Cycling In A Skirt

One life, one bicycle. A million possibilities, zero clue!

[cyclinginaskirt-uk]

Oh Mr Claud Butler how I have missed you. Whilst your body may be rather battered and showing the ravages of age and many miles, who am I to judge!

Actually, despite a bit of rust and a few scuffs Claud the bike is running extremely well for his age and the minimum care I’ve subjected him to over the years.

Not bad considering I’ve crossed continents with him. But, since returning back to the UK, Claud has been enjoying a retirement of sorts as my shopping and beach bike with only the occasional foray back into touring.

I hadn’t realised just how long it’s been since I last went cycle touring on the road and on my own. Looking back my last trip was to Guernsey nearly 4 years ago, how did that happen?

Having done quite a lot of off-road bike packing in the last couple of years I’ve recently been itching to get Claud back on the tarmac and, whilst I’ve enjoyed the company of others, there’s nothing quite like the excitement of going it alone.

So, bags packed, chain cleaned and route planned I eagerly await my imminent departure for a 3 day nostalgia trip. The weather however has other ideas.

You’d think the middle of August and UK summer-time would be perfect for cycling and camping, long sunny days and dry roads. However, it seems we’re experiencing the wettest August on record, with my departure day set to expect 60 mile an hour winds and torrential rain and the country on storm alert. I do briefly still consider going but sanity (and strict orders from family) prevails.

Not wanting to be beaten though I spot a potential weather window a few days hence and, after some ninja-like planning, and half an hour with a credit card I’ve rearranged and re-routed my trip. What could go wrong?!

All sorted, I set out a few days later on a surprisingly sunny Sunday morning. There’s a lovely feeling about just shutting my front gate and pedalling off down the road. No need for stressful trips to the airport in the wee small hours, just me and Claud and a small mountain of luggage. Even short trips it seems necessitate bringing as much stuff for 3 days as you’d need for 3 months. That’s the joy of camping I suppose.

It is lovely though, riding out on familiar roads, which also helps me settle. After a temperamental start the Garmin 810 that I’ve borrowed grumbles into life and she’s now directing me along lanes both familiar and new. It’s the first time I’m not using a paper map and I’m slightly nervous. If the Garmin packs up I’ll be stranded, or at least I would be if my phone and second GPS device also fail (last minute panic bringing 2).

And that’s it, I’m underway! It feels both scary and wonderful to be going solo again. The wheels soon find their rhythm and my legs grudgingly get used to the once-familiar load they need to pedal.

The plan is for a 3 day tour from my home town to Newport in Wales, just over 120 miles away. I’ll cycle this over 2 days, 60 miles (100km) a day, with the final day spent taking the train part way back, before catching a ferry and finally disembarking to cycle the final 35ish miles home. Simple.

When searching for GPS files online I came across a wonderful mapping site called cycle.travel . This nifty tool allows you to plan either road or a mix of road and gravel routes anywhere in the world. In the UK it uses the National Cycle Route Network where possible and shows handy things such as elevation, mileage and even camping/accommodation. After you’ve plotted your route it can then be saved in a variety of electronic formats for use on GPS devices. I was like a child with a new toy.

So now, as I pedal, my plotted route is unfurling and I’m being sent down the first of a series of former railways lines which have been turned into cycle paths. Since Dr Beeching’s much hated closure of hundreds of branch lines and stations in the 1960’s a goodly proportion of our railway routes have been gravelled and given over to cycle and walking trails. The railway’s loss is our gain it seems. This first is a fine example even boasting old platforms and at one point a working steam locomotive driven by older gentlemen sporting oil stained overalls and big child-like grins.

It’s familiar territory but not. On my road bike I don’t venture down these paths and on my mountain bike they’re usually too tame. For Claud however they are perfect.

The day continues sunny and delightful as I wind my way out of familiar territory and along tiny country lanes filled with fields of corn and sunflowers, hedgerows, bees and at one point a herd of deer.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts and reverie that I nearly miss Garmin-lady’s directions into the drive of a big stately home. I obediently swerve across the road but thinking surely not, this doesn’t look right? But it is and, with some trepidation, I follow the cycle route signs through the middle of Stourhead country estate right past the front door of the mansion itself and exiting via a private wood.

And the surprises don’t stop there. Not much further down the road I round a sharp turn to find myself starting through the magnificent gatehouse arch towards none other than the magnificent Longleat House itself.

I wait nervously, expecting at any moment to be shouted at by security guards or arrested for trespassing, but nothing happens. Tentatively, I start pedalling, coasting down the quarter mile of ceremonial and deserted main approach towards the magnificent house. I will also admit to pretending I was the owner, arriving home to be greeted by my household staff….

The fantasy is blown as I intersect with the car-driving public as they wind their way towards the safari park and the famous drive through the lion enclosure. Everyone is jostling for space and, whilst still in shock at my grand arrival, I’m also slightly scared of the prospect of ending up in with the lions. Luckily the road peels off again just before the safari drive. Unluckily, the huge and ominous black cloud towards which I’ve been riding now decides to make its presence felt.

It disgorges its contents in spectacular style including thunder, lightning and biblical rain. I try to wait it out for a while but it’s cold and damp under the trees so, with a deep breath I take the plunge. Oh and it was a plunge, within minutes I’m beyond drenched. Water bubbles up through my shoes with every down-stroke of the pedals as it streams past us above the rims of Claud’s wheels. It coming down so hard that I can’t see the GPS, I can only hear the particular, smug beep it makes when you go off course. The tiny map is unreadable in the downpour so I blindly go up and down roads listening to the off-course trill and retracing my steps. Soaked, cold and lost I spot salvation in the shape of a ‘smoking shelter’ (a 3 sided shed structure) in the grounds of what looks like a nursing home. Beyond caring I make a bee-line for it and sit shivering in its semi-shelter watching the rain lash down. At one point someone comes out, gets in a car, waves at me and drives off. I don’t think they had the heart to move me on (or to get wet trying).

Finding a lessening in the deluge I grimly push Claud back out to the road and plough on. It’s sod’s law that I’m in the only big town I ride through today where directions are coming at me thick and fast but after much swearing and misdirecting I finally find the trail out of town. The campsite is now only 5 miles away but they are cold squishy ones, although the rain is at least easing as I pull onto site.

The wonderful owners of the aptly named Pitch Perfect couldn’t have been kinder and solicitously let me drip dry in their reception whilst bringing me a cup of tea and a refund (apparently I’d overpaid, they charge less for cyclists). Restored somewhat, a shower and a good meal in the local pub go a long way towards humanness and even if it is still raining un-forecast rain, as I curl up in my tent I am feeling, happy. Day one survived and, despite the soaking, enjoyed.

More un-forecast rain wakes me on day 2 but it’s dry and cosy in the tent and I really don’t want to get up.

Only the promise of a cooked breakfast supplied by a sweet little on-site catering van drags me out. The hot food and coffee instantly perks me up. Normally, on a longer tour I would be cooking most of my own food but just being away for a few days I’ve decided to indulge myself by mostly eating out.

Thankfully the drizzle is now waning as I pack up and say a fond farewell to a lovely campsite. Back on the road and the hot breakfast isn’t seeming such a great idea as I head straight into the first big hill of the day, after which the hills keep on coming, much steeper than yesterday’s mostly undulating terrain. Somerset keeps throwing lumpy tarmac at me. I’m still heading along very quiet back roads however, wonderfully, mostly traffic free but in decidedly poor shape, slews of mud, gravel and cow-dung drifting around huge potholes meaning I have to keep my eyes on the road for hazards.

The miles are going slowly today, bogged down by the hills, but at least the sun is out. Ten miles or so in I join what soon becomes a fantastic run of dedicated off-road cycleway, gravel and tarmac paths exclusively for bikes and pedestrians and skirting round or right through the bigger towns.

I’m soon riding through the city of Bath on some wonderful cycle path when ahead of me looms a tunnel mouth. I’m hesitating uncertainly when some cyclists shoot past me and disappear into the gloom. Nothing to do but switch on my lights and follow. Wow, it’s dark. Small recessed lights vaguely illuminate the walls but not the floor so you are nearly riding blind. It’s eerily quiet too, apart from the sound of water dripping and my own breathing. Occasionally a group of cyclists or walkers will appear suddenly out of the murk heading towards me and be swallowed up equally quickly. But the really strange thing is the tunnel just goes on, and on, and on and….. Just when it feels like I’ve entered some strange twilight zone I finally emerge the other side very grateful to see daylight.

Having never been a fan of confined spaces I’m glad at least it’s over until….. rounding the next bed there’s another tunnel mouth. Fortunately this one is far shorter than its sister. At the exit a handy sign now informs me that the first, Coombe down tunnel is actually just over a mile long and the longest cycling/walking tunnel in the UK. This, combined with the second, shorter Devonshire Tunnel was originally part of the Somerset & Dorset Railway which closed in. Apparently there’s even an audio visual installation which plays music although I don’t recall hearing this but maybe it was drowned out by the sound of rampant claustrophobia!

After the tunnels the dreamy, traffic free tarmac bike path continues. Stretching for miles through the city and beyond it runs prettily past a canal and through woodland, all the time following the line of the old railway. At one point there’s another old station, this time converted into a café complete with maintenance tools and a bike pump. I think I’m in heaven.

Rested and refreshed after my station stop Claud and I are preparing to head onward when I get chatting to some other cyclists. According to them it sounded like, from now on, I’d be following a dedicated cycle path all the way to my next big marker, the Severn bridge across to Wales. Now, whether I misunderstood or I went wrong I’m not sure but sadly, soon after the café, Garmin-lady directs me away from the lovely bike lane and back on to the local roads.

The traffic begins to build now the nearer that I get to the bridge until at one point I wonder if I’ve somehow wandered on to the start of the motorway. Just as I’m about to be directed on to a horrendously busy multi-lane roundabout the ‘off course’ beep sounds.

With relief I turn back and find the only other option, an underpass. Twenty metres in and the ‘off course’ beep sounds again. I retrace my steps and pick my original direction which leads to more beeping. The only option now left is to cross the exit slip of the busy roundabout. As traffic zooms by I take a deep breath, spot a gap and dart across the lanes. Heart pounding Garmin-lady emits a final disgruntled ‘off course’ beep and freezes.

After much swearing I manage to restart her and find, thankfully that I’m back on track. Until, that is, a few metres later when the road she wants me to take sports a big – ‘Closed for Maintenance’ sign. I can see the bridge at this point; I’m practically on top of it I just can’t get there. It takes several more hairy roundabout exit crossings before I finally pick up an alternative bike route one which thankfully does lead onto the bridge.

Despite the stress of getting there I’m childishly excited about riding over the bridge, one that will also deposit me in a new country as it marks the border between England and Wales.

Since 1966 the Severn motorway suspension bridge (Pont Hafren in Welsh) has enabled traffic to cross the vast river Severn between Aust (England) and Chepstow (Wales). Whilst a newer, larger bridge was constructed some years later to ease traffic congestion and offer a more direct route for those travelling from the south, the original structure remains the best route for cyclists and hence our presence.

