New girl on the block :-)

This is my first blog post as a Minx team rider so a little about myself maybe and then (as I AM British) a little about the weather!

I'm Elaine and I have been a fat tyre addict for about 4 years.

There... I said it...:-)


The last two have been totally unbearable with me entering, riding or racing anything and everything (OK, well except cross.........yet)

My list of places I want to ride is still longer than the places I have riden & I love my local "trails out the back gate" just as much as I do Afan or the Alps.

I seem to have collected numerous, very expensive bikes and random parts, in my garage fairly rapidly (I really have no idea how that all happened as I am always skint)

MIT.....I ride for fun.

I dont train and seem to do OK racing that way. I always told myself that I will ride as long as I enjoy it and as soon as I find myself riding because I have to or it says so on a chart on my wall then i will stop for a while and climb again (my other passion)

If I have a big event like a 12 hour (No... I will never solo a 24) then I just ride more. I sometimes call it training but thats only to cover up the fact that I am infact going out on the cross bike on the road for a few hours so I dont have to clean it when I get home!.. and to me, thats training rather than riding :-)

I once started crying when I tried to explain to someone just how amazing riding made me feel. So I guess that makes me terminal!.. I realise that I wont feel like this for ever so I am going to ride as often as I can where ever I can and accept that when the mojo goes, which it may well do, then I do something else until it comes back.
I have as yet, NEVER found anything in my life (all 40 years of it!) that gives me the kick that riding my bike does.
An unknown quote I have on the wall in my garage says "Nothing inspires me to ride, riding inspires me to live"...

So 2010 sees me joining Jenn, Fi, Lisa & the other girls cranking it for Minx and I cant wait...
I did quite a few events last year in pairs and solo and have now managed to finish 3, 12 hour solos, 2, 24 hour pairs including the Strathpuffer (NEVER again.. OUCH) and numerous other Enduro and sprint events. I am going to concentrate on Enduro events this year but I daresay I will do my local Gorrick sprint series as its quite the social gathering and I ride with a great local club who are always there to support and cheer me on no matter what jersey I am wearing.
This year I am also racing through the winter which is a first as I usually rest a little!.
The Merida Brass Monkeys Enduro series is 2/3rds of the way through with me with one first and one second place so its all to race for in the last event of the series on the 31st January.

I have also got quite the expert at snow riding this year.....:-)
I ride from my home near Swinley Forest into London quite often and I decided to ride into town to meet a friend for lunch on the ONLY day this winter that the whole of the South came to a complete standstill in the snow.
So the first time I throw my cross bike onto my back and run, is up Ascot hill past the lines of stationary cars just to keep warm! Stopping occasionally to help push a car or two.
If I hadnt actually done it I wouldnt have believed it was possible to ride a road bike on sheet ice and not only stay upright but actually get traction to climb up hills... so that was a 3 hour ride home, past all the people stuck in their cars, a little chilled by the time I got there but very well practised in ice riding with some very steady and constant pedal stokes and easy on the brakes!

So bring on 2010, dry fast trails, good kicks, no mechanicals with ale and cake a plenty....:-)


I look forward to meeting and riding with you all soon.
Happy 2010 and Happy smiley trails.....

Elaine

kit

My second training ride. 5hrs in sub zero temps.

I wore (from the bottom up)
- thick(ish) merino socks
- shoes
- fleece lined overshoes
- shorts
- fleece lined bib longs with foot loops (but a hole in the knee)
- skin tight long sleeve base layer
- thick merino base layer with thumb holes and zip up the neck
- thick windstopper long sleeve jersey
- gillet
- windstopper gloves
- goretex over-mittens
- buff round the neck
- fleece lined windstopper skull cap
- helmet
- sunglasses

So, what do you reckon? Was I cold, warm or a sweaty mess as I plodded around Monmouthshire and Western Bristol? Answers on a postcard.

Fi

New Year New Focus

For a year there has been no 'training', no real racing, no tricky choices to be made over cake or abstinence. It's been heaven. I needed it, to counter the race-mad culture I had slipped into in 2007/8. Once it stopped being fun I gave myself a good talking to, dusted off the baggy shorts and stripey socks and got out for some serious kicks-n-giggles. A little bit fatter but a little bit wiser.

So how do I find myself in 2010 with an email from BADTri Team Captain congratulating me on my acceptance in to their Road Racing Team?

Is this the End As We Know It?

No. This is the start. They are a great bunch of girls who love 'hoofing it' on road. And with the fitness road racing will give me (believe me I need it) I will be able to hoof it on a mountain bike once again.

So, what of racing mountain bikes?

My mountain bikes are made for racing. I have three gorgeous bikes and am buying a new frame to pimp up my hard tail (big bouncy forks, bling wheels, shiney grey parts... you get the picture). But I don't want to race round in circles any more. I want to sharpen my elbows and race my boyfriend up and down Welsh mountains, race my own shadow round my local trails on those (will they ever arrive) long summers evenings and race the girls round the trail centres with the thrill of a cold bottle of beer egging us on faster and faster. Racing is FUN... bring on the speed!

So 2010 is going to be about going nice and fast and enjoying every second on my bike, no matter what size tyres it has.

