Back to my First Love

If there's anyone out there reading this, it'll be pretty apparent that I haven't written anything for a while. And it'll also be pretty apparent why I haven't.

But life is good again. In fact, it's simply amazing - I just can't remember when I last felt this good and when I felt so positive about the future.

When I say I feel good of course I mean that the aches and pains I have are good aches and pains. You see I rode my bike yesterday, maybe a little too far in view of my still some-way-to-go fitness. My right knee hurts, and all of my left leg hurts. And my neck, my buttocks, and my right hand - but these are the types of pain I like to feel!

Yesterday was my first ride after returning from six weeks in Spain. I'll write about that another time because just now I want to focus on yesterday.

I set out into wind-less Spring freshness, and before I'd ridden ten metres I was overwhelmed by birdsong. I rode to Newtown where I met up with a Sky Breeze ride led ably by a lovely woman called Jackie. With two other girls (both a good deal younger than Jackie and I) we set off uphill, on a main road which on Sunday at least, is relatively free of traffic. I fought to stay on, but Jackie looked after me, riding beside me at all times. We had tea in a charming community cafe and then we set off up onto open moors toward a moorland watershed, and I place I just love. It was a simply lovely road, which I wouldn't have known about but for Jackie's willingness to take on the responsibility of leading others.

There I said goodbye to the girls, to ride home my own way. It was so beautiful in the crisp sunshine, with the cacophony of birdsong and swooping, courting skylarks, that I had to stop after a short while. I dug out my slightly crushed sandwich and ate it by the roadside.

This, as if I didn't know, is why I love cycling - my bike takes me to places that a car can only separate you from. My bike puts me in the land, without that sterilising layer of glass and metal.

I feel like the old me now, and I am back on track. Summer is just around the corner and I can't wait.

Silly Targets

I have just returned from a 4 week holiday in Denia, Spain, where I went intending to do some winter cycling. The trouble is that out of 27 cycling days, I managed to ride on only 12 of them. The rest of the time I was ill with a severe cold and a feverish chest infection – even on some of my 12 cycling days I was too ill to ride far. All in all, it was a fairly hopeless trip.

I wasn't alone, almost everyone in the hotel was ill to some extent. Every part of the place resounded to the sound of coughing for the whole time I was there, like a constant drone of background noise. I kept thinking I was in a hospital, but I would imagine that in a hospital hygiene would have been exemplary; in the hotel, there were opportunities for contagion everywhere, particularly in the buffet-style food hall.

I knew almost as soon as I arrived that my chances of escaping infection were slim. Of around 59 people in my cycling group, at least 50 of us were ill. Of the other guests, almost all of them elderly, illness seemed to be so common as to be acceptable; I was astonished and appalled in equal measure by the attitude of the Saga holiday representatives by the considerable efforts they made to distance themselves from any responsibility whatsoever for blame, despite the fact that many mitigating procedures could have been, but were not, introduced.

It's given me cause to think about my little targets. I was born without the competitive gene, though setting targets for myself seems to be in my blood. It's a trait which can motivate me to exercise when I don't feel like it, and that can be a good thing. But it's also a trait I can use to beat myself up when things don't go according to plan. After this holiday, during which I cycled just over a third of the miles I planned, I am struggling to find anything positive about my time away on which to base a “good” memory, though the wonderful friendship of quite a few new friends is an obvious highlight.

I will go again to Spain, after all it is not the country that I blame for my rotten holiday and it is a beautiful country. The Costa Blanca region has to be one of the best locations in Europe for winter cycling (the many professional teams that base their winter camps there bear witness to this) and the mild weather provides crystal clear light to emphasise the drama of the mountainous scenery. I just need to find a different place to stay, and a way to avoid illness.

Now that I am back in the UK, meanwhile, I need to get some miles in to prepare myself for my summer cycling calendar – too bad I will need to do this in bad weather!

Paul takes me for tea on one of my 15 non-cycling days!

My Dad

Earlier this month I lost my Father. As a tribute to him, I have decided to reprint here some of my cycling journal entries in relation to rides I did with him.

