I wanted, likewise drink, likewise bed time and rising time.  Couldn't have had a better time.  And I did speak to people.  People queuing for toilets, people queuing for water, people sharing my tortilla chips.

Marvellous time.  But not a cycling related post for which I do apologise.  I will get right on it.

Chorlton Loop

So yesterday I had an escorted ride.  My book club is based in Chorlton and last time I tried to negotiate my way on the bike from work to there I messed up.  More than once.  And the 8 or 9 mile route took me closer to an hour and a half than the 45 minutes I might have anticipated.  The next book club is planned for 3rd August, so I'm on a schedule.

One of my work colleagues has this as her regular route home so on Tuesday I negotiated an escorted ride to Chorlton after work on Wednesday.  The bribe being a blackcurrant, cherry & raspberry dorset cereal bar.  Food of the gods.  The ride to Chorlton was fabulous.  Sunny day, off road the entire way and just us two girls riding together.  Not often you see women out in pairs on the bikes curiously enough, and on the way many many cyclists of all shapes, sizes and genres.  A previous discussion had fortunately prevented us from wearing matching Team Sky jerseys or riding our matching Boardman MTBs and we were in simple T-shirts, and me on the Trek hybrid.  We alighted at the St Werburgh's Road tram stop to go our separate ways.


To my delight, after just a mile or so of road I discovered an off road route home.  Hopped onto the canal towpath at Stretford tram station and was on my way.  The map showed the route as taking me into Trafford Park and then onto the road, but reality was far far better.  How often does that happen?  Within a mile of my house all the way on the towpath.  Not sure I'd do it at night mind.  There were a few less cycling friendly bits and some absolute joys.  The gentle bridge with steps going up where I had to walk the bike, but then the descent the other side down 6 or 7 well spaced steps with one having a huge drop off (for someone on foot anyway) of a foot or so.  All this on the no suspension hybrid which stood up to it all most admirably.


Even more lovely was to realise that I'd managed to get in a fabulous hour and a half ride after work and still be home in daylight and with a thirst to attend to the allotment.

Dog - Rabbit

Let the dog see the rabbit.  What on the earth is it with my mindset, why when I see another cyclist ahead who is without lycra and road bike do I get the bit between my teeth and start to stalk.  Seriously I focus on nothing else other than the rider at 50 to 100 yards ahead.  My body position changes, my shoulders move inwards, my cadence gradually increases, I may even add a gear on and push a little harder.  And it's measured, incredibly measured.  There is no unseemly rush or sprint, it's a gradual gentle stealth approach but the acceleration is there, quiet, gradual and sustainable.  I want that rider's scalp.  Fortunately for me this morning the prey animal turned off to the left before I snuck into their wheel.  I say fortunately because I was definitely feeling yesterday's brave towing effort in my glutes, in my thighs, in my knees, in my lungs ... need I go on. 

It's a good feeling though, the reminder that yesterday I really put something into it.  Because that feeling alone tells me that this is a future gain, the effort of yesterday will reap its fitness reward in days to come.  I hope.  Does it work like that?  I don't know, but I sure as hell am enjoying fooling myself into believing it.

I was overtaken 6 times on my journey to work this morning.  Hopelessly left behind, feeling like the mature lady I am as the lycra clad men, and one bearded guy on a similar straight handlebars number to my own cruised on by.  I felt old, unfit and frankly a little despondent.  Will I ever be able to effortlessly ride at that pace?  How do people get to that point?  Is the bike important?  Is it truly, all about the bike?

Woman's pride

Pride is a scary thing.  Or is it a closet competitive nature which is bursting out of me in middle age.  If so, where the hell was it in my early twenties when perhaps it could have been of some use, maybe even helped to make me a career woman instead of a steadily cruising secretarial type.

The ride home today I planned on taking it easy, and the plan started badly.  First set of lights and there in front of me in my sights is a woman on a road bike.  She looks young and slim and fit, and suddenly I feel like I'm in the Tour de France, that rider who's hanging off the back of the bunch, with the unattainable goal of regaining the peleton too far ahead to be reached.  But nonetheless, as though she is a magnet I try on the long level stretch of road to make up the distance and get onto her back wheel.  Eventually I do, but in honesty am then relieved when we go separate ways as frankly that was hard work. 

I make it through the city centre without incident, but there at the lights at the bottom of Liverpool Road something unusual happens.  There, in the cyclist stop box are three other cyclists.  I assess their general appearance, clothing, age, weight, bike, and position myself where I feel I should be in the lineup.  It's a tricky and delicate thing this, and male pride could get involved.  Basically I don't want to find I've placed myself immediately behind someone who is a dawdler as opportunities to safely overtake will be few and far between and that's just plain frustrating.  Also, I don't want to put someone else in that position of having to hang behind me waiting their chance to carry on and get on with their own journey home. Tricky, eh?  Here in particular the men and the boys get separated.  It's a long uphill drag with a steeper lip at the top just before reaching lights.  Doing this at my own pace is crucial for my survival!

I place myself second in the lineup.  Behind the tall skinny guy in red lycra but ahead of the 50ish year old in jeans.  There's also a guy on a mountain bike, probably my age, not wearing lycra, carrying a couple of pounds perhaps but not obese.  I take the chance that superiority of steed will win me the day.  This turns out to be a good assessment of ability.  The guy in jeans is lost behind all of us.  I can't get on the wheel of red lycra man, and although MTB guy is obviously present behind me (I can hear him panting) it seems to work out.  A mile later though, he's still kind of there.  He gets dropped, gets back on, gets dropped, gets back on.  We chat at the lights and he smiles and comments about making me do all the work.  I narrow my eyes "yes, so I saw" I say cheekily.  Then we're off again.  Problem though with knowing that I have someone working his pants off to stay on my wheel is I feel I have to keep going.  And going.  And going.  For me this is a long sustained effort, because I'm really trying, there's no slacking here.  3 miles of this and eventually he goes his own way.

But what was it made me try harder because I knew he was there?  It felt more like an effort to not hold him up than an effort to demonstrate superiority.  Whatever it was, I'm pooped!

Other folk

Cycling to work would be fine if it wasn't for other people.  Finally ran out of excuses why not to get on the bike to get to work today and hopped on at 7:30am with the intention of merely pootling in.  Good job really, given it was a really heavy gravity day - heavy legs, heavy bike and particularly heavy head courtesy of half a bottle of Chardonnay last night.

I get really irked by other cyclists who pull alongside me when I'm sat patiently at red lights and then pull away while it's on the pedestrian phase.  We're traffic.  Not pedestrians.  Most irked of course when they do this repeatedly as I catch up with them at the next set of lights and we have a yo yo thing going on.  Worse still if I actually have to keep pulling out into the traffic to go round them between lights.  Working for who I do, I really don't think disobeying the highway code is an option for me when on the bike.  Having said that, I'm the kind of woman who wouldn't flaunt the law knowingly anyway.  Red lights mean stop, the pavement is for pedestrians.  I have moral standards to uphold. I just wish other people had the same standards.

Just one near death experience today so that's a good day of cycle commuting.  Manchester has some beautifully marked out cycle lanes, and there's one of these which takes the cyclist around a parking lane which becomes a left turn lane, and it can look / feel as though you're somewhat in the middle of the road.  But the lane is beautifully marked out.  Bright green fresh paint, white paint marked cyclist logo things and a white line either side of the lane.  It's clear.  It becomes even more clear, I fancy, what it is when there's an actual cyclist in the lane.  That would be me.  However, apparently not clear enough to the corsa who felt that they should venture into the lane and attempt to  physically push me out of it.  It was somewhat close, and I can't help but wonder what they thought they were doing, why they felt it was OK to physically intimidate me.  Worse still, because they came from behind me it was completely unexpected and I really wasn't ready to have a car so close to my arse as it attempted to nudge me over.  Hell is other folk.

