Ride 22 of 31

So, as a well known tartan clad poet would put it "the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley" which roughly translates to a biker girl who can't scrape her head off the pillow and then forgets her map will not get that planned ride done. A few friends had arranged to meet in Blackpool for lunch today at 1pm, trusting the BBC weather to correctly predict sunshine I boldly announced that I would ride all the way there and back (probably a total trip of 60 miles). So first hiccup was the oversleep situation, meaning I couldn't possibly make it on time for my friends, a quick check of the train timetable and I decided Northern Rail could chew up a few of the miles for me and get me back on some sort of schedule. I hopped on the train with the bike and piled out at Kirkham station, at this point the forgotten map became an issue, after asking 3 different people I managed to establish which way Blackpool might be, a gloriously accidental route was discovered, a really nice b-road weaved me round to Lytham, a bit of a guess had me finding the sea at St Annes and I rode mostly on the prom in to Blackpool. Found my friends, who were suitably impressed by my athletic endeavour. Face stuffed with food, 2 pints of soda water glugged and all news exchanged I got back on the bike. This is where that lack of map became a problem again, I've ridden from Blackpool to home before and the ride as far as Preston is OK, but then I always end up on the worst bit of dual carriageway ever, and was hoping today to be armed with a map and find an elusive b-road to ride the final 10 miles. As I reached Preston at a few minutes to five, I just couldn't face the prospect of having to deal with death trap roads in rush hour so I cut through the city to the train station and let the railway save me for the second time. A total of about 36 miles and not the planned 60, but I had a good day out on the bike and that is surely what matters.

Vikki

Strengths and weaknesses

Strengths and weaknesses are to be celebrated. It is not weak to admit weakness but it is strong to overcome it. Celebrate weakness, sure, but celebrate kicking the ass out of weakness through hard work, long hours and eye-bleeding determination. Celebrate getting to the hill first, getting up the hill first, recovering first, getting home first, getting to the cake first, being first to be proud of your own achievements no matter what anyone else says.

There is painful, embarrassing, cringeworthy weakness in anonymity. No strength there. Nothing to celebrate.

Fi

anonymous

a·non·y·mous [uh-non-uh-muhs]
–adjective
1. without any name acknowledged, whose name is withheld, as that of author or the like: an anonymous comment left within a blog, particularly by those choosing to remove passages from a previous context and bend them to a similar but incorrect meaning; see also coward.
2. of unknown name; an anonymous rider, who passes quietly over the hills without reason to pause, converse or generally shoot the breeze with individuals, known or otherwise, and who remains unencumbered by recognition as she rides under cover of gathering darkness to work and back, feeling rather proud and happy that all of these hills are home even if her battery is mostly flat and she can't quite see where she's going...

j.

Ride 21 of 31

Fuelled by the constant stream of homemade cake that husband of mine seems to making I left the house at 8.30 to meet friend Carolyn at 9 for a morning whizz round the moors. A slight Autumnal nip in the air made me wish I'd worn a base layer but once I got going I wasn't too cold, I certainly can't have been as chilly as the man I rode past changing his pants in the middle of a field next to a tent. I got to our meeting place and we decided to ride up to the Pike (local hill top stone tower, see photo), from the top we discussed riding down the more scary bit off the front of the hill and then opted for the nicer roll off the back. A very wet track then took us over the moor to Lead Mines Clough. On the way we met a man on a road motorbike who must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and then bizarrely passed "catalogue man" in leather shoes, stay press slacks, smart shirt and jacket slung over his shoulder, what on earth he was doing on that wild, soggy, sheep poo strewn bit of Lancashire is anyone's guess. A few more bits of up and down and we were flying along a fast bit of bridleway by the reservoir when we encountered one of those "la-la land" groups of walkers who are 4 abreast across the whole path and although looking right towards us seem unable to actually see us, a squishing was narrowly avoided. Just after this I opted out of doing another climb feeling I need to save a bit of something in the legs for tomorrow and took the road home, first bend and coming towards me on the opposite side is a group of octogenarian roadies the front rider of which seemed to be wearing a tweed deer-stalker hat. I got back to the house full of tales of how busy it seemed in the hills this morning.


Vikki

The Trans Dusties

So I'm done. I'm back in Calgary after the Trans Rockies. What an epic. I can't begin to describe how amazing this race is. It is physically, mentally and emotionally demanding. Meg and I rose to the challenge pretty darn well, I'd say. We faced illness, altitude problems, men problems, bike problems and food problems. But we got through it. And we got third spot. As the Canadians are wont to say, 'good job!"

I learnt a lot. I found that I can ride hard all day every day, keep smiling, climb for hours, descend with my eyes shut, fix punctures that aren't there and peel Torq Bars one handed. I learnt that I can ride singletrack with a stupidly high heart rate after 6hrs in the saddle and I'm not afraid to jump over stuff in order to get past trail slugs. I learnt that friendship is more important that bikes, and that honesty is more important than bravery. I learnt that dust is more painful than mud and that suncream is more important than chamois cream. I learnt to trust myself and that instincts are instinctual for a reason.

Having hit the Calgarian bike shops rather hard it's time to take the bike out to the Canada Olympic Park for some singletrack action. The more I ride the more I want to ride. I am reminded of one of the songs they played when we were on the podium entitled 'the greatest game of all.' Cheers to that.

Fi

status quo

I don't get to ride with other people very much. Life is hectic and I don't have the hours spare to be able to spend long days in the saddle gathering chamois time* but not necessarily miles; they have to be used efficiently, and that means riding alone, unfettered and undistracted. And so, I don't have much basis for measuring my own strength. In any group there's a pecking order, and though everyone has good and bad days, it's normally possible to measure your progress, positive or otherwise, against your friends. It's usually the same people that get to the top (and the bottom) of the hills first, in the middle and last, and it's unusual for the apple cart to be upset in mid-season (late winter/early spring pecking order rides being a subject for another day) but it was yesterday.

(*rides gauged by time spent wearing bike clothing, being around bikes, and talking about bikes, rather than time spent actually riding bikes.)

I knew nothing about it at the time but whilst grinding my way up a particular climb, in pursuit of one rider ahead, others were climbing off behind me. Deafened by the sound of blood in ears, teeth gritting, welds popping off the frame, worn chain links creaking their way onto hooked and jagged chainring teeth, tyres slipping on chalk and gravel, I couldn't hear the sound of cleat leaving pedal several times over and thus with no excuses (because the rider in front had stayed on, damn him, no matter how much I wished he might falter and stop and therefore let me off the hook), I made the top and sat looking at the view, feeling rather pleased that I'd managed to clean a climb I'd thought would be impossibly steep, and not a little out of breath and knackered.

Did it make it any sweeter knowing that I'd beaten riders who I'd once have been walking far behind? Of course it did. It's an indication that I'm starting to get things right, that my legs are coming back to life after the summer's solo efforts, that the hard road miles and the deliberately, frustratingly truncated 'easy' rides are having an effect on my strength and fitness. And it also means that my head is starting to come together again, because I had to think damn hard to get up that hill, had to concentrate on lines as well as legs and block out all the other churning mess. And that clarity is the one thing that I have been dreaming of, for a long, long year.

Jenn

Ride 20 of 31

SPuDs-a-go-go! After yesterdays ride with the slip-fest feet I have (with assistance from mechanical minded husband) set to my pedals with a screwdriver and hex key. A bit of poking with the screwdriver and we were able to pop the flat side off the pedal and create a proper double sided SPD. I then did a bit of hex key twisting and turned the spring tension down. Some test rides round the park and a bit more adjusting became multiple laps of the park clip in, clip out, clip in, clip out, yes, indeed, I can now attach and free myself from the pedals whenever I feel like it. It's a cross bike and Minx has assured me that riding a cross bike with mountain bike shoes is OK and that the bike fashion police won't be round to get me!

Vikki

Ride 19 of 31

From my house I know of a good undulating and not too trafficy 10 mile road loop so a quick blast round this on the new crosscheck seemed in order once the rain had stopped. I decided to ride with the SPD/flat combo pedals I mentioned a few posts back and not being confident enough to be on a new bike and in my cleats I just had my skate shoes on. These are a great footwear choice on my mountain bike but they turned out to be horrid on the glossy surface that seemed to materialise on the flat side of the new pedals in the eternal damp that is the British summer. After 5 or so miles I was feeling less wary of my slidey feet as I hadn't come to any harm and then I reached the first real incline of the ride. I'm not going to big it up and call it a hill, it's just an upward slope of road, I changed down a bit, I haven't yet needed to use the "granny ring" on the new bike and so thought I might as well change right down and just make sure all was well with the gears. Unfamiliarity with the bike struck I made that stupid mistake of changing up not down, well I know I said it's not a hill, but it's not a "big ring" situation either and I basically ground to a standstill. I hopped off, lifted back wheel off the ground, a quick click and pedal spin and the right gear ring was engaged. I then tried to launch myself again, uphill, slippy shoes, pah, forget it, it just couldn't happen, so I had to push. The indignity of this pushing wouldn't have been so bad had I not been wearing my (courtesy of Minx) Twin Six, Queen of the Mountains shirt, I hung my head in shame as I pushed. I was of course rewarded soon after with a fab downhill that I don't mind admitting caused me to let my fingers hover on the brake levers all the way. Home reached safely with the announcement that I need new pedals, husband seemed less than interested and carried on making a sponge cake.

