So lucky

I should be so lucky.

Oh, this is weird.  I’m feeling sprightly.  It’s a beautiful bright and cold day, with only gentle flurries of snow tickling my cheeks on the ride into work this morning.  I’m giggling at how I’ve changed.  

• There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered getting on the bike to ride to work in weather like this. 
• There was a time when I wouldn’t have been laughing at my choice of bike (because I only had one).
• There was a time when cycling up the ramps from the subways (all legal and above board) was too much for me.  Now I do it in the big ring.

The time when I wouldn’t have considered riding in during weather like this isn’t that long ago. It’s yesterday in fact.  Now,  having ridden in yesterday into a head wind in a howling swirling low visibility blizzard, this morning’s cold and gentle flurries seemed quite sedate.  I even wore one less layer for the trip.  

Looking forward, looking back and looking to the now, there’s a little feeling of full circle.  I rather think I started this blog as somewhere to put down my cycle commute rantings and record the things that made me smile.  Here I am once more, commuting. The blog’s changed.  I’ve changed.  Sometimes, it’s simply not all about the bike.

This week has been commuting out of desperation, and there’s a bit of me wanting to jump on the bandwagon which is currently trundling along in various cycling press about exercise and mental health.  There’s a whole let’s not be afraid to talk about it ethos going on.  I’m not afraid to talk about my need to exercise to maintain mood, but I don’t feel the need to talk about it because it’s nothing special or unusual and it’s a fact not a question.  It does, though, offer up an explanation of why I rode in the blizzard.

Oh, and because I’ve ridden in twice in two days and have the endorphin thing working for me I’m singing along happily in my head to Kylie ...

Cold Hard Ground

I woke up Sunday to find my mountain bike had ice tyres on it.  This was good news.

The snow in March debate seems to have been raging somewhat.  Personally, I'm confused by the folk who are bemoaning the weather, feeling somehow resentful about it stretching into March, feeling somehow angry about the ongoing cold.  I don't get it.  I don't  understand why it's not just something you joyfully accept.  I mean, yes, the weather does make me change plans sometimes, but why not just embrace that as change and enjoy the consequences?  I didn't ride to work today, mostly because I am lazy and didn't really consider simply swapping the tyres on the road bike, but that doesn't mean the weather is bad, it just means I'm lazy and I'm doing things differently.  It's really not a big deal.

The weekend just gone saw some fabulous sights.  It saw roads closed due to drifting snow, patterns in dry stone walls, 4x4s stuck on the way up back streets.  Roads where suddenly bikes and walkers were empowered to walk down the middle.  If you were prepared to go on foot and pedal a new world was open to you.  A weird feeling of having reclaimed the isolated places.  Places which aren't normally isolated, but somehow, perhaps should be.  It felt special to be up there, riding on ice tyres along the back streets where normally maybe I wouldn't ride at all, or maybe I'd feel I needed to manage my riding so that sometimes I hug the kerb and others I own my space.  It felt good to ride down the middle of the road, revelling in the views only a few would see that day in those conditions.

It doesn't feel weird to me at all, this weather system in March.  But then I did have a summer which ran from mid December until the end of January and that didn't feel weird either.

And I leave you humming along to Taylor Swift ...

"Flew me to places I'd never been
Now I'm lying on the cold hard ground
Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble
Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble"

Down Street

I have led a privileged life.  I look at some of the places I have been given the privilege of going, some of the experiences I have been privileged to have had and some of the people I have been privileged to have spent time with.

In the 44 years I've lived, there's a lot I have to be grateful for, and going forward, I hope I have the same time left as has passed.

Some experiences you don't realise at the time are special.  And of course special is a definition you can define for yourself.  Sitting here nursing a somewhat tender jaw after an unexpected dentistry occurrence this morning, for no apparent reason a memory of my time working for the Piccadilly Line came back to me.  A fond memory which made me smile. 