It’s a windy ride to the apex but I enjoy looking at the wide expanse of the river Severn and the beautiful shape of the new Severn Bridge a few miles up-river. The bike lane is well-separated from the main traffic and allows for a more relaxed crossing, despite the traffic fumes and it feels wonderful to arrive in Wales on the great downhill swoop from the top of the arch. Crossing complete and the very urban tarmac gives way surprisingly soon to country lanes again. Unlike yesterday the sun is shining and I can relax a bit and enjoy the rural surroundings.

These continue, with the route winding in and out of quiet roads and unpaved gravel tracks. The headwind unfortunately is the only annoyance. I’m starting to get tired now too but push on, eager to cover the last few miles.

The ride in to Newport city centre to find my campsite is, as expected. Everyone I’d talked to had helpfully pointed out what an un-lovely industrial city Newport is. But, for all that, the bike lanes were well marked with some nice routes through urban common land as I wound my way across the sprawling expanse, past docks, warehouses, industrial units and back out into suburbia.

The very welcome Camping and Caravan Club site (the closest to the city centre I could find) is situated in the grounds of a stately home and parkland, a strange find indeed on the outskirts of the city. I nearly had a major meltdown when asking directions to the campsite at the house’s gift shop and the sales adviser said it was caravans only! Fortunately my booking confirmation and the site staff said otherwise as I very gratefully checked in after a long 63 miles. At least it wasn’t raining……

Seems I spoke too soon as I lay in my tent listening to more un-forecast rain that evening and throughout the night. Fortunately however the next morning dawned bright and clear, if not a little cold. At just a few degrees Celsius my breath was misting the air as I rushed through packing up my tent, hurrying in an effort to keep warm.

I wanted to leave plenty of time too to find the main Newport station and, riding in to the city centre, I was extremely glad it was still early, the traffic being light and pedestrians few. I love cities in the early morning, when it feels like the streets belong to you and you can make much needed u-turns across the road when you go wrong. Several times!

Due to the lack of time I had left I’d opted to catch a train most, but not all of the way home to Southampton, the nearest stopping point. Given this opportunity there was definitely one thing I wanted to tick off my ‘to do’ list. Catching the Hythe Ferry.

Even though I’ve lived locally for a number of years I’d never been on it, until now.

The ferry service is one of the oldest in England and runs between Southampton and Hythe in the New Forest. According to the historians it’s been doing so in some form since 1293 when it was discovered that Hythe provides a natural gravel bank forming both a sheltered bay and a good place for landings. It also significantly cuts the travel time between the city and the New Forest (and my route home).

Disembarking the train at Southampton after a very relaxing 2 hour journey I pedal the short distance, only a mile, past the ancient city walls (and not so ancient shopping malls) to the Town Quay. After a short wait Claud and I proudly lead the queue of passengers aboard and who luckily help give him a shove around a particularly tight corner.

The 20 minute journey across the water goes by all too quickly as I wave at the other shipping and wonder at the enormous cruise ships which also dock nearby.

On landing I discovered that Hythe also seems to boast the UK’s oldest pier train which runs along one of the world’s longest piers. Unfortunately for me this historical train doesn’t allow bikes and I’m also not allowed to cycle along the pier, according to the many signs. Nothing else for it and Claud and I begin the long walk back to dry land, all 640 metres of it.

From here on in I’m in mostly familiar territory although the joy of my new planning tool means that Claud and I get directed on to some fantastic new trails as well as the familiar favourites. My final 25 miles are through the stunning ancient woodland known as the New Forest National Park, famous for its herds of roaming native ponies which stoically wander along the roads blocking the traffic. It’s also known for its ancient Oak forest, with trees that are centuries old. Reputedly Henry the VIII hunted here and, at times, away from the tarmac it doesn’t take much imagination to conjure up a Tudor hunting party or two.

There’s not too much time for daydreaming though as I push on a bit. Mostly due to a large black rain cloud which paces me less than a mile to my west. I can actually see the rain coming down but, despite a few errant drops, amazingly I remain dry as I navigate the final few miles and arrive once again at my front gate.

It’s less than 3 whole days since I departed but it feels like I’ve packed in weeks of happenings.

All told, 1 train ride , 1 boat ride, 2 nights of camping, 2 countries, 151 miles of cycling, over 6,200 feet of climbing, 1 drenching and an unquantifiable amount of enjoyment. Cycle-touring rocks.

Now, to begin unpacking.

  The best journeys are the ones that bring you home. Oh Mr Claud Butler how I have missed you. Whilst your body may be rather battered and showing the ravages of age and many miles, who am I to judge!

[cyclinginaskirt-uk]

Inhale courage, exhale fear. I’ve come to the conclusion that women are more afraid of things than men.

[cyclinginaskirt-uk]

Acrophobia; the irrational fear of heights or Basophobia; the fear of falling; both both genuine phobias and both the current personal experience between which I’m shuffling frantically.

It’s a mental shuffle of course as I’m actually frozen to the spot, extreme terror rendering me immobile, plastered against the back of the cable car with my eyes shut, whimpering and clinging on for dear life.

I should probably point out that this is no life-threatening situation, the lift bubble, in fully functioning order, is just swaying languidly up its final ascent of the mountain summit. I on the other hand am a complete wreck and this is only day one. Not liking the idea of extreme heights, or falling from them, I have to fight long and hard with my natural reaction to run screaming from any of the very flimsy looking ski lifts that flow up and down the mountain area of Tignes.

The trade-off however for enduring the humiliation of having to be scraped out of the cable car like a lump of jelly is that my bike and I get a gloriously quick ride to the summit, after which, I can scare myself nearly as much by riding the trails back down the mountain.

Welcome to fear 101 and the joy of mountain biking in the Alps.

Following on from a baptism of fire last year in the bike parks of Les Gets and Morzine, I’ve chosen (yep, it was an actual choice) to return to the Alps this summer, this time to the French resort of Tignes (pronounced ‘Teen‘), a purpose built ski resort/Olympic venue in winter and mountain bike paradise in summer. This year it was also meant to be the finishing point for one of the final Tour De France stages until freak hail storms and mudslides dramatically stopped the race.

Comprising of 5 villages (I know this from the hotel quiz) Tignes sprawls up the mountainside between an elevation of 1,440 and 2100 metres. I’m staying near the upper end in Tignes Le Lac and the day after arriving I’m really feeling the altitude.

As I puff and gasp my way up the road to the bike hire shop I can only hope that this altitude training will have spectacular gains when I return to sea level as right now even carrying a cup of coffee is making me gasp for breath. I’d expected the trails to cause my heart rate rise of course I just hadn’t foreseen it to be quite so elevated before getting on the bike!

Day one and I’ve discovered that in Tignes, bikes and suspension forks are big….and hire prices are even bigger.

As there’s a definite difference in the ratio of male to female riders (a quick straw poll would say 75-80% male), frames are also geared to the larger biker, presumably why the hire shop offer me a child’s bike at first! Having declined my only remaining option is a Kona Stinky which, with 200mm of fork travel both front and back, is ridiculously over-sprung for what I need. Add to this the set of body armour and full face helmet I’ve been strapped in to and I feel I should be taking on Red Bull rampage, not the lowly green trails on which we’re starting.

M, whom I’m with, has of course lucked out and managed to hire a reasonably priced, perfectly sized Kona Process 153 for the week. Grrr.

Decked out like robocop, the first stop is the Palafour lift, dead centre of town. Unlike Les Gets this lift is free and has lovely assistants who lift your bike on and off, so all terrified first timers like me need to concentrate on is getting themselves in situ – easier said than done.

It’s a chilly 10 minute ride up to the frigid heights of the mountain to 2564 metres. The view of snow drifts and gambolling marmots offers some distraction at least from both the altitude and the distance from which one would crash to earth.

As in the UK, French MTB trails are generally graded green (easiest), blue, red and black although as I learned last year, a French green trail and a UK one bear little in common indeed French green is UK green on steroids.

Being early in the season (the lifts only opening the previous week) there’s still snow on some of the trails and as we start off down the green trail we are immediately skidding everywhere on icy drifts, it’s an exhilarating start. The trails are in good condition though, free mostly from the annoying washboard effect of braking bumps and immediately enjoyable!

They’re still surprisingly technical but after our initiation in Morzine last year maybe we’ve revised our expectations, or just got a little better. Whichever, the swoopy descents and hairpins make a technical but satisfying first run.

The runs may be better than expected but the bike certainly isn’t, the big front end making it heavy and hard to steer. The saddle is also set at its lowest point meaning you can’t sit and pedal unless you have your knees up by your elbows like a toddler. This kind of arrangement is fine if you’re shredding down the black runs but exhausting if you have to pedal the flatter sections and my leg muscles are already on fire.

That morning we give the Palafour lift a work out covering all the green and blue runs. The blues, surprisingly, differ little from the greens, a bit steeper, looser, rockier but great to ride albeit with shakier and shakier legs.

A quick coffee stop and we tackle Le Lac’s opposing mountain via the next scary ski lift.

The Toviere bubble (enclosed car) takes you up to 2704 meters to intersect with the chair lift from Val Claret. From here there’s the option of a multitude of green, blue and red runs either back down to Le Lac or to Val D’Isere on the other side of the mountain.

The day’s adrenaline is catching up both from biking and from surviving the lifts but for some reason we opt to return to Le Lac down Gunpowder, 4.5km of fast blue trail and a full on 600 metre rapid descent of steeply sloping berms (banked corners) which just keep on coming. Already fatigued, legs wobbling we hit the downward trail after which there’s little stopping. By the time we reach the bottom my fingers are like claws, frozen to the brakes and my legs are shaking so much I can hardly pedal, but we’re down, in one piece and you might say it was nearly fun. Nearly.

The next day the stinky and I have gone our separate ways and I’ve managed to find a brand new Mondraker Stealth, 170mm of travel both ends and mercifully, a dropper seat post, in Tignes this is classed as an enduro (cross country) bike but it’s more than sufficient for my needs and skills.

Happier already we have a quick warm up via the Palafour trails before heading up Toviere as today we’re intent on exploring the trails down to Val d’Isere.

At around 13km in length from the furthest lifts station these are some of the longest trails in the Alps and oh so worthwhile. The creatively named Borsattack, Val Bleue and Popeye are beautifully built and are a joy to ride. Twisty, flowy tracks that wind sinuously ever downwards they are packed with table top jumps which you can dispatch or avoid as required, rock gardens and boarded bridges as you descend down the stark upper slopes into lush green alpine meadows and pine forests on blue grade (or green if preferred) trail until you’re finally spat out, breathless, exhausted in the pretty (and ruinously expensive) resort of Val D’Isere for a much needed rest and recovery stop.

After lunch we headed back up via the Olympique/Bellevarde bubble lift, a staggeringly steep 1000 metre ascent that seems to go on forever before disgorging into a large, chilly station 2827 metres above sea level.

Again more descending on the fantastic bermy Val Bleue (blue) trail, winding past lakes and snow, through the middle of the mountain before reaching the final Borsat lift. Here there’s the option to return directly to Val d’Isere on the same Val Bleue trail or to ride it from its highest mountain source (Blue Lagoon) via the lift.