But I draw the line at socks on the outside.

regressive progression

Friday night. Leave late to miss the traffic, Radio 1, eyes on the drive. Smoothly up the M6, slingshot Glasgow, onwards up the A9, horizon rolling as the mountains cluster around. Haul up in the chosen layby, unfurl sleeping bag in the back and dive for broken sleep.



Rudely awakened. Wrestling into layers in the half-light. Base layer tucked into shorts under mid layer tucked into tights under another mid layer over shorts under vest and jacket zipped right up to the nines. Inhale steam from the stovetop, suffer apple pie and coffee burps for the rest of the day. Pack up, lock up, hit the hills.



Roiling nerves give way to exhilaration. The sun is up - it might not be seen all day but it is up and that's what counts. Miles roll on. Eat, drink. Views absorbed, perils assessed. Decisions made quickly and sensibly before crazier, more stupid ideas can be entertained. Somewhere in the back of your mind a smile grows broader as the crux is passed and the last leg looms. Endings matter less with a long before to give them substance. Watch the sunset, feel not much of anything. Eat, drink. Miles.



Finish in the dark, car safe and small and familiar. Fall around a muddy car park, stripping off to nothing and then layering up again whilst the stovetop steams and the rain returns and you stub your toes painfully on your socks. Black coffee, whole pot of. Scour the car for food. Heater on, radio on. Back on the road, smiling.



j.

on any given

'Cross. Oh, how I love to hate 'cross. The pain, the brevity, warming up on lap four of six before bonking on lap five. Feet and hands that remain icy numb even when the core could be used to cook bacon. Taste of blood at the back of my throat, the glimpse of pink bar tape out of the corner of my eye on that turn which tells me whether I'm gaining, losing, gaining again. Wry laughs on the finish line, familiar hacking cough, hands cramping round the steering wheel on the way home.

Yup, hate it.

I do like northern 'cross better than southern 'cross, though. Southern 'cross is all terribly polite. New white socks for every race. Friendly, even when in the throes of agony. "Excuse me, do you mind if I overtake/undertake/vomit on your rear wheel? Lovely weather we're having. Did you see the latest Rouleur yet? Beautiful layouts. Some rather nice tubs. Anyway. Lovely chatting to you but I must be going. Keep pedaling, nearly there!".

Very nice.

Northern 'cross is different. Harder. Black socks are not uncommon. I have been sworn at, pushed off, elbowed, shoved. Asking around reveals this to be normal, though apparently this year has been worse than any preceding it. Up here I have had a great deal of fun with the sort of riders, all male, who wish they were top ten but have never quite managed to break top fifteen, and aren't used to girls with well-honed elbows who can and do hold their line when they have a legitimate right to it. Who are quite happy to return the verbal abuse they receive, doubled. And who can ride muddy, off-camber singletrack fast enough to keep returning that abuse right into the offending ear until the next flat field section is reached and power overcomes skill once again.

Love it.



j.

carrot and stick

The week begins on Friday. I am knackered. After four days of being away with work I want to ride quite badly. It's raining. Or it could be sleeting. Whatever: it's definitely freezing. Actually, perhaps I don't want to ride so badly. But I should.

So.

Bring forth the carrot:

(Tempting as it is to dive beneath a duvet of pastry and hop-fuzzed warmth 'til spring, that's not going to help. This challenging a tea requires equally arduous miles to earn it. I know this to be fact.)

...and the stick:

(Yes, the weather has been spectacularly bad of late but also it's been just plain spectacular. Something like this is waiting every time I leave the house. Awesome.)

Place carrot on table, keep stick in mind. Endure origamiesque layering protocol. Unhook road bike. Head for the hills. Climb. Climb more. Descend. Climb again. Sunset over Bacup looks f***ing lovely (excuse the language, if you've been there you'll understand why Bacup deserves nothing better and if you haven't - don't be tempted). Return at dusk. Lights on, walking on stumps, fumbling for keys with uselessly numb hands. Unlayer, rewarm, shower whilst oven heats house and pie heats soul.

Job done.

j.

The High Life (in the High Peak)

How amazing is winter riding in the High Peak?

Staying with The Wife, The Husband and The Arthur for the weekend was already going to be a pleasure (think amazing food, an open fire, underfloor heating and a lot of banter) but when we set off for our Sunday ride, which had The Wife hopping up and down with excitement ("you'll love it, it's amazing, there's this bit with this drop and then this other bit with this rocky section and...") we had no idea how gorgeous the next 3 hours of our life would be.

I've ridden in the High Peak a few times. Admittedly mostly at night. But I'd never been here










or seen this











or seen The Boy ride so well before:










I tend to restrict my riding to trail centres in the winter. No longer. I'm moving North.

F

All good

Sometimes it's about riding hard. Elbows in, breathless, screaming muscles, making that climb, adrenaline pumping, stomach rising, no dabbing, nailing that descent. And sometimes, it isn't. Sometimes it's rolling up the leg of your jeans and pootling to the shops for smoothies to have with a loved one. It's all riding. It's all good.

Rain

On Sunday in the Lake District it rained. All night Saturday and all day Sunday. I was doing a 5hr adventure race with a friend (who recently produced The Arthur but is still fit as a fiddle). We set off on the run, feet splashing down the tarmac lane and then mud oozing through the mesh in our trainers as we turned up hill on the muddy bridleway.