These journal entries began after the death of my Mum in 1992 when my father was left a widower. In order to keep him company I settled into a routine of regularly walking with him, normally on the North York Moors. But cycling was my thing, although after my Mum's death, I had rather lost interest in it. So, during 1994 my father acquired a new bike from Halfords, and suggested we could ride together sometimes. Eventually we settled into his favoured pattern of riding three times per year to Hornsea along the disused railway line from Hull, where we both lived, and we explored other routes too. We also continued to walk together.

Dad on a walk with me in 1994 - scowling at the camera!

Our first ride together was to Coniston and Preston, a route on a mix of two disused railway lines and minor lanes – my father's infectious enthusiasm for exploration often took me on routes I wouldn't have thought of.

I had been off my bike for a long time, and I found it harder than he did...

16 January 1994 (Sunday)

Cycled with Dad up the Hornsea railway track to Coniston, then Preston (Withernsea railway track) down to the docks and along the foreshore. 16 miles, 15 ½ of which hurt. Every year I forget about the wonders of cycle shorts and sunglasses. Every year my bum hurts anew. Every year I vow not to leave it so long!

12 June 1994 (Sunday)

This is a typical meandering ride which turned out to be a highly cherished memory.

Cycled with Dad to Ottringham along the [Withernsea] railway line, through Sunk Island and down to an old battery on the Humber bank. Warm but overcast/hazy, little wind.

Rode along Humber bank to Stone Creek, through waist-high grass on completely overgrown path. Chickened out for a short distance, and went by the world's straightest, flattest and most featureless road to Cherry Cobb Sands. Then got back onto the levy and rode along it, over mixed surfaces to Paull and via Eastern Cemetery to home. Lovely day, 40 miles.

2 March 1997 (Sunday)

There came a day when my Dad's heart problems, which were to trouble him for the rest of his life, made their presence felt. It was a tremendously emotional day for me. Here is my account of it.

I wonder how many weeks of wind there will be, before Spring comes? Only the mad venture out on bikes in weather like this. I can't remember when we last had such a sustained period of windy weather.

Cycled to Coniston and back, in four easy stages. To Dad's (hardly pedalled) for a cup of tea; to Coniston (almost effortless) for a meal at the Blacksmiths' Arms; back to Dad's (sheer torture, see below) for more tea; and then home, head on into the near gale-force wind, for a bath.

My own health problems paled into insignificance besides Dad's. His chest pain stopped him every few yards on the way back, and most of the way back to his house, we walked. I fear it is angina, which horrifies me. I pray that his cycling days are not over.

An awful day, the only blessing (apart from the meal) being the absence of rain.

7 June 1998 (Sunday)

This is an account of the first time, after Dad's angina diagnosis, that we rode together to Hornsea. He had had a stent fitted, and he felt much better for it though from then on he needed a long rest after eating to allow time for digestion, which meant for long stays in Hornsea before our return ride. We normally spent this extra time wandering around the market.

Dad did not cycle to Hornsea at all last year due to his heart problems, and as he had set himself the challenge of doing so today, I decided to go along with him.

On the way there the heat and close humidity made us both regret our long trousers, but we were glad of them before the day was out. At Kirkham Point I almost lost my handbag when I left it in the loo, but fate smiled on me and I got it back.

After fish and chips at Sullivans we cycled up to the “far toilets”, being Dad's 12-mile mark from his house. There we watched the stormy sky build and the calm sea change, before being driven away by some birdwatchers.

Heavy rain whilst we had been eating had flooded the track, and we rode home through mud and puddles like lakes, stopping briefly whilst the worst of the thunder passed over us. Riding on in continuing thunder I felt vulnerable and more than a little scared by the truly awesome weather. With a black sky the lighting was magical, and the smells of the hedgerows and sights and sounds a delight.

By the time we reached Hull my bum had had enough, and my last two miles were into the teeth of the wind from which we had been sheltered on the track.