It had to be done! The chairlift takes nearly 15 minutes to ponderously dangle you over a range of frightening drops and ice fields before looking like it’s going to smash you directly into the bleak grey mountain, only cresting a ridge at the final moment before impact. When you reach the top station at 2800 metres, unlike the other lifts, this chair doesn’t really lose speed, meaning a hasty leap off at the top and a mad scramble to clear the cornering chair and grab your bike before the lift kneecaps you on the way round.

The top of the Blue Lagoon trail is stark but worth it just for the completeness of going as high as you can. Heading down quickly (as it’s freezing at this height) steep, loose shale tracks descend for a km or two before giving you a final choice, carry on down back to Val D’Isere or return to the Val Claret resort. As it’s begun to rain we opt to head back via Val Claret.

Gone are the pleasant trails which cut across the mountain, you’re now riding down the side again, steep, zig zaggy loose paths with a long, long drop on either side are amazing for focusing the mind.

Trusting the bike probably as much or more than my skills we plummet downwards, the ground getting slippery with the falling rain. After the initial plunge the trail does level out for the next km or so for some smoother, enjoyable cross country riding before finally linking up with the Val Claret descents from yesterday, Gun Powder and Kangooride. We took the latter of these not having experienced it and in the falling drizzle continued the final 3.5km of downhill on a roller-coaster of a trail carved into the steep face of the mountain.

It was certainly a relief to be spat out, intact, shaky, and happy at the foot of the Val Claret lift leaving only the last, calming pedal around the lake to complete the day’s riding before a well-earned cup of tea and cake back at the hotel.

A day off for some road biking and an ascent of the col De L’Iseran before the final day on the bikes. By now I’m adding in some bits of the red trails although I’m cautious. Most of them give a chicken run around larger obstacles and jumps but occasionally no such opt out is offered which leaves an embarrassing and difficult heaving of bikes down the trail to bypass these features.

The last thing that we want to tackle is some of the All-Mountain trails, these having a more cross-country focus i.e. you have to pedal up as well as down, but we’ve been warned, this being Tignes, they tend towards the extreme and the technical. Because of this we’ve chosen WonderBoisses, graded as ‘Improver’, the only other options being advanced and expert!

We should have been forewarned when even the start was gruelling. Heading directly up under the Palafour lift, the innocuous gravel trail doesn’t look much but it’s a lung buster given the altitude and not helped by the fact we’re still wearing all our robo-cop body armour and full face helmets. With sweat dripping copiously the trail veers across a field of disinterested cows, necessitating climbing under various electric fences, before heading up the side of the mountain.

We wind steadily upwards for the next km or so along ledges that are barely wider than the bike, a precipitous drop on or right hand side. In places the trail rounds a bend and seems to disappear in to nowhere. Not nowhere, just plunging downwards, keeping you on your toes. I’m walking bits of it too where landslips have covered the trail leaving you to haul the bike over slippery humps of rubble. It’s actually good to be pedalling again too, even if it is upwards. Eventually the climb tops out and the descent begins, still on the narrow-ledged trails before heading inland fractionally and beginning a highly technical downhill on dusty forest trails covered in boulders and drop offs down which the bike slithers and bounces, throw in the odd hairpin and it’s blood-pumping stuff.

The trail emerges briefly on the grassy roof of one of the road tunnels, carved into the mountain which you pass under on the drive up to Le Lac, before rising and falling in a delightful series of forest trails, not quite so demanding but still requiring focus before disgorging you in the lower village of Tignes Le Boisses. Here a handy and much appreciated free Navette bus service drags you and the bike back up the mountain where, if you like, you can do it all again!

Having learned to quit on a high we do just that and, after saying goodbye to the lovely Mondraker and not so lovely body armour, we head gratefully for the nearest bar and a well-earned beer.

Tignes is certainly a full on experience which I’d heartily recommend to those with a little mountain biking knowledge. I’m no Rachel Atherton but with a few years of riding, quite a few lessons and countless falls under my belt this was technical, demanding riding, for which I had just enough skill/luck to be able to enjoy it.

I chose not to fly my bike out as I was concerned it wouldn’t stand up to the trails and, despite the hire cost – 70-85 euro per day – I think that was a wise decision. In addition all hire bikes tend to come with full face helmets, body armour, pads and optional insurance, with the added benefit of wearing out someone else’s bike parts.

It was without doubt a spectacular place to ride and despite the week of full-on adrenaline I leave with a definite sense of that peace and contentment which comes from spending time in the mountains doing what you love and the happy knowledge that I won’t have to brave another ski lift for at least the foreseeable future.

If it scares you, it might be a good thing to try.... Acrophobia; the irrational fear of heights or Basophobia; the fear of falling; both both genuine phobias and both the current personal experience between which I’m shuffling frantically.

[cyclinginaskirt-uk]

It started with just a small innocuous advert on the message board of my mountain bike club…..”planning a trip, anyone interested in bike touring get in touch”.

Why not I thought, what harm could there be in just replying……

A lot as it turns out, which is why, a few weeks later, I’m sat around my kitchen table with 3 strapping strangers drinking beer and discussing luggage. Bike luggage.

It seemed only polite at this juncture to get to know my fellow suffer-fest companions as in just a week’s time we are off to Wales to take on the Trans-Cambrian trail, cycling and camping together for three days covering over 100 miles of some of the best remote mountain trails in the UK. It’s nice to put faces to names too with communication thus far being limited to What’s app banter.

M, my long-suffering partner appears with pizza and our intrepid band is complete. For the first time ever on a trip I have done none of the planning or organising which is both wonderful and scary, especially for those of us with control issues. This is Keith’s baby, submitter of advert and veteran cycle tourist he completed the trail last year and apparently enjoyed the pain so much he’s willing to give it another bash.

Two of his friends Gary aka Action Man and Paul, make us the remainder of the party. Gary is hyper qualified in the bike stakes as he’s just returned from cycling across New Zealand – on a bike carrying a disabled ex-service man, one of his many feats of endurance as we will learn.

Fast forward a few days and the next time we meet it’s in the middle of a field on the Welsh borders at Knighton, close to Offa’s Dyke. The river running through the field is the cartographic dividing line between England and Wales or so I’m reliably informed by the sat-nav. Handy information but it doesn’t make up for her failure to direct us to the campsite. After much inching through precipitous single track lanes in the car it’s good old fashioned human-eyesight which finally spots the handwritten felt-tip sign welcoming us to Panpwnton farm hikers camp.

The campsite is small but with a warm welcome and spotlessly clean toilet, which gives it high marks with me even if a bit of a queue forms for the single cubicle at peak times.

Tent pitched, Gary and Keith soon arrive but with the sad news that Paul has had to pull out last minute. One man down already, but undaunted we head to the pub for a pre-event athletes’ dinner of pizza washed down with copious amounts of beer and wine.

The next day dawns misty but dry. In my true organised-bordering-on-obsessive style I’ve have arranged all our kit for the fastest most efficient start possible, with provision for a decent cooked breakfast to send us on our way. M returns from the car with cups of tea, time to start the day and the adventure……

M: Where are the car keys….?

Me: “Very funny”.

M: “No, seriously where are the car keys…..?” And then the rain starts.

Three hours later the breakdown man is shaking his head having tried and failed to open the car using what looks like a credit card, blood pressure cuff and a coat hanger.

All our gear is still firmly imprisoned inside the car, perfectly packed bags, clothes, keys for the bikes also locked to the car.

I’m all for throwing a brick through the window (it’s M’s car) spurred by the heady effect of Hanger (hunger induced anger) and frustration. Fortunately Keith has spare food but the kit is still safely locked away and we’re going nowhere. After hours of scouring the camping field combing knee length grass in the drizzle, our best but unfounded guess is that the keys have been locked in the vehicle. In defeat I sit in the tent listening to the rain. With nothing better to do I decide to check M’s sleeping bag one more time just in case…… I FOUND THEM. Relief washes away frustration as the Breakdown man just rolls his eyes at us and leaves. We finally set off and even the drizzle is clearing up.

The trail: Day One

Knighton to Elan Valley

35 miles, 4150 feet of climbing

It’s great to finally be moving as we cycle up the hill away from the campsite. The car keys are firmly stored in my pocket for when we return in 3 days.

The trail begins after only a mile or so of tarmac. The whole route is advertised as over 70% off road, with any tarmac that there is consisting of small country lanes making it fantastic MTB country.

After turning off onto what looks like someone’s driveway, pedalling up a last bit of steep tarmac, we head through our first (of oh so many) gates leading uphill on a rugged trail. Full of enthusiasm we pedal hard wanting to ride every hill even though Keith has warned us it’s impossible. Panting and blowing at the top there’s a shout below from Keith, we’ve taken a wrong turn (and ridden the hill for no reason). Slightly cowed we turn around, me rolling squarely through some wet dog mess as we do, the pungent turd slathering my tyre and throwing up fumes as we descend.

Back on the track Keith points to a vertical bank of grass behind us. This is where we start pushing.

Any hopes I had of riding the whole way instantly drain away. The hill is monstrous. I’m pushing the bike vertically, using the brakes to stop us tumbling back in to oblivion whilst the sheep look on amused. It takes well over half an hour to reach the top, during which time it starts raining again. I also begin to regret packing quite so many flapjacks and all of my camping equipment as the bike weighs a ton.

As well as being mostly off road the route is also billed as a very respectable 95% ride-able which sounds wonderful until you realise that means that you will need to push/carry your bike for at least 5% of the time and at 108 miles long that’s still 5.4 miles of pushing. It feels like more, much more!

The route continues on soft grass, winding slowly uphill. The grass makes for hard going although it’s thankfully relatively dry. If really wet under wheel it would be exhausting. With blackening sky the day rolls on, the views are of dark sweeping hills and sheep. Many sheep. The aroma of dog shit is joined by the earthy tang of sheep poo which sprays up under wheel and coats pretty much everything. My mood is brightened somewhat when M starts shouting and cursing having gone to grab his water bottle and picked up a handful of steaming dung. Snigger.

The grassland is interspersed by a few gravel walking trails although most of the time we are heading across what look like sheep tracks. Keith’s doing a prime job of navigating even when we look at him askance as he send us away from a lovely gravel road down an invisible path in the grass.

The day passes in much the same way, grass trail across hills and gravel tracks, dipping through farm yards and climbing back out. It’s hard going but the views are spectacular and go someway to reminding you why you are putting yourself through this. At the end of a long day it’s a weary and subdued bunch however that hit the town of Rhayader to raid the Co-op shop before heading the final few miles to our campsite at Elan Oaks.

The site is off of pretty trailway and well set up….. for caravans. Camping seems to have been a bit of an afterthought as we push our bikes to a soggy field past a couple of sad porta-loos and outdoor sinks. True to form, just as we arrives the weather sticks 2 fingers up and starts raining hard as we pitch our tents.

The evening is saved however by the promise of hot food as we regroup in the Elan Valley Hotel across the road. I hang all my wet clothes out to dry in it’s near deserted dining room as the owner smiles tolerantly as he offers a menu and a place to charge my phone. I could have cried.

Over the years I’ve cycled a lot with camping gear, including off road through the mountains of Chile and Argentina, but today was tough. The boggy grass and precipitous hills were something else. To top it all off tonight was actually the last night of camping as we had booked rooms in a pub for the second (final) night of the trip.