Not alone

The fourth day on the bike on holiday was finally not alone!  For three days I have kept my riding well within my safety comfort zone, afraid to push it either in terms of technical ups or downs or in terms of speed knowing that my wellbeing was solely dependent on me and that in remote areas I needed to stay safe.  Finally a day where I'm out with friends and can enjoy the freedom ... except I've done three days on the bike and I'm knackered.

So, revise that.  Finally a day where I can work hard on conserving as much energy as possible, hide behind people's wheels, do the bare minimum needed to stay up, and make careful decisions on gears, drinking and feeding.  Oh yes, that's much better.

So the fourth day was the tried and tested Llandegla after a night of camping in the pouring rain.  By 10am the weather though had brightened.  Or perhaps just stopped raining.  So off we went to the red run.  And on the technical descent bit I lost much time to the others, but hey, I didn't care, I'd carefully positioned myself at the back of the group so I didn't need to feel under pressure and could just roll along the track, and all was fine.  Between you and me I was a little shocked at how much distance I did lose here.  But hey ho, I can blame the heavy legs for sure.  Punctured the rear tyre some way into the route, and in proper Welsh fashion this was the moment the rain started to fall, and the midges started to bite.  Lovely.  Not.  Other than that, an incident free day.  With cake.

Marin challenge

So, not content with a fairly epic (in my terms) ride at Rhayader, and ignoring the very adverse weather forecasts for North Wales the Friday of my holiday was planned for the Marin Trail.  I am a woman on a mission.  I want not just to get a personal best time for the trail but I want to smash it. 

The first time I did the trail it took 4 hours.  The next time was, I think 3hrs 15 but I totally blamed this on my riding companion and his complex issue with hills.  I wanted to smash this, to prove to myself I could get up there with the better times for the trail.  In honesty I wanted 2 hours but would be happy with 2hrs 15 or 2hrs 30. 

This is the trail:

http://mbwales.com/marin_trail.aspx

As can be seen from the overall route description, 2 hours should be feasible.

So, I get to the head of trail somewhat later than anticipated due to grandad driving from cars on the long windy single carriage way A roads and dive into my sandwiches in the car park.  Best to fuel up early, I think.  In spirit of optimism, the sun comes out and I load my bike with just one single bottle.  I am going to be speedy.  Not much water required.

It starts well.  I am punishingly harsh to  myself.  Using frequent reference to watch, I refuse to stop more frequently than once every 15 minutes no matter how hard it feels, and this does indeed spur me on, and after the first couple of stops I become more comfortable with going for 30 minutes plus without break.  The trail has some diversions and this is frustrating, particularly when I fail to find the signs pulling me back onto trail and end up downhill and back uphill as I realise I have gone wrong.  It's also a little scary finding that a trail I've done before and is clearly marked still holds potential for getting lost.  Time keeps marching on.

Another side effect of being a woman alone on a trail in the midweek is the lack of other riders and walkers on the trail.  It's quite isolated and you feel very much alone.  As a result, I am noticeably more cautious about the descents, realising falling off just isn't an option, and although romping up the hills, I am meandering down the flowing woodland singletrack at sedate pace.  I am staying well within my comfort zone as far as risk taking is concerned.

The final diversion is a nightmare.  There is a cross roads where those who are 2 hours in cross paths with those who have just done the 15 minute climb out of the car park.  Yet, the diversion sign for the near completers takes them along the same direction as those who are 15 minutes in.  Surely this can't be right, there's no way off this trail, it's going to make me go round again my head needlessly panics.  And I get out the map and chat with a couple of blokes who have appeared on their bikes at the start of their mid afternoon ride.  Fortunately they turn out to be local, and know the diversions and know where I need to go.  In fact, they offer to escort me and show me the turnoff I need to take after the next climb and sweeping descent.  I protest, having been out for 2 hours I don't want to hold them up.  No worries say they.  So, giving it all I can to avoid delaying and spoiling their ride I go up the hill with them.  Chatting as I go, and making sure I stay a wheel ahead of the guy I am conversing with.  After all, I don't want to hold him up.  It's only when we get to the top of the climb I realise we dropped the other guy half way up the hill. 

They drop me off at the bottom of the descent and I'm on my way again.  Finally I reach the end 2hrs 32mins after starting, and I'm pleased with that.

Riding free

So, after the moorland bleakness, I'm back on a short stretch of unadopted road which is the kind of descending you could probably do with your eyes closed.  My legs, eyes and brain all relax briefly ... until the next junction when the map and compass are once again eagerly employed.  Past a cottage it says then turn right on a waymarked bridleway crossing a stream.  Immediately I am suspicious.  This guide book has form on stream identification.  And indeed the stream is a later cause of some confusion.  The waymarked bridleway though is a dream to find ... even if the signage turns out a little too accurate in terms of incline and direction ...

Eventually after some worry about where the stream actually is, I do arrive at it, after a long slog upwards on pleasantly bumpy and firm earth.  The book makes brief reference to the ground being a little boggy and I eye it with suspicion and anticipate sinking to my neck in marshland.  In the event it is in fact perfectly possible ... to carry the bike over.

Keep the stream on your right says the book.  So I try.  The path here is winding, tight, ascending and bumpy and I'm no longer out for a bike ride but indeed a walk with the bike acting as a handy thing to lean on as I traverse the path.  Then the stream fades out, the path fades out but I pick my way along the nearest thing I have to a path.  A couple of miles further on, and the instructions are no longer making sense.  Referral to a sweet section of single track for example has me scratching my head as this is what I survey ahead of me ...

No.  There is no way this can be right.  However, I think I can see where I ought to be and I keep trudging onwards.  Ending up at the top of a cliff.  Below me I see the watery thing I am meant to be aiming for.  I check the map, the compass, the shape of the water, the shape of the land, the presence / non-presence of roadways alongside the water.  Let's face it, I'm lost.  3pm in the afternoon and I'm on the top of a hill in open featureless moorland.  From where I am and from the map there is no way down to that water other than descending a cliff.  Frankly way beyond my skill set.  So I admit it, I'm going to need to backtrack.  I'm half way through the ride on distance with more hills to ascend.  I've been out here for 4 hours, I've drunk 2 litres of water and the ride was only scheduled for 3 - 4 hours.  I study the map for an escape route so I don't have to do the whole route back, and I turn around.  And I don't cry.  Well, not more than a welling up of my eyes and a lump in the throat anyway. I am a woman after all.

There is no shame in a turnaround.  There is, however, confusion.  It's more by luck than judgement I spotted one of the boundary posts or I would have managed to get myself even more lost.  The escape route is down a beautiful B road and then leads me onto a family trail ... which perhaps I should have stuck to in the first place.  But there is then icecream.  And cake.  And mixed olives to go with my campfire tea.

Pushing it

So, on the Thursday of my hols I thought I'd get a big ride in, a big cross country hilly effort taking me to places I'd never been before.  With this in mind, I found a route out of the village of Rhayader.  It started out not so well, with a wrong turn taken probably within ten minutes of starting the ride.  But after riding through a random orchard, getting out map and compass I managed to treat it not as a getting lost incident but more as having taken an alternative route to get to the same point as planned. 

I arrived as per the instructions at a farm house where the bridleway was described as going in front of the farm house.  It didn't look that friendly.  No sign post, and an awful lot of dogs.  I checked the map and checked again and there was no alternative.  Just as I was getting up the courage to get on with it on the bike though, along came a landrover and trailer, equipped with ancient farmer complete with flat cap.  He was kindly and advised I was on the right track ... but that if I went that way right now, right this minute I would be trampled underfoot by a herd of 30 cows which were making their way round the corner.  Having a completely daft fear of cows I listened up and listened well, and made my way to some high ground to watch the little dears parade past.

