Putting the grrr in girl

So this week I've been following the first Women's Tour of Britain, noted the 100th birthday of Billie Dovey (now Fleming) who accumulated over 29,000 miles riding every day in 1938 to promote health and fitness, and read about Alfonsina Strada, 'the devil in a dress', professional cyclist who, in 1924, was the first and only woman to ride the Giro d'Italia.

They're interesting examples of women cycling. Alfonsina Strada. What a woman. She competed against the men and always put in creditable performances. Billie Dovey's amazing feat earned her sponsorship from Cadbury and a chain of bike shops. It's evidently brought her longevity and happiness (as in this article with Cycling Weekly).

But in the intervening almost-century, what have we seen? Women were promptly banned from riding the Giro after Alfonsina's attempt (she wasn't first, but neither was she at the back of the field). Women elite pro-cyclists today struggle to make a living - even our Olympic stars (as in this article about Emma Pooley). And the Women's Tour of Britain, today in 2014, is the first race to have similar logistical standards to the Men's Tour, and proclaim that its prize money is on a par with the men's.

Since riding the Tour of Flanders I've been chewing over women and cycling. It's kind of shocked me. I guess I live most of my life in a world where there's more equality - the industries I've worked in are teaming with women, and to be honest I've never felt that I have been judged on anything other than merit.

But in cycling I feel like I'm looking backwards, to a time when sexism was more acceptable. Where women are a very definite minority. And where expectations of us are, quite frankly, low.

I found it much more noticeable in my recent foray into road riding. I see many more women when I race cyclocross and mountain bike - they ride the same courses and compete in the same competitions as men. There's still a way to go and there could be more of us, of course, but I've not felt the difference as acutely as when I started paying attention to road riding.

The culture of road riding puzzles me. Why is it that the women's races are so much shorter than the men's? Why isn't there even a women's race for all the big races? Why are women-only sportives so short? Why is it that there were only two women riding the 180km Wrynose or Bust? Why does Cyclist magazine so rarely feature women?

So, I've thought about the process that got me into the events I've done so far. What made me want to do them when so few other women do?  For me, it was seeing events as a challenge I wanted to be part of and to say I'd done. I bought into the romance of the ride. I was more worried about my relative late-coming to cycling, not my gender. It was only later that I realised that there was a distinct lack of other women.

In cycling I'm an outsider. But in the rest of my life I was brought up to succeed at whatever I do - a girls' grammar school girl from three generations of girls' grammar school girls for whom the targets are there and hitting them is just a matter of hard work. Physics doesn't care whether you're a girl or boy. You learn, you take the exam, you make the grade. That was my approach. And that's been my approach to cycling challenges. Train, practice, ride. And hopefully finish smiling.

So what is it with road riding? Are we scared? Not fit? Not strong? I don't think so. There are plenty of strong, fit and amazing women out there who can (and do) ride the miles. Although they are a minority they show that it's perfectly possible. I suspect that there are others who probably haven't thought about doing it because it seems daunting. Or because they're training for the events which are there for women and they want to win what's there to be won. If you're brought up to be a female cyclist, you train to win the events that are there for you. I get that.

To my mind, the issue is one of low expectations. Here's your race, a nice little 135km (never mind the men are doing double). Or, we've got you a gentle sportive where you can choose to have your coffee and cake after 60km or 100km. And like so much everyday sexism, the expectations of those around us shape the expectations we have of ourselves. It's a mould which is hard to break.

I think we simply don't realise what we can do. If a 42 year old moderately fit female mountain biker can cheerfully ride 150 miles on six weeks of training, the rest of you can surely do just as well and better? And honestly, you'll love it. Great to be on the road for a good long day out, fantastic to feel the distance, see the passing landscape, challenge the legs and the lungs. Brilliant to be able to say 'I did that'.

So isn't it time we put up tougher challenges? Runners run marathons - not girl marathons and boy marathons. It's the same distance. We should get used to it in cycling.

Not to mention the prize money. Women get a fraction of the winnings men get. Turning pro is a difficult decision for a female cyclist. Not just 'will I win?' but also 'will I starve winning?'. And without there being more women in pro-teams - and races for them to compete in - we're just not going to get the growth that the sport needs. Our Olympic development programmes have shown how achievable growth and excellence are in the right environment. In cycling, this needs redoubling - not just for the Olympics, that tiny one in four year pinnacle, but for the year round calendar. Don't get me wrong, I think that in the UK we're probably as good as it gets. It's indicative that the Women's Tour of Britain is the first national tour to be as well supported as the men's. It's just time that more races take more steps to do the same.