It was then that I had a rare moment of genius….in true damsel in distress fashion I appealed to the owners of the pub to ask if we could perhaps leave our (sodden) camping gear with them tomorrow and collect it on the following day on our way home. I have never been so grateful as when they said yes!

An excellent meal with more copious amount of beer and wine left us all feeling good. Even the rain had let up for the walk back to the tent.

The trail: Day Two

Elan Valley to Llangurig

41 miles, 5220 feet of climbing

It can really psych you out when something is billed as ‘the toughest day’ and this was exactly how day two had been described. Now, day one had been tough so this was scary prospect. It would certainly the longest day in terms of miles and the most climbing and it dawned with a sense of trepidation….and the sound of rain lashing against the tent. Waiting and failing to find a break in the weather we de-camped and squelched over to the hotel for breakfast bearing armfuls of soggy camping gear. An hour later and it was with a huge sense of relief and a considerably lighter bike that we headed out, fortified by a large cooked breakfast and minus camping kit. Even the rain had stopped.

The Elan Valley is known as the Welsh Lake District, it covers 70 square miles of lakes and countryside and hosts 6 reservoirs built, not to provide water to locals, but to be shipped to the industrialised city of Birmingham hundreds of miles away to help cope with it’s exploding population.

Leaving the hotel, the trail quickly took us past the first reservoir before dropping down the side of a steep hill. Having missed the on road route we managed to improvise with a sheep track which plunged steeply down the side of a tall hill. Skidding down the rock strewn grass was certainly a good way to shake off the last bits of sleep.

A short pedal and then what goes down must inevitably go up again….and up….and up, a winding tarmac road until stretching out like a wall in front of us which was, Keith proudly informed us, Puke Hill. With an average gradient of nearly 15% it loomed ahead ominously.

The joy of mountain bikes however, over road bikes, is that they have a low ratio of gears of which I was incredibly glad. Coupled with the lack of camping gear my bike felt, if not lighter than air, then something approaching it.

Inch by inch I took on Puke Hill, pedalling and panting until, lungs screeching I topped out. Even if that killed me for the entire day it was worth it, with the added bonus of being able to get a photo of all 3 boys pushing up behind me.

And so the day went. The scenery and terrain differed markedly from day one, there was the inevitable same number of gates to open and close but aside from that the terrain, was varied, technical and wonderful.

After Puke Hill came a section of boulder-strewn undulating tracks full of rocks the size of sheep and traversed by the same. Technical climbing and descending whilst also ploughing through deep water-filled holes never knowing if you’d be just wetting the tyres or the entire bike. The track ended in the magnificent Claerwen dam (and a tarmac road which gave an easier option for arrival) before a steep push to head up and around the reservoir. The lee of it’s banks provided a sunny lunch stop, the rain having decided to take a well-earned day off.

Although rough under-wheel the reservoir tracks allowed us to pick up some speed and flow which continued when we hit the tarmac the other end. Being a roadie at heart I love a bit of tarmac and this was the best kind, smooth and near traffic free, long swoopy undulations, bordered by wild grasslands and lakes. The miles disappeared under-wheel in a way so different from the previous day, spirits soared along with the hawks we kept spotting. By the end of the road section we’d covered half of today’s miles relatively easily. We’d also acquired a new companion….a be-horned sheep’s skull, nicknamed Larry after the 1960’s children’s TV character, Larry the Lamb.

An off road climb next, through pine forest this time, the heady smell of warm sap accompanying us before some of the most beautiful, fast, flowing single track descents thorough the trees which left a permanent grin and many insects plastered across our faces.

Another winding valley road, this one with starker but no less stunning fauna, through abandoned mining stations and derelict houses until the sat nav kindly led us into someone else’s garden….no, not some random house after all but another trail leading up the steep side of the valley. Once a metalled road it had obviously long since fallen in to disuse but a funny strip of tarmac remained down the middle and it was on this we spent the next hour pushing and pedalling up in turn. The summit was a cold and windswept place with spectacular views and the partial descent back down into the sunshine a welcome relief if somewhat hair-raising, brake discs squealing in protest.

Two trails now presented at the bottom and sat-nav seemed unwilling to commit herself as to which one…. the left fork to a bridge which looked like it crossed into a boggy field and the right fork the beginnings of a gravel track into the woods. Both trails headed the way we needed to go, roughly in parallel, separated from each other by 2 small rivers.

Long story short, we chose the right. It should have been the left. It took us less than 10 minutes to discover our error but somehow the idea of retracing our steps seemed a stupid one, after all, they were only small rivers.

Step in Action Man…. as we stood debating the wisdom of trying to cross we were distracted by some loud crashing, splashing noises. Gary was in the river hauling around stones to make a walkway, he then proceeded to carry all our bikes one by one before helping us across. Same process for river number 2. Thirty minutes later we were standing, mostly dry on the other side of both bits of water and right next to the first path that we didn’t take. Somehow the sense of adventure completely outweighed the stupidity of a 10 minute back track.

Anticipation was with us now, it had been a long day but we were nearing the end and, weirdly, nowhere near as bad as anticipated. The last few miles were a steady climb through more sun-bathed fragrant pine forest before an undulating descent into the town of Llangurig. Happily sailing past the campsite on the outskirts of town, a short pedal later and we were pulling, tired, but elated into the car park of the Bluebell Inn our home for the night.

A welcome pint or several, a great meal and no camping. Winner.

The trail: Day Three

Llangurig to Machynllnth

31 miles, 3510 feet of climbing

Despite some serious crossing of fingers day 3 dawned drizzly, but as it was the last of our adventure, spirits were high and we were looking forward to finishing in style. Buoyed by our exertions of the last 2 days and still enjoying the relative freedom of the pared-down kit we fairly flew out of the pub car park, retracing our steps from yesterday for the first few miles to pick up the trail again.

Gates and more gates as we dripped along the edges of farmland before climbing again through fields of sheep and the inevitable poo.

I love sheep and the way they evaluate life and its potential dangers. Little clusters of them would watch us intensely for long minutes as we climbed steadily towards them getting to within feet before finally, one in the bunch would lose his nerve and dash off in panic. Of course the others followed suit but would get tangled up in themselves in their mad-hurry to get away in a noisy thrashing of woolly limbs, a little white tidal wave of bodies surging before us everywhere we went, 0 to 60 mph panic in seconds.

Back to the trail. The rain and mist intensified and for the first time long trousers came out (at least for me) as the temperature dropped. Gaining altitude over the whole morning we squelched across bleak, treeless fields before coming to a loose, slate-covered downhill of narrow single track which Keith was now recalling from the previous journey. It was very gingerly that we scooted and slid our way down the precipitous, shifting slate path, a grass bank towering to our right, a steep drop to the left. It was with some relief that we skidded to a stop at the bottom in one piece only to faced with an equally vertiginous push up the other side.

And the sketchy trails didn’t end there, another cold and windswept area of grassland led to another cliff-like valley edge and more hair-raising single track descents. It required all my concentration and bike handling skills (what little I possess) to navigate the steep downhill slopes of tumbling, loose shale. The panniers’ weight on the rear of the bike added an extra flavour of spice as did the constantly shifting floor beneath your wheels. The only solution was to keep rolling and, in amongst the fear, adrenaline and total concentration there was a huge buzz at the speed and thrill of careening down the hillside, barely in control but flying.

Our brakes were literally smoking at the bottom on the hillside as the pace steadied and we once again hit the tarmac. There was no respite from the hills or the rain however, steep steep climbs on legs that already felt they had cycled far to many miles and we were all feeling the burn and having to dig deeper and deeper on each climb.

After a significant amount of upwards mobility we reached a literal and metaphorical fork in the road. Previously when Keith, our erstwhile planner had gotten to this point during his trip he’d been in severe danger of missing his train home so had had to bail out of the last section and opt for a sprint down the road to the station some 6 miles away. We of course had that option now, to be kind to tired, wet and weary bodies and do the same or……

Bugger, everyone voted to continue the trail. Of course we did, it was only 8 miles after all, just over that ridge over there……!

For the next hour we toiled up a never ending series of steep inclines, first an energy-sucking grassy track followed by a narrow ridge line so steep we were pushing near vertically, struggling for footholds. I was incredibly glad I’d offloaded my stuff but that was the only happy thought that sprang to mind as we cursed and squelched and pushed our way up the ridge, lashed by rain and sliding and stumbling over the rocky ground. Finally reaching the top M announced that, after all that, we’d only covered a measly half a mile, I could have cried.

The only way was down however, via a fast and hair-raising descent along muddy, slippery single track, punctuated by large rocks and larger potholes. I’m going far too fast but so cold and tired now I just want to finish until…. we’re lost. We can vaguely see the direction we want to take through the mist but every path we take the sat-nav says we’re off course unless…. we push up again…..another steep, soggy hillside, another muddy slippery descent and we’re still off course although vaguely in the right direction.

Breaking out google maps we take stock and take shelter from the driving rain. Despite the GPS insisting we’re off course it does at least look like the forest trail we’re now on will get us to a road which will get us to our final destination. A look and a silent agreement passes between us and as one we charge off, bolting down fire-trails and eventually, joyfully finding the road. As it turns out we’re only a mile or so from the original exit point and a soaking speedy dash brings us shivering into Machynllnth, our planned final destination.

Officially the trail ends at Dovey Junction but we’d have to retrace our steps to this point anyway and none of us feels like we’ve missed out. It’s lashing down now and too wet to take a finishing photo as M’s camera has gotten waterlogged and wisely, there are no people about to ask so we squelch to the nearest pub where we are viewed with suspicion as we drip mud, sheep poo and water on their clean floor.

A change of clothes and a coffee is all we manage before thankfully the amazing bike taxi arrives to whisk us back to Kinghton, which feels like hundreds of days ago, not just 3.

Reflecting on the way back to the taxi, trying to ignore the smell of wet, sweaty cycle-wear, I look back on what has been an amazing trip. The scenery and the terrain have both been varies to look at and ride through, demanding and exhilarating. It feels like an achievement and, even more, a real adventure, which at a total distance of 107 miles with nearly 13,000 feet of climbing I can safely say it was.

Would I recommend it, certainly, would I do it again…..hmm ask me later!

In short, what there’s much of:

Gates

Sheep poo

Windmills, forests of them.

Water….. if you’re lucky enough to escape the rain there are still plenty of fords and deep puddles to soak you.

Pushing up hills/hike a bike

Technical single track, climbs and descents, plus a huge variety of scenery, trails and terrain.

Miles, smiles and a sense of adventure.

What there’s not much of:

Spare Oxygen – all used up on climbing!

Shops or humans, once you’re on the trail there’s no nipping to the supermarket for a mars bar. The same when seeking help for injuries or mechanicals problems.

Phone signal, as above. I wouldn’t fancy riding this one alone.

Traffic

Signage, take a good sat-nav/GPS device

For more information on the trail see here

Final thanks go to Keith, Action Man, M and Larry, the best bunch to get muddy and go adventuring with! 

Waterproof socks!

Mountain Bike Touring: The Trans-Cambrian Trail It started with just a small innocuous advert on the message board of my mountain bike club....."planning a trip, anyone interested in bike touring get in touch".