Vikki

Ride 18 of 31

What should have been a gentle pedal with Flipper the dog in the only break we've had in the rain today turned into a bit of a frantic event. Off we set and all seemed fine, tail wagging dog seemed happy to be out for a run until "the noise" happened. Flipper is a rescue dog, we've had her since she was a puppy but we don't know what she experienced before joining the Hughes family and just occasionally she reminds us that she didn't maybe have the best start to life. Noises sometimes just freak her out. So, we're scampering and riding along and then we hear a mechanical rumbling, I know it's just farm machinery but Flipper evidently thinks it's the four horsemen of the apocalypse, or one of them at least. Tail goes down and she simply turns round and bolts for home. I swing round and worriedly pedal flat out after her, I lost sight of her at one point but caught up to her as she made a stop just long enough to make sure I was following and then we just kept going. We finally met up again at the front door. She's curled up next to me now with big eyes making the occasional grumbly growl just in case anything needs scaring off. I don't think either of us are going out again today.

Vikki

Ride 17 of 31

Before I write about today's ride we're going to have one of those all goes hazy cinematic flashback moments. Summer 1993, I was living with my parents in one of those kinda-in-between-things periods that many of us have as young adults. It had the potential to be a desperate summer, but I was saved by cycling. A friend of a friend ran a bar and was a real Tour de France nut he took pity on the miserable me and every afternoon called me round to watch tour highlights on Channel 4 on the big screen and give me a free beer. As the tour progressed and I developed a crush on Miguel Indurain I knew I wanted to ride bikes fast. At this time I didn't have a bike or any money, my Dad's answer to my predicament was to point me towards his ancient red Carlton in the cellar, I know a family photo exists from 1979 of my Dad on this bike so we're talking retro in 1993. I cleaned it up a bit and gave it a lube, Dad coughed for some new tyres and grip tape and it was ready to roll. I rode all summer, bars flipped because the bike was too big for me to ride any other way, it was a great bike and a great summer. I got it together and moved on, the bike went back to the cellar and I guess at some point went to the great bicycle heaven the sky, but I never forgot that bike.

Fast forward to present and the desire to own a new bike. As I mentioned a few posts ago I've ordered a Surly, I'd had that old Carlton in mind when we talked over the build spec. Gear levers on the down tube, leather saddle, I wanted something with a really traditional feel to it but with a sensible modern twist (think new Beetle). Today was the day this bike became mine, husband drove me into Manchester just after lunch and following a few final adjustments by Rich at Bicycle Doctor I was ready to ride home. 22 miles and not quite two hours later I was pulling up outside my house. What a bike, what a ride, it didn't quite make me feel nearly fifteen years younger, but it was close.

Vikki

Ride 16 of 31

My village has a hardware shop that used to sell a few bikes but of late they've given up on the fun stuff and decided to focus on shovels and nails and. A bit ago I was in there buying clothes pegs (oh the excitement) and noticed a cardboard box of bikey looking bits on the floor at the back. Well, what girl can resist a rummage in such a box of potential goodies. Amongst what was actually a load of junk I spotted some Shimano pedals, the sort that are SPD on one side and flat on the other, one pedal was in a packet the other loose, no cleats with them. They decided they only wanted a fiver for the pedals, so bargain had by me. Shoes ordered from t'internet, cleats from local bike shop, I was all ready to go "spuddy" for less than £40. I tried them out once on the park on my commuter and kept doing the comedy fall sideways slowly when stopping thing. So I gave up and sort of forgot about them. Well, today saw another attempt, it went well, I graduated from the park to round the block. In a calm roundabout/red light approaching situation I can unclip gracefully and put a foot down. Will my first emergency stop be so elegant?


Vikki

Ride 15 of 31

It's been raining nearly all day but at about 3pm I spied some blue sky trying really hard to make it to my bit of Lancashire. I willed it to get to me by 5pm when I'd arranged to meet Carolyn. Luck was with me and I actually needed my sunnies by ride time. I'm still feeling quite a bit below my best all full of cold and coughing a lot, so we agreed to take it steady this evening. Some fun rolling bits along the reservoir, a couple of gentle climbs and a some really nice descents. Home after about 3 hours of this feeling way better than if I'd stayed on the couch with paracetomol, lemony drinks and self pity, thus proving that a bicycle is a better cold remedy than anything your pharmacist can sell you. Mind you, try telling husband of mine that I do need that new Santa Cruz Juliana for purely medicinal purposes!

Vikki

Ride 14 of 31

Today, I did something that I've not done since I was about 10 and went for a whizz round a BMX track. I put on my extra tough helmet, I tucked the right leg of my jeans into my sock and off I pedalled, it was awesome. I'd like to think that I flew round, took the perfect line, caught stacks of air and generally rocked. I doubt that was actually the case but I had a great time no matter what. Fortunately apart from husband of mine who thinks I rock all the time, there were no witnesses to spoil my delusions, the rain seeming to have kept all small boys at home with their Nintendos.

Vikki

Ride 13 of 31

I am trying to convince myself that the bizarre and worsening noise coming from my bike is not it's way of telling me the bottom bracket is broken. So today's riding was a host of diagnostic laps round the block each following a "procedure" at my oh so not expert bike fixing hands. I rode in a variety of inappropriate gears, extremes of legs spinning like mad on the flat and stomping over hump back bridge in my big ring. Gear choice does not seem to be related to the noise. I cleaned a chunk of gunk off the cranks and front mech in case it was something as simple as grinding grit, no joy. I oiled bits that seemed dry, I wiped bits that seemed too greasy, I checked all teeth and chain links. I injected my pedals. Each lap of the block the bike made a noise. Small boys watched me bunny hop as I tried to bounce the noise out of my bike. I have exhausted my skills as a bike mechanic. It will have to be looked at by a professional.

Vikki

ginger stepchild

Funny thing, riding cross bikes.

Ginger stepchildren of the road and mountain bike world, roadies can't understand the appropriate convention of baggies and packs (baggies for brambles, pack for three litres of water and eight spare tubes), so dispense with the nod of recognition and break out the old-school sour-faced glare.

And mountain bikers, well, what would you do if somebody riding what is apparently a road bike overtook you and your five inches on a technical descent?

Caught somewhere in the middle, and usually with a foot in one or both camps on other days anyway, those that do seem to plump for either grinning a big, fat, myteetharebeingrattledoutofmyheadbutboyisitfun hello to everyone, or nothing at all - which goes to show how people are funny things as well.

Tell you what, though - cross bikes are the best thing in the world for poaching N. Downs cheek. The ramblers don't have a clue what they are...

jenn.

Ride 12 of 31

I'm a bit ill. I've been riding the last few days with a bit of a cold, a bunged up nose but nothing too serious. Today I woke up feeling rough. The cold has become a cough. The restorative properties of ice cream are well known so I very gently pedalled to the corner shop for a Fab lolly. The packet said made with real strawberry but when I actually read the ingredients something makes me think I can't count it as one of my 5 a day. Still, it made me feel much better.

Vikki

Ride 11 of 31

I've been riding bikes most of my life but have only just seriously started getting into mountain biking this year, I'm spoilt by having natural riding right on my doorstep so have never visited a man-made trail centre, but that has just changed. Alarm at seven this morning, too early for a Saturday, but up I got. Dress for riding, bike into back of car, husband bid farewell. Drive to Carolyn's house, pop her bike in to car, off we go for an adventure. Just over an hour in the car and we pull into the car park of Coed Llandegla (North Wales). Bikes readied, sun cream applied, helmets on, off we set. Carolyn's a pretty experienced rider and assured me I could cope with the "Black Run" so this is our first target. Steady climb to begin with and then we reached the first berm I've not much experience of berms and somehow all went slidey and sideways, my bike skidded towards the fence, fortunately my body was in the way so no serious damage done to the steed. Dust myself down and back on the bike. The "Black Run" was a tad too scary for me, lots of berms and I now have a new phobia of them. Lots of bits where I was off and pushing. Fortunately the trail was pretty quiet so I didn't get in anyone else's way. Made it back down to the shop and cafe. A few minutes in the shop eyeing up shiny bits and shorts and we hit the cafe. A big slab of carrot cake and a can of coke restored my self confidence so out we went again. "Red Trail" this time. Shared start to some of the routes so the berm of evil is soon approached, this time no problem. The "Red Trail" is ace, super swooshy, lots of nice linking berms, oh yes I am quickly cured of my new phobia. A great run back down to the trail centre. Coffee, jaffa cakes, and a banana. Bikes back in car and the drive home. What a great day!

Vikki

24hr party girl

Friday nights have been somewhat lacking of late. Either driving to a race, or travelling across London to see the boy, but precious few spent doing something nice to make it feel like a weekend. Frenetic. Time to take some time out for self. Cancelled all plans and left work at 7pm with nothing to get up for on Saturday and therefore no time constraints. Cross bike, pocketful of gels, one bottle, lights and a warm thing. Glowing sunlight. Up across the golf course to Cissbury and then a meandering route to Steyning through singletrack (all off-camber and dusty after so much wet); some road hills to Jack & Jill. Back across the tops, getting stuck into the climbs, pausing to watch the pinkest sunset and a pair of kestrels hunting (wildlife all over the place at the moment, seen hares twice this week, buzzard struggling to escape a roadside perch with breakfast in its claws, many deer displaced by the crop cutting that's going on around the clock, dodging bats between hedges and the inevitable rabbit encounters), for a welcome wee in the bushes (can anyone else not concentrate when they're bursting?)... Then putting the hammer down and flying to Blackcap along hard-packed, glowing white chalk, big ring, sore legs, joy of speed through the dusk. Investigations of new trails down from the hill and then quiet lanes to the village. Topped off with the piece of litter caught in an overhead branch suddenly coming to life and swooping down over my head as I rode beneath; a barn owl, so close I could have reached out and touched it, flying alongside for a few wingbeats and then circling out over the field into the darkness. Level crossing open, beer in the fridge. Bliss.