The next step was the descent shown above, cruising down to a point where a stream crossing was indicated.  This was said stream:

Simples, eh?  Followed a road up to "the top of the hill" which turned out not to be the top at all, but in fact a bridleway leading off the summit of the road and heading off onto a summit all of its own.  A trig point was indicated, and a gentle ascent which found me in the  middle of nowhere, no traffic noise, no planes, no nothing.  Still, peaceful, interrupted only by the birds and the sheep.  Gratuitous picture here:

The route then indicated some marshland, some pushing, some banks and some meandering blindly through the middle of featureless landscape and I realise I have reached the point where the book says, all nonchalent "ford the stream".  It looks somewhat innocent this stream.  More like a puddle in fact ...

This is the view taken after I've plunged into this lake like feature of the landscape.  The rocky bit is the run in to the river, so you descend that and then cross the innocent looking puddle.  Not a couple of feet in and you find that with parallel pedals you are up to your ankles and it's deepening.  Cruising through is no longer an option and pedalling like a demon you endeavour to keep moving against the resistance of the water just to avoid having to put your foot down and find yourself up to your knees or wobbling over in the water.  And we lived to see another day.

At this point, I'm maybe three hours into the ride.  The map is showing I'm maybe 1/3 of the distance through it, and the worst is yet to come ...

Lost girls

Having driven at relaxed pace from Eastbourne up to the Forest of Dean, my arrival at the woodlands was somewhat late afternoon, well at least in comparison to the time I'd hoped for.  I contemplated just heading off to the campsite for an afternoon nap but no.  I have dragged the bike all this way with me, I'm damn well going to Man Up and use it.  So, after some deliberation, and consideration of the only advertised bike trail through the forest (advertised as a "family" trail and therefore not sounding massively exciting) I decided on a start point for my journey through the woodlands.

Speech House road and a handy and also free arboretum car park grabbed my attention, and into the car park I trundled. Nice wooded car park, lots of nooks and crannies. Which was just as well as having driven there in civvies the plan was indeed to change knickers into cycling shorts.  Public nudity and changing hold very few fears for me any more; it's all the sea kayak activity which has led me down this route.  I change without incident, grab the water bottle, the bike, the map and compass and I'm off out onto the road, and what's more, I have a plan.  A flawed plan as it turns out.

My first move is to get to the start point of the off road section of the ride, and it is with some consternation I find the first stretch involves a road descent at 17%.  Which although lovely to zoom down holds some concern as I immediately start contemplating just how horrible it's going to be at the end of a ride when tired, hot and dusty I realise I'm going to have to climb to get back to the safety of the car.

It turns out my map in good old Alison tradition is fairly old, and the trails are in no way reflected on the 1:50000 map I have dragged out of the house.  So, inevitably after bimbling around bits of the forest trails for some time I am lost.  At this point I simply keep going, safe in the belief I'll hit a road at any time.  As indeed I eventually do, and by great chance the opening is opposite a petrol station with the name of the area handily forming part of the petrol station name.  So, Brierley it is then.  I check the map and head into the woods with a plan.  Keep going left and occasionally right.  That's the plan, and to an extent it works.

Eventually after going past the same small fishing pond twice I realise I need a little more detail in my plans.  Map out, scratch head.  Turn map up another way.  Scratch head.  Bother.  Compass.  Putting the map away I pop the compass in the trouser leg pocket and at every subsequent junction take whichever turn comes somewhere between South and East, and eventually life becomes a lot simpler.  Then just the simple matter of working out a) which arboretum I parked at (who would have thought there'd be two) and b) which entrance to the damned arboretum I'd used (who'd have thought entrances existed on two separate roads).

From there, the sense of satisfaction really set in.  I  have done it.  I have made a plan, I have taken my bike on my solo holiday and I have started out as I meant to go on, by truly using it, by daring to go out into the woods alone, and I have done what I set out to do.  I am happy and confident, and head off to my overnight campsite for an evening of sitting in front of the tent overlooking the Severn, sipping red wine and watching the sunset, car and bike behind me, wetsuit and buoyancy aid drying out over the handlebars of the bike.

Holidays!

I've been on holiday.  She says, stating the obvious.  A 9 day break involving car, bike, tent and incongruously a wetsuit.  The break took me from North Wales down to Watford, on to Eastbourne then heading North through Wales from Lydney to Rhayader to Llandegla before returning home to Manchester.  This was the itinerary:

Friday night drive to North Wales
Saturday MTB at Llandegla
Sunday drive to Watford, walking with Mum
Monday walk with Mum, drive to Eastbourne
Tuesday one to one day of coaching in a sea kayak
Wednesday drive to Lydney via MTB ride in Forest of Dean
Thursday drive through Brecon Beacons to Rhayader, bike ride through the Welsh hills
Friday drive to Llandegla stopping off to do the Marin Trail at Betws y Coed
Saturday MTB at Llandegla
Sunday drive home and sleep.

There will be photos and write up.  Shortly.

Cwmcarn

My weekend plan of choice this Saturday gone was Cwncarn - http://mbwales.com/Cwmcarn.  And a mighty fine plan it was too.  The trail down in the south of Wales was beautifully served by a fine campsite, situated next to a flowing river, visitor centre and of course the head of the trail.  http://www.caerphilly.gov.uk/cwmcarnforest.

Trail time was a little slower than anticipated, and once again, I blame Jason who was pacing himself on the uphill stretches.  The uphills were a challenge, technically, with rocks and roots and general lack of smooth pathway - which is one of the things mountain biking is all about, and serves as a reminder to me that skills work as well as fitness is something I should be working on if I want to improve at (and enjoy more) this game.  The weather was beautiful and sunny, and the two hour bike ride was done and dusted by lunchtime, when we returned to the campsite to enjoy the squashed rolls we'd carried in our bags for the previous two hours.

Drum roll here please.  Did my first ever section of black run.  Well, did 95% of it. Had a brain refusal moment at going round a tight bend on a track maybe 8 inches wide swooping towards a descent through a pipe.  Did the descent though.  All in all, a pleasant day out with no noticeable additional bruises, cuts, injuries etc. Roll on the next time out ...

Death toll

Lots of chat in the news about the number of deaths on the road - pedestrians, cyclists and motorists.  http://www.guardian.co.uk/road-deaths-fall-record-low.  Makes interesting reading, particularly if you check out the table which shows how well it's comparing to 20 years ago for cyclists.  Nothing giving an idea of why this is so though.

The comments below the guardian article were interesting reading though (at least until I got bored and stopped).  Someone tongue in cheek flagging up about cyclists who ride on pavements and go through red lights.  It reminded me of an Alison in car versus cyclist incident yesterday.  I have to turn right out of my street onto a more major thoroughfare.  The more major route is often pretty busy with traffic and I do sit for sometime waiting for a suitable gap.  In recent years, however, just to the right of my street on the main road is a pedestrian crossing, one of those where you press the button and wait.  On busy traffic days this can be a godsend if someone on foot wishes to cross the road and makes the lights go red.  Suddenly traffic is stopped and I can actually pull out across one empty lane and poke my nose into the now stationary lane of traffic I'm looking to join.  It was an impossibly busy day yesterday but to my joy the lights were pressed by someone and went red. 

Call me naive but I expect traffic to stop at red lights, so I edge my nose out, and we're talking slow here because I got maybe a foot out into the road and there he is, the cyclist, who has just gone through the red lights.  And I've put him in danger by pulling out.  But, on the other hand, he wouldn't be in that position if he'd just bloody obeyed the rules of the road and stopped at the sodding red light.  I always stop on the bike if the light's red.  Even if nobody's crossing.  It's the law godamit, the law, and by disobeying it, the cyclist was the one placing himself in danger, not really me.  Having said that, nobody died, nobody swerved, I was moving so slowly I simply stopped.  Bloody idiot though.  Definitely old enough to know better, reckon he was a 50 year old man and not a testosterone driven youth.