Steady, slippery rocks, lethal roots. "This'd be fun to ride", I'd say.

2hrs later we jumped on our bikes and wheeled them over the churned up field before slinging a leg over the saddle and pedalling hard up through the village to try and warm up (pancake in mouth). A strong climb up a gravelling bridleway got the blood flowing and saw was our first experience of the River Cumbria.

All of Cumbria was a river.

Every bridleway had a few inches of white tumbling water frothing over it, rushing down the hillside. Some steeper hills had become waterfalls and it was like night riding, not being able to quite see where the obstacles were. Weight back, heels down, let the bike bump over the invisible rocks. Feel your feet hard back on the pedals, socks full of water. Gorgeous technical, rocky descents, dancing over slimey roots and popping the bike around steep, rutted corners. Through the water.

Shooting hard along a flat bridleway the puddles got deeper and deeper. The description for the checkpoint was 'stream crossing' but how could we know? Everywhere was under water. Ploughing hard through a deep puddle, the ground suddenly sunk away and I was up to my hips, still pedalling, giggling. Sue screaming at me with a big grin on her face. Then 'whoosh'. the bike swept away and I slid off on my side into the water. I watched my bike tyres float up to the surface and get stuck in a bank to our left, caught by the torrent that was coming from the right, down the hillside... the stream! We found our checkpoint and hurried on through to get back before our time limit was up.

Fi

'Tis the season

for night riding. Gotta love a slightly spooky pedal round unfamiliar trails in the dark. Especially when those trails turn into bike and rider swallowing bogs. Nothing quite like a Friday night carrying your bike across a quagmire. Still, justifies the chippy tea doesn't it?

Vikki

The rubbishness of 2009 continues apace with this:

However, before that happened I went here:

...and rode lots of stuff like this:

...with friends like this:

...and finishing up with this:

Despite being confined to the road bike, I'm still enjoying plenty of this:

and have even more of this:

...to look forward to.

New year, please.

j.

Note to self

Errands
Originally uploaded by jumbly

When cycling to the parcel office it is best not to forget a bag or the ride home will involve my jacket having to accommodate more than just my belly.

Vikki

Emily writes:

I'm not usually the miseryguts you'd expect from my last couple of posts. And I'm begun to realize that, just when it's all terrible, and it's raining, and my bike's broken again, and I'm beginning to question why I do this bloody job in the first place - the gods smile on me, and I have a really good week, with blazing sunshine, no mechanical failures, and enough jobs to offset my guilt over how much I spend on cookies every day.

This has been such a week - and two things in particular have really improved my working life, and made me look forward to winter with actual anticipation, rather than dread.

The first is, courtesy of my mate Lawrence, a brand new cafe, slap bang in the middle of town, catering to cyclists, and particularly to couriers. As well as all the usual coffee paraphernalia, Lawrence has a track pump, a toolkit, a workstand, and all sorts of interesting bikes for sale. And, most importantly, he offers a huge discount to working couriers - and doesn't mind me bringing my bike in and standing around making the place look untidy while I try to warm up. And his coffee's really really good - just what I need after a chilly dash into work, and the belated realization that I need to start layering again.

(He's at 74 Leather Lane, EC1, in case you're local, and want to drop in and say hi.)

And the second thing? Waterproof socks!

We've had a couple of days of steady rain this week, but it no longer bothers me in the slightest, because, even though I can hear my feet going "squelch squelch squelch" with every step I take - inside they're as warm and dry and cosy as if I were curled up in bed!

The first day I wore them, I rode around for the whole afternoon with a huge smile on my face. Last winter I was regularly brought close to tears by my soaking wet socks and gloves (horribly painful when the cold wind blows through them), and I cannot tell you what a difference it's going to make to my life - and my feet - being warm and dry. Bring on the winter!

Back in the saddle

My first 'Tuesday Night Club' ride tonight since April. On the way down to meet the guys I was all stiff legs and slow revolutions. My bum was bouncing up and down on the saddle (it's been 5 months since I rode a singlespeed off road). I felt skewed and wrong.

The ride up the hill was fine. Fast, sore, sweat ringing down my face, breathing laboured and heavy. But good.

Once into the singletrack I lost the plot. I couldn't keep the pace. It was so fast flying round the trees, sliding out on the corners and dipping over the rocky drops and into the black shadows beyond them. They fly, those boys.

PC overtook us all on the road between the woods manualling and one hand in the air, pedalling fast and giggling like a child. I laughed until my ribs ached.

Despite the rasping breathe, my 'race cough' and my aching legs I had a great night. Back to normal. Tired Tuesdays, happy Tuesdays, muddy kit on the bathroom floor, half drunk bottles of FGS strewn around the kitchen. Piles of work ignored in favour of a good hard bike ride.

Mojo... welcome back.

Fi

Old dog new tricks.

One of the benefits of living where I do is proximity to that great cathedral of cycling, Manchester Velodrome. I've ridden here before and loved it, so when the chance turns up to grab a place on one of the one-day accreditation courses I don't have to think twice about it. I'm in. And then promptly forget all about it until the week beforehand. No track practise has occurred at all and a rushed reminder session only serves to remind me just how scared I was last time and how steep that banking is. Eek.