Jenn.

Ride 10 of 31

I ran errands today, the sort of stuff I might normally have hopped in the car to do but because of my pedal every day policy I was out on two wheels. A carrier bag classily swinging from the handlebars. Dry cleaners, post office, appointment making at the dentist, really dull stuff. In the car it would have been nothing but a bit of a drag but somehow all the chores seemed balanced out nicely by the always taken at top speed fab swoosh down the hill into my bit of the village.

Vikki

Ride 9 of 31

Husband of mine is not a biker, very rarely I manage to lure him out for a ride and today was such an occasion. Chicken sandwiches, mini pork pies, cherries, malt loaf, fizzy water and a rug stuffed into a ruc-sack off we set for a family picnic. Flipper the dog lolloped along next to the bikes as we did a very steady 4 miles along the canal tow path to the woods. Rug spread, sarnies scoffed, sticks thrown and mud spread (Flipper obviously involved), cherry pips spat, bit of a relax, then rubbish and rug all stuffed back into ruc-sack and pedal home. It was a dreamy sort of afternoon, dragon flies and swans, Wigan in the distance even managed to look like a Tuscan hill town in the sun. All that was missing is that we weren't wearing straw boaters and striped blazers and riding Pashley Princesses.

Vikki

Ride 8 of 31

Riding this afternoon with two friends. I've got one of those speed, distance, GPS units, I mostly use it for running but occasionally take it out on the bike. Statistics for my ride. Duration 4 hours 41 minutes. Total distance 23.26 miles. Max speed 26mph. Total amount of climbing 878m. Highest point reached Winter Hill at 456 metres above sea level, but honestly the descent made it seemed like the highest point on the planet. An even gnarlier descent followed later, locally known as the ice cream run. I hadn't done it before, I had visions of a soft scoop raspberry ripple sort of happy time. Instead there were rocks, big ones. The sort of riding that leaves you feeling pounded. I'll confess I wimped out of the final climb of the day, left the others and peeled off for home. I feel good but both me and the bike have got a kinda crunchy, clicky thing going on in the drivetrain, I recommend oil for one of us and apparently chocolate milkshake is good for the other.

Vikki

nettle stings.

and sun burn.

that is all :o)

jenn.

Ride 7 of 31

I went into Manchester today on the train (no bike) to meet my friend. He's a very stylish photographer so although I don't really do city chic I felt a bit compelled to make an effort, you know the sort of thing, hair actually dried instead of being allowed to form in it's usual tangle of tails. I had a lovely time, doing lunch, catching up on gossip and shopping but I had that slightly overwhelmed feeling that a city always gives me. I got home feeling a bit zonked. Flipper the dog was very pleased to see me home and instantly set about me with the heart melting rays she can magic from her eyes. I quickly changed into some baggies and a tech tee, grabbed a bike and headed out with the dog. Just a quick nip along the disused railway track and back but the perfect antidote to the city. Now, if I could just work out how to bottle that "bike riding good" feeling I'd be onto something.

Vikki

Grizzly bears and bicycles

I had a dream last night that I was walking along a warm, quiet, hedge-lined country lane. I came across a large, hungry looking Grizzly Bear pawing at the ground, so after a sigh of gentle annoyance I turned right and broke through the dense hawthorn hedge and scaled a muddy bank to get to the field above and out of sight. Odd.

So I obviously have bears on the brain. That is most likely because today I'm driving to Gatwick and tomorrow flying to Calgary. On Sunday the Trans Rockies begins.

I can't believe it's crept up on me like this, stealthily hiding behind the excitement (and pain) of Mayhem before jumping out on me: 'Da daaaaaa'. Last week was mental. Packing, washing, buying, breaking, re-buying, unpacking, packing again, unpacking, removing home comforts, packing again.

Now I just can't wait to get out there and ride my bike. I'll be writing a blog each day (facilities permitting) so you can see how I'm getting on.

As my friend Huw wrote in his good luck card to me "Take it easy girl, but take it". Will do...

Fi
x

a little spot of bother.

British Cycling. Something is deeply, deeply wrong with an organisation which purports to uphold the best interests of our sport and then refuses to send the four-times national champion to the Worlds in her own country. Thankfully, they relented - or at least we hope they have, because the list of 'additional' riders still hasn't been announced, and we don't know who will have been 'allowed' to go.

To cut a long, convoluted and really bloody depressing story short, their sole purpose as an organisation is to grab as many Olympic medals for Team GB as possible. Medals mean funding (via the National Lottery/Sport England), presumably for more medals (and salaries). Therefore, anyone who does not stand a chance at podiuming stays home...

What would be a better use of all that lottery money, a couple of brassy coins on a ribbon every four years or the opportunity to inspire people to ride, by 'just' participating?

A solution? Get the suits out on a bike. Not an elitist track bike, or an unattractive road bike, but a mountain bike of the sort found in (maybe) every third shed in the country. Send them to a Merida, or a Gorrick, or a 24. Let them see and ride with real people, who live nowhere near a velodrome or an iconic hill climb but do have woods or the park just down their road and for whom participation is what matters, not winning. Riders who don't stand a chance of ever seeing the world from the top of a podium but are still out there every weekend, getting fitter and happier as a consequence, as a by-product of joining in.

Spend my share of the lottery money (and all of my licence fee) on that, please, British Cycling.

Jenn.
(BC licence 707895)

Ride 6 of 31

Didn't really have a plan in mind for a specific ride so just went out to play for an hour. Rode a mixture of canal tow path, disused railway line, farm track, woodland paths, nettle patches and B-roads. Sunny but not too hot. The ride turned into something like an animal magic roadshow, sadly no Johnny Morris voiceover. I saw ducks, moor hens, butterflies, sheep, cows, goats, a frog (left unkissed for someone in greater need of a prince than me), a pheasant, a squirrel, a huge shuffling hairy caterpillar, and best of all a pig. I was just meandering along past a bit of a small-holding which has a couple of fields of free range porkers when I hear a lot of piggy grunts a lot closer to me than expected. I turn to see a good size pink lady coming towards me with a sort of piggy indignation as to why I was on her patch. After a bit of an inspect of the back wheel she seemed satisfied I was no competition for her mud patch and let me go on my way.

Vikki

Heat and Dust

The edges of my eyes are still red and my skin is bronzed where I sweated off the suncream. Yesterday was a proper summer's day. This weekend was a proper summer's weekend.

Saturday night we escaped. Tent up next to the river. Dunster Castle behind us. Mist clinging to the long grass in the valley. Hip flask, Jack Daniels, sound sleep.

Morning saw a beautiful sunrise, tinkering with bikes, hot tea and bacon rolls. 500 riders pouring out of Dunster and climbing up and up and up (and up) into Exmoor.

The views were breathtaking, hazy, summery, golden. The ups were sweaty, hot, bent double. The downs were eye watering, dangerous, fast, flowing. The end was welcome, more tea, cold cans of coke, congratulations, washing in the river and a sleepy crawl back down the motorway to Bristol.

People who don't have weekends like these are missing a huge chunk of happiness from their lives.

http://www.exmoorexplorer.com/. Next year...

Fi

Ride 5 of 31

Today I thought I'd go for the one wheeled option. I've been trying to learn to ride a unicycle. It's frustrating as I am finding it incredibly difficult. In fact, possibly the most difficult thing I've ever tried to do. It's a bizarre mental and physical challenge. Speaking to others who've tamed the one wheeled beast apparently it's just a knack, a sudden mental clicking that allows the physical act of riding to happen. I have yet to experience this moment of mental clarity. I mostly still need to hang onto a wall with one hand, I can manage a few turns of the pedals without this aid to balance, something starts to feel like I'm going to make it and then it all just goes pear shaped. And when things start to go a bit wrong on the unicycle I find they rapidly go very wrong. Believe me unicycles bite. My shins are mostly being held together with Germolene new skin and I have a bruise on my thigh the like of which I've not seen since a cowboy once suggested I try my hand at riding a mechanical bucking bull (that's a whole other story). I have given up for today, but I will be trying again.

Vikki

Ride 4 of 31

A friend of mine claims the best things to go shopping for are shoes and hats because no matter what neither can make you look fat. While I agree with this statement I have to add that the absolute finest thing in the world to go shopping for is a new bicycle. A new bike can do nothing but make a girl look fabulous. To this end today's ride was a ride to have a ride. I pedalled to my local railway station, and hopped me and the bike onto the train to Manchester. A speedy, bus dodging, nip along the cities Oxford Road onto an aromatically mouth watering "curry mile" and a left turn found me outside Manchester's Bicycle Doctor. There is nothing quite like the smell of vulcanised rubber to get my wallet itching to make its way out of my pocket. I was expected at the shop as a Surly cross-check was there waiting for to test ride to make the final decision on frame size before ordering. A few whips round the block and as expected I do indeed need the smallest one they make. Lots of chat followed about exact spec with my bank balance having to unfortunately over-rule my heart on certain points, but a decision was made and an order placed. A happy me then cycled back along the Oxford Road stopping to take in an exhibition at the Whitworth Gallery and some lovely salad for a late lunch at a vegetarian restaurant I spotted. Then it was back to the station. Rather than hang around on the platform for the train directly to my village I got the first one available that got me within 6 miles of home and rode the rest of the way from there. A relaxing day, lots of fun, some easy riding and a new bike to look forward to.