My tour

Oh dear, I'm really rather a long way from fit.  Not, however, beating myself up about it, I do all right for an old burd.  I started the week with some enthusiasm for cycle commuting, not even letting slightly iffy weather forecasts put me off, and made plans and cracked on.  Such was my ardour that undeterred by book club after work Wednesday I still planned to get on and ride it.

Last experience of trying to get to book club by bike had resulted in a somewhat stroppy e-mail to someone somewhere who might possibly have some kind of remit for signage.  I chose to ride into Manchester City Centre and follow bike route 6, a gritty route taking me through some areas I had in honesty considered no go places for a middle class middle aged Caucasian woman.  Getting lost there was both mortifying and a little scary, not wanting to stop and look at a map and therefore be seen as vulnerable.  The area has a reputation for violence.  When I say reputation, this is based on the fact that whenever you travel to work listening to local radio news you can predict that the news reporter will nearly always finish the sentence a fatal shooting / stabbing took place in the early hours of the morning with "in Moss Side".  It's that kind of place, high unemployment too and frankly I stick out like a sore thumb.  It's a vibrant area, no denying it.  Check this out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moss_Side but rightly or wrongly I find it intimidating.

So my visit plan this time was simple.  Not to get lost in Moss Side.  To this end I took guidance and advice from a work colleague on how to get from my place of work to Chorlton (place of book club).  It was a fantastic awesome route.  This bad boy.  Guardian Fallowfield Loop line.  OK, so I did get lost once and have to retrace steps and yes, it did add 20 minutes to my journey (I timed it from the point I was unsure to the point I returned there ...). 

All in all, yesterday I left the house at 07:15 to ride the 8 or 9 miles to work, then left work at 5pm for another 8 mile journey, and at 9pm was leaving Chorlton for the 5 mile ride home.  Frankly I was pooped, slept like a baby (but without the bed wetting and crying), and drove in this morning!

Nearly Naked

Such a nice day, that not only did I decide to cycle into work once again but paused half way through dressing ... and stopped.  It felt really strange to have the lycra shorts as my outer layer instead of adding on a pair of baggy shorts or 3/4 length trousers as camouflage.  Add to that the T-shirt without a wind stopper of any variety and I felt I had left the house in the buff.  As a general rule, vanity prevents me from exposing my hind quarters to the world without adequate covering, but sod it, it's early when I set off and who's to see?

Cycled through the city centre today which is the route I do generally only when the fighting spirit and vigilance is at the top of its game.  To get through the city you have to be prepared to be a little bit nippy at the lights and a little bit assertive, a lot confident, decisive and very very clear about your intentions.  No car driver must be left in doubt as to what you're doing, and to make sure that's the case ... well, you too need to be sure of what you're doing, and that means taking on board all the information possible rapidly to make that decision and having the fast twitch ready to do what's needed.  Balance and strong indication are pretty key too.  The world of city centre commuting is very mean to those who hesitate and I don't want to have a fit and healthy corpse.

But before 8am the city centre is fairly mellow.  Enough other cyclists about so the car drivers are already attuned to the possibilities of bike riders, and enough people on foot stepping out in front of cars (and cyclists) to make sure everyone is on their toes for the preservation of life and dignity.  Well, maybe not so much the dignity in the lycra shorts.

Beautiful morning

It doesn't feel like I've been on the bike for a bit, although I would guess less than a week.  That's the oddness of not cycling at the weekend when I opted to take the walking boots with me rather than the bike.

So this morning in glorious sunshine I'm back in the saddle, and I'm loving it. The commute to work is perfection, the hills are just enough work, not too much, not too little, the lights appear to be green, there may even be birds singing (although I suspect perhaps not in the suburbs of Salford).  I note just one near death incident, which on a daily commute is the average, and four  miles into the journey I sit up and smile.  Grin in fact.  At the same point where last week driving in the car I was waving my fist with a heart rate increased through anger I'm smiling, relaxed and remembering what a wonderful way this is to travel.

Easy Rider

Blimey I'm a crabby old cow.  Drove to work today after two days of cycle commuting.  The reason (or excuse, make your own judgment) is because tonight is book club night and me, accompanied by the Complete Works of Shakespeare had places to go after work, and then a journey home at 9pm ish.  Somehow, though, the two days of cycling to work have turned me into the most angry motorist imaginable.  I hated the drive in.  The whole time I am prevented from moving up to the 30mph speed limit by congestion.  Every set of lights is red, and at every set the queues are so long I watch two changes before we can finally move.  Other car drivers are indecisive, or stop abruptly in front of me or get into the wrong lanes or just generally act like cretins, and I spend my journey staring frustrated at other people's exhausts.

It's the cycling that's done it.  On the bike I'm always at what passes for top speed (which for me, not so fast), nothing is ever in my way, red lights happen and I stop but never ever ever have to sit through more than one change of the lights.  If car drivers are acting like cretins it affects me much less because I'm so much slower, not dependant on most of their actions and basically only being vigilant for those who edge too near the kerb or do the usual stupid move where they overtake the cyclist and turn left (this is a daily occurrence on the bike) causing me to brake / swerve / feel heart rate rise.

In the car, however, the calm cyclist who just focusses on her own journey becomes a raving nutter lunatic who shouts, who waves her fist in the air even, and is generally a rather assertive driver.  She's not nice.  Realisations like this make me think hard about cycling to work more often, but then, there's always the excuses ...

Audience Participation

There was me thinking cycling to work was a solitary occupation.  The kind of thing poets and philosophers might happily participate in.  Long periods of no company but your own, in your own world, free to muse on the accumulation of litter around the Lower Broughton McDonalds, free to consider the state of the pot holes and drainage as you circle Cheetham Hill and to contemplate the permanent all season puddle along the Alan Turing Way.

Imagine, therefore, my surprise at finding my ride from work was in fact a spectator participation event.  There I am, minding my own business, pedalling steadily away through the roads around the Salford Student Village, being mindful of progress across the roundabout in readiness for the one and only minor uphill on the way home when suddenly, there it is.  A shout.  A coach style "Pick it up" is yelled at me from the side of the road.  And indeed I do pick it up, because that was the plan anyway.  Still, nice to feel part of something bigger.

This morning, in  honour of the start of British Summer time (I believe the finish is next week) I am wearing light weight walking shorts over my lycra.  Do not be fooled, this was not through some misplaced belief the weather would actually be sunny.  Indeed it related more to an anticipation of rain.  The lightweight shorts will not flap like sodden sails around my legs when the rain starts and in showers will be quick drying too.  But short they are, and the shortness is noticed.  Hoots happen.

Stopping traffic

Cool.  Not done this for a long time.  Stopped traffic, and not for any wrong reasons (wrong being falling off in front of cars).  Today marks the start of bike to work week.  http://www.bikeweek.org.uk/.  Well, actually I believe yesterday was the official start date but given I only work Monday to Friday today is my official start date.  Despite Saturday's over the handlebars incident I felt cycling in was not just an option but positively desirable, given the clement weather and the need to keep going on the fitness work.

So dressed in pink, off I go on the hybrid bike heavily weighted down by the pannier bag of clothing to change into on arrival at work.  A bit of gravity keeping me on the ground was, methinks, desirable.  The Aldi bright pink women's cycling softshell jacket is a wonderful thing, mostly for its visibility to traffic, and its indication that the rider is female.  I find motorists have a very different attitude towards me wearing this to wearing my mundane grey.  I strongly suspect they give women a bit of a wider berth and perhaps some polite distance and respect, maybe seeing us as more vulnerable and in need of protection.  Whatever the reason, I like the result.