Yes, we need more women to get into cycling and entry-level events are a part of that. Rides to get women hooked. To get the culture going. Not just the youngsters too. I love seeing that women I race against in cyclocross there also supporting their daughters in the youth categories - that's the kind of culture which will grow the numbers and quality of riders.

But we also need a ladder upwards. We mustn't stop on the first rung. The increasingly popular women-only sportives need to include both short distances and long distances (100km isn't long, 160km is getting there). Women's road races need to well, exist (heavens, this is the first year that there's a single stage of the Tour de France with a parallel, if shorter, race for women), and grow to a similar stature as men's. There's a feedback effect between creating opportunity and women seizing it which can and will grow the sport.

It's time to get the message out, 'Hey ladies, don't look down, you can go the distance. You can hold your own. Alfonsina Strada and Billie Dovey would be proud of you.'

Women. Expect more. That's all I have to say.


Afterword
I'm just going to reiterate here another big thanks and massive kudos to the team at BMC for choosing me and Kathi Hausmann to ride the Ronde. Thanks for your faith in women cycling. There is hope!

with the indomitable Jane Chadwick

The Big Day

I spend quite a number of rides wondering why I am on the bike, debating with myself the relative merits of a nice sit down with a good book or simply pulling the duvet over my head and rolling over into blissful sleep. 

I can't say that this was one of them. 

Despite the desperately early start. Being ready to leave with bike, back up bags, organised food supplies and wearing the appropriate clothes by 6am was a challenge. I'm rubbish in the morning and this compounded my fear that I wasn't properly prepared or would screw up by forgetting something essential. I arranged my sink so with everything I needed to do around the edge. Spread clothes out on the floor and wrote a series of notes in block capitals. Do I really need to be told to brush my teeth? Yes I do.

Fill bottles, brush teeth, drink beetroot… etc

Kit

BMC had arranged cars to get us to the ride and to meet us with food and spares along the route. It was still black when we loaded up, clutching croissants from the deserted breakfast buffet, and an eerie quarter light when we unpacked into the Bruges square. The police were moving cars on fast and we fumbled, flustered and scurried to get wheels on and kit sorted. Squeezing gels into my pockets and hoping it was enough. Wriggling into last minute leg warmers having underestimated the pre-dawn chill.

Then we were ready, the light was clearing and we made our way to the inflatable arch which marked the start. I was glad to be with the BMC group - guys who'd ridden the Ronde many times and some who'd done it as pro riders as well as us, the six lucky Granfondo Experience winners. I was so nervous I just needed to follow the group.

But that's the thing. As soon as the cranks turn and the wheels spin, it's all familiar again. The timing beep sounds as we scoot over the line and then we're bowling through Bruges streets in the early light. It's started. A great big rush of joy starts at my toes and ends in a grin. That hardly departs all day.

We are stopped at a bridge being raised to let a large boat sail downriver. I look at the guys round me in BMC jerseys. The first ear worm of the day wriggled awake: I'm sticking to you, because I'm made out of glue. I don't think Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground were really into bike riding but this incongruous 70s number fuelled my magnetic attraction to the BMC jerseys and wheels in front of me.

The group was to stay together for the first 100km. This was a mixture of major and minor roads and bike lanes. Some of the bigger roads were really exposed and a couple of guys from the BMC Concept store made it their mission to keep me out of the wind, making sure I was protected by being in groups and that I didn't drop off the end at junctions and traffic lights. I watched the speed on the Garmin. 35, 36 even 39 km per hour. And the distance counter ticking up at a hitherto unimaginable pace.  Peloton riding is fun. 

The riders in the Granfondo experience were a mixture of the uber trained and the more mortal. Davy from Belgium belonged in the former category and rode rings round us - literally.  Dropping back to make sure we were all there and then accelerating forward to span the whole group with good humour. He gave me the second ear worm. We're nearly there, he quipped, at about 45km. And we all roared with 'Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies'.

Kathi and Frank, her partner who came along for the ride.
Christoffe in the foreground and Steffan in the back.

