Good Cyclists

My husband is away with a friend just now, chasing ticks on Simon Warren’s app in relation to cycling climbs all over the UK. They are tackling some of the Welsh ones, and I am following them from home with the book in my hands. 

But I am slightly disturbed by something which the esteemed Mr Warren has written on the back cover of the book. He says, and I quote: “... Wales, under clear blue skies, is cycling heaven”.

Praise indeed, for the country of Wales, and justified praise too. But for me, it’s simply untrue. I can’t ride up those hills, and if I were staying with my husband in his accommodation, I would have very few bike rides available to me on account of those hills. For me, it’s a walking area. 

I’m not alone. There are plenty of people who ride bikes every day who wouldn’t want to ride up steep and hard hills only to ride back down them again. Riding up and down hills purely for the sake of it might be what some people want to do (and judging by Mr Warren’s rapid rise to fame, evidently quite a lot of people), but it’s not what everyone wants to do, nor is it what everyone is capable of doing. 

Are those of us who don’t enjoy cycling up pointless hills somehow lesser cyclists? I would argue that we are better cyclists. I have a reason for saying this. I think that if at any time you replace just one car journey with a bike ride, then you are a better cyclist. That’s because as they pursue “Warrens”, there are far too many people who drive back and forth to the foot of each of these climbs, creating unnecessary car journeys in the process, and calling themselves “good cyclists” in the process.

In fairness to my husband and to clarify, our car is still outside our house, my husband and his friend cycled from home to their accommodation, taking in a spot of tick-collecting as they went. I’m not claiming any high ground for him, and I am not saying they are better, or worse, than anyone who drives to the start of each climb.  

I’m just saying:  have respect for yourself. Because you are also a good cyclist. 

New World

It’s raining, finally. After record breaking heat, and too much of it, our country is finally getting a watering. But in some places at least, it’s going from drought to flood over the course of one rainstorm, as water flows over the concrete-like baked and unprotected earth without any intention of soaking in. Crops won’t get the water they need, and farmers will carry on feeding stored winter feed to their cattle before summer has even ended. Some of us are going to struggle to afford to buy food, which is what the farmers are struggling to supply us with. Some of the farmers, whose businesses have been stretched to breaking point by other recent challenges, won’t see those businesses survive.

This is our World now. And our World forever more. I’m scared, not of starvation, but of the possibility of society falling apart at the seams. Desperate people do desperate things and I don’t like what I see when I try to look towards the future.

For years I have failed to see the bigger picture. I’ve always seen cycling as being a part of the solution for the future world but I never thought about pandemics, or religious fundamentalism, or megalomaniacs who like to keep a finger on the button. I was only looking at the little things, like cycling to save the NHS, or cycling to help the environment, or cycling to cut congestion and help combat climate change.

But then of course, climate change is the biggest thing of all. Climate breakdown has the capability of causing starvation, migration, food insecurity, power insecurity and war. Too many wars have been fought over territory and when a country loses its ability to produce food or to afford sufficient food imports to feed its population, then surely war must inevitably be the consequence.

My wish now is that if we cannot avert this (and we are not even trying), then hopefully it will happen beyond my natural lifetime.

Back to the little things. Here’s a picture I finished painting yesterday!

Quiet Road Victims

I was cycling along quite happily today, alone with my thoughts on a calm, wind-less day, when I caught sight of something in the verge.

A barn owl, dead, lay haphazardly; its beautiful silent wings beating no more.

Three weeks ago, my husband, a friend and I happened to drive by a truly horrific sight. A woman in a cycle helmet was giving CPR to a road victim, unfortunately to no avail. The lady who lost her life that day was walking her dog, it pulled her into the road and a vehicle struck her. I was upset for days by what I saw, even more so when I realised that I knew the woman we'd seen performing CPR. But my distress was nothing compared to the deep grief of the family who lost a loved one.

We grieve for people killed on the roads, but we accept the carnage as an unavoidable consequence of our preference for a means of transport that gives some of us convenience, even as it ends it for others.

Whilst in Scotland last week, a red grouse flew into the grille of our hired motorhome. There was nothing we could do to avoid it, other than not go there, nor hire that killing machine. How many non-human creatures lose their lives on our roads each day? Who amongst us can say they have never been a killer?

I shall mourn the barn owl I visited by the roadside today, because no-one else will.

I am sparing you the bloody bits

Music and Cycling

It's been nine years since I wrote about music, choosing at that time to compare the inferior music to which I was subjected in my (then) local pub to the regrettable rise in an unsustainable method of getting people from place to place. Now I'm using music for a different comparison.

I live in the country now. Two days ago I visited my local town hall to see a live and talented musician play with such lyrical intensity that I struggled to hold back the tears. My husband was no better, when the set was over he rushed forward to shake the guy's hand (local gigs are cosy and intimate affairs) and we both walked home in silence, aware of how lucky we are to enjoy the privilege of experiences such as this.

I have other privileges. There are things I don't see here, and some of them are severely unpleasant realities with which people must cope every single day. Social deprivation, unemployment, poverty, and mental health issues are but a few. These things are not confined to cities, but they are more widespread there.