Turns out it's quite a warm morning and at a handy set of red lights I proceed to begin the striptease.  The lights go green and to my amusement the driver next to me is watching me undress as opposed to watching the lights and it's only when I turn to make eye contact with him and gesture in the direction of the lights he continues on his journey.  I finish stripping off the bright pink, and I'm down to the pale pink clinging T with the words "Shakin' my arse" on the back.  Love this T-shirt dearly.  But yes, I stopped traffic.  Me.  At 42.

I flew

Oh yes, yesterday I flew.  In many ways.  I flew up the hills, with a steady gentle pace simply pedalling away from the long suffering Jason who had elected to accompany me on the trip to the Marin trail.  With apparent ease climbing the fire roads at a pleasant maintainable tempo.  Down the swooping single track descents I flew, letting the bike roll over the rocky muddy grassy gravelly terrain, following my nose along the undulating tracks.  Then over the handlebars I flew, the bike stopped and I was a little slower, stopping a couple of feet further along on my hands and knees before rolling over and taking a moment to take on board my recumbant position.  And the worst part of the fall is the painful fingertips making typing an uncomfortable chore ....


Oooh, and here's me before the fall in the "Can't Stop" T-shirt which turned out to have some truth in it.

Zipping up

I'm in the mood for buying clothes.  After all, my weight has now come down to 62 kilos and my bum has finally reached dimensions I feel are civilised and worthy of new apparel.  The range of women's bike clothing for the non lycra brigade is not encouraging.

I cycle in padded shorts underneath a outer layer which protects my modesty and in winter my calves from the cold.  Outer layers I have worn with some success have been the fat face brand of three quarter length trousers, although each pair only lasts one cycling season.  The short length means no chain capture issues, and the material is relatively well wearing.  The later version had toggles at the waist to adjust so you could get them just right, after all, riding the bike can have you at a peculiar angle compared to walking trousers, and bulky belts are not great.  I find high waisted really useful too, anything that doesn't interfere with breathing when you're using every inch of lung capacity.  The major advantage to these has been the zipped pocket on the leg.  Trousers with convenient places for car keys.  The last pair had zipped front pockets too which opened all kinds of possibilities for carrying loose change and the odd chewy bar.

Finding a replacement has proved difficult.  I have some Asda George supermarket 3/4 length capri pants but they wear out a lot quicker and none of them seems to think having pockets which stuff doesn' fall out of is a priority.  I was aghast to find this year's fat face model didn't have zippy pockets on the legs so the hunt has been on.

Surf / beach shorts were suggested by some women online, but looking at them, the sparsity of pockets was appalling.  Does no-one out there feel a need to keep their car keys somewhere secure?

Crag hoppers looked like offering some possibilities, but again when you look closely they tend to have one zip pocket at the back.  Just where you sit on the saddle.  No thanks, I don't think so.

Don't get me started on cycle specific / mountain biking clothing.  Frankly they just don't make it for girls.  I have one pair of supposedly women's specific shorts and I've never seen anything more badly proportioned.  Oh, and what is it with everything needing to be black or white for us girls.  What's wrong with red or blue or brown or green or indeed patterned.  See what I did there?  Yes, didn't request pink.

Finally in desperation I have purchased online a pair of Columbia walking shorts.  They have a zip pocket on the leg.  Not really sure they'll have the stretch for the cycling movement, but I can but try.  Sigh.

White Van

Imagine my surprise.  Hooted at by a white van.  Not, to my amazement in a get out of my way cycling filth fashion but as a tribute to my legs.  Well, that's the way it came across to me anyway.  A man of discernment one imagines, particularly given my chosen costume for the commute.

Heavy old hybrid, baggy top and unfeasibly baggy shorts.  Lost a bit of weight since I invested in those.  Altogether quietly happy to hear it.  It's a long time since I attracted any kind of whistle or cat call, and there's a certain age over which these things are welcome rather than irritating.  I do realise though that some women could find this intimidating, aggressive, or threatening, and ponder over what an appropriate reaction would be given the bigger picture.  However, I can only react as I react which is to smile to myself, not turn around, and just continue with my two wheel journey.

Slow road

Maybe in taking 2 hours 45 mins to do a 21 mile circuit on the mountain bike I was simply trying to adhere to the leisure cyclist rule: The bike ride undertaken must exceed the amount of time taken to drive to the ride destination.  Maybe that was it.

http://www.cotswoldsaonb.org.uk/bibury route pdf

Arriving late after an unprecedented amount of faff to leave the house, I set off on the route above at 2pm on Saturday with confidence I should be back at the car by 4pm.  So confident was I of this that my safety person who had been e-mailed a copy of the route and proposed start and finish time had been advised 4pm finish.  Texted her at 3:45 with an um, well, all is well but I am slow kind of a text.  It wasn't even a testing route.  You could, if you weren't being particularly discerning describe it as undulating but in reality check out the contours ... it really was as flat as a pancake other than two teeny steep ups (pushed the bike up the final bit of one of these).  Yet I dallied and I dawdled and somehow made it last nearly 3 hours.  No mechanicals, no hills, nothing wrong with me or the bike. 

I do seem to lack any short term memory of what I'm doing though.  Not a signposted trail but one dependent on carrying a map but somehow I struggle to remember any more than two turns at a time.  Sometimes struggle to remember anything other than the next turn.  So I guess there were more than a few map reading stops and starts.

You couldn't make up the beauty of some of this ride.  21 miles without seeing another cyclist or a walker.  However, going alongside a hedgeline with a field of grain and poppies to my left, from the hedgeline I see an enormous bird give just one flap of mighty wings and soar away over the field.  A hare, ears tipped with white and black pauses on the path ahead of me, then spooked by me and the bike leaps off into the field where his ear tips are visible above the poppies as he joins another hare and together they move through the grain, ears bobbing and darting as they run.  Amazing memories.

Hats off

Friday night I thought I'd make an emergency dash to the allotment between showers.  Parking down my road at weekends is a nightmare, so once you have somewhere to park the car, you don't move it unless you really have to.  So, the bike beckoned.  Shoved a trowel and a few seed packets in the panniers and bunged on a pair of walking trousers with the bottom leg bits zipped off to avoid dangling in chain issues and was on my way.  On my way, but feeling something was not quite normal.  Took a minute or two to realise I'd gone out without the bike helmet on.

Not, it's not against the law to go into the streets bare headed so as it's just a couple of miles I thought I'd go with the flow.  Which is not logical reasoning at all.  Funny thing was that I felt much more aware of and vigilant about what was going on around me, and suspect in some ways its because I could hear everything much more clearly without the helmet, actually had a better sense of direction as to where car engine noises were coming from.  I was much more apprehensive about roundabouts etc..  Now, in my head, I know that this doesn't make sense, I know that on the bike I have to be mindful of my safety at all times, and I know the percentage of accident options available out there means the helmet will only save your life in a teeny percentage of incients.  So, why more mindful because I'm not wearing the helmet?  Danger is danger after all.

It's nice though, feeling the wind in your hair.

Route Plan

Plan, plan and plan.  I have anal retentive tendencies towards planning bike rides.  Not one to wing it and hope for the best, I like to minimise the chance of failure and try to plan for all eventualities.  Other than rain.  Obviously.

So, I've had a frustrating few days trying to work out just where I can ride my bike as I make my way down the country to the Cotswolds for a Saturday evening barbeque.  It turns out that the various websites out there want you to pay money for sharing a bike route.  The world of cyclists suddenly turns out really quite mercenary. 