Vikki

Ride 3 of 31

Ride 3 means day 3 of the 31, so not quite a tenth of the way through my self inflicted challenge and already I'm suffering the physical consequences. I'd arranged to meet my friend Carolyn at 5pm at Rivington Barn (cafe just outside village of Rivington). (Carolyn organises the women's rides of a local mountain bike club www.groovytribe.co.uk and so she had also arranged to meet Nicola, a new rider thinking about joining the club.) From my house to the barn is about 3 miles by road but I always nip up a grassy track I know to cut a corner off. This short cut has a gate that is my nemesis, it has one of those very strange revolving stile things next to the very locked standard 5 bar gate. To get through this I have to pop the bike up onto it's back wheel, then wedge the bike into the revolving bit, a weird balancing act that defies every law of science. I then have to climb the 5 bar bit swing the bike though towards me and begin the untangling process. Every time something goes a bit wrong and I lose a chunk of skin, today was particularly dodgy and I lost 2 bits of arm and scraped my ear on my front tyre. Made it the rest of the way to the barn without incident. Met up with the others and off we all set for what I knew would be a cracking ride all around the Rivington area. The rain mostly held off, not too many other people about, and felt really good to be out with other bikers. All well until about the ten mile point when on a bit of a breath catch and drink stop a sudden stingy itchy sensation on the back of the knee made me realise I was stopped above a patch of evil ants. Several minutes later and a bramble patch scraped another bit of arm. Nicola left us at about the 12 or 14 mile point but Carolyn and I felt we had another climb in our legs so off we went, now I'm home my legs are not thanking for me this decision. But through all this physical adversity I was grinning like every biker on a good ride does. I smiled as I made it to the top of the climbs and I giggled my way down the down bits. I made it home at about 9pm, gobbled down some stir-fry and glugged a beer. I ache and I'm scratched up, but nothing another beer and a bath won't sort out and I'll be more than ready to do it all again.

Vikki

Ride 2 of 31

When I initially discussed this plan for summer cycling with Minx I mentioned that my childhood rides had all been fuelled by Kia-Ora orange squash and Wagon Wheels, these two products ranking somewhere alongside Smash instant potato and fish fingers, anyone who grew up in the 70's will no doubt share this culinary nostalgia. So I decided today to ride to my local Tesco to purchase Wagon Wheels and Kia-Ora. I recently bought a new Chrome courier bag and yet to ride with it thought this little shopping trip the perfect opportunity to test it out. The easiest way to get to Tesco is an unimaginative 6 miles along a wind tunnel like section of the A6, but instead I took the back lanes which can get me most of the way there. Cows and horses in the fields, tree lined farm tracks, the sun shining, it's more hilly and a longer ride than the main road but none of that seemed to matter as I tootled along in my little nostalgia bubble. As soon as I started towards rejoining the main road a car cut across in front of me causing me to brake hard to avoid being squished, my nostalgia bubble was a little dented but not popped by this incident. Then I had the tricky bit of the ride negotiating a series of roundabouts including one where traffic leaves and joins the M61, there are some cycle lanes here but they sort of appear and disappear leaving a rider occasionally stranded, as I picked my way through this section I could feel my little nostalgia bubble shrinking a bit more but I pressed on. Tesco finally reached safely. Biscuit aisle found, wagon wheels into basket, squash aisle located, no sign of Kia-Ora, checked shirt assistant tracked down, no they don't do Kia-Ora, puzzled look given as to why none of the other 9 brands of orange squash stocked will satisfy my needs. I decide not to try and explain. I spy instead some Panda orange drink, thinking this may be a satisfactory alternative I reach up for a bottle. Before I even have time to register the split in the plastic I am partially coated in sticky orange. Nostalgia bubble well and truly bursts at this point. I abandon the Wagon Wheels and head for wines and spirits. I am happy to report that all the necessary ingredients for making Margaritas will fit into a Chrome messenger bag and can be comfortably transported home at speed over windy distances of 6 miles.

Vikki

Ride 1 of 31

When I came up with the plan of riding every day in August I had this idea of re-creating the summers of childhood, I pictured sunshine and just being outside pedalling all the time. Somehow I forgot all that annoying grown up stuff that just gets in the way. I've been away on holiday and only got back last night so after collecting Flipper the dog from friends, wading through mountains of laundry (how can two people have worn so much in two weeks), grocery shopping and sorting out some paperwork I finally got round to a ride at about 7pm. Feeling a bit pudgy and tired from holiday and noticing that Flipper looked like she'd gained a few pounds from 2 weeks with a retired butcher I decided on a gentle pedal with the dog. We did the 200m to the end of our road and joined the bank of the Leeds-Liverpool canal, 200m of tow path and we dropped down the steps under the aqueduct up the steep slope and onto the dis-used railway line. This is the start of lots of my rides as from this point I can stay on the railway line, access some cheeky singletrack through woods or take advantage of lots of points to rejoin the canal tow path. This evening was a gentle pedal down the railway line for a few miles and a turn round and pedal back. Nothing technical, nothing challenging, just me making the most of two things I love to do, riding a bike and being with my dog. We both hung our tongues out, wagged our tails and let our ears flap in the breeze.

Vikki

Miles

Jeesh what a weekend. Just had to share. With new found freedom (long story) I spent the ENTIRE weekend riding my bike. It was great. No guilt, no calling home and no worrying I should be doing something far more grown up and sensible with my time.

I cycled over 100 miles on saturday and over 100 miles on Sunday. Just because I could. I listened to the radio on my new phone (it's a week of news) and giggled my way all over North Somerset and Devon, drinking in the views, dodging the showers and generally indulging myself in a lot of pedalling fun.

OK so my legs may be a little on the tired side today but I still managed to get back to Bristol last night in time for a quick shower and de-lycra and head off to a new Spanish restaurant in town for a paella with a bunch of mates.

In my book that is the perfect weekend.

Fi

summer tyres

I don't do the whole 'what tyres' thing. And, from chatting to other women in the shop, it does seem to be an exclusively male phenomenon. Most of us ride the same tyres all the time, maybe having a set of muds if it really matters but otherwise just getting on with it. None of this rifling the shed because the trails might have dried off a bit and therefore it might be time for the stickies, but on the other hand there'll still be a bit of slippery muck out there so maybe we should stick with the spikes, but what about the roots.... blah blah blah.

There's pleasure in riding the same tread pattern all year round and getting used to it. How it rolls, how it grips, and how it doesn't grip - all of this makes you a better rider. And gives you one less excuse for being crap. I sense a theme here.

However - it has not stopped raining for two months. I am fed up of grey skies, puddles and flint-strewn roads. In a fit of temper, I've just put the summer tyres on the road bike (baby blue, matching tape), otherwise I am not going to get to use them until next year. No matter that we're currently cut off from the pub by the overflowing river and the sky is full of thunderclouds, I am sick of tying down my lovely light bike with stiff, leaden Ultragators. Punctures be damned, I'll carry three tubes a ride if I have to but somebody has to take a stand...

Jenn

twentyfour12

Home from Twentyfour12. Must be something going on at Glyndebourne this week, because I shared the train back with far too many people wearing tuxedos and posh frocks. With race number still tied to bike, muddy trousers, bruised shins and nasty smells eminating from my bag, I got a few twisted looks from people who don't know any better...

The course got, and is getting, some stick. That's to be expected. I spent the whole race wishing that the mud (first treacle, then porridge, peaking at 'just' plasticine and then regressing to miserable, thick, porridge-of-frustration again when the evening dew came down) was dust. I could see and feel the potential in every swooping bend and rooty climb, and at times was close to tears for wishing that I could just hear my freewheel whirring away down one, any of the descents rather than pedalling just to keep moving downhill.

We were all just very, very unlucky that the past two months have seen a ridiculous weather system settle on the UK; if it had been dry then the course would have been very fast, and huge amounts of fun, and rewarding to riders who enjoy a challenge and whose strengths lie in proper trail skills and the ability to remain focused for hour after hour, rather than just roadie fitness. But still, this is Britain, and to design a course that relied so heavily on deeply wooded singletrack cut into Cotswold clay hillsides without any contingency plan for poor weather was, possibly, silly...

Still - the event is only a baby. Two years old, and already it offers something that sets it apart from the others. Rootsy and personal, a great venue, and with potential to become one of the toughest races on the calendar. Long may it grow. I won the 12 hour solo with 12 steady laps and only one serious sense of humour failure (frustration at empty post-Mayhem legs notwithstanding, am pretty pleased with that), then went to bed for a few hours whilst it rained and rained, and then shed a few tears watching the 24-hour riders rolling home. How they did it I don't know - well, I do, but still, I'm glad the bike was packed away by then.

BIg hugs and well dones to Deano, Paul, Lisa & Nick, and Grant & Phil for sterling 12 hour efforts all round (especially Phil's "sprint finish" through the darkness).

And more too, for members of the family - Tracy and Matt for their smiles-through-gritted-teeth, Family Minx for moments of peace and clarity amongst the tiredness, Team Cotic for comedy grumping and unaccustomed-lycra-wearing faux-pas, and Mr.& Mrs.Dave's sunset pics. And finally Fi, for brilliant support, jollying and not-helping throughout, and an eye-opening glimpse into the bittersweet world of team solo racing.

Now then - odds on a dry Dusk til Dawn...?

Jenn.

Merida Marathon games

Had an awesome day yesterday. The best ever. One of those days that reminds us why we ride. I went over to Builth Wells for the Summer Merida 100k marathon and rode the entire thing with a self-indulgent smile on my face. I chatted to my dear friend Rob (effortlessly floating up the hills while I struggled away) and blinked in awe at the landscape. The most magical moment was towards the end while we were high up in the mountains. The sky was blue above us with wind torn mountain-rugged clouds and all around us in the distance were storms raging. It was like we were kept safe up on our mountain - just us while the rest of the world was drowned in rain.