Nevertheless, good things are happening in cities in the field of transport. I believe we are finally waking up to the insanity of mass car transport, and I see the beginnings of change in some of the things I am reading. With the population only set to grow, we can't hope for 100% car ownership, and we can't build enough roads for such theoretical expansion. If we are to move to electric vehicles, we can't generate enough power either.

The answer must be shared transport. Electric cars in a pool, bikes and electric bikes as individual short-distance private transport. At the present time, 11% of short car journeys are under one mile 29% are from one to under two miles, and 60% are from two to five miles. These are distances which, excepting those with severe disabilities, could easily be cycled by anyone riding a bike or an electric bike. Mass driving of such short distances turns many roads into moving car parks and contributes to an epidemic of immobility which has for some time been estimated to be a as severe a risk to health as smoking.

Opportunities for encouraging activity are being recognised in the cities. I can see that people in power with good vision are daring to think the unthinkable, that initiatives are beginning which may, in the long run, revolutionise city life, bringing benefits to some of the worst problems of urban living in the process, including those I mentioned above.

I move in circles where these things are invisible, and that's something I sometimes regret. But I get to enjoy lyrical music, and that gives me hope that a thin seam of the very best will always survive, and be ready to flourish when the time is right.

Inspiration

I recently submitted a draft article to a national cycling magazine hoping for publication, but not to my surprise, the editor didn't want it. But his feedback included lots of good advice which I shall obviously take on board – there's no way I'm going to ignore professional advice from a professional editor!

But the latest version of this particular cycling magazine, along with the editor's advice, has set me thinking. The articles within the magazine are about massive, extraordinary feats of endurance; long-distance riding above 4,000 meters altitude, riding 9,000 km along the Iron Curtain; these tours are I assume intended to inspire people to adventure. But they don't inspire me at all. I didn't even feel I wanted to read them. Why? Because you need to be super-able and super-confident to do these things, or you need to be able to survive without income and be away from work for an extended period. Most working people have neither the time nor the opportunity for such mammoth excursions, even if they have the physical ability to undertake them. I know these trips are for others and not for me and when I see them dominating the magazine, I just groan.

I need inspiration, but I need realistic inspiration. I want to read about things I might actually be inspired to do. Places I might be inspired to visit, and places I might be capable of visiting. Rides I might be able to do, if I am prepared to stretch myself.

Am I alone? Do desk-bound and normal working people really want to read about adventures they will probably never have? Do they really like reading about super-achievers they can never be? Surely we can't all be world-adventurers, even if we can all be weekend adventurers.

But then again (as it was recently pointed out to me) millions of people watch professional football on the television, though an impossibly minute few actually get to play it. So there's clearly something I'm missing here, and it's me that doesn't get it!

I have just two ambitions. I want someday to inspire one person, and I also want to be paid something, however little, for something I have written. I am sure I will achieve these two ambitions one day. Hopefully, I'll achieve them on the same day.

What a Year!

This year is far from over, but it's feeling a bit backendish and so I am going to indulge myself with a bit of a review of the year.

It's been a fabulous year. I started off recovered from last year's surgery, but not fit. I went to Spain for six weeks aiming to improve my fitness and rode over a thousand miles, transforming myself to the point where the first solo ride I did when I returned was my longest for over four years at 67 miles.

Rannoch Moor

Spring came, and Paul and I had a fabulous holiday in Scotland on our tandem with a CUK group led by our friend Gary. We had good company, superb riding and I heard (but didn't see) a corncrake!

Framlingham Castle

I spent a week in the beautiful Suffolk countryside when I went to the CUK Birthday Rides in Framlingham. There I rode with friends most days and I also did a couple of solitary rides, all with only a spot or two of rain and in rolling countryside which won my heart.

Kirkby Lonsdale

Not long after I returned, I found myself needing to be in Scotland again, this time to drive the van in support of my husband's CUK mountain bike tour of the West Highland Way and the Scottish Off-road Coast to Coast. But I didn't drive to Scotland. I rode there, alone and unsupported, with two small panniers and a tiny bar bag. 

Twelve months ago I would never have believed a year could be so good. Being so consistently free from illness was a dream I dare not have. Riding my bike whenever I wanted to, booking onto trips without fear of cancelling, and arranging to meet up with friends were all things I couldn't do.

The year has been great, almost scarily so, and I hardly dare hope that 2017 will be half as good!

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.

Feeling Fragile

Life throws obstacles in the way of each of us and we are all given different skills with which to handle them. In my life I've had quite a few obstacles already, and I haven't always handled them well.

Another obstacle approaches, but it may, if I handle it positively, sweep away some of my problems before it. I am being offered another chance to perhaps do some of the things I have never been able to do with the disabling bowel condition I have. This is positive, but the price I must pay is a heavy one. 

Another ostomy, this time for all time. 

I will be physically different to other people, and my mind needs to be comfortable with that. But I know I have more reason to worry about how my mind will cope than how my body will cope. If my mind can cope as well as my body, then this could be a very positive change. 