28 June 1998 (Sunday)

This is a very short account, which neatly summarises what Dads are there for.

Got up feeling down in the dumps, called Dad just seconds after he'd gone out and ended up reading until lunch time.

After lunch I went to Dad's, and after righting all wrongs during the afternoon we had a short ride at tea-time along the foreshore, reminiscing, and watching the river traffic near and far aided by a crystal clear atmosphere.

Dad on a foreshore ride, 1999

24 April 2000 (Monday)

This is a another short account, showing evidence of the infectious spirit of exploration which always provided me with some of the most enjoyable aspects of my rides with Dad.

Dad has been poorly with a bad cold, and didn't feel capable of cycling to Hornsea. So we decided to have a short “explore Hull” ride, taking in lunch on the way.

We made for the Humber foreshore at King George Dock, having inspected the sadly run down East Park and the scenic delights of Preston Road. Lunch was at the Minerva, always money well spent, followed by an inspection of the eastern Hull river bank between North and Drypool bridges, where they are 'doing something'.

A nice day, these short rides with Dad always teach me a lot.

29 July 2001 (Sunday)

This ride, to Hornsea, was the last ride Dad and I ever did together. He was 71 years old at the time. The public rights of way had been closed for some time due to a foot and mouth crisis, and it had curtailed a ride we had done earlier in the year on 13 April 2001, when we ended up at Ellerby instead of Hornsea.

On Friday 20 July, the Government, to the consternation of the landowners, compelled all Local Authorities to reopen most of the paths. This meant that at last, Dad and I could ride the railway line to Hornsea.

A muggy morning promised another sweltering day, so I covered up from the start. Dad has lost almost two stone in weight, and gained about 2mph in speed! We flew to Hornsea, the wind behind us, our only handicap being the new surface which the East Riding of Yorkshire Council has sneakily put on during the closure.

In Hornsea we ate at the Floral Hall, then paddled in the sea, like children. The sea felt warm, and if I'd had my swimming costume I might have taken the plunge.

Our usual trip to the market was unusual in that for once, I bought something. Like an idiot I had set out without a hat, and I couldn't contemplate riding home in the sun without the peak of a baseball hat. So I invested £1.50 in an orange hat that proved a bargain. It will stay in my saddlebag.

The ride home was more rough compared to the trip out. The wind was against us, and the gravel seemed worse. My hands and wrists ached and Dad's bottom complained. Both of us were glad to get home.

A lovely day, probably the only Hornsea ride this year. I hope Dad carries on cycling. He brought me up to love cycling, I hope it is something we will always be able to do together.

Rest in Peace, Dad.

Miracles Happen...

Not long ago (2 July 2013, to be precise) I wrote about why I felt that mountain biking was not for me.  It’s true that I’ll never be good at it, but that’s no reason not to enjoy it.  All it needs is a change of philosophy.

Somehow, just facing my inadequacies seems to have changed my philosophy.  You wouldn’t think that such a negative thing could have a positive result, but it has.  It’s almost as though by accepting that I’m rubbish I no longer care whether I am or not.  So I am free to get off and walk, free to miss bits out, and free to “dab” as often as I like. 

This weekend my husband ran another of his mountain bike weekends, and this time I found it impossible to avoid.  Not only was it to be held just 8 miles from my home, but some of my best friends were going to be there and I felt it would be positively cowardly for me to stay away.  So my poor neglected mountain bike, stored for over a year with its bars turned, was dragged into the light of day.  Just to make sure I could ride it I rode the 8 miles to the event, incorporating four climbs into my route - three climbs on tarmac and one off-road. 

Somewhere along the off-road bit I remembered something I'd realised long ago but which I'd forgotten as I'd sunk into self doubt.  This is what I remembered.

For me, mountain biking is about these four things:

Riding routes that a normal bike won’t go
Seeing views you can see no other way
Discovering places you could never reach by road, and
Getting to places by routes which are wild and traffic free.

For some people, it’s not about these things - it’s about overdosing on adrenaline on a man-made trail at a trail centre.  But these trail centres are never going to be my cup of tea.