The 6 hour ride was tough and there was a lot of up but when the descents weren't exhilarating and seriously steep they were gentle and rolling and gravity-defying. As Rob put it at the bottom of one, wiping the tears away; 'It's like flying'.

I'd recommend them to anyone for a brilliant day out. No racing, no pressure just awesome memories. Www.mtb-marathon.co.uk.

The sun has got his hat on

And I'm going out to play...

Fi

Yes and No

Yes I feel recovered after Mayhem. No I didn't when I tried to go out with my local triathlon club for a quick 30 mile spin last weekend. Legs were ok but had strange feelings akin to COPD that rather slowed my progress.

Complete 2 stonking solo hours this morning in my local woods at sparrow's fart soundtracked by Queen, the Clash and the Chemical Brothers. Odd but works for me. Miraculously without spilling blood on the slippery rocks. When WILL the sky run out of rain?

So now what? Well the Rockies, that's what. New bike is being built as we speak and I am searching the net for retailers of 'bear spray'. (Surely a misprint of 'bug' spray?)

So yes I'm feeling better after destroying my calf at Mayhem. No I haven't learnt my lesson about recovery and yes mountain biking is the best sport in the world. Ever...

Fi

dampened

Take one 24 hour race. Add a hectic week with minimal recovery time, interspersed with repeated rainy soakings and standing around on trains with the great unwashed and what do you get? Yes, a miserable cold. Bah. With the Tour's arrival in London only a few days away and a full weekend of bike-related festivities planned it couldn't have come at a worse time. However, help is at hand in the form of chicken noodle soup - 4 cloves garlic, half a thumb of ginger, 1 whole chilli, chicken, noodles and half a lime. Oh yes, those germs are history. Now, where did I put those tissues...

Jenn.

(PS. Jay Petervary finished the GDR yesterday in 15 days, 4 hours and 18 minutes. That's an average of just under 165 miles per day. Wow. And ouch...)

itch scratched

By contrast, my seventh twentyfour, and my last, for a while at least. I'm not going to talk about the mud - because I loved it. Mostly. And the rain, too. Which, apparently, makes me weird. There are other things to remember, though, important things...

" 'AVE IIITTTTTTTTT!" (My friends the DJs set the woods alight with their cheers and their music. They made me laugh and cry on every lap, mixed Shaft into Star Wars and were polite enough to pretend not to notice whilst I crashed my brains out in front of them.)

"It's wearing thin now, isn't it?" (Heckler's Corner. More friends - encouragement of the very best kind. Sadly they all went to bed too damn early.)

Giggling out loud at the rain on my face, knowing that for a while at least pushing through the mud would be easier...

" *plink* " (The sound that broke a thousand hearts - a Lupine becoming a very expensive paperweight. Hurrah for the trusty Dinotte and the immense kindness of friends who ran around beg/steal/borrowing an assortment of lights to save the day.)

Climbing out of the darkness into puddles of light, watching huge black riders break and shimmer on the trees.

"(sound of tyre on gravel...gravel...gravel....grass...) WAKE UP!" (Forgot the magic caffeinated stuff. Will never forget it again. Falling in the river a good substitute.)

Daybreak, greyly. Tears trackside from Minx. Withered but purposeful.

Weathering the rough patches with little notes ("you know how to do this") and an everlasting cup of tea.

Giraffe envy.

"Fancy a shag?" (I've been riding my bike for eighteen hours - no, thank you, and I don't think you would either.)

Finally catching Fi, after three hard laps in which I wondered why tactical racing feels so damn wrong. White-faced and monosyllabic, and not a little scary. The girl has fire - look out world...

Staring down at the campsite from the heights of Sunday morning, knowing we'd done it, knowing it was nearly over, and feeling so utterly at home, sad to be leaving, elated to be there.

"Shoudn't you girls be racing?" (Last lap, sun coming out, walking and talking with the ever-smiling, ever-lovely Kate and a finally glowing Fi, quite possibly the best last lap in any race, ever.)

There isn't a thank you big enough for all those who work so hard to make Mayhem what it is. All those behind the scenes and there on the day. All the people who smiled and cheered. All the riders who joined in with the banter that keeps us awake in the darkness. All the other soloists who went round and round and round and round, gritting their teeth til the end. All the racers who took the time to pass safely and politely, all those who took the time to let me pass safely, all the marshalls who never stopped encouraging. Everyone who remembered that it's not the podium we're after but the achievement of finishing, the certainty that you've done your absolute best and that every pedal stroke was just one more towards winning your own battle. Everyone who has let us ride incessantly for the past year with one eye on the challenge, unbearably tired at times, and equally unberably euphoric at others. And everybody in the solo tent who stared worriedly at me before taking my bike away and cleaning it despite the fact that they were there for other riders, offering me food and tea, patting me on the back when I wobbled a bit and sent me out again to do one more lap to ensure that I would not, this time, start perusing lap times within moments of being home, looking for the bits that went wrong, looking for some way to squeeze another one in... Nonsense. Of course I did.

A final word from William.

"You're all winners!




...except you."

The end :o)

Jenn

Dazed

My first 24 hour race couldn't have been more special. I cruised the first 14 hours and felt lovely- the course was still rideable and swoopy and fun. Then it rained and some the course became an off-camber slippery bog and I got tired and leant more and more heavily on my support team (the Extreme-Endurance team). They were amazing. Indescribably amazing. And seeing Minx's face smiling worriedly at me through the rain was wonderful.

But the most special moment for me was sobbing my way through the first mile of the last lap and then meeting Jenn and Kate Potter in the woods (they were having a chat with the DJs at the 24hr party tent) and having these two incredible riders chaperone me around most of that last lap. It was great and looking back at the photos of the podium I still can't believe I was even part of a race with such a galaxy of mtb stars!

The atmosphere at Mayhem has to be experienced to be believed. It rubbed off on us all - even my bike-phobic boyfriend who stayed awake all night feeding me soggy cake and wiping the mud out of my eyes.

Thanks everyone and well done Jenn for a well earnt 3rd.

Fi

OK. I promise to stop crying now...

I never imagined Minx having what I always considered to be a 'grown up' race team. Then I had a happy meeting with Jenn who seemed to embody everything that Minx meant to me - someone who just loves to ride a bike, and it seemed right to support her in the small way we can to fulfill her race and riding dreams. That was last season.

Now we have acquired another rider (more happy meetings), Fi, who came to mountain biking just a year ago via adventure racing and as a newcomer with a passion she fitted right into our little group. Having a pair (does that make a team?) of riders I thought that made me an old hand (if not quite a grown up yet), and that I might relax a little from the emotion-fest that was last year's Mountain Mayhem.

Erm...... no. The fact it was the tenth anniversary of the event came with poignant overtones as it was. The relentless overnight rain and hellish conditions were making heroes of everyone there anyway. I mean, you can see my problem can't you? I cried after consoling the girls through day break wobbles, cried (more happily) when I saw Jenn back to her old self a couple of laps later. I wept all over Helen from TF Tuned (sorry Helen) after being part of coaxing a sniffling limping Fi back out for one last lap - desperately wanting to make her stay in, knowing full well she'd be a a pain in the arse for a month, and probably hate me forever if I had.

I was red eyed as they finished and positively damp with emotion as they stood on the podium in third (Jenn) and fourth (Fi) places, and had to keep saying 'shut up' in a faux-gruff voice to everyone who was taking the mickey. It's an incredible result from two girls who aren't pros and struggle to get the ride/work/pay the rent, balance right, just like the rest of us.

They both rode for 24 hours solo with no rest and no sleep. The conditions were unbelievably bad. Is it any wonder I'm still welling up with pride? Thank you both for being the best riders a team mum could hope for. You'd better be sleeping right now...

Minx

The night before the night before

The fridge is full of sandwiches, fresh pasta and scotch eggs. Boyfriend is cross he can't eat it all. It's Mayhem food.

Spare room is full of bags labelled 'Fi's socks' and 'Fi's shorts' and stuff. Bags full of spare chains, tubes, pain killers and baby wipes. Boyfriend amazed that so much stuff is needed. Hopefully it won't be. But it is raining as I write this.

There is something odd here. I race all the time. I love it. It's a chance to get excited, look forward to the weekend, hang out with friends, laugh and chat and collapse on the sofa on a sunday night feeling lovely and warm and exhausted with the drama of it all.

But this feels different. I have never wanted so badly to be part of a something than this. I am excited about lining up next to some of the most incredible cyclists in the world. I am in awe and excited and petrified.

I am just desperate to finish. I can not imagine the feeling of knowing I will finish. I have pulled out of 2 races already this year through injury and illness and I warn you now... if that happens this weekend I will be utterly inconsolable. I want this badly.

Fi

Brizzle

Hot, hot, hot. Dust on and in everything (water bottles, gloves and shoes, chain, eyes, mouth nose and ears). Too much fast/stop/fast/stop/fast/stop/fast ripping the legs apart. We won, not only female pairs but also soundly beating all the other women's teams; but I rode badly. This makes it less of a victory, and more of a worry; didn't eat right, bonked every third lap, pulled a muscle, couldn't fix a puncture in a rush without recourse to swearing and fury. Crumbled under the pressure of coming back every lap to a team mate who didn't seem to be suffering at all in the heat and the hurry of hard racing. Kindly words from friends helped tidy up the mess, sometimes it's just a case of picking up the pieces and attempting some approximation at normality until the world rights itself around you. Late night, early morning, a different atmosphere, still sleepwalking. A fifth and final shot at the title, quietly emotional at the end to know that it marks a begining as well as an end, that next year I will be somewhere far away from these friends and relations who make me a home of sorts. I will miss it.