I have never felt more fragile than I do right now. 

A 1983 Selfie, there were no digital cameras or mobile phones back then so I took a shot of myself in a mirror. Spot the colostomy bag - underneath the skirt I made from a bed sheet which I died orange in a bucket! 

Light on a Dark Day

Sometimes when I write I find that I dance around issues, trying so hard to miss out the less pleasant bits of my life that I tie myself in knots. But the world is changing, particularly the world of social media. “Honesty” is clearly now acceptable, and so I am going to give it a go. Warts and all.

You see, my bowels don't work properly. I have written before about the extensive surgery I had to have 30 years ago (10 operations over five years on my lower abdomen, three more 12 years later, and two for altogether other reasons) and I have hinted at the long period of recovery I had back then. I wrote about it positively because it certainly was positive – and it fed my love of cycling, which has grown and grown ever since.

But my treatment also damaged my bowels. For a time whilst I underwent radiotherapy I had a temporary colostomy, and I was too ashamed of it even to tell some of my close friends. I kept the full “horror” of it from my parents, with whom I officially lived at the time (I was 19 years old). I was traumatised – and I just couldn't wait for the colostomy to be reversed. I was scared it never would be. When it was, probably too early, I got bowel adhesions. I couldn't eat for six weeks and I went down to 5 st 10 lb. Eventually, after accepting the inevitability of death, I somehow recovered. My body just decided to get better.

But the bowel adhesions persisted, and the radiotherapy had burned me inside, scarring me irreparably. Ever since then I have had episodes of blockage which are excruciating. I also have sickness, diarrhoea, constipation, faecal incontinence, and never, ever, a fully normal day. Each day I go to the loo between 0 and 20 times, at any hour of the clock. I get virtually no warning. In thirty years, I have probably had a “one trip to the loo and then forget about it” day maybe half a dozen times.

I had an unconnected operation five years ago, and the surgeon, in addition to doing the job he'd planned, spent 2 ½ hours dividing adhesions. He said to me afterwards that my bowels were such a jumbled mess that he was surprised I could go to the loo at all.

This condition has a name no-one has heard of, and it's not life threatening. The doctors are not interested because nothing can be prescribed for it. And yet the fear of it affects me every minute of every day. It's cost me my job, and it regularly renders me housebound. It distresses my husband monumentally. It stops me riding my bike, and it interferes with every plan I make.

So my point – what is it? Well it's this. If you search Youtube you can watch a lovely pretty 23 year-old girl called Laura change her ostomy bag. You can see a gorgeous guy demonstrate what he does with his bag to secure it when he's surfing. You can see a model in a bikini, her ostomy bag showing above her bikini on her simply stunning body.

These people don't hide their issues, they get on with life, honestly and grasping every opportunity. I applaud the element of openness and honesty that social media has facilitated for these people and I admire each of them immensely. Social media helps people to find support amongst others who are in the same boat as them, but half a world away. The support changes opinions, and the exposure changes attitudes. There are critics, but I am not one of them.

If I'd been able to be find inspiration from these people thirty years ago, I think my attitude to my colostomy might have been much more positive. And now, on some of my worst days I find myself thinking – how might my life have been, if I'd kept that bag?

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!

Barren Land

I have been in Scotland again – a place which calls me back time and time again. Though at times I pine for the benevolent weather which a country like Spain can offer me I pine at other times for the savagery of a landscape shaped by less kind weather events than those typical of Spain. Cycling in Scotland can be a battle with those weather events.

On 27 September 2014 I rode from Altnaharra to Tain. With a serious storm raging, there was no way I would have set out on my bike if I'd been at home. But I was on a group holiday and eleven other people had no option but to ride – there was one space in the van, but why should I take it? That would have been cowardly. I couldn't show cowardice with all those people to witness me doing so, even if I'd been minded to do so.

But it was hardly safe. I weigh 8 stone and an ounce or two, and strong winds deflect me with ease. I set off from Altnaharra, which only the day before had seemed like a peaceful green oasis in a sea of hills flanked by russet-edged grass seeming to glow as though each blade was on fire. Now there was no peace, the wind battered the hollow and every tree, every fiery blade of grass was bent to the winds' will. I rode slowly uphill into the teeth of the storm; every few hundred metres ahead of me and behind was a cyclist, each of us taking our turn to be stopped dead by gusts which played tricks on our steering.

But it was beautiful. More than that, it was breathtaking. I cannot describe the intensity of the colours, or the contrast between the desolation and the exquisite beauty of the desolation. This contrast, and the epic, savage stormy weather, excited me. The landscape, and the forces which shape it; the wind which moulds it, and the rain which colours it. A sudden rainbow gave a striking representation of the feelings in my heart.

I fought the wind to descend to a greener, quieter valley, and to my accommodation for the night. I had ridden just 43 miles but I was as proud of my ride as if it had been twice that – it had been quite as hard as twice the distance would have been on a calm day. Sometimes, it's the quality that counts.

In fact, it almost always is.

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.