I am also very specific in what I want.  I want to be off road, or mostly off road.  I want everything to be legal (bridleways not footpaths) and I want a hill.  If possible I'd also like challenging terrain.  A bonus would be a cafe and a toilet.  And I want all this in easy reach of my final destination.  How hard can it be?

A check of my OS map collection at home reveals a good scale walking map ... for the area just north of where I want to be, and a driving type map for the area with old fashioned colour schemes.  I adjust my eyes to look for pink lines instead of green, and do search after search online for possible routes which take me to link after link to books I don't have the lead in time to send off for, and GPS routes I don't have the equipment for.  Finally courtesy of a county council website I think I have found the route.

Now I just have to hope it doesn't rain.

No overtaking

Word from the physio yesterday for my journey home yesterday evening was no overtaking.  Condemned to take it easy and to amble home avoiding jolting pains going through my lower back.  No easy task with standing starts from red lights being incredibly different as any pressure going through the left leg gave a jarring pain through that back muscle.  Very ouchy indeed.  No out of saddle, no hard acceleration; instead a sedate and somewhat boring journey.

Of my two routes home from work on the bike, one is a frenetic city centre ride, always on the alert for cars doing unexpected things without signalling.  Do I hear people gasp at the thought that car drivers could ever ever ever do something so imperfect?  Well, yes, they do.  It involves several forced lane changes where I have to move right to the straight on lane or of course turn right by getting across lanes, and this requires me to have good control, to be looking and listening all the time and ready to make a dash for it.  The back isn't permitting making dashes safely and in comfort.  So instead I take the meandering route round the city outskirts, and the most complicated moment is ... well, actually there were no complicated moments.  Eased my bike and my back home where I took the physio's advice of hot bath, hot water bottle, and ad libbed by adding a muscle relaxing glass of red wine all of my own prescription.

Too competitive

Today I am sat at my desk with a heated wheat bag snuggling around my lower back.  And similar to having a hangover this is a self-inflicted injury and therefore, by rights, I cannot complain!

I get more peeved on the bike than I ever do driving the car where I am a peaceful patient, laissez faire kind of a driver.  It peeves me to see other cyclists disobeying the rules of the road.  Specifically, riding through red lights.  It doesn't make any sense to me at all.

So, this morning, a younger gent on a Cannondale bike walzes past me at red lights, waits briefly at the junction and then moves forwards across a lane at a time, all the while the lights are on red.  And I see red.  I see him accelerate, I see him reach cruising speed, the lights are now green and I change up a gear, I press on the pedals and suddenly there I am, in pursuit.  I hover behind him, assessing his speed, decide that if I overtake him I can indeed continue to pull away and will not simply die a death and have the humiliation of him accelerating past me.  And I do it.  I'm dressed in pink.  At the lights he's waved at a mate of his in the traffic queue.  We have witnesses.  Hopefully his nuts shrivelled as the move played out.

Later on, he did of course move past me again at red lights, and stay ahead as he went through two more sets of red lights.  But the moral high ground is all mine.

Oh, and I seem to have slightly pulled a back muscle in my moment of chimped up competitiveness, but all is well, the physio has laughed at me, advised and loaned out the hot wheat bag thingy.

As charged

I feel so guilty.  Such neglect.  After last Wednesday night's bike ride I have done very little.  Well, to be fair, I have cleaned the mountain bike, pumped up its tyres and oiled its chain, even sparing a little lube for the hybrid ... just because I could.  But somehow I have failed to get out on the bike at all ever since.

It's a litany of excuses which make me blench slightly.

• Thursday - Oh, I won't cycle to work because I'm going to cycle to the Lowry tonight to go to the Roger McGough performance. 
• Thursday evening - don't feel like cycling.  Won't.
• Friday - Oh, I won't cycle to work because I'm going straight from work to the Take That concert which doesn't finish until late and I'm worried about leaving the bike somewhere safe all that time ...
• Saturday - Oh, I've got a naughty girl letter from the council about my allotment, best I prioritise that over the bike.
• Sunday was a classic.  Sunday, bike outside house, Jason and his bike outside the house, all looking very promising indeed.  I shut the door.  Jason asks do you have your house keys.  I say yes, check my pocket and imagine a look of horror came over my face.  Locked out without house keys, his spare set and my set both inside.  Dammit.  Efforts instead went into sorting out how to access my home, ending up both bikes wheels off, and in Jason's car (thankfully he did have his car keys), and travelling to the other side of town to acquire the spare set from my guinea pig sitter.  Got home feeling drained,  humiliated ... oh, and it started raining.
• Monday, I don't think I even bothered to find an excuse.
• Tuesday the weather forecast for this afternoon looks horrid.

So there we go, take a bow, the queen of excuses.

Unfamiliar machine

The unfamiliarity of my bikes has been a little odd this week.  Trying not to find it reminiscent of my fairly long departed husband's first symptoms of his brain tumour where he just instinctively felt his spanners were in someway "wrong".  It's a disconcerting feeling, a familiar friend turning into something just a little alien, not unfriendly or threatening but different.

This, however, with reference to my bikes is easily explained.  The hybrid has new tyres and the ride is not just bumpier due to the fact I have actually got them at a reasonable pressure, but also "twitchy", although I am re-training my brain to think responsive instead of twitchy.  It's taken a little adjusting to, and a mile or two before I felt the confident 95% in control feeling I generally have on the hybrid which is a safe old sofa of a thing.

Yesterday I got on the mountain bike.  Not to climb any mountains (none of those where I live) but just to do some muddy trails.  Getting on that bike after having done more riding on the hybrid is always a surprise.  I feel crouched over the bike, like I've somehow overgrown the handlebars, and yes the front end feels very "twitchy" (ok, ok responsive) in comparison to the hybrid.  It's just different dimensions and I settle down quite quickly.  The worst thing about getting on it is the realisation that I'm now seriously cycling.  This is completely due to the change in saddle.  The hybrid has an amazing arm chair thing going on. It is wide and it is gel padded and frankly I would challenge anyone to find it uncomfortable.  The MTB has a thin hard saddle which is perfectly fine and comfortable and fitting for me provided I get my posture right.  I'm sure it's good for me, but nonetheless always comes as a surprise.

Yesterday was a first for me.  My bike riding is generally restricted to a) travel from A to B or b) fun, getting out on the hills or challenging myself over whacky terrain.  Yesterday I got on the mountain bike for a purpose unheard of before.  I got on it for "training".  Gasp.  What is this training of which you speak?  Frankly I felt I hadn't stretched my body for quite some time, and worried I was losing fitness.  So, deliberately and knowingly, I got on the bike with the ambition of getting in a minimum of an hour of heavy breathing, preferably with some leg hurting work to accompany it.  Nice to find a relatively free traffic ride, but weird trying to find any kind of lung exercise in a very very flat track.  Oooh, I think I can find a link to my route ...

Ah yes, here we go: http://www.cycle-route.com/Worsley flat loop.  And by the end of it, all was well.  Very well indeed.

Main Mechanic

I find mechanical issues frustrating.  There's an angry woman inside my head doesn't really understand why I don't already have the mental tool kit to handle the simple thing called bike mechanics.  Something missing perhaps in my upbringing, those lessons in fine tuning gears were as missing as were the lessons on applying make up and using hair straighteners.

So, it was really quite a feat for me to take the brave step of purchasing new tyres and new inner tubes for the Trek Hybrid commuter bike.  The bike is possibly 8 years old, maybe a little more, and is indeed on its original set of tyres, although inner tubes have come and gone as needs and punctures dictate.  The bike started to feel a little sloppy in handling like the road and bike and indeed tyre and wheel were looking to part company, and although some of this can be attributed to lack of air in tyres, it did seem reasonable to look at a replacement programme. 