Sunday rolls around and a domino rally of disasters leads to the car and the borrowed track bike being left behind and the road bike and I cruising into Manchester at what is really quite an uncivilised hour for a Sunday morning. The mist is lifting and the roads are empty - swooping in and out of the white lines on the A62 is a treat to be savoured but it's bloody cold and bloody dark at 6am and by the time I get to the track and swap Times for Looks my toes are numb and blue and I already have that chill hunger gnawing away. The hire bikes here are not half bad these days and after a few cursory words of introduction we're clipped in, pedalling raggedly and utterly failing to maintain the most basic of warm-up lines.

The shambles fails to sort itself out and we're beckoned down from the boards for stern words and further instruction. Back up, and we manage a few more laps this time before the neat changes disintegrate into a chaos of slowing riders, elastic gaps and wobbling wheels. Down again for more words. Nobody is laughing. There are frowns. And, after being forced off the track for the second time I'm starting to wonder if this will not work for me. Being openly critiqued for efforts to mitigate someone else's mistakes is unpleasant but required learning. These are "old legs" and we would do well to listen. Even though it seems some still can't and our really-quite-handy chain gang disintegrates at the eleventh hour.

Still, we're getting there and the mood has lifted. Encouragement and criticism distributed even-handedly. Bad jokes, better riding. Soon we are reeling off laps of the black, the red, the blue and the fence, we're sweeping (gingerly) up and down the banking and riding in pairs right around the top of the track, nervous chatting interspersed with polite calls of "pace!" and "move up please". It's entrancing how slowly you can actually go around the banking before the heart-stopping squeak and slide of one or other wheels kicks in.

Thankfully I don't have to deal with that because my own personal bugbear turns out to be learning not to put the power down as soon as I have an open track in front of me. It's not 'red mist', as the coach sagely assumes; just the release of riding unimpeded, relief at not having to watch the riders in front, the change in the feel of the air we're flying through that feels thinner, cooler, faster (faster, faster). Well, pink mist, perhaps, but it means I pull an unnecessary and unhelpful gap when I'm at the head of the line and take far, far too long to rejoin the back of it once I've swung off.

I resort to counting pedal strokes; the required pace is 20mph, 20mph on this gear is 90rpm, the maths is easy and soon enough I think I've got the hang of it. Then the rider three places in front slows right up or pulls a gap and I have to start all over again. It has been a while since I've had to apply my brain to learning. I had forgotten it can sometimes be a two-way street. Progress is not always forward, fast or easy and maybe I have been coasting too often. Perhaps I should stop thinking about this and just concentrate on counting the pedal strokes...

After lunch comes exam time. We warm up, getting it halfway to correct and nobody panics when a shout and a clatter behind indicates a minor crash. The same exercises are reeled off and before I've even clipped in I've forgotten them and the order they will come in. Instead, I concentrate on remembering the first and hope the rest will follow by association. It works. We are up there for a while, long enough to become dizzy, long enough to swing through each and every line, make reasonably tidy sine curves up and down the banking, change on every lap and half lap, pair up and take the chain gang's square dance beyond the point of its previous untimely demise to fruition.

Then come flying half laps, not enough, there could never be enough of cruising round with a wary eye on the pace of the group on the other side of the track waiting for the whistle that marks your turn to swing down - no, look and then swing down to the black line leaving the line behind on the blue, momentum increasing as the shorter distance pulls you hard into the curves, breathing, working, concentrating on the sprinter's lane until you come up on the rear of the group you were until moments ago only matching, looking again and then swinging up above them, waiting for the gradient of the banking to draw away the excess speed, dropping onto the back of the line to begin the whole hypnotising sequence again...

At the end of the session we have all passed. Smiles of relief all round and I confess I'm paying only cursory attention to the brief descriptions of derny etiquette, because I'm too busy looking with glee at the form which says I am now accredited to train here and at every other track in Britain and trying to work out where I can slot a weekly SQT session into the calendar in my head. Best buy that overwintering Pista some new tyres, then.

j.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Emily writes:

It's been a particularly trying week. You know when someone says 'well, at least things can only get better now', and then they proceed to get much much worse? Well, quite.

On Tuesday it rained all day, which was initially horrible (think getting into a cold shower with all your clothes on, then getting out, drying off briefly, then having to get back in, over and over again), and eventually just became miserable. (It was the first time I'd really tested my new Montane 'waterproof', and I'm sorry to report that, since they changed the design, it's about as much use as a paper napkin for keeping the rain out.) All the marble floors in receptions were super-slippery, and I have new cleats that stick out just a little bit more, so I fell over twice - both times in front of lots of people, and the second time skinning both my knees and knocking over a pile of chairs with a big clatter.

And of course, rain means punctures - and Sod's Law means I only ever get a puncture when I have four packages on board, two of them urgent. So, after riding very quickly, yet very carefully across town with a rapidly deflating tube, I got rid of the packages, settled down to fix it, and discovered a hole in my tyre so big I could see daylight through it. (That's the last time I'm buying Gatorskins.)