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Sorry I’m a bit late Erm, it appears to have been a while since the last post, completely unintentional, just time disappearing in to a big vortex of bike, work, eat, sleep…..ok, and having fun..

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Cake, cycle-couture and the art of suffering

There’s a great quote from the even greater cyclist Eddy Merckx, something along the lines of:

” The race is won by the rider who can suffer the most” (more…)

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The Slippery Slope to Strava Addiction

Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win. Madi¢¾

I’ll let you in to a secret, I think I might be developing an addiction. I’m becoming a little hooked on Strava.

It’s the classic pattern, I tried it as a one off, via a friend, for a bit of a laugh and out of curiosity. I should have walked away right then but I got quite a buzz from seeing where I might be ranked on a leader-board of other users.

So I tried it again, and then once more, I…

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The vast and desolate beauty of the desert has inspired some of the greatest writers and thinkers of all time. Or, if you’re me, it inspires the corruption of some very catchy song lyrics …”I’m riding through the desert on a bike with no chain….”

Chilean Adventures Part 1:

Having arrived in Chile just a few days ago and with the briefest of nods to Santiago I was eager to catch a flight northwards to stay in the heart of the Atacama desert in the dusty little town of San Pedro.

San Pedro de Atacama has undergone a bit of a tourist boom in the preceding years, evident in the overwhelming number of hostels and travel agencies jostling for position in its narrow, dirt streets. Tourism is most definitely the main currency of the area, bombarding the mass of dread-locked twenty-something back-packers with excursions to the local salt flats, horse riding, sand-boarding, star gazing or trekking, providing year round income to this once sleepy little town.

Forming part of the non-gap-year minority myself, and my partner in crime (PIC), are also there to swell the population and to check out the mountain biking. Happily there’s no shortage of mountain bikes for rent although after a hot and weary few hours checking out the myriad of hire-centres it seems like finding one in any fit state to be ridden isn’t going to be so easy. These are obviously well-used bikes and I’ve long since stopped looking for immaculate, lowering my sights to something which has either tread left on the tyres, functioning forks/brakes or non-buckled wheels. More than one of the above will be a bonus.

We finally find a couple of serviceable red Trek hardtail bikes in reasonable condition with 27.5inch wheels, disc brakes and passable forks – their dubious functionality being demonstrated by the 100kg shop owner whose entire weight it took to compress them.

We’re ready to go though and for the next 4 days PIC, myself and the Trek (whom I’ve very originally nicknamed Red) will be exploring some of the finest sand and dirt this little part of the Atacama has to offer.

The first day we plan small and head off for what’s anticipated to be an easy, acclimatizing ride across the desert to a salt water lake – Laguna Cejar.

What I hadn’t taken into account was the altitude which, at nearly 2500 metres above sea level, meant that I was feeling the effects.

A fairly flat looking 20 km on the map soon turned out to be harder work than anticipated. Being surrounded by snow-capped volcanoes of the Andes did help to draw focus away from my rather grumpy legs as did the more immediate scenery.

Having failed to read any of the guidebooks I was less than clued up about the area. At first I genuinely thought I was seeing snow as the ground around me starting turning white, that or I was hallucinating but no, these we salt-flats (the start of the Salar de Atacama) the like of which I have never seen before. Everywhere you looked a thin crust of white covered the sandy earth, like cake frosting which has started to melt.

I was entranced for the first few kilometres although after a while the glare from the flats reflected the sun even more intensely, that combined with a strong wind which whipped up dust devils, spectacular in the distance like mini-tornadoes but blinding up close. This was distinctly hard work.

As well as the altitude, other things I also hadn’t taken in to account:

That the desert is hot. At 8:00 in the morning it’s deceptively and beautifully cool, but an hour later when the sun has lazily yawned over the tops of the mountains the air becomes super-charged reaching temperatures of over 30 degrees Celsius. There is no shade as nothing is stupid enough to grow here so the sun is relentless

If you ever want to know what a roasting chicken feels like my advice would be to try cycling in the Atacama.

It was with some sense of relief that we reached the salt lakes, the thought of a refreshing swim managing to push out thoughts of the long slog back.

Laguna Cejar is managed as a national park and swimming is permitted but in only one of the three lagoons there. These startlingly blue lakes are surrounded by desert grass and white salt-sand against a back drop of volcanoes and made every effort of the ride worthwhile.

What also greeted me were stern warning signs not to put my face in the water. Slightly disturbed but longing for a swim I practically ran across the salty-sand surface and waded straight in to the strangest water I have ever been in as it tried to spit me straight back out.

It was literally anti-swim water. Every time I tried to submerge a limb it would float right back to the surface. Trying to swim on my front was almost comical as arms and legs popped out the water leaving me looking like an extreme sky-diver. In the end, the only way to move about in this viscose liquid was to paddle bolt upright in a funny kind of swim walk. It was hilarious and surreal.

  Anti-swim water at Laguna Cejar

Laguna Cejar

Laguna Cejar

Jumping out to dry off any refreshment offered by the liquid evaporated immediately leaving skin coated in a crust of prickly salt. Fortunately the on-site showers dealt with the worst before facing the sticky, salty, wind-blown ride back to town. Never have 40km felt so long. Fortunately, back in San Pedro, the influx of backpackers means that beer is plentiful supply and comfortingly cheap. It felt well deserved that night.

Back on Red the next day and we were aiming to explore the valleys and mountains beyond the native settlement of Catarpe, a short 8km ride up the trail.

The area had been recommended both for its stunning views and excellent mountain biking. As it turns out we weren’t going to be disappointed.

Heading out of San Pedro’s dirt roads we quickly headed uphill on stony, sandy trails punctuated by the odd river crossing and the odd large herd of goats

2500 pesos (or roughly £3.00) per person gave entry to the national park and a veritable mountain biker’s paradise.

First climb of the day was up to ‘El Tunel’ (The Tunnel), what it says on the tin, a tunnel built in the 1930’s through the mountain which tops out a once much-used pass. Now however a crumbling dirt track of barely or less than a car’s width winds up the side of the mountain. The trail is only a 4km detour from the main valley track but they were 4 hard, vertical km up sandy, rocky terrain. It also necessitated much weaving around on the bike to avoid disconcertingly large potholes, potholes in which you couldn’t see the bottom, or worse still you could see daylight, revealing both the drop below and the overhang on which you were riding.

The road itself used to connect San Pedro with the city of Calama over 100km away until sensibly replaced by a tarmac alternative in a not too dim and distant past!

As the tiny, crumbling road rose through the mountains, I certainly wouldn’t want to be the person navigating a car around its decaying narrow edges.

The tunnel itself was cool respite and perched so high up offered fantastic views to the river valley below, a startling green amidst the arid landscape.

A quick obligatory out and back through the sand-filled tunnel where the road peters out and then time to make up for all that climbing with a rapid, thrilling descent, also trying to avoid the worst of the abyss-like potholes.

  El Tunel

El Tunel

Picking up the main (and only) track through the park we crash through a river crossing. My heart picks up speed when, in gung-ho mood, I offer to go first and it turns out to be much deeper than anticipated. Pedaling madly and breathlessly out of the flow, I’m drenched, exhilarated and laughing like a loon.

The plan now is to take the main 4×4 dirt road to the church. It’s an easy ride alongside the river valley and the scattering of green farms that sprout along it making a pleasant ride, all encapsulated by high red mountains. The day is hot but, cooled by the river soaking, it feels good. Twice we park up the bikes and go exploring on foot, tempted by signs to Inca ruins and burial grounds a short (but hair-raising climb) from the main track.

The final short, steep climb to the pretty white church of San Isidro at the base of the valley reminds me of the altitude as my lungs struggle to gain oxygen in the depleted air.

We’ve been told of a well-used mountain biking route from here which makes a circuit back to the river crossing only, having reached the church, there are a distinct lack of signs.

In fact the only thing we find are intermittent little man-made piles of stones and the ghost of tracks that could belong to humans or goats leading off into the jagged teeth of mud moraine-like flows, some hundreds of feet high.

I’m a bit uncertain about heading off in to the moraine-field but the thing that decides it is spotting some tyre tracks. We head off. Over the next hour or so it feels like we are riding round in circles, we may very well have been. The bike tracks and the stone piles come and go intermittently leading us deeper into the mud-moraines. Every time they run out we debate turning back and then we spot another – possible-looking tail, and we head off with renewed confidence, albeit in a different direction.

Scaling and descending the moraines there are some amazing natural trails with berms, loose sand and drop offs, it’s exhilarating riding but also concerning.

Forming the side of the valley the mud is hardened but still soft and crumbly in places, with salt deposits crusting its surfaces. Cycling across its surface is surreal, especially when the crumbly mud cracks into soft sand. I constantly have the feeling if I stray too far off-piste I will disappear under the quick-sand like surface.

The moraines too, tower above us forming a crumbling maze. It’s hard to tell anymore which way we should be heading. In fact we can only head where the trails lead us, forcing unwanted turns and constantly throwing up walls which force us to lift the bikes over or dead-end after following promisingly wide paths.

We could be feet from the road for all we know but the 100 foot crumbling mud walls deny any access. It’s hot too, the stifling air being trapped within this maze and broiling us. With water running low and a tinge of anxiety starting to take hold we make the decision to retrace our steps. Not as easy as it sounds in a landscape where everything looks the same. After what seems like too long we finally stumble out onto one of the open flats and see the ragged stand of trees which marks one of the farm properties, beyond which is the road.

I apologies in my rough and ready Spanish as we haul ourselves and the bikes past 2 surprised farm workers, through the dense scrub-land and back to the main track. Never have I been so pleased to see a dirt road before.

  Lost in Catarpe

Deeper than anticipated

Cracking it

You may be thinking that now would be a good time to find another place to ride next but the mud-moraines, and the promise of this circular route have taken hold. Despite the scare of getting lost the terrain is addictive.

We return a day a couple of days later to tackle the route from the other end by the river crossing. This time PIC’s done some more scouting whilst I’ve been off horse riding and, after a check on Google maps we’re pretty confident!

The track is definitely easier to find from this direction, winding up past Garganta del Diablo (either the Devil’s throat or his shaft, depending on how you translate it!), a cave mouth high in the cliffs.

After that, although a little elusive in parts, the route is much more clearly visible and so worth it.

Sandy berms (corners) and single track wind up and down through the mud-moraines, we squeeze through narrow gaps, around rock falls and climb and swoop before ascending high on to a plateau. Skidding and sliding down this sandy trail we come across the salt flats where we took our exit from the previous ride. How close we were had we but realised it.

Helpful stone arrows also point out the trail in this direction, in fact we even meet a volunteer out there repairing them.

It’s become noticeable that both of the chains on our less that road-worthy bikes are now complaining vociferously, the combination of many kilometers in sand and water having nearly seized them. With no oil and no spares there’s little we can do except spin on in a low gear whilst helpfully humming the America song from the title…”riding through the desert ….mmm… bike with no chain…mmm” crossing my fingers they don’t break entirely!