At 100 km he roared off to meet the cobbles singing 'Here comes the sun', only (we heard later) to be beasted by fellow Belgian, Steven, whose brainchild the Granfondo Experience is. The next group was also pretty fast -  ex-pro riders Christoff and Stijn on the front with super fit athlete Fiola keeping them on their toes whilst shepherding Alex and Peter from Brazil and Sweden respectively. I could catch the BMC train and stay with it for a while, but I didn't dare accelerate when they went off. I wanted to have enough in my legs to climb the cobbles and I worried that blasting off would use them up. I was, compared to Peter, Alex and Davy, very underprepared. They were all aficionados of the 200km+ ride. I'd never ridden this far in my life.

So I let them go. There were three stops when the van met us though, and each time I found that I wasn't really far behind. The youngsters (as I like to think of those under 30), Joe from the US and Kathi from Germany would roll up a little behind me. Kathi, determined to take it at her own pace was honing a special range of German expletives to describe the cobbled climbs.

Positive Vibrations

I loved riding the flat and rolling pave, pulling out the stops to overtake everyone in front of me, thrilling at the whirr when I reached the magic speed at which it seemed to smooth (a little). Then on the roads I'd judiciously sneak into groups and sit behind bigger riders until my mind was filled with a jumble of club jersey names from Belgium and Holland. I wondered what van Meesters did and mused that surely Mulder should be accompanied by Sculley. Sometimes we chatted, sometimes not.

Find a big bloke and sit behind him...

At one point, someone came alongside me shouting a cheery 'congratulations'. I realised that probably quite a few people around me had entered the Granfondo competition. I countered with 'it's the hardest prize I've ever won' and he pedalled off, laughing. 

I rode for a while behind a chap from Witham Weavers. I asked where that was (Lincolnshire) and we rode along discussing where we'd come from and the utter splendidness of the day.

Once we hit another cobbled climb I went steady.  My gears were just perfect and before I realised it I was up the Koppenberg. It has an interesting and distinctively steep section with wheel-catchingly wide gaps between the cobbles half way up. But the bike climbed over them smoothly and I used the descents to make up places, loving the bike for letting me blast out of corners and storm past people on the long straights. Which is how I would catch the train a last time.

The BMC bus with Joe, Fiola, Christoffe, Peter and Steffan

I was in the BMC train when the Garmin clicked past 180km. I was now riding the longest distance I have ever ridden. It was sunny though, the lanes were lined with new green foliage, the light was glorious and I was happy. It was great to share the moment.

Then more cobbles and I let the train go. There were several bergs beginning with K before the final climbs of the day and the names - on a convenient sticker on my top tube - had begun to swim before my eyes. I didn't really storm up any of them, letting Fiola and the other fast guys do that for the team.

The penultimate berg, the Oude Kwaremont at 223km was my real nemesis. The climb itself is not too bad, but it's followed by a mile or so of flat cobbles which I had to take with no momentum and tiring legs. That was my only real moment of earthy German expletives.

Smile or grimace? A bit more tired now.

Then just the Paterberg. I'd caught up and then lost Pete from the Witham Weavers a few times, but this time he waited for me at the top. It was short and steep but over quickly. Relieved that we'd effectively done the Ronde, and without stepping off on any of the climbs, we chatted our way back to Oudenaarde, sitting behind a Belgian cycling club who kindly took the wind. My feet were pretty sore, but that could not damp my elation.

The faithful BMC van was waiting at the finish, there was beer. And frites. And a strange feeling. There were times that day that I didn't want it to end, the streaming sunshine, the speed, the warm air and the laughter. It was almost hard to finish, but good. A warm feeling of completion and pride. And I was still smiling.

Brilliant bike!

Advanced Road Bike Maintenance

I'm reasonably happy with technical things but of a very German persuasion. I like to read the instructions and follow them precisely. I like logic, numbers and measurable certainty. Six turns of that nut, precisely. A definitive click when the plug is inserted into the socket. Angles you can verify and torque you can measure. Chipps belongs much more to the British Leyland school of creative bodging "oh yes, it comes like that but we find it only really works if you reverse the wires there and give it a good shove". He's great at making things work, and knows by feel that that will be tight enough with a thumb and forefinger, whereas this bit you need to give that a good wrench with your fist. I have to admit that I leave most of my bike maintenance to him - he's got years of experience that makes it much quicker.

With this bike though I want to be able at least do the basics myself. Which started with putting it back together after flying it out to Spain for our riding holiday.