And then, when I was finally rolling again, I discovered that my padlock had all-of-a-sudden seized up, so my lock was stuck around my waist. It took a gallant chap in a bike shop half an hour, GT85, and lots of fiddling and swearing to free me. (Another bad review: Abus locks are brilliant security-wise, but they don't stand up to rain - this is the second one I've got through this year.)

I got home, discovered that my 4-month-old SIDIs already have a hole in them (bother!), hung up my wet kit (most of it would still be damp the next day), and woke up the next morning to discover just what a stupid idea it is to lock your bike up with a lock you know to be on its way out.

I had given myself two blisters on my right index finger before I reluctantly admitted that there was no way I was going to get the key to turn, apologized to my controller, and spent the rest of the morning desperately chasing bike shops, firemen, and anyone else who might be able to cut the lock off, and fielding calls from the office, who kept saying that it was the busiest day of the year, and why wasn't I working?

Eventually someone with boltcutters agreed to come round that evening, a friend lent me a bike so I could work the rest of the day, and I wobbled off uneasily, having not ridden with a freewheel for the best part of three years. The first hour was absolutely terrifying - habitual fixie-riders will know that sliding-around-all-over-the-place feeling you get when going back to gears and, given the run of bad luck I appeared to be having, I was frightened that I'd end up crashing and writing off my friend's bike.

But after a while, things started to look up - once I got used to not being able to trackstand or leg-brake, once I worked out what do do with my legs when descending, once I got over how counter-intuitive it feels to be controlling the bike with your hands rather than your legs, once I remembered that you can change gear to make you faster (and realized that doing so made me quite a bit faster), once the cold sweat of fear subsided, I realized that riding a 'normal' bike is actually quite fun.

Eventually, I stopped in St James's Square for a well deserved rest, sat back, got out a sandwich, and told myself that things were finally starting to look up. It was then that I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, looked down, and saw a horsefly...

Marbles

I've been back on the bike. In the best way possible. Great friend, check. Newly fettled bike running beautifully, check. Perfect dry trails, check. Perfect sunset with suitably picturesque silhouettes, check and double check.

I snuck in a ride in the High Peak on Tuesday night whilst Op North with work. Fab. The Husband (hers, not mine) put the tea on and conversed with The Arthur (5 months old, budding adventure racer) while The Wife (his not mine) and I ragged around the local trails.

I was really nervous after my 4 week sabbatical, but the spin classes I've been sneaking in meant fitness was reasonable and The Wife is an adventurous and technically charismatic rider so the route was varied and challenging.

I breathed in the evening air and the darkness and felt that old bubble of excitement as the lights start picking up deep shadows on the far side of mystery drops. Sun down, moon up, MOOD up. Flying.

I found rattling down the broken Peak pathways a bit battering but that's just time off the bike. I also found the marbles on one particular descent rather difficult to brake on and rode full pelt into a gate. It was closed. We'll skip over that (although I won't be doing much skipping in a while).

Anyway let's raise our glasses... night riding is HERE!

Fi

long days.

Up at 6.30am to ride cross bikes before the day begins. Catch the sunrise and blue sky before the lifting fog smudges it grey again. A quick one-two with the time concertina as things fall magically into place and off to Manchester for a track session. Monstrously painful fun and so absorbing I forget to save anything for the ride home with Trio, which turns out to be a long one, skies turning chillier with every mile that passes, endless back alleyways and secret trails on a bike that ought to fit but doesn't, really, making everything sore and doubly tired.

Part ways and the slog goes solo, quiet and with purpose, just want to be home but there are miles and miles still to go. Head down, get on with it.

The hill out of Bacup is significantly easier than it looks but still, I'm crawling. Legs grumbling, tummy aching with emptiness after riding straight past lunch and tea.

Pause in the layby at the top. Adjust bag, jersey, jacket for four mile descent. Tug, wriggle, zip. Couple in the car aren't paying me, or the view, any attention at all. Cows stare rudely from the verge and my knees hurt like hell. Weary sigh. Clip in, push off, shrug the bag, roll past the car into the empty road and -

Chips.

They're. Eating. Chips.

They're sitting in there eating chips with the window open just far enough to let the crossswind grab a hefty waft of salt and vinegar fumes and drag it under my twitching nose setting every sense a-tingle. It smells so good I'm already half-turning the bars to swing round and back to the layby before common decency kicks in and reminds me that they are quite likely to think I'm a murdering two-wheeled psychopath rather than a half-starved rider who just wants to mug them for their tea and it really is only ten miles to the chip shop. And at least half of that's downhill.

Just ten miles.

Ha.

j.

long weekends.

Life has somewhat sucked of late. Disappointed by my inability to say no to fixing other people's problems, let down by people full of promises that turned out to be lies.

Time to make things better. Kielder was a beginning. I haven't ridden a century, on the road or off it, for, er... Well, 'a while'. Finishing in second and in a good time was a big, confidence boosting surprise when I wasn't even sure I would finish at all. Cracking event, flawlessly organised and I'm proud to have been part of the new chapter, but the racing thing still just doesn't excite me. Hard to keep your head down and concentrate on the job in hand when you know that trail disappearing off to the left might go somewhere more fun than this.