I had the privilege of visiting here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Down_Street_tube_station

Down Street Station.  Closed in 1932, used briefly during World War II as a shelter for notables such as Winston Churchill.  It's not been sanitised, yet neither has it been artificially preserved.  It's pretty much been left standing, somewhat as it once was.  There are old posters still on the walls, the original tiling, if I remember rightly the colouring which was used to identify different lines and stations back in the early years of the Underground when you could tell where you were through the colours if not the station names.  You'd hardly notice the external entrance to the station unless you know it's there, much the same as during the day you can't identify where the nightclubs doors to a downstairs world are, unless you're in the know.  Yet once you know what it is, you can't miss it. I got to go in the doorway.

The place feels sacred.  Like you are genuinely stepping into a piece of history which should in some way be a museum but instead is shared by the few who are allowed to enter it.  We're part of something, part of the history, because our lives instead of simply observing it, are walking through it, not through an exhibit. 

Since the station closure it has not been quiet. It has been used for pop videos, for scenes in films and TV series.  All of that is now part of the station history.  As you stand on the platform, trains still pass you, and while the lights are on in the station in honour of your visit, of course other passengers can see that there's something there.  It's known as Down Street sidings these days, and if you know where to look, while you're on the train you can see glimpses of the station, not much, just an angle of a tunnel where once was a walkway.  It's amazing.  And the train stopped at the station to pick us up.

My visit was in my role as TGWU health and safety rep learning from the RMT rep, Pat.

Oestrogen Rich

The world of women and cycling is an odd one.  It seems to come in for a lot of discussion to the point where you kind of feel like yelling stop talking about it and just get on with it why don't you.  Because that's what most of us do, just get on with it.  Yet there is something out there, is it concern, is it government targets, is it coming from women or from men, who knows, something which seems to be casting around for change.

I guess from a marketing perspective, there's this possible less touched market that is women on bikes.  It's a part of the biking economy which still has the possibility of generating profit for bike equipment & clothing retailers.  From a government perspective, perhaps there's a perception that there's a group of people whose fitness could seemingly be lifted with a quick fix plan, and an easy win place for obesity issues to be tackled.  Probably I would think the 30 to 50 year old women's group.  People who wouldn't want to be seen dead in lycra, wobbly bits exposed and bike handling skills uncertain in unfamiliar traffic laden cities.

There's also a healthy do gooder chunk to it too I think.  There's a bit of me wonders why exactly it is that my local club, the North Cheshire Clarion want to not bend over backwards, but certainly to actively make provision for inclusion of women road riders.  I am not really sure what the motivation here is.  I believe they have 25 female members of the club, pretty much all of whom I would guess have joined knowing just what the club has on offer and being happy with that.  Nobody joined believing it was a place suited for women.  We just thought it was suited to bike riders.  It wasn't about gender.

But there are these once a month women's only rides, now with a male ride leader since the only regularly available, competent and willing female enthusiast emigrated to Australia.  And somehow, I felt I ought to support these. Now that's weird, isn't it?  What, after all, is my motivation for doing that. I can ride with the club's Saturday slow ride, and indeed very probably the medium ride too.  I'm properly catered for.  It doesn't need to be a women's ride. Yet Saturday found me out on the women's ride, and I think mostly it was because it was there, slightly because it felt like an easier option (I reckoned there was a reasonable chance I'd be in the top half of the group pace wise), and because I felt surprisingly strongly that if the club wanted to do this, it should be supported. I am nothing if not a team player.

I wouldn't for a moment say I regretted having turned up to the ride, even though I was the only rider there. It was a pleasant ride, rolling Cheshire countryside, and although not the easy gentle ride I wanted, due to just being me and James heads out in the wind.  And we spanked the normal ride time, kicked it into the hedge and threw rocks at it.

Now we're talking it through on the forums.  The eternal question has been raised.  What, exactly is it that women want?  Totally leaving you with this thought ...

#TeamWrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

#TeamTaylor plus one

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

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

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

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

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

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

#TeamOldDudes

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

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

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

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

Oh, and there was cake too.