The final climb up towards the church is a lung-busting push up near vertical terrain followed by the most amazing natural single track descent sweeping through gullies and rock gardens until we arrive breathless, high on adrenaline at the little white chapel. We did it! And the only thing that could top that ride……is to reverse the route and go back again. So we do. Whooping and sailing up and down the moraines, taking the berms at breakneck speed, the muddy walls now feeling friendly as they speed past.

The river crossing arrives all too soon and the ride back is a welcome cool down and a calm down.

I’m sure I could ride here for a long time and not get bored, with terrain that tests both fitness, navigational skill and technical ability, what’s not to like? The surface, the features and the natural trails providing endless variety. I also learn later that this trail forms part of the route of the infamous Atacama Crossing a 7 day desert marathon which sees runner tackling 250 km through just this terrain.

Sadly though it’s time to say goodbye to the desert as there are other parts of Chile to explore and other cycling adventures planned but I leave wanting more and who knows…..

  Laguna Cejar

Laguna Cejar

Laguna Cejar

El Tunel

Inca ruins

Mud-moraines

El Tunel

Lost in Catarpe

Another kind of riding

      Cycling in Chile: Riding through the desert on a bike with no chain…. The vast and desolate beauty of the desert has inspired some of the greatest writers and thinkers of all time.

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The Curse of the Armchair Athlete

The Curse of the Armchair Athlete

It never fails to amaze me how the human body can produce so much snot. (more…)

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The Crap Bike Christmas Carol

I’m not the only one reflecting on the year at the moment, it seems my bicycles also appear to be taking stock of the last 12 months. This is taking the form of something mechanical now going wrong on pretty much every ride and on every bike. Some things are small, some are more fundamental. I think the bikes are all trying to tell me that a bit of tender, loving care is in order before the New…

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A phrase often used by Mountain bikers when encouraging others to tackle stupidly big obstacles most likely to break them.

Being of the female persuasion I don’t especially like the idea that one’s bravery and ability on a bike is decided by the two things I will never possess however, it doesn’t stop me rising to the bait every single time it’s uttered.

After last year in plaster and out of action this year feels like I’ve come back with a vengeance, going from chicken to daredevil (relatively), tackling the biggest, gnarliest things of my short bike career in just a few months. Working on both confidence and bike handling skills have helped immeasurably although still regularly scaring myself to the point of insanity. In the quest to both improve my riding and to remain out of A&E I’ve been reflecting a lot on what makes a good mountain biker?

My conclusion, whilst skill and ability play a part, the majority of mountain biking is about learning to fool yourself (and your body) that what you are doing is absolutely fine, safe and not likely to hurt a bit. So, following on from this season’s antics, here are my Top Ten Ways To Fool Yourself In To Being A Proper Mountain Biker.

Look after your bike. I’m not great at bike maintenance and so I’ve found that it’s very, very easy to ignore that insistent clunking sound as you’re flying down a trail, only to finish and find the back wheel has come undone or some vital componet has worked loose. Lesson number one, you ask a lot of your bike and it needs a little love in return, or at least you remembering to tighten up the wheel axles properly!

Lesson number 2 – Have some lessons. As I’ve learned, apparently you can teach an old dog new tricks, or at least enough of the basics to ensure that not every downhill run is an out of control white knuckle ride with no brakes. Mountain biking is a technical sport, a little instruction can go a long way towards gaining ground (and air).

Look where you’re going. Ok, this sounds like the most obvious thing in the world but there is a huge tendency when you’re scared to look at the ground under your wheels. It’s good to ensure that no evil roots or rocks are about to leap out and throw the bike BUT, biking law says you tend to end up where you’re looking. Look ahead and you’ll sail down the trail picking out your line, look down and your nicely weighted head is just itching to help you nose-dive into a puddle or worse.

Think about it. There’s nothing wrong with having a look at a trail before you tackle it. Push up it first or ride the trail in sections, get confident with the twists and drops before taking it as a whole. There’s nothing like knowing what’s coming up rather than face a few nasty surprises.

But don’t think about it too much. There’ve been many times when I’ll ride up to a steep drop or tricky downhill and stop dead, think about it, pull back, think about it again, pull back, until I’ve sat there hesitating for so long I’ve talked myself out of it. General rule of thumb, just like show jumping, is three refusals and you’re out. If you’ve stopped too much or for too long it’s not going to happen.

Follow someone. I don’t know why this works but it does. For some reason, even the scariest, steepest obstacles are much better if you have someone in front of you. Maybe it’s because if things turn out badly they will crash off first. Maybe it’s a softer landing for you if they do? Whatever it is, focusing on someone else and following their line is a great way to block out the really stupid thing you’re just about to do.

Mix it up a bit. Riding the same trails week in week out is going to result in the same obstacles and the same skill set. To learn and to improve seek out all the new places in your area. Purpose built trail centres are particularly good for encouraging riders, with well-designed trials on which you can’t help but catch a little air, even if you hadn’t intended to!

Copy the Pros. Ok, not the Red Bull Rampage pros for whom a 100 foot Canyon Jump and near certain death is just another day at the office, but someone you know who rides well. Hang off their back wheel and copy the hell out of what it is they do. Chances are they’ll make it look effortless but if you can keep up with them long enough to ask they may be kind enough to share some of their top tips or skills.

Watch people do things wrong. Admittedly it’s less psychologically damaging to watch someone do something well but, there’s nothing like a practical demonstration of a fault (and a side order of schadenfreude to boot). Don’t laugh too much though as it may be the exact same thing you’re doing wrong, it’s just easier to see on a fellow rider.

Finally, and the best lesson of all – Grow a pair and walk it. When all said and done I think that saying ‘No’ takes the biggest balls of all. We’ve all been there on testosterone fuelled rides when competitiveness and stupidity means you push each other to do more and more white-knuckle stuff. We’ve all rolled up to something which looks akin to plummeting off a cliff and sat at the top paralysed with fear but with that nagging voice which tells you all your mates are doing it so why can’t you? Some days things just don’t feel right, there are days to push the boundaries and days to say, ‘you know what, I’ll do it next time’. Recognising your own limits as well as abilities makes for the best and most enjoyable riding. Afterall, it’s meant to be fun!

    Growing A Pair A phrase often used by Mountain bikers when encouraging others to tackle stupidly big obstacles most likely to break them.

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What is it about the unique nature of human beings that leads someone to attempt the same stupid thing – repeatedly.

As highly evolved animals we certainly have the potential to learn from all our experiences weeding out the negative, painful, embarrassing ones, never to be repeated. I use the word potential advisedly….

For example say there was once a cyclist, a female mountain biker, maybe she even wore a skirt, who tackled a particularly tough trail one day, fell off and injured herself so badly she was bruised and broken for 9 whole months.

Now, learning from that, a clever person might say that mountain bike + gnarly trail + catastrophic injury = a good reason not to ride again, most especially that trail. Why not take up a safer hobby such as knitting and save future untold pain?

Or they could say…..

“Oh Crap, what on earth was I thinking?”

Bike to one side, standing on the edge of an alarmingly steep slope all I can see are the twisted, vicious roots writhing below me, dropping away with the gradient.

It’s nearly 18 months ago since I was last here but my arm throbs annoyingly as if to reinforce why, whilst my heart is beating a tattoo in my chest; breathing hard, I’m trying and failing not to go into an embarrassing full-blown meltdown.

Picking my way gingerly down the trail on foot I can still recall with alarming clarity the physical sensations of terror and panic mixed with the exquisite pain of a dislocated shoulder and broken wrist.

Until now I’ve studiously avoided this area. Nine months of that at least was spent healing, the rest has been spent building up strength, confidence and bike skills again.

In all other areas I’ve been making up for lost time on the bike though and since January I’ve ridden over 1000 road bike miles and pushed Bob the mountain bike to both our limits during 5 trail centre visits and one 24 hours race. I’ve ridden up and down mountains, I’ve jumped things, dropped off stuff, bounced, skidded and careened down steep rocky, muddy slopes in the pouring rain but what I’ve not done is gone back to that little patch of heathland that caused so much pain last year.

Now it’s time.

The idea took shape when a small group of us booked a couple of lessons with a local bike coach. We’d each had our fair share knocks and falls lately so the plan was to help develop our skills and make us safer/better/more in control riders.

A Herculean task for Thomas our poor coach, but one which he had tackled with both patience and humour. Over the course of a few short hours he’d miraculously infused us all with enough belief and a few skills to see us progress from blundering down obstacles with a quick prayer and shrieking brakes to some semblance of control and finesse.

Steep hills became drop offs, flown over not nosedived down and, most excitingly even a few dirt jumps had us soaring (briefly) through the air in a non-limb threatening manner.

Finally, all that remained was my nemesis, the crash site, something I wanted and needed to tackle if I was to progress on the bike. I was also fed up of avoiding a huge swathe of my usual riding ground in case I went near it.

Standing at the top of the trial though, trying and failing to control the panic, it wasn’t seeming like such a good idea. The steep, gnarly slope was made significantly worse when sitting on top of a bike whilst the line of descent required bouncing down and over one, two, three large tree roots in control enough to avoid slamming into a mass of others.

Looking down

Side view

The roots of doom!

Route plotted, weight back, bounce steer, bounce steer, the other 2 people in the group made it look, if not easy, then at least do-able. But try as I might I couldn’t ride it.

It’s probably a credit to evolution that my mind is imploring my body not to do the ‘ouchy thing’ again. It’s maybe also a testament to human stubbornness and stupidity that I’m trying to override it.

I could leave it, come back another day, but I know in my heart if I don’t do it now it will be near impossible in the future.

Gritting my teeth I wobble up to the edge, look over and stop. Teetering on the brink. It’s no good, I need some momentum to carry this off, not too much but enough. I pull back and try again, slow pedal, slow pedal and. Stop.

I can’t do it but I can’t not. Aargh.

Trying to hold it together, in a last ditch attempt, I ask my fellow groups members and the coach to line themselves along the trail on foot. I’ve no idea if they would catch me but I feel safer somehow. All credit to them they do as I ask.

Deep breath, circle, turn, pedal and suddenly I know that this time I’m going down.

The lip of the slope approaches and the roots rear up, legs braced, weight back so that I’m hanging over the rear wheel and the bike is descending, bumping down over each root, arms and legs absorbing the impact text book fashion. Roots cleared I swerve and skid past the last of my ‘catchers’, yank on the brakes and half climb, half fall off of the bike in to a small, shaking heap.

Mission accomplished. I’m vaguely aware that I’m crying very un-tough girl tears but I don’t care. Mostly, I’m crying with relief but also with adrenalin and fear and I’m crying because the person with whom I most want to share the achievement is no longer around for me to tell.

Following on from my last post , it’s moments such as this that remind me so keenly of Andy’s loss. Afterall he was the one who first kindled my love mountain biking and he was the person who was with me when I crashed last year. He was with me when, broken limbed, I piloted the specially designed tandem disability tricycle and more happily on my first rides after healing. Despite his absence though I have a sense that somewhere, somehow, he knows.

All done it’s been a strange, exhausting and completely exhilarating experience but on the whole also a very cathartic one.

And finally, yes, there is a lot to be said for learning from experiences both good and bad and yes, maybe knitting would be a safer way to spend my time, but, maybe learning from an experience doesn’t always involve giving something up?