Then a concerted effort to commit to a proper working week. Fifty hours may fill the coffers but when it's scattered in a hairbrained fashion over seven days it drags and drags and drags. One or two transgressions of switching daytime rides for evening typing when the lure of sunshine got too strong but the regular Thursday night ride was appreciably more enjoyable for having worked harder to get there.

And then a proper weekend off, doing what I wanted to because it was what I wanted to do. Inadvertently left the phone devoid of charge and whilst that was inconvenient it was also a blessing. No texts, no tweets, just riding bikes in the sunshine, celebrating a birthday and the coming together of the crowd, ride-carry-ride-carry through stunning Welsh greenness, digging into epic climbs, falling into bogs, running out of food and water, infuriating the guide, confounding the walkers, smiling and laughing with a group of friends who are a comfortable and unobtrusive presence in my life. Fish and chips and champagne on the beach, bikes lined up and shining, toes in the sand, smiling and laughing, finally feeling warm again after a long, cold summer.

No pictures, the camera's still broken, but I'm working my way down the list.

j.

I've been inexcusably remiss where this blog is concerned over the past few months. The trouble is, cycling is really the least reader-friendly part of my job. Those moments where I'm storming along Clerkenwell Road with the wind in my hair and the sun in my eyes may be indescribably exhilarating, my pinnacle of mental and physical wellbeing, the whole reason I do it, etc., but they really don't make for very interesting posts.

What's far more entertaining is the age-old courier lore of 'stupid things I have done on, near, or involving my bike'. Glance through any courier forum, and you're bound to find whole threads of various laughable and hair-raising anecdotes. And without further ado, here's my latest...

I spent the night at a friend's, and when I left for work the next morning he was already long gone, so I let myself out. He lives in the ground floor of a house, and so has two front doors - the main one, that opens onto the street, and his own personal one, that leads into his flat. In between the doors there's a tiny porch area, about a metre square - just big enough for my friend's two doors, and the one that leads to the upstairs flat.

This in-between area is exactly the right size to contain a half-awake courier and an upended bike - as I discovered that morning, when I left the flat, closed the first door behind me, and immediately realized that I was trapped, since the second door only opens inwards, and with my bike there, didn't have room to do so. And I didn't have a key to get back into the flat.

I spent a good ten minutes thinking 'this is ridiculous - don't panic - there's bound to be some way out', and twisting my bike into various positions to try and give the door enough room to open. And when I realized that it really wasn't going to happen, and that I was probably trapped in this confined space (smaller than any of the lifts I usually spend half my time in) until my friend (or the people from the upstairs flat) came home from work to rescue me, I spent another ten minutes imagining all the worst-case scenarios - not least the likely results of the pot of coffee I'd just had with my breakfast.

And I was on the verge of calling my controller, to admit my folly, and explain that I wouldn't be in work today, because I was trapped in Camberwell between two doors, when I realized (oh miracle!) that someone almost as absent-minded as me had left the door to the upstairs flat unlocked.

So all was well. I (guiltily) pushed open the door, shuffled my bike aside, finally got the front door opened, and was free! Goodness knows what I'd have done if that door hadn't been unlocked. (And this is the first time I've admitted to my stupidity.)

Emily

Work rest and play

So the new job has already grabbed my life with both hands and shaken it by the neck with a death grip. And I'm loving it... For 5 years it's been up, tea, paper, bit of work, paper, bike... and now its up, OFFICE and thinking and planning and wanting to take over the world...

I still daydream at the computer about what my next adventure is and of course am running to work and back quite a bit; plus spin classes snuck in between lectures at the uni gym. Naturally my top filing cabinet drawer is full of bike kit, gym kit, For Goodness Shakes! recovery drinks and spare knickers.

Sport is a life long love affair.

I'm enjoying the new balance and soon my beautiful mountain bikes will be dusted off from their stable and taken for a gallop. But I'm in no rush and enjoying the rest.

Fi

Cake or Kielder

Cake.

I'm not going to race this weekend. Cycling is a hobby - an integral, enjoyable, beautiful part of 'me' but still a hobby. Nothing more. I don't owe it anything and it doesn't owe me anything. We have a mutually agreeable relationship.

At at the moment we aren't speaking.

So I'm going to spend the weekend with my other friends. Running and climbing. Cycling will get over it.

Does anyone want my Kielder number?

F

Right, that's it.

When I get home tomorrow, I'm rebuilding myself a singlespeed.

Not fussy about which one of the three it is, it's just been too long.

That is all.

j.

Some advice please

Fi writes:

Next weekend is the Kielder 100 - the UK's first 100 mile, one loop mtb race. I entered a long time ago and it seems to be right up my street.

But, I've lost my mojo. I'm tired and disheartened after the Trans Wales. I've been away from my home in Bristol all summer and the thought of driving all the way to Kielder on Friday (6hrs) is unappealing.

So, tell me, what shall I do? Shall I be Part Of It and sacrifice a few hours in a car for my sport, all shall I ignore it, find a hill, go running, paint the spare room and bake a cake?

Sigh.

Transwales 09. Dung and Dusted.

Fi writes:

Back is a funny place to be. I haven't been at home, feet up on the sofa on a Sunday night, cup of tea in hand, for many many months. I am home.