Is there something in a man's head which makes replacement of tyres a really simple job of just going to shop, picking them off the shelf, taking home and fitting to bike?  For me, not so much.  For me it's a carefully considered research, using online reviews, and finally posting on message forums to gather in thoughts and opinions.  Only after a matter of days am I in a position to purchase.  Then of course I need to find the best price.  Finally the new tyres and new inner tubes arrive.  Now, being a self declared numpty as far as mechanical aptitude is concerned, I have from somewhere deep in my brain dredged up some information about rubber deteriorating over time; hence the new inner tube decision.

I was going to fit them myself.  Of course I was.  But as there happened to be a bloke in the house itching to get his Christmas present Leatherman out it was a no brainer to make it a joint effort.  The joy of this is that I could offer helpful criticism.  Lots of helpful criticism.  And sound pompous.  Oh, you really want to start work taking off the tyre at the same place as the valve. etc. etc. etc. Surprised I didn't get a Leatherman inserted somewhere quite painful.

Tyres fitted, and then we read the instructions.  How much pressure?  Wow.  The tyres are as tight as a botox forehead.  Amazing, and I can feel every piece of gravel on the road.  The front mudguard however on yesterday's trial run is rubbing against the tyre which pre-empts possible future disaster of creating hole in tyre and of course adding to the resistance which frankly I don't need.  Lots of frustrating attempts to adjust mudguard, all kinds of tools out (no hammer though), and eventually I just remove the damned mudguard.  It is summer, after all.

Cyclists Dismount

Been grounded this weekend, and a bank holiday weekend too.  Friday night cycling home from work I got a cramp in my left calf, fairly near to home.  But I didn't stop and stretch.  The area I was cycling through is frankly scary and admitting vulnerability didnt' really seem like the best idea in the world so I kept going until I felt a little less exposed.  Leg kept feeling crampy all evening and was joined by shin pain and cramp in toes for a bit.  Saturday it felt OK during the day but Saturday night in bed the bloody leg was agony.  Kept off the bike Sunday, kept off the bike Monday and prudence is keeping me off the bike tomorrow.

Using the downtime, I have completed an application form for Sustrans to become a volunteer ranger near me.
support-sustrans/volunteer-rangers

I'm very very excited about this.  Looking forward to taking on a personal responsibility for the cycle path near to me.  If they accept me of course.  It would be good to have the authority / permission to actually do something physical about sorting out some of the problems I see.  Way better than simply complaining.  Start with sorting out over grown bits and pieces, and maybe one day move on to campaigning for bigger and better improvements.  Such as the two Cyclists Dismount signs on the bike route near to me.  They bug me.

Stay Safe

The cry of cyclists to each other following another cycling fatality on the roads is Stay Safe.  And we try.  An erstwhile work colleague of mine died on Thursday while riding home with a friend on their bikes.  The jungle drums have it that he was hit from behind by a car with a teenage driver. 

Friday was a day in shock for the office.  Rob was my age and leaves a wife and child. He was one of nature's good guys, time for everyone.  He was a very experienced cyclist, one that taught others how to do it safely and well, and definitely not on for a testosterone rush.  The rumour has it the car didn't see him.  Rob was over 6 foot and did not run to leanness.  Hard to miss in the office, why so hard to miss on the road.

It's frightening to less skilful riders like myself to realise that someone who would be reasonably described as one of the safest guys on the road could die, just like that, on the scene.  It would presumably take some shunt to kill a giant like Rob on the spot.  He always seemed solid.

If I hadn't cycled to work Friday when the news broke and therefore had limited choices about getting on the bike home it's highly probable I'd be thinking more than just twice about commuting on the bike again.  If it could happen to Rob then surely it's more than likely to happen to me.  So, stay safe out there people, stay safe.

Fuelling strategy

Bearing in mind my attempts to keep weight under control; at the very least to maintain the kilos I'm at, and preferably continue to make a safe and gradual progression towards a slimmer more svelte Alison, I reckon I'm fairly functional at fuelling.  My commuter ride to work is always done on an empty stomach; exercise at early hours makes my stomach feel rough whatever I do, and experience has taught me empty is better than full, and even then every now and then I get stomach cramps on the way to work.

Any other ride though I take a more considered approach to energy levels.  Breakfast is fibre and carbohydrate and not protein and fat, and it is a greater quantity than I might for a sedentary day - you've got to be prepared.  I'm also really good at eating on the trail, chewy bars being a bit of a staple diet, but only a couple of mouthfuls at a time, just enough to keep me ticking over.  Lunch on the trail is also spread out into a little and often.  I know a couple of rolls is going to be about right but wouldn't eat them both at the same time, just keep the input regular and try my best to keep blood sugar levels constant through the day. 

It's just kind of great to have the confidence to know I'm not going to hit a wall, and eating isn't going to make me blow up like a balloon.

Down sizing

Now it's clear to me I'm wired differently from some folk and what works for me is just plain bonkers to a lot of other people.  A year ago I came off anti-depressants and cut myself some slack with regards to things such as weight gain, telling myself if that's what it was going to take to get myself through that period of adjustment then so be it and I would deal with any subsequent weight increase ... later.  At an unnamed moment in the future.

At the end of last year / early this year; I can't be sure, the time had come to deal with the weight increase.  It had not been substantial but was certainly enough to affect my morale going forwards.  The bike, or in particular the spinning classes on the Watt bike have been a mainstay of weight loss, although these days the week day commuter bike rides are not about the body image, they are about getting fitter to enjoy my true love, the mountain bike.

It is worth reflecting though on how the period of weight loss has gone.  My method was simplicity itself.  Move more, eat less.  Nothing fancy about that at all as far as physiology goes.  Things I've realised it really took were

1.  Change.  Acknowledgment that for the situation to change I had to make changes, and this isn't make a change then trundle on back to usual with the change having been a one off, one day of doing exercise or one day of eating more, this needed to be a hard earned, sustained change over a longer period.  I had to accept that just thinking I was on a diet was not the same as eating less.

2.  Do what you need to do, not what you want to do.  I have a tendency to get home from work, tell myself I'm tired, tell myself it's raining or cold or that I simply don't want to do anything other than get tea, sit on the settee then have a bath and go to bed.  What I want doesn't necessarily make me happy either; what I want can leave me sat there, bored and lonely.  What I need is to walk to the library, to go to the allotment, to do a short bike ride, to do something, get out there, be productive or at least energetic.

3.  Make only really small changes, and make them stick, then make some more small changes and make them stick too, then some other small changes.  Building up all the little changes over time since the start of this year now sees me eating breakfast every day, and a reasonably nutritious one at that.  No snacking happens in the morning now, I'm full until lunchtime.  I have learned to really enjoy enormous quantities of salad in wraps or sandwiches or just as part of a main meal.  Beginning to do more exercise built up and up until I was doing 7 hours a week minimum by April.  I have a four o'clock snack at work, and often it's an apple.  I don't drink alcohol on "school nights" any more and not so much at weekends.  Lots of little changes really add up.

And let's not forget the bike in all this.  100 hours is a normal month, from January onwards, and the plan is to double that by the end of summer.  The bike is not an instrument of torture and it certainly doesn't feel like the kind of exercise you do because you feel you have to, the weekends of mountain biking are a joy and not a chore, and there's a lot to be said for that.

Being brave

Do something each day that scares you, they say.  Whoever they might be.  Generally I laugh scornfully at such a statement and respond "what, just one thing?".  So I am very much aware of my tendencies to be a wuss.  It's been really really windy recently.

This simply won't do said the nasty parent state inside me (Berne's transactional analysis model has a lot to answer for http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transactional_analysis).  So after much internal wrangling on Tuesday night I got the bike out, just to see what it felt like to be a little out of control and at risk of wind blown diversions from the straight and narrow.  Just a short trip, a killing two birds with one stone thing (there we go, another of those common phrases), by doing the two mile trip to the allotment on the bike.  Wanting the trip to be a success, I dressed with care, even donning the winter bike tights (it's nearly June for pity's sake), and a windproof softshell.  And it was fine.  Turns out the commuter bike is built like a tank and it would take one hell of a wind to blow something that weight off track.  Job done.