So the next day, I joined in with the organised ride (the “slow” group, of course) and with bits of walking interspersed amongst my riding, I managed the whole ride.  And the only time I nearly fell off was at the moment when I realised I was enjoying myself.

Clearly time off the knobbly-tyred beast has been good for me.  And Adstone Hill, where my moment of clarity hit me, is a simply stunning spot I shall visit again.  When I do I shall try to remember to photograph it, for the time being though, I have taken the liberty of borrowing a simply fabulous shot from someone called Glen Wood - I hope he doesn't mind!

Picture of the ancient track on Adstone Hill (by Glen Wood)

Little Achievements

I DID IT!  It was as we pulled out of a turning on our tandem.  I said to Paul:  "That's it, I'm not riding any more this year" and he said "ok then you can walk from here".  Then he hugged me and kissed me. 

I'd done it - I'd ridden my 3000th mile of the year.

Besides that little fact, it was a fairly uninspiring ride in dull and damp weather which deteriorated as we pedalled.  It waited until we were home to start raining though, and then it pelted down. 

Some time ago I wrote an entry about challenges and personal challenges, and I mentioned my possibly stupid idea of riding 3000 miles a year.  I came up with this figure some years ago when the British Medical Association gave recommendations about physical activity and I interpreted their recommendations for myself with this challenge.  I lived in a flat part of the UK at that time... but things change.  My home terrain changed, but I couldn’t quite accept a shortening of my desired mileage to compensate.

But thanks to some fabulous holidays, to my husband’s encouragement and to our determination to make the most of every rain-free day (there have been precious few), I’ve managed my first 3000 mile year whilst living in Shropshire.  

I’m not sure I’ll manage it again though!

Challenges and Personal Challenges

Having written previously about the tendency of young people to like challenges, it now looks like I’m saying that I’m young.  I must be - I tend to set cycling targets for myself, I just can’t help it.  I never intend to, but my love of round numbers gets me doing it every time.  

But challenges are one thing and personal challenges are another.  Let me explain.

I was born without the competetiveness gene.  I was never any good at sport - set me the challenge of beating someone else at something and I’ll give up without trying.  Sport at school was for me a living hell, I was always left on the sidelines - the message my PE teacher hammered into me was that I was useless.  Britain’s phenomenal success at the Olympics could never have inspired me at all - I always knew I’d never, and could never, be the best at anything, and only the best are praised in sport.

So now we have an Olympic legacy on which we must capitalise in order to get people active, and it starts with the youngest members of society.  But how do we inspire those children at school whose lack of sporting prowess leaves them on the sidelines?

Personal challenges are for everyone, even me.  You don’t have to run or cycle as fast as Usain Bolt or Sir Chris Hoy, you just have to run or cycle faster or further than you have before.  As I stated above, I can’t help but set cycling challenges for myself, and though they are quite humble, they motivate me throughout the year.  They can motivate non-sporty kids at school too - I really hope that modern PE teachers appreciate this. 

I used to set myself the challenge of cycling more miles in a year than I drove, but I never achieved it - I relocated away from my home town and found myself driving back regularly to see relatives.  So then I set myself the challenge of riding 40 miles per week for the rest of my life - that was because it equated to the well-publicised recommendation of the BMA, who in 1992 published a report urging people to incorporate exercise into their lives.  They have recently published another report, strengthening their own argument, and I’m pleased to say that I have been meeting that particular challenge since I set it for myself.

Then I set myself the challenge of riding 3,000 miles a year - and promptly moved to an area so hilly that my regular riding distances shrunk by half.  That’s not been so easy, but I’m still trying. 

So my point is this - I’m not really young, and nor am I old.  I carry a minor disability.  But whether you’re young, older, or somewhere in between, setting a physical challenge, whether humble or ambitious, can help motivate you to exercise and to be active, whether you’re sporty or not sporty at all.  

Everyone can be a winner, and feel good for it too.   

Me at Claerwen reservoir - demonstrating my little podge!