Months of PhD research up north, weekends travelling the country visiting The Boy, family, riding bikes, carting kayaks and shifting kit up, down, this way, that way... then home last week, pack, Builth Wells, Trans Wales, mud, sunshine, coffee, cider, home. Bosh.

The washing is in, the post opened, 3 mince pies defrosted for tea because I had no food in and missed Sunday supermarket times. Now time to think.

This year's Trans Wales was Very Different. It was smaller, more intimate, less wet, less hard. It was, in fact, fairly tame. We were eased in with heaps of road and fire road and only at the back end of the week got hit by the Mid Wales bog-stick full on. But this time it was wiggly singletrack, giggling and spluttering across the moors, rideable and fun. I walked maybe 15 minutes of the whole week. Last year? 15 hours.

Last year it was home, dump kit, crawl into bed, sob, shiver, sleep. This year it was open a map, decide on a nice hill to walk up, navigate around said hill, return to Builth for lunch, drive home, wash kit, relax.

It was my fourth Trans Event. I have done 3 Trans Wales' and the Trans Rockies. That makes me unadventurous, so I probably won't do another one. But should you?

Do you love riding your bike and love the idea of munching big miles? Do you like the idea of being fed for a week and sitting around in a marquee surrounded by Welsh mountains chatting to fun folk? Do you like sleeping under canvass and waking up early to the smell of dew and the roar of a generator which you know has produced your morning coffee and porridge. If this is you and you want the challenge of riding for 7 days then go with it.

[Don't go if you want 7 days of singletrack, 7 days of uninterupted sunshine, a comfortable bed, a navigational challenge and a journey from one side of the country to another].

I return with another smile on my face from another great week, better organised and better supported than ever before (sponsored this time by Gore Bike Wear who were utterly fantastic). Riding-wise it wasn't my finest moment, with a summer of missed mad-fast Tuesday Night Rides denting my speed, but it was possibly the finest moment of team mate Mikey T, who overcame a year of injury to storm ahead and carry us onto the podium. The boy is Rapid.

I might not be back but if you haven't experienced Trans Wales, you should. It's a home grown endurance event which has attracted massive attention world wide. Go support it.

Trans Wales

Rumour has it the weather is going to be good for this year's Trans Wales.

Pah! No way. Last year was all knee-deep mud, wind that lifted your tent off the floor (while you were in it), horizontal rain and gritty chamois.

I'd done it before and went prepared in 2008. But THIS time there will be nothing making me miserable. I have waterproof EVERYTHING - shorts, tops, shoes, jackets. I have packed wellies, 2 waterproof coats (one a ski jacket), a down jacket, bin bags for manky kit. And all my clothes are in dry bags inside my kit bag. I mean come on, it's Wales!

I have allowed myself to sneak in a clothes line and some pegs though, just in case the sun comes out!

I am really excited. This afternoon I'll pick up my friend Matt Carr (Trek 69ers) and we'll drive to Builth Wells where we'll faff, register, faff some more, get really excited, go to the pub and then not sleep in preparation for the first of 7 hard days in the saddle.

It is a race, but fulfills my race criteria fully. I used to be a full on race head. Recently. I am very competitive and love pushing and pushing and riding hard. But I reached the point where races had to have a favourable FUN/PAIN ratio for me to be prepared to cart my self and my life to it for the weekend.

At the Trans Wales the pain is there, for sure (I was in bed for a week after last year's efforts) but the fun is bigger, stronger, more obnoxious and unwavering. There are so few points when you think 'why do I do this to myself?' that all is left is happy memories, tired legs and lots of new friends.

Something for the weekend

One full week back at work after two full weeks of Alpine downhills.

The Portes du Soleil was amazing, always is.
I fell in love with the mountains all over again.
Good times with good friends.
Banter with the same lifties who always remember us.
Mutzig and gin.
Blood, sweat and tears (no gears, I broke those).
I even managed to ride 50% of Champery WC track (beats the 20% from 2 years ago...).
Then back to reality and back to work, back to wishing life really was that simple.

But it's going to be sunny this weekend. That's something.

Have fun.

SJ. x

ride

Sometimes bike testing is hard work but this is the last ride of the day, the last of the test, nearly time to untether my own bikes again but this is still a job.

Winch up Jack Bridge. Tired. Bored. Meant to turn right for a quick hit but go left and longer, up into the low sun. So low it's setting and over the hill I end up unearthing kit to fix the pinch flat. One tube, no patches, and a few rocky miles to go.

Um.

I could head home down the road. It would be wiser.

I should.

I don't.

Cruising down the hill there's a barn owl hunting over the heather and a stoat flows across the tarmac ahead. Two neat black ears poke up from behind the wall: hare. The sun is going, going, gone in a burning disc of pink and a fast clear run at Whirlaw clears the gnadgery bit for the second time today.

(all the while thinking without thinking, don't flat don't flat don't flat, don't pay it too much or too little attention, don't flat don't flat don't flat)

Lights on in the houses, yellow without warmth. Sky turning blue again. Everyone's indoors and resting, dogs dads kids and a fat line of geese flies down the valley at eye height from the second turn of Rodwell, melting into the gloom. The bridges in the water are perfect balls of brick, the canal cats are out for mice and the smoke from the stoves of the narrow boats rises like it's on a string.