When you love doing something maybe learning from an experience can also mean learning in general. On the bike for example, for me it means learning how to become a better rider, more skilled and more confident certainly but also how to do things in a safer way and how to develop some much needed patience alongside ability.

So, I won’t be rushing back to my roots anytime soon, once was enough for now but they also now no longer hold the same fear they did which is liberating. Who knows, with all that extra coaching, maybe I’ll just start tackling those black runs instead…..!

Thanks to Thomas at Jurassic Coach for his expert knowledge, teaching and photography and to Mike, for being there to catch me when I need it most.

Back to my roots: Facing the Fear What is it about the unique nature of human beings that leads someone to attempt the same stupid thing – repeatedly.

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Loss and a life well ridden

Loss and a life well ridden

How can we ever know that when we say goodbye to someone, it will be for the last time. (more…)

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Question: What’s the longest bike ride you’ve ever been on? I’m talking hours spent in the saddle over the course of a day.

Whilst some of the cycle tours I’ve been on have lasted a few weeks or months I realised the longest time I’d actually spent riding was probably 10-11 hours (with appropriate tea and wee breaks of course). That was until last weekend.

The sign up.

It was another one of those optimistic/slightly drunk sporting entries, you know the ‘I’ve-had-a-glass-of wine-or-two’ kind, when you get that inflated sense of confidence whereby you can take on, and win, some of the great sporting feats on the planet.

Of course I can run a marathon, complete an Ironman, grab an Olympic gold, land on the moon…… So, what did I sign up for this time….. Mountain Mayhem – a 24 hour mountain bike race….easy!

Sanity must have kicked in slightly at the last minute because, instead of entering the solo category, I somehow found the sense/bare-faced cheek to talk a friend into entering with me in the mixed pairs section. That was the only drop of reason though.

Happily, this was months before the event and in the intervening time I managed to mostly forget entirely that I’d entered but, as the weeks crept by there was no avoiding it. This was going to happen. Cue lots of panic training rides.

The event

Fast forward a few weeks to Friday 16th June I’m sat in the middle of a Royal field no-less in the wilds of the Wiltshire countryside. It feels bizarrely like a music festival. Hundreds, if not thousands of people had descended on Gatcombe Park, home to Princess Anne and were now partying in her back garden which was awash with tents, BBQ smoke and loud music. The only slight incongruity is the startling number of very expensive looking bikes as far as the eye can see, tethered to cars, racks and in some case actually in the tents themselves.

“Welcome to the 20th and final Mountain Mayhem” the overhead speakers announce. “The world’s first and longest running 24 hours mountain bike race”.

It seems fitting somehow, if not a little disconcerting, that my first race experience will also be their last.

At the campsite I’ve got enough equipment to break a large elephant, my bike already disappeared under a ton of tinned rice pudding, chocolate, bananas and camping gear. I’ve also managed to bring every piece of cycle clothing I own from summer shorts to rain and winter wear, sun cream and snow gloves. I had less stuff going away for a 4 month bike tour than the next 24 hours, where on earth did it all come from?

Friday evening and there’s the opportunity for a practice lap of the course before racing starts at midday on Saturday. I’m torn between being able to practice the route and terrain and not wanting to add an inch of extra mileage to my legs before the main event. Maybe I’ll just look at the first bit…… 2 hours later and we’re back at the campsite sweating, exhausted and for me at least, very perturbed. Of course we ended up riding the whole route, 7.5 miles of some punishing uphill climbs and some tricky, technical descents. It’s about now I’m seriously starting to have doubts, both about my sanity and the ability to complete one lap of the course let alone 24 hours’ worth. Oh crap. Time for a medicinal gin and tonic before bed!

The next morning – race morning –  and the nerves have intensified to a seething mass of eels in my abdomen. My carefully calculated, highly technical race fuelling strategy, of ‘eat anything and everything available’, is being hampered somewhat by my stomach’s refusal to accept any incoming traffic. I struggle to eat a bite of banana which feels like a lead weight going down.

Shortly after, there’s also the opportunity to bless the relative cleanliness and proximity of the porta-loos as my body spitefully expels anything taken on board in the past millennia. 5 loo stops later as we head for the pre-race briefing I swear I’m starting the day on minus calories.

The race rules are simple, one of your team must be out on the course at all times, when you’ve finished your lap pass through the timing gate and hand over the baton (an armband) to your team mate who is waiting in the transition area. Then grab your bike and go go go, ad infinitum for 24 hours.

Simple!

As midday fast approaches the riders, including my teammate (TM), line up under a blazing sun for the Le Mans style start…. This basically means running a lap of the arena before grabbing your bike and heading out at high speed onto the course.

As the starting claxon sounds hundreds of men and women wearing helmets, hydration packs and cycling cleats surge forward into the sun baked arena. As the first wave passes it becomes clear however that not everyone on the course is quite so super-keen. Once the eager beavers have sprinted off the majority of the field, mindful of the long ride ahead, stroll jauntily along the course to the cheers and whoops of spectators.

The front runners though are now mounted and sprinting away; amongst the field are more than a few professional teams and it’s a real buzz to be able to compete alongside them.

Meanwhile, Bob the full sus mountain bike is waiting patiently in the racking area called transition as I hop around nervously, along with our  FTS – fantastic team support (my mate’s brother who stupidly agreed to help out) for the first change over.

Having ridden the route yesterday we had a rough idea of lap times but nothing definite. My stomach still in knots I try forcing electrolyte drink into it between porta-loo pit stops. The sun by now is merciless, on what subsequently turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year. With temperatures nudging 30 degrees centigrade, keeping cool even in the arena was going to be a challenge.

An hour after the start I spot a familiar cyclist tearing down the course – looks like it’s my turn. In to transition I grab the arm band from TM and with a brief ‘good luck’ wrestled Bob from the racking and head out on the course. My (vague) plan is to ride safely and steadily, the mantra of ‘it’s a marathon not a sprint’ playing on a loop in my head, whilst offering up the universal prayer ‘please don’t let me fall off and break anything again’ (sorry mum)!

The course was as tricky as I remembered but it did help having ridden it once. The mostly shaded forest tracks were also a welcome relief from the blazing sun. Each climb however was just as unforgiving and the downhills as hair raising. Panting up the last monster hill before the home stretch however I realised the technical stuff was now behind me, for this lap at least. Even better was the growing camaraderie with the other competitors, people were so friendly, cheering each other on, joking up hills, giving words of encouragement.

Topping the final hill the track then wound through the massive campsite and the supporters really came in to their own, people cheered and whooped, as you rode through the mass of tents. Even more welcome were the kids (and adults) with water pistols, drenching you as you went by which was heavenly in the blistering heat. Small jump ramps had also been dotted around and I was feeling cocky enough to tackle a few, flying along the last grassy stretch before the wooded path to the arena. Re-entering the ring pedalling like a fury under the timing gate I arrived in a sweaty, overheated heap to hand over the arm band to TM. 2 laps down, 2 hours in, 22 more to go!

And so began a pattern. Finish lap, ride the half a mile to the tent, peel off clothes soaked in sweat and hang to dry. Change (mostly back into half dried sweaty stuff), apply buckets of sun cream, grimly try to force down food, brilliantly prepared by FTS, drink, ride half a mile back to arena. Go back on out on the course. The only things that slowed were the handovers where we quickly ditched the flying changes for a 10 minute chat/rest at the end of each lap. Much more sociable.

Evening definitely brought relief from the relentless heat of the sun but it threw up another issue, riding at night. It’s something I’d done quite a bit of last year, pre-accident, but nothing since then and on such a technical course I wasn’t looking forward to it. TM had graciously offered to try and tackle the majority of the night time laps being the more experienced rider but I still had some to do.

At 11pm I headed out for my first double lap in the pitch black. The course at least had become more familiar by then and I was feeling more confident with its twists and turns, however it’s funny how a landscape can change with darkness. There seemed to be far less riders for a start, sometimes I was completely on my own and I tried not to think too much about the strange, dark shapes flitting between the trees. Bats, it must be?!

Settling in I came to the final and trickiest major descent, the surface was so loose on this one that any real braking meant that the bike skidded out of control so the best approach was a full throttle plunge into the trees and a roller coaster of a ride down. This bit always made me nervous, I debated walking it in the dark but pride said otherwise so, with a deep breath, I sucked down my fear and plunged downwards.

Not an ideal time then for my light to run out of battery. With no chance of stopping I was in complete darkness as I careened through the forest, all I could do was hope the trees were where I remembered them to be.

Somehow I made the bottom in one piece and shakily pulling over to switch to my back-up light. Passing through the campsite I stopped off to grab a quick drink from FTS who was still awake before heading on. There was nothing so soul destroying however as passing through the timing gate and not being able to stop. Exhausted, I could only look wistfully at transition before heading out for another lap.

How the solo riders did it I don’t know, although they could stop and sleep, it takes real mental reserves to keep pedalling alone. By now I realised the teams of 4 or 5 had the right idea, enough riding but with a longer break. In 2-person teams, the riding was relentless, the breaks short lived.

By the time I finished the second lap I was at my lowest point mentally and physically, lack of food, sleep, fear and constant adrenalin gnawed away at confidence. Worse still we were only just half way through. It was a huge relief then to hand the baton over with the knowledge that TM would be taking a double lap and I could finally get a little bit of rest.

Hot food and a short sleep worked wonders and 3.30am I’m back in transition for my next lap. I’m also smiling to myself, listening as riders fly in calling for their team mates, only to be met with a deafening silence. Some people it seems have missed their alarm call and are snoozing in tents whilst their tired team mates make irate calls to them regarding whereabouts.

Out again and what a lap this next one is, I feel restored, there’s even a glimmer of dawn on the horizon, the air is cool, the course is far less dusty and riding well, I’m feeling confident again, we can do this.

TM is also feeling rested and takes another double lap. Time for more sleep and food.

6.45 am and the day is glorious, warm (it’s been a warm night) but fresh. A golden post-dawn light bathes the rolling hills and lily ponds. The woods are cool and fragrant and between the trees are glimpses of the royal estate, including Gatcombe house itself. I wonder if I could pop up there for breakfast. Stern noticeboards and an even sterner security details suggest not.

We’re over ¾ of the way through now. We’re going to do it.

The remaining laps roll by, one on, one off. I’d hoped to be the one riding the final lap but timings meant this honour would fall to TM and well deserved after taking those night time double stints.

10.55am and I’m heading out on Bob for the final time. Tired but energised.  I’d gradually been walking more and more of the big hills as the event wore on, often at a quicker pace than those riding and a good efficiency saving. I try riding a few more this time, after all it’s our final lap. Some great banter and encouragement from all the competitors now who are even noticing my change of skirts. We’re de-mob happy, the end is in sight. I tick off the uphills and their subsequent tricky downs, counting them down by the names over which I’ve had 24 hours to christen them:

Fun big bomb hole down; bast**d grassy climb.

Fun Loamy berm bit; long bast**d stony uphill.

Slippery rooty down; beautiful lake single track, evil climb from hell

No light, supersonic, final downhill.