Jenn

GDR

So.
The GDR has started. If you don't know what the GDR is, go here for information:
http://www.greatdividerace.com/
And if your curiousity then manifests itself as more than idle, veering via astonishment that there is a race that runs the length of America and the merest hint of excited butterflies, towards something which could optimistically and quietly be labelled as a 'vested interest', then go here:
http://www.greatdividerace.blogspot.com/
and read about the endeavours of those who make up the biggest field yet as they're happening. And then bookmark the page for next year... ;o)

Jenn

Bike Fest Glory

Two showers and a hair wash later and I can still feel the dust and slight stickiness that comes from standing in a field under a blazing sun all weekend. MUST get knee better and start racing again as team mum nerves are SO much worse that actually doing it yourself. Jenn (fresh from winning the UK Singlespeed crown on Sunday morning) and I watched nervously as Fi led for most of the six hour race, only to be passed in the last hour by Charge pro rider Abi Greenaway. It was a great tactical race by Abi, but strong and brave riding from Fi, and we're all very proud at Minx Towers today. Proud and still a bit dusty.

Minx

Menorca

I have just returned from a week in the sun in Menorca. I (obviously) took my bike. Only my road bike as it is less precious than my newish Giant Anthem but a bike nevertheless. I managed to get out everyday and explore the island. It's an odd place and it's odd riding on holiday. I felt vulnerable riding on the 'wrong' side of road in a place with hardly anyone going anywhere with 2 wheels.

That said I did see a few roadies. And that itself amazed me. Menorca is 26miles long and 9 miles wide. That ain't big. And there aren't huge numbers of roads either. In fact there are 3 main roads and a few smaller lanes but to some of the villages on the coast you have to drive to the far end of the island to the capital and get on little lanes to them. There is no 'coast road' so loops were impossible. I spent the week riding up and down the main road from East to West, West to East.

Sounds like madness but it's all in a good cause - training for Mayhem. Only 3 weeks to go and we (both Jenn and I) admitted on the quiet to each other that we are terrified. That terrifies me even more because she has done it before and I'm a newbie.

But Menorca was surprisingly fun. The roadkill is different - snakes rather than badgers. And the whistling road workers are a lot sexier. So it had its perks. But it was still road riding and it made me realise yet again that mountain biking is the sport for me, particularly as I passed by intriguing looking tracks and wondered where they led to... Frustrating!

Fi

Clic 24

This weekend was my first 24hr race – in a pair up on the Mendips for the CLIC24. It’s a charity event and not a race. Most events that say they’re not a race are just that, but this isn’t. It didn’t have that kind of vibe and that suited me.

As a training weekend we decided to do 3hrs, 3hrs, 6hrs, 6hrs, 3hrs, 3hrs. The first 3hrs were fine – 3 laps of the course. Then 3hrs off and then 6. It shouldn’t have been a problem but it was the hardest 6hrs riding of my life. It just rained and rained and the moors had become bog and no matter how many times I did the course I couldn’t find a line.

All night I struggle on, heart rate higher than it should have been, too proud to walk anything. I collapsed in my tent for a 6hr rest and felt the pain and exhaustion swell over me and was so glad to be wrapped up warm.

That’s when I realised I was getting a cold. My head was spinning and I couldn’t breathe. I got ready for my final 3 laps with trepidation.

The first lap in the cold misty morning was hell. I was shakey and shivery and had no strength despite my legs feeling fairly fresh. My heart rate was low and I knew I was getting ill. So I walked all the boggy bits, up the steep hills and ground the pedals slowly, breathing steadily and dying to get back in to my tent for a lemsip. To my amazement my lap time was pretty much the same as it had been all night when I rode everything. How annoying! I learnt afterwards that my teammate who had been doing laps about 5 minutes faster than me had walked/jogged all the tricky bits all night!

So not a great start to my 24hr racing career but many lessons learnt about essentials to take to make life easier…

Fi

Tough Cookie Credentials

Today is Tuesday and the first time I’ve felt human since the weekend. I had my toughest adventure race of the year this weekend. It’s called The Full Monty and although there was no nakedness that I was aware of, it was certainly full on.
10am in a carpark in Shrewsbury on Saturday, after 3 hours of kit-faffing, we heard the horn blow and about 60 kayaks buffeted against each other for a good spot on the Severn. No need to rush though – 3 and a half hours of this ahead!
Arms aching, arse numb and back screaming, we dragged the malibus up the steep bank at transition 1 (T1) and carried them to the school where our kit boxes were waiting. Struggled out of wetsuits, struggled on with bike kit. Last check to make sure we had everything. Borrowed a pump! Off we set.
The bike felt great. We don’t kayak and 4hrs in one of those bath-tubs was pretty grim. We were so looking forward to the ride. The first hill I got a puncture – in fact I got 3 in the next 4 hours. What a nightmare! The route, though, was fantastic. Hardly any road, we mostly followed the Jack Mytton Way across Shropshire and up over the Long Mind into Wales. The descent off the Long Mind had us giggling and screaming it was so fast. A wide, smooth, grassy descent that went on for ever and ended up in a twisty farm track down to a checkpoint. Perfecto!
After a navigational mishap in the last set of woods, we dropped into T2. There was an extra bike loop and we set out to do it, but with a 30 mile run ahead of us we took the first checkpoint and returned after an hour.
A hour to rest then. We weren’t allowed to start the 30 mile run stage until 10pm. We all set off in a flurry and for ages we could see streams of headtorches crawling up the hills in front and behind. We were leapfrogging plenty of teams and several people commented on my new Minx race jersey and called out ‘Hello Miss Minx’ whenever they passed us or we them. There was a great vibe that night.
After a few hours we were pretty much alone, although we played leap frog with a Scottish team (who had a great support crew who provided us with plenty of bananas and water along the way). The nav on the run was tough, with lots of running on bearings and winging it across bogs and fields. At one point I jumped a stream and fell in. If you can laugh at freezing cold water at 5am then you can laugh at anything!
Climbing up to the final check the sun rose and we could see the lights of the village where our next transition was twinkling ahead of us. A quick trot whilst nibbling cheese and pickle sandwiches had us reach T3 at 7.30am.
Gary faffed a bit and ate loads to recover as I prepared our Malibu again. By 8.15 we were on the water and off for the final leg. 4hrs and 8minutes of kayaking into the glaring sun with a bitter wind had us eventually arrive back in Shrewsbury to the band of smiling marshals and hot showers.
I remember nothing else about Sunday. The drive home was a blur and I slept as Gary sung along to the radio with his head out the window to stay awake. The best thing was that when I awoke on Monday morning after a good 15hr sleep, my boyfriend had cleaned my bike and washed a load of my kit. What a star!
Gary and I have already discussed our navigational mishaps and prepared our strategy for next year. Can’t wait…

Fi

Learning Curves

Learning curves take one of two shapes. Sometimes a gentle sine wave, lifting you quietly up and away from your present state and onwards via a steady and almost unnoticeable natural progression over months and sometimes years.

Or they're just a vert ramp heading straight into nothing. No handrail, no parachute. Freefall.

This year is going to be the latter. I've thrown myself into the weekend-on/weekend-off maelstrom of driving, riding and eating that is cross-country racing just to see if I can, really. After a (mostly) gentle easing-in at the Gorrick spring races we went to Thetford this weekend for the opening round of the NPS series. It has a long and high-falutin' name now but I shall stick to NPS because column inches are sparse and anyway, when I hear the word 'optic' I think of vodka, not XC racing...

An early start sees three bikes, a lot of cake, a brace of camping equipment and two tired bodies heading up the M23 through the dawn fog. As ever it just feels right to be driving to a race and watching the sun come up; it feels like, well, racing. Seeing familiar faces after what's been a short winter also feels like home. Back with the family again. Things have changed in my life and in those of others and there is news and gossip to share. Shiny bikes to prod and new race kit to admire. The sun's out and it's summer come early, under the pines where the last year ended, and again it just feels right; a balance of nerves and comfort, eager to go, ready to stay.

So, then, the learning. Notes to self:

Start is, if not everything, a fair percentage of it. Sprint til your eyes bleed, make yourself big, grow pointy elbows but get into the singletrack first if it's what you're good at. Know who is in your race. Do not confuse juniors for experts - they go damn fast but only for two laps, whereupon you will have to complete a third having ragged yourself silly trying to keep up with them. Smiles and grimaces look very similar to an onlooker when deeply sweat encrusted - at least try to make a funny joke to drive home the point that you are having fun, honest, even if it doesn't look like it from there. Singlespeeds don't do anything for the ability to push the big ring down a Thetford fireroad, ride the road bike more, and harder. Don't neck a litre of fluid thirty minutes before a 100km race having somehow lost the slot for breakfast in the pre-race time concertina and then expect to be able to hold off the need for a pee stop until the end. And yes, a mid-race pee is the longest one in the world as you perch in the bracken watching rider after rider catch and pass you and how the hell did all that water fit in there anyway? Always leave enough time to check your bike over for gremlins. Riding 100km with the front brake jammed on and a hastily-switched-the-night-before tyre buzzsawing its way through the chainstay on every left-hand corner will undoubtedly make you very, very cross, no matter how many times you tell yourself it was good resistance training.