The locks are overflowing, Stubbings is noise and street light. Chip shop's shut and the key's in the door like it belongs. The thinking stopped some time ago. No flat.

j.

Last down of the day

last down of the day
Originally uploaded by Good Hank

Final descent of the day down into Hope in the Dark Peak. My first mountain bike ride in an absolute age and what a cracker it was. A fab day out with friends old and new, a right mish-mash of bikes from fully rigid and fixed to suspension and gears, a good cross section of ability and fitness, all brought together by a shared desire to get out in the sunshine, enjoy the scenery and eat cake.

Vikki

24 hours but not as we know it

Fi writes:

I was disappointed to miss the 24\12 this weekend. In my view it is the best 24 hour mtb race in the country and I am delighted the field has grown in depth since last year. The course is always fast and fun and the atmosphere fabulous.

However, this year I decided to head north to the Cheviot Hills in Northumberland to support my boyfriend Andy in his own 24 hour effort. He was racing the Open 24, a 24 hour adventure race involving mountain biking, trekking, running, kayaking, canyoning and abseilling. Oh, and of course navigation. You collect as many checkpoints as you can in each of the stages, timing each transition according to your route book and trying to gather as many points as possible.

I am out of running-action thanks to a nasty ankle injury back in April, so thought I'd marshal and then drive the boy home. I racked up a 13 hour training week on the bike in prep for the Trans Wales and was dead tired as I scraped myself out the tent on Saturday morning for the marshals briefing, (leaving Andy to repack his transition box for the nineteenth time and make final preparations to his race pack and scour the maps one last time).

But as I hung around the HQ drinking tea a friend appeared looking lost and sad. "My partner's dropped out. He's got swine flu. I really want to go and race with someone. Do you think any of the marshalls would do it with me?" I laughed and replied, jokingly, "well if you can put up with someone who can't run, I'll come and race with you!" Wry smile, twinkly eyes. Oh dear.

Fastforward an hour and a half and i've swapped my yellow marshall's bib for a numbered red one and I'm lining up with 100 other competitors under the start arch, race pack filled with borrowed food and inappropriate clothing.

Crazy.

So I raced my own 24 hour race this weekend. No laps, no commentary, no pit - just wilderness, tired eyes scouring the map, the satisfying beep of the dibber, the breathless fear after a 20ft jump into a plungepool, giggles as we abseilled down the wall of a castle at 2am, the Farne Islands at dawn, snatched sleep in a campsite laundry room, climbing without a granny ring, evil armppit-high bridleway grass and the ache of my feet as I drank coffee at the finish, under the incredible towering grandeur of Hogwarts (Alnwick Castle).

Then came the prize presentations. I suspected, but did not know for sure, that Andy and Kim had won the mixed pairs. They raced non stop, hard and adrenaline fueled for 23hrs, 59 minutes and 34 seconds. They never said 'it's only worth 5 points so let's not bother'. They raced intelligently and fast. They deserved their win and I had to choke back tears when it was announced. There are 3 races in the series and they have come 2nd in the first 2 (5hrs and 12hrs). This was a well-deserved and hard-fought moment.

Alli and I managed 5th in the mixed pairs thanks to the bike-heavy nature of the event. We had some strategical 'issues' which left us without any point collection for 4 hours (but lots of sleep!)Nevertheless we were both delighted with our result and thoroughly enjoyed being in such a staggeringly beautiful part of the world.

Writers' Block

There's nothing like being nominated as a must-read bike blog (yesterday's Observer) for emptying your mind completely. Happily Jenn was on hand to cover the weekend. Although I can't help noting that she didn't 'fess up to her teeny weep when we realised that Lorraine was going to finish in second place. Blimey, it's usually ME that cries.

Minx

back at it

2412 at the weekend. Raced 12 hour pairs with guest Minx Elaine and had a great deal of fun before, during and after. Good to give the new jerseys an airing, good to go fast, good to get the first race of the year for me done and dusted at last.


Elaine going fast, pic thanks to Kelvin

Bemused by those chewing on the wrong end of the stick, though. Racing is not an excuse to indulge your attention seeking inner self with endless whitterings about new forms of pain; if we only did it to hurt ourselves we'd all be spending our weekends sticking pins in our eyes instead. Efficient, cheap and makes the logisitics of watching the Tour finale between laps much easier. Sod that.

It is, as Trio said, about people. Waiting to cheer in a friend at the end of a full-fat 24 hour solo effort...

(waiting for Lorraine)

Enduring nail-biting suspense waiting for a team mate who may or may not come in ahead of the team chasing hard behind...

(Team Morvelo catch sight of last man in Rob, coming in ahead of 69ers to take 2nd overall)

Coaxing, bolstering and (honestly?) bullying a friend who's lost enthusiasm but you know will feel better for finishing that one last lap...

(Singular Sam struggles to the finish, picture thanks to Kelvin, bullying thanks to me, sorry Sam :-)

Standing around in the rain for an hour to show pride and respect for friends who have worked so damn hard to get onto that podium step...

(Lorraine - 2nd place 24hr solo!)

No, it's not at all about the pain. It's all about the love.

jx.