And that’s it, the last technical descent done all that remains is the long hot slog up to the campsite. Even then I don’t mind, I’m savouring every bit of this final lap and, as I crest the last hill to the shouts and cheers of the spectators, in my head I’m leading the home straight at the world cup. Flying down the grassy track, over the jump ramps, skirt fluttering in the breeze, through the woods and into the arena. My family are there now too as are TM and FTS, my legs are full of adrenalin and pumping like mad. We fly around the last corner and through the timing arch, hand over the baton and…. That’s it.

I’m done and I’ve done it. The adrenalin ebbs, I can’t believe I made it through a whole day and night. A quick wash and change and I’m back to cheer TM over the line at exactly 12.00, 24 hours after we started, riding through intense heat, darkness, spectacular sunsets and sunrises. Through an entire wardrobe of cycle clothing and way too many cans of rice pudding to even contemplate.

The final results, whilst not important to us per se, put us squarely in 4th place in the mixed pairs category. Team ‘Bike and the Mechanics’ clocking up a respectable 22 laps (10 by me, 12 by TM) not bad considering some of the calibre of riders out there.

For me that’s approximately 75 miles of off-road riding plus another 5miles or so commuting to the tent. Trust me it counts.

Celebration is a quiet affair. Half a pint of beer each and we’re rapidly sliding towards comatose but with a huge sense of satisfaction and achievement. Going into this I had no idea if I could make the distance, although determined to do it, short of being carried off the course, it was an unknown quantity in terms of physical and mental endurance. Underlying it is that fact that I still consider myself lucky to be here too. With most of last year written off through injury, even during the hardest hours I wouldn’t have swapped the experience, or the chance to tackle it, for anything.

There was a certain sadness in the air too at the last running of this iconic event (in this format at least) but it was truly a joy to be a part of, brilliantly organised and well honed. As ever though it was the people that made the whole event truly great, from those little jokes and conversations with other riders, the kind words from the spectators and most especially the support from FTS (aka Tim) and TM (aka Andy). Great job guys, I would say see you same time next year but…..

*Lezyne photo credit to Rob Crayton, courtesy of Mounatn Mayhem.

Toughness is in the soul and spirit, not in muscles. Alex Karras Question: What’s the longest bike ride you’ve ever been on? I’m talking hours spent in the saddle over the course of a day.

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Getting High: Thrills and Downhills

Getting High: Thrills and Downhills

The last two things you expect to find in Wales are sunshine and wallabies. As it turns out, there are plenty of both. Who knew?! (more…)

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Do you ever find yourself blithely saying ‘yes’ to things without thinking them through, then suddenly days or even weeks later actually fully realise the consequences of doing so.

Yup, me too.

Which is probably why I’m sat in a freezing cold pub car park in North Wales, early on a Sunday morning with 200 random strangers, after only a few hours of sleep.

The 200 and I have just one thing in common, we’re all clutching mountain bikes, other than that the similarities end.

There are several scarily focussed, steely looking people in matching top-toe colours sporting full body armour and face helmets, a well turned out race team with what looks like its own mechanic, as well vast assortment of people who appear to have just rolled in off the cover of Mountain Bike UK magazine. Hearteningly there are also a few folk dressed in onesies, obviously not taking things too seriously, and finally myself and a dozen friends who’d made the 7 hour trip up to the Snowdonia National Park to take part in xxx

It would be fair to say that you could count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually ridden my mountain bike in the last year following the accident that took me out of cycling (amongst many other things) last April.

In fact it’s still a bit of a mystery how I ended up here at all? Over the past few weeks, I seem to have progressed from debating whether I would ever get back on a mountain bike again to agreeing to a 60+ km event that takes in Wales’ highest mountain

Beware what you say yes to!

But, here we are at the start. I even have a new bike, bought second-hand from a fellow club member, for the occasion.

‘Bob’ as I have christened him is a full suspension mountain bike with 27.5 inch wheels, a whole 1.5” upgrade from my last bike. I’ve also graduated from cable to hydraulic brakes (supposedly improving my stopping control) and a 1 x 10 gear ratio.

I’ve ridden Bob a couple of times but it’s fair to say this will be our first big test. The same is also true for my recently healed broken wrist. After a few cautious rides, I’m still slightly perturbed that I’ve decided to throw myself down a mountain but, so the event blurb assures me, it’s a non-technical route with a choice of distances (decide on the day). What could possibly go wrong…..?

So, I squash down my nerves and a breakfast of sausage sandwich, and get ready for the off. As the countdown starts I mentally tick off the reasons I shouldn’t be doing this:

Post-op painful broken wrist

Severe lack of fitness through 9 months of inactivity

Almost no sleep after sharing a tiny cheap hostel room with 5 friends, some who could snore for England.

Oh yeah, I’m terrified of falling off (see previous post)

Still debating the wisdom/lack off that made me agree to this an air-horn signals the start and on-mass 200 riders began streaming out of the gateway heading straight on to the mountain ahead.

Very quickly we’re funnelled onto one of the narrow paths leading up the side of Snowdonia itself. At over 1000 metres it’s Wales’ highest peak and whilst we’re not going right to the top we’re traversing a goodly portion of it.

The feeder track is incredibly steep and too narrow for so many keen bikers. Those overly optimistic about their climbing skills quickly fall behind and quietly, others of us begin to gain ground. I’ve been hanging back but, one of the things I can usually manage is to climb doggedly, which is what I do. All too soon the concrete feeder path peters out into stony single-track and the riders move to single file. It’s a path that demands attention, boulders and channels are waiting to misdirect wheels and every 200 yards or so, slate ‘steps’, fronting water channels require some skill to navigate up; speed, power and technical ability are needed to lift the front wheels over and across.

Up to Telegraph Pass By J.D.

Many, including me, ride some, walk some and fail some. There’s a steep drop to the left hand side where the mountain falls away and disconcertingly I see more than one rider miss the path and start rolling away down the side, still clipped into their pedals. I get off and walk a bit more.

But I’m still going, riding up, walking the scarier steps.

It’s a 7+km climb and hard focussed work but amazingly for Wales the sun is shining by now and even more amazingly, lungs fit to burst I make it over the prow of the first climb to be rewarded by the most spectacular views, including the snow-capped summit of Snowdon itself.

By J.D.

A quick breather and I’m keen to stay with my group of friends so I steel myself for the bit I’ve been dreading worse than the climb. The descent.

Now, the organisers may have promised ‘non-technical’ but I’d beg to differ. A smooth grass slope was all very well at first but this soon gave way to another steep section of single track – big drops to the left, vertical banking to the right and a narrow strip of path which insistently dissolved into deep rocky gully every 20 yards or so.

I’m hugely grateful for my new brakes at this point and grimly ride/scoot down this new obstacle, sliding into the gully or balancing on the path, trying to ignore the press of faster riders behind me. A series of zig-zagging turns then unfolded, strewn with boulders and large drop-offs, gullies and debris. I’m descending white-knuckle style, heart in mouth, less out of choice and more pushed on by the 100 or so riders behind me and the inability to stop and let them past.

Careening down a rocky shoot I’m spat out at the bottom of the trail, fingers locked in terror on the brakes and legs shaking.

I’d made it though!

The next road section afforded a chance to recover my breath and let the adrenalin die down a little. I’m cheered slightly by the fact that my friends also found it a nerve-straining experience. After a few more kilometres on rode riders were then funnelled off along picturesque gravel paths into a large forest. Climbing and descending on the fire trails I was looking around both eagerly and in fear of the next single-track section but weirdly it didn’t appear. The route, somewhat disappointingly wound on stickling to these wide tracks.

Whilst the forest trail seemed never ending, my drink bottle wasn’t, on a hot day I’d run out of liquid and, as the adrenalin wore off my energy plummeted too. Rounding another section of wooded track I caught sight of a marshal who thankfully confirmed a water/food station ahead. 5 minutes later I pulled in and flopped exhausted on the ground. Forest lap one completed.

To complete the full distance there was the option of a further 2 laps. Don’t get me wrong, the forest was gorgeous in all its wooded sunshiny glory but it was also pretty featureless for mountain biking and, being on the knackered side, I opted for just one more time around the route.

Curiously the field had dispersed, a good number of riders heading back after the first mountain descent or after only one forest lap. By now, my friends too were spread out ahead and behind and I found myself mostly on my own.

The odd hard-core cyclist passed finishing off a third go round, lapping me on occasion whilst I was now just content to take in the scenery. The smell of the pine, the mountain streams trickling through the forest punctuated by the odd whistle from the steam train that ploughed the Ffestiniog railway nearby. It was idyllic but I was also knackered.

Reaching the water station again at the end of lap two I caught up with the majority of my friends, lying prostrate on the grass we shared the highs and lows so far – punctures, mechanicals, falls, before heading off together as a group for the ride home.

Somewhere during the day however it seemed that the originally planned, more relaxed route home had been vetoed by local officials which left the only option of finishing via the same mountain pass from the morning. It was not an appealing thought.

My energy levels had pretty much reached rock bottom by now, my lack of bike fitness making itself known in jelly muscles and aching limbs. On top of that my newly healed arm was complaining vociferously at this prolonged, rough treatment. But, the only way is up, so we began climbing. It was soon obvious that the steep path, with its boulders and steps would be easier to push than ride so that’s what we did. The angle and the weight of the bike reminding me how much more healing the broken wrist had yet to achieve.

It truly took all my focus to make that climb, one of those situations when you have to draw deep on psychological reserves as the physical one are near empty. Ultimately, it was the patience and support of those I was with which made the difference between success and failure as we joked and cursed our way to the top accordingly. Some of the group could easily have gone faster but they chose camaraderie over speed. I can’t tell you how humbled and grateful I am by that.

The only way is up! By J.D.

Regrouping at the summit we’d been at just hours earlier (was it really only that morning), nothing remained but the sweet, long downhill descent back to the starting point.

By now we were amongst the last riders out on the course, even the odd marshal looked surprised to see us but, in style and with a surprising speed, we negotiated the technical, rock-strewn single track, whizzing back down the paths we’d slogged up so laboriously.

In no time at all our intrepid little group reconvened to ride the last few metres over the finish line, triumphant and absolutely knackered.

Abandoning bikes we headed for the bar. Pints of beer have never been so gratefully devoured.

But Bob and I had done it, 32 miles (51km), 6ish hours, nearly 5000 feet of climbing and some hair-raising descents later. Not bad for a full-fledged chicken and after nearly 9 months of no riding.

A whole soup of emotions swirled inside me, relieved, exhausted and full of gratitude for friendship, for the joy of cycling, for getting back in one piece and lastly for the huge bar of chocolate I’d just found in my bag!

DCIM100GOPRO

Majority of photos shamelessly stolen from friends as I forgot to take any, thanks Jemma D, Jacky NM and Jackie S.

Thanks also to Brinyau MTB events, a link to a few more photos can be found here!

Remind me, why did I agree to this? Do you ever find yourself blithely saying ‘yes’ to things without thinking them through, then suddenly days or even weeks later actually fully realise the consequences of doing so.

[cyclinginaskirt-uk]

Chicken!

The human body is an amazing thing. Not least because of its capability for learning from experiences, especially painful ones.

For example, if you touch something hot, you’ll likely say “!*!#?” (ouch), nurse your scalded hand and learn pretty quickly not to touch the hot thing again, because that would be stupid right? (more…)

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