And finally - it's a toss up between pancakes, tea and crying as to which gives most relief to which part of a battered racer's body and/or soul when everything is covered in dust and the sun is going down on a very long weekend.

More, please.

Jenn

Went for a little night ride with the boys again this week. We rock up to the carpark, chat whilst throwing our bikes together, check our wheels are on tight and our lights are charged and of we go. It’s not far, not epic. We know the hills so if we are a little underprepared it doesn’t matter too much. Does it?
On Thursday 5 started and 2 turned back after a couple of hours. We 3 remaining brave soldiers had a particular tricky and swooping descent in mind at the other end of the range of hills and set off through the night to find it. Soon we split up as two parallel tracks seared away from each other on a deafening downhill. 2 one side, 1 the other. A few achingly long minutes later we were reunited but not after some tricksy heartbeats and a few worried glances. Mike’s light came bobbing up the hill towards us and we let out our held breaths. Ground rules were set and we rode on to find the perfect descent.
It was amazing. The river to our right was roaring with the weight of water recently fallen. The river was close and then it dropped away and the roaring sound was metres below, nothing between the slippery singletrack we hurtled down and a sharp and rocky fall.
On the way back over the top back to the carpark we three were excitable and hearty. It was worth the risk and the late night. 3 hours had passed and I still had a drive back to Bristol. But it was worth it. Now it was getting cold and started to rain. Rain turned to slush and slid horizontal as the wind picked up. It didn’t matter. We were on our way back in.
Crunch.
Mike’s chain broke. Borrowed bike, no saddlebag. No tools. I had a chainbreaker bought at ASDA and a rusty quicklink and saved the day. Teeth chattered.
Crunch.
Chain broke again. Quicker fix this time. Granny cog only. Teeth chattered, shoulders shook, back tense with absolute, frightful cold.
Pedal, pedal, pedal. Let’s get warm. Scream. Mike’s front tyre blew out. Crashed. Broken light. Bleep Bleep. Bloody Bleep.
Borrowed bike, how do you get this wheel off? Has anyone got any spare clothes? Food? Who brought a mobile phone? Ah.
Tube fixed and in we limp. Frozen, miserable, edges of worry visible through the jokes. Jaw tense and fingers throbbing with the pain of cold. But it’s our local hills. We know these hills. (The weather doesn’t care).
Piss poor preparation and planning. Never again.

Fi

Top night out

I had a brilliant night out with the lads last night. The venue was great – brilliant lighting, great atmosphere, good conversation and cheap drinks. We danced – of sorts – and ended up sweaty and tired a few hours later and really really hungry (although resisted a kebab on the way home). Conversation was flowing, although a little difficult to hear at times. Trouble was the lads spent all night taking the micky out of my outfit and for the state of my hair and makeup.
Yeah, it was great. Quantock night ride, dancing down the muddy singletrack, slurping High 5, chatting above the noise of the wind, starry sky and perfect full moon. Returning to the carpark with mud-spattered grins and rumbling bellies, our muddy tyres crunching through newly frosted puddles.
Perfect night out.

Fi

Yeehaa!

Yeeehaa. Back with the fast again after months of long, slow miles. This year is all about racing, racing, racing - requiring me to be utterly selfish with my time (nothing being quite so painful as getting up on a Monday morning to work when every bone in your body and every cell in your head wants the comfort of a duvet); it means I miss out on the occasional fun thing in the rush to get the demands of all three jobs out of the way before the weekend comes; but it's oh-so-worth-it. I realised a while ago that there is a very specific point in every racing day which is the reason why, though it's not the why I thought it was. In the darker corner of winter, mulling over whether my plans were idle musings or made with true intent, I pinned it down to the moments before the go, when we're all standing there on the line and the easy chat between friends who meet in fields has ceased and given way to tension between rivals, when the efforts to come cease to be vague lurking shadows and snap into sharp focus, when the adrenaline can't be diverted into nervous twitching and the tying and re-tying of shoe laces any longer... Then comes the purest rush of energy that is incomparable to pretty much everything I've ever done.

And after weathering that emotional rollercoaster, well, riding flat out in circles for a couple of hours is just a /breeze/...

Jenn

The Power of Pink

Dragging myself out of bed on Sunday was hard work. I don’t normally need any encouragement to get up at dawn and sneak out of Clifton with a car loaded up with bikes, thermos flasks, cake and kit. But Sunday my legs were heavy as lead after Saturday.
I do 50 miles most Saturdays so what was different this time? I personally believe that my Minx pink jersey has a lot to answer for. When I wear it I am filled with a kind of oomph that gets me into trouble. I decided to ride at the front to ‘push the pace’ on Saturday and as the wind was blowing and the hills were cheeky, my heart rate was soon soaring and sweat was dripping off my chin. But wearing pink means you can’t give in. By some sort of inverted social law, it stops you from being able to be a ‘girl’ and wimp out of drafting duties. It means you have to not only do your fair share but prove that pink doesn’t mean girly wimp. It’s supposed to be a slap in the face to the male-dominated cycling culture whose members gently and often kindly tolerate weaker women riders. When I wear pink I do more front-work than otherwise and find myself admitting less pain. On Saturday there was no let up, no relaxing, not coasting, no freewheeling, no slowing and certainly no admitting to even a gentle discomfort.
So by the end was tired with lactic-seized legs and sweat-soaked clothes. But I hadn’t broken the pink jersey rules. But I got home and thought, ‘who exactly was the most macho – the guys whose butts I tried to kick or me?’
Decided not to dwell on that.

Fi

I had an epic ride today. Not because it was long, or particularly tough but because I braved unknown territory on my own. I was let down by some friends for a ride and was faced with a dilemma. ‘Run and road ride or mountain bike all on my tod?’ Well I braved the latter and left before dawn this morning for an unknown area of the Mendips - map in hand.
The ride started brilliantly and the slippery climb to the top left me warm and toasty in my rather optimistic baselayer-and-jersey get up. The views from the top were sensational, with clear wintry skies reaching toBristol to the North and over to Somerset to the South. I felt brave and free.
Taking another look at the map I decided to head to Cheddar, where I knew there were some really interesting and tricky trails: Unchartered territory (by me, anyway). I boldly pedalled onwards, unphased by the over-inquisitive herd of brutish looking cows and confidently bounding over rocks and battling against the whipping wind.
The trouble started when I came across a style. ‘A style?’, thought I. ‘What funny things they have on bridleways in Somerset’. You know what’s coming. Not only was it a footpath I was on – and apparently had been for some time – but it was path in the centre of a network of footpaths which got rockier, slippery-er and more wheel-adverse as they drew nearer the gorge. I was trapped. Every few minutes of riding I had to carry my bike over a gate or style, looking around warily for grumpy walkers. I tried to descend some steps only to be thrown into the nearest gorse bush (to the amusement of the holidaying Exmoor ponies). I was sick to the rear mech with kissing gates and footpath signs by the time I scrabbled down a fit-only-for-goats path onto the main road. Thank god. Serious sense of humour loss. Bloody map. Call myself an adventure racer?
So with tremendous navigational care I found my way back on top of the Mendips and had some safer open-moor efforts up and down the hills. I eventually stumbled back to my car after nearly four hours, frozen solid, still with the remnants of irritation niggling me but with a sense of achievement at having done it on my own. Windswept and tired I went home for lunch and to plan my next solo-adventure.

Fi

When, oh when are we going to get a proper winter?! Wind, rain, more wind, more rain.... no cold days, no blue skies, no clouds of breath on frosty mornings and no crisply frozen cheeky singletrack that's otherwise tell-tale muddy and off limits at this time of year. Grrrr. I am placing my bets on March...

Jenn

Hecklers

Bit of a change - as I was in need of a rest rather than a race and two broken friends needed an airing, we went over to Thetford to help out at round 2 of the Winter Series. Much fun had all round - we felt our heckling showed a marked improvement as the day wore on and was remarkably well tolerated by those doing the real work. Thetford races are always fantastic - the course looked brilliant, and the women's two hour category had a fantastic 25 riders! Next round is February 11th, and much as I enjoyed encouraging, coaxing and baiting riders with jaffa cakes, I can;t wait to be back out and racing there again...

Jenn

Some days you just have it

This is my first winter of ‘training’ for, as my boyfriend puts it, push-bike riding. He’s not a mountain biker. His idea of cycling is to the pub on his sit-up-and-beg Dawes which has a wonky pedal, ripped leather seat and 3 sturmey archer gears of which only 2 work properly.
Our relationships with cycling couldn’t be more different. He looks pityingly down on me as I struggle up the stairs to our flat with frozen feet and numb hands and then makes me strip in the hallway whether the neighbours are in or not, so I don’t get mud on the kitchen floor. He yells at me when I get bits of leaf and mud in the boot of his car. (It’s bigger than mine so gets borrowed rather a lot). He groans when I creep out of bed early on weekend mornings to get a good ride in before the day really starts and gets cross when I’m too tired for conversation (or anything else) on the evenings when I’ve done an hour of spinning before work and a run straight afterwards. He scowls when the washing machine clunks across the floor and floods the utility room through over work from muddy kit. He shakes his head in disbelief when I explain I want to move so we have a spare room to keep my bikes in.
But he never tells me to shut up when I describe that incredible ride feeling I have when it all goes to plan. This morning I got back from swift 45 mile a road ride with my local club. I was at the front from the start, trailing the boys up the hills, working hard into the headwind on the flat and eventually feeling my quads screaming tired under my (rather optimistic) ¾ tights as I pushed home - with a smile on the outside and a ‘yessssssss’ on the inside. That feeling he understands well from years of running 10ks and marathons and fighting for the front and not always getting it but when you do… what a feeling.
This morning, stood in sweaty lycra and a helmet fresh from the ride, I drivvled on for minutes about this hill climb and that descent or that corner and the various heart rates at each stage. No scowls, he just looked and smiled and said “keep it up”. As the pressure of work, jobs, responsibility and studies creep into my subconscious like little New Year worry-gremlins, I’ll keep hold of that. I know that cycling keeps me sane and the hours at spinning classes and the soul-destroying winter riding will pay off.