So, Wednesday did see me back on the bike again on the work commute, possibly over dressed for the time of year, but I got out there, and I did it, and nobody died.

Girls Talk

Is cycling a feminist issue I wonder.  Mulling over in my over crowded head space some girly issues associated with the bicycle.

Current musing is as a result of a few things - reading an article in the Guardian and reading a snippet or two about Cycletta, and following a clicky link or two.  For convenience, the thought provoking stuff here:

http://www.101wankers.com/
http://www.guardian.co.uk/women-only-cycling-events
http://www.cycletta.co.uk/

There is a lot I don't understand.  I don't understand the woman writing the 101wankers site, where she describes incidents where men have shouted stuff at her or taken other unusual actions while she's on the bike.  Not wanting to follow the recent Ken Clarke comments regarding rape ... I really don't get why she's experiencing these problems, and wonder indeed if it's something she herself is doing, drawing attention to herself in some negative fashion.  I just don't understand because it's something that's never been a teeny weeny part of my cycling experience, and I'm chalking up around 100 miles a month on average so far this year so have reasonable potential exposure to all kinds of situations, city centre cars & pedestrians, drunks etc. I really am putting myself out there.

I also don't understand Cycletta.  I don't know if it's competitive, participation, political lobbying, I don't really understand the purpose.  My experience of mass events attended by women is restricted to the Race for Life events, and I know it's not a social opportunity; you're never going to find a potential riding partner for future in a mass of other people intent on riding their bikes.  I'm a little scared if it is like Race for Life that it'll be totally impossible to make progress, being held behind dawdling participators and forced into an uncomfortable position of over crowding which my bike handling skills are not up to.  If it's more competitive then I'd also be in the wrong place, not owning a suitable bike for such occasions and definitely not having bunch skills.  Added to that I'd be too slow. If it's political then I'd never take part without a clear understanding of what the aim is and what it's standing up for.  Oh, and it's £35 to go out for a bike ride.  That's just stupid. 

For me, cycling fulfils maybe three entirely separate needs.  It can be for fitness when I go out on my own, keeping my own pace and my own company and having complete freedom to do my own thing.  It can be to get from A to B, again at my own pace in my own company and with the option of going for fitness as well as simply making the distance pass as quickly as I reasonably can.  The third need is the one I use it least often for, to fulfil a social need.  Going out with friends on a ride is social not for fitness as you can't really do everything you can on your own in a group, there are other restrictions and you need to focus on the social element or come away from the ride disappointed.  Whichever need, I can be sure Cycletta fulfils none of them.

I am being drawn towards the somewhat disconcerting conclusion that I'm not representative of women.

Dorothy flight

Once again I'm being a feardy cat.  I have mental pictures of the gale force winds lifting me up as per Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  This picture has not been enhanced by reading people's twitter entries suggesting they are being physically lifted from their bikes and dumped on the road.  It's not pretty out there.

I am a wuss when it comes to weather.  It takes a lot to get me out on the bike in a) rain, b) wind, c) darkess, d) weather that looks like it might produce any of the previous 3 possibilities.  No matter how many times I tell myself I won't dissolve, it doesn't help.  No matter how much I prepare myself with bomb proof lights with long life batteries, it doesn't help.  Telling myself I will get blown into the path of a passing lorry doesn't form the best mental preparation for the journey either.  So I'm grounded.

Added to my weather woes, I have committed a guilty unfaithful act, and done 5 days kayaking in the last week.  My shoulder is so sore I can't use the mouse with my right arm, and in fact typing is causing some slight twinges.  Wonder  how much the bike riding would be affected ...

Grounded.

Welsh Ways

I'm a city girl.  Never clearer to me than when I attempted a little off road bike route planning near to Capel Curig using only the Ordnance Survey map for the area.  I'm OK at the old map reading, and I'm really really good at making sure I adhere to the letter of the law where bike riding is concerned.  So, I carefully plan a route using only bridleways and minor roads, checking on the contours, checking on the distance so I don't over reach myself given the time available.  The first four  miles of the route go well, then I reach my overshoot point.  I love that I have planned enough to realise when I've gone too far, basic nav skills in action.  So I check the map, and retrace my steps and find the turn I should have taken.  Lift the bike over a fence and walk it to the road over marsh and slabs of uneven wobbly rock and over a couple of streams.  At this point, planning is not looking too hot if I'm honest.

On reaching the road I cross to the bridleway marked, and I'm on my way again.  Five minutes later and there's a signpost pointing up a rocky and boggy hillside.  Not even enough markings to look to this city girl like a footpath let alone a bridleway.  Check the map, check the compass, get off the bike and begin to push up the hill.  Pass a walker who confirms I'm on the right track.  Keep going and going and get to a dry stone wall and one of those stiles incorporating 4 steps.  Turn back.  Terrain so interesting I couldn't even manage the descent in the saddle.  Turns out in Wales bridleways are not quite the wide surfaces they are around the cities of the North West.  Interesting. 

Escape route on the mountain bike in the rain was the A5.  Zoomingly fabulous descent four miles back to Capel Curig and the ride is over.

Comfort zone

It is a big brave move for me to go somewhere new to me without company and get out on the mountain bike.  All manner of things go through my head.  First thing is will I actually find the place; I am not renowned for my car navigation skills.  Second concern normally relates to things like toilets, car parking, followed by a dose of worry about the weather.  Third concern is how to bail out - if I don't know the area, I don't have a map (ordnance survey maps don't really cover trail centre forest tracks particularly well); if I have a mechanical I can't resolve at the side of the trail will I be able to get myself on foot back to the start.  Fourth concern relates to falling off; will the centre be busy enough that if I whack my head or break my collar bone someone will come along soon to help me out, and if not will there be phone reception.  My brain loves to find fear where others might discover excitement.

So despite all the above limiting factors on my teeny rodent brain filled with confusion and fear of the big scary world, I found myself working out the drive to get to Coed y Brenin trail centre.  Turned out it was just two roads but 50 minutes drive from where I was staying.  Simples.  A5, A470, what's to go wrong.  And indeed nothing did go wrong.  Car parking was spacious, pay and display not bad, and the toilets were a thing you can only dream of, incorporating also showers, a cafe, a visitor centre with trail maps and a bike shop.  Signage was huge and bold, and options clear.  I picked my route, and I set off.

Not a day to fall off I felt, given that I was alone in the big dark woods.  The first singletrack section therefore presented me with problems, rocky technical climbing is not my forte, and indeed I have been known to topple over on such terrain before.  I soon found I had become the mistress of the foot dab, and made my way up the winding hill, and then along the swooping descent.  Bike seemed to be sluggish and handling slighty sloppy, and on arrival at the wide forest road post descent it became clear what had happened.  Puncture.  Rear tyre.

So this was interesting.  Bike upside down on the grass verge, tyre levers, new inner tube and pump all out of the bag, and I set to work.  Quick release and disc brakes are a little piece of heaven in these circumstances.  Twist, release, lift and out comes the wheel.  A couple of lads rode past, and nodded at me.  I smiled and got on with the job.  Another group of lads passed, not even eye contact.  It's kind of refreshing to find this mainly male environment is not sexist, boy bikers don't feel they need to stop to help a perfectly competent and well equipped woman to deal with something as straight forward as a puncture.  Job soon done, and my self confidence soaring as I have managed to cope with the most common problem alone.  Suddenly I know I can do this, I can go out alone to unknown terrain and I will survive.