Fi

Lots of fixie miles this week. Making the most of a nice quiet new chain and ring on some excessively long commutes. A good bit of playing out on favourite trails too - wide bars higher than the saddle, boingy forks, effective mud tyres and a handful of gears equals superb fun. just what the doctor ordered after a little too much grey tedium.

Jenn

SPAM

SPAM. Sounds as much fun as it isn't - should have known better, really, but some lessons you never learn. Within 100m of the start there I am pedalling in my tiddliest gear up a flat but somehow steep and dragging waterlogged field, brain all confused because whilst I know this is '06, my legs are telling me it's '96, that I've slipped into a ten-year timewarp and been zapped straight back to my first few years of mountain biking, when I rode all the time in these conditions because I simply didn't know any better. Funny how as we become more accomplished riders we start to let equipment dictate the pace. Winter filth is for road bikes, or the crosser at a push. Dusty summer's evenings (remember them?) call for singlespeeds and a cool beer on the beach at the end. Commuting is fixed wheel territory - all that grime wreaks havoc with precious, costly Campag - and The North requires a new bike to be built up for pretty much every trip as the gears get rescued from the shed for another irregular airing. Sad, really, that sometimes I look at all the bikes in the corner and spend so long trying to work out which one I want to ride that by the time I've made my mind up the sun's long gone and the day's over. That innocence, of being able to ride a bike, just one, all the time and for everything...

Jenn

Felled by grotty cold caused by the Northern Chill. So, the weather's finally turning Winter, and I'm grovelling about in the bottom two sprockets, back on inhalers I thought I'd seen the back of many months ago, and suffering that deep, deep tiredness that tells me it's sofa time. Still, it's traditional to be a little bit poorly over Christmas, and I'm buying someone the full Aardman box set, so it's only right that I should get to watch them all first before wrapping them up and handing them over, no...?

Jenn

Note to self. When setting alarm clocks make sure the time is set correctly first.
Scenario: drift carelessly off to sleep on Friday night before a big adventure race on Saturday. Dream first fretfully about the following morning’s early start, anticipating a rude awakening in the early hours. As those early hours approach and no alarm sounds, your body relaxes more and more and your dream becomes calm and relaxed and eventually your brain blanks into deep, uncaring sleep.
Until a corner of a part of an eye catches sight of the clock. 7.35am. You should have been at your teammate’s at 6am and well on your way to Sussex by now.
Heart rate doubles, bed covers thrown back, curtains wrenched to check for daylight. Check. There shouldn’t be daylight. It should be 5.30am. Panicked dressing and sprinting out of the house, waking the dog, all the cats, breaking ornaments, slamming the door and driving through bollarded, pedestrianised one way streets to the other side of town. Heavy breathing. Adrenaline surging.
So we reached race HQ at 10am just as the first teams were heading off. The start was staggered and we had negotiated a later start time (although we were only postponed by 4 minutes until 10.09). So we threw the bikes together, necked a gel and headed out for our run. Late but not that late.
It was an 8 hour adventure race. We were to run first (our choice) and then mountain bike. It had been raining for days and the ground was sodden. We ran and ran and ran through woods and moorland and over beautiful agricultural land. We ran for 5 hours and cleared the course. Neither Gary nor I had run that far in months and our legs were screaming by the time we reached the transition. I was so grateful to sit on that saddle and my thighs and calves welcomed the pedalling action as though it was a steaming hot Radox bath.
But soon I realised that although Gary had been struggling on the run, his cycling legs were fresh. He shot off effortlessly and for the next 3 hours I pedalling and pushed trying to keep up. I gave up all hope of trying to contribute to the navigation and let Gary get on with it. I’d done my bit on the run.
With 20 minutes to go we decided to be greedy and go for one last checkpoint. The bridleway started well with firm concrete under our caked wheels. But turning a corner we soon sank axle-deep into thick boggy mud. After a brief chuckle from us both, we aborted the mission and backtracked. Unfortunately despite our best efforts we arrived at the finish 3 minutes late (annoyingly we had also started 3 minutes late) and so were docked 6 points which was enough to nudge us into second position. Errrr….
But what a race. It was fabulous fun and I was feeling very chipper in my pink Minx jersey. No prizes for us but the knowledge that the moral victory was ours and a few lessons – in alarm clock programming – learnt along the way.

Fi

This weekend saw a return to Proper Mountain Biking. Driving up the M1 on Friday night was just the begining of the nostalgia trip - hurriedly packed bikes and kit rattling away in the boot, alternating coffee and Red Bull at every other service station to keep myself awake, Pete Tong cranked up to LOUD as the endless headlights flashed by for mile after mile... There was a time when I used to think nothing at all of hopping in the car on Friday night and driving hundreds of miles just to ride for two days somewhere different, only to drive all the way home again on Sunday night ready to start the week primed with tired smiles, a severe calorie deficit and a few new scabs to the knees. The tally this weekend? A hankering for suspension&gears (and indeed rocks) which could prove to be expensive; plenty of smiles and laughter to see me through the winter; and one smashed helmet - leading to a realisation that riding full-tilt round potato fields is a great way to get faster at the expense of proper, didn't-see-that-one-coming trail skills. I've done a lot of petrol miles to and from endless races and events this year, but precious few in search of 'just riding'. Next year, this will change. More driving to ride. More driving to friends. More... driving to fun.

Jenn

You know how you have friends who fulfill certain needs in your life? And how often a certain somebody is the only person who will do when you're feeling a certain way? Went for a road ride this evening with just such a friend. She races, too, and we spent the majority of the gorgeous, full-moon-lit, tailwind-assisted thirty miles chatting about next season's racing and working ourselves up into a state of gibbering excitement. It's great to be able to share that feeling; sometimes it can feel pretty isolated down here in the arse-end of Britain, where few people make the effort to spend a substantial amount of weekend traveling round the great, sucking gravitational mass of the M25 to race and so have no idea what it might be like to know that you're going out on a Tuesday in December, whether or not it's blowing a gale, pouring with rain or icy, just because this is where the head start begins. When they're sitting at home with a beer and the record collection, we're putting in miles which already count towards next summer. Grinding up over the Dyke in the dark for the hundredth time we know that every pedal stroke is one up on those who stayed in because it was a little bit damp, and the odd thing is that it just adds to the fun.

Jenn

Well, there went November. Highlights? Mostly 'cross related. Big bunch of friends down for a South/North Downs unsuitable bikes extravaganza (with additional Bonfire night pyrotechnic shenanigans). And my first proper 'cross race - 3Ps doesn't count, somehow - unlikely to be anything Fisher Price will be marketing in the near future, but so gloriously, curse-inducingly painful that I might just have to find the time to do another one before the winter's over. Currently suffering a disturbingly high broken bike tallly - running on one sticky DT Swiss frreehub (Unit), two knackered Mavic XC717s (Unit again) and two nearly knackered, precious, blue-grey Open Pros (Omega); one rattly Octalink bottom bracket (Jake), one actually now rather stupidly worn chainring that keeps dropping its chain (Kogswell), and one slow puncture that holds air for just long enough to not make it worth finding the time to fix (Unit, *again*). Are they possessed? Or just protesting belligerently about the distinct lack of TLC that muddy corner of the house has received over the past few weeks? Who knows. Still, at least the running shoes have yet to join the dirty protest...

Jenn

On Friday as the wind was swirling the leaves around outside on the road and the sky was crisp and blue, I sat and stared at my books and wished and wished I was outside playing in the woods with my bicycle. So when the (fierce and scarey) postlady arrived bearing packages from Minx I jumped around with excitement and immediately changed into my new kit. The lovely, soft, gorgeous and snuggly Pearl Izumi tights and divine pink Pearl Izumi jersey gave me the excuse i needed to slam shut my books and leap onto my bike to tear off around the woods. I blame Minx entirely for leading me astray. Being nearly 30 you would have though that acquiring a few new bits of cycling kit would be met with mature and calculated observance and intelligent comment. No way. They wer SO comfortable and SO pretty, I got back from my ride, immediately washed them, wore them on Saturday to show off to my roadie mates, immediately washed them and wore them again on the wet and muddy Quantocks with 'the lads' on Sunday too. That is where the honeymoon ended. The beautiful Somerset coombs are now covered in a thick, crunchy layer of yellow and orange beech leaves which cover treacherous mud and slippery roots. As I happily trekked up and down after my superfit ‘lads’, I was still thinking 'hmmm I look GOOD' as I caught sight of the lovely pink and sleek black of my new outfit. But as the tears streamed from my eyes on a particularly fast descent I mis-timed a turn, the backwheel slipped and I tumbled off, sliding over the pretty leaves on my left side. I soon discovered that pretty as they may be, autumn leaves don't form a very soft cushion and my lovely, gorgeous, perfect tights had become ripped and bloody. Aghast as I was, I slapped a melonin patch on my rather ugly, ripped knee and shot downwards towards the bottom of the coombe and enjoyed the rest of the morning. (Of course I can't now move my knee and it is oozing disgusting horrible yellow stuff but let's not go there).

Fi