So here I am, working my way round the bike, one bit at a time. Return the handlebars to the stem (but not in position yet) and secure the seat post. Then mount it on the work stand. Start with the front wheel in (oh yes, there's the little lever that releases Shimano brakes, just like it says in the book). Then screw on the derailleur. That's scary, hundreds of pounds of Di2 in my hands. But it goes in and screws tight. Then the back wheel. A process of reading the instructions and looking. I've done it hundreds of times with other bikes but with this new bike I feel the need to double and triple check before I touch a thing. The DT Swiss quick releases are neat and clever but not familiar. Wire up the Di2, pushing the cable home with the little tool supplied. Not really difficult. Pedals on, and tentatively turn the cranks. Change the gears. It works. I'm proud and relieved.

Then I can stand the bike on the ground and go round again. Set up the handlebars, straighten out the stem. Secure everything. Check the headset. Undo the wheels to let them settle into place and retighten. They run smooth now. Check everything is tight. But not too tight, carbon doesn't like that. The required torque is conveniently written next to every screw, but we don't have a gauge so I rely on Chipps' rule of thumb. Apart from that I've put it back together myself.

There it is. I read Advanced Road Bike Maintenance on the plane over. Anything to distract me from the fear of flying. And it's paid off. I'd recommend it!

I could have danced all night...

I took no photos on my first ride. Because I didn't want to stop. The bike just danced under me. Over the hills and a great way off. We rode to Ripon. 55 hilly miles starting in Calderdale with the climb up over Oxenhope moor (the reverse of the Tour de France route) and through Keighley (where new Tour de France tarmac was being freshly laid, ready for July).  Then up from Addingham into North Yorkshire and the gorgeous cycling lanes of the Dales.

I felt at home on the bike, climbing with a steady speed I'd never managed to realise before. Waiting at the top of every hill for Chipps - who has started muttering about how he needs a new bike. I suppose that's the penalty for winning the Granfondo, it makes everything else pale slightly beside it. 

The weather turned just as we hung a right, climbing the lonely road towards Pately Bridge into the wet. But the bike was no less happy in the rain and wind. The Green Howe descent into the town is alarmingly steep, but at no point did I feel out of control. Half an hour and we had cleared the clouds, and the sun shone on the last stretch into Ripon.

A chap on a Pinarello breezed past. He was halfway up the next hill before pride won over staying back with a (much less competitive) Chipps. I couldn't let the GF be overtaken on her first proper outing. Off we went. And with a tiny bit of acceleration she sprung into action. Flying along as though we were meant to race. Catching the chap a couple of hills later, I had to explain, slightly pink-faced (with embarrassment rather than exertion), that I was only chasing him to see what my new bike could do. And then wait at the next junction for a bemused Chipps. 

And before we knew it, we were in Ripon. Just a brief outing to look at a new van.

A journey in pictures

It's not all grim. This week my 'just ride into work and back' training landed on the most beautiful March day. The season is on the turn and this week it was already light when I left. So, no moaning about the weather, saddle up and go. This was a treat of a ride. 

Glodwick as the sun comes up, with the hills beyond.

Charlesworth, and I'm really out of the city.

Above New Mills and the hills of the Peak District ahead.

More Peaks. Amazing light.

Long Hill looking wonderful in the sunshine. Not as Long.

Then obviously, there's the riding home part. Be knackered.
Be surprised that the bike keeps going.
Take advantage of a pretty sundown.

New Mills looking to Manchester.
Then onwards into the the sodium lights and home.

Well, that was a long day. 

Be my hero!

There's been quite a bit of getting on my bike when I'm not quite in the mood lately. Once I've launched myself into the wet, the cold or the dark (and sometimes a combination of all three), I've had time to think about the people who overcome their circumstances, and in some cases, themselves. My heroes.

I'm lucky to have grown up with a couple of genuine, copper-bottomed, real-life heroes. The kind of people who make heroism sound really quite everyday. My Dad tried to escape from Cold War East Germany; succeeding, after several audacious attempts, with sheer, unadulterated, nerve. My Mum's blithe oblivion to temporal and topographical realities and her constant refusal to bow to political realities or the space time continuum made us a family, on this side of the Iron Curtain.

I've known many more - both in life and sports. These are there the people I meditate on, wonder about how they see the world, how they do what they do. There is one single unifying feature; strength of spirit which defies the set of circumstances.

Preparation is one thing but it's the nerve, the audacity and the sheer belief that pushes us beyond what we're sure we can do into the realm of uncertainty and amazing achievement. Where we're both fragile, vulnerable and awe-inspiring.

I was lucky to have sat at the knees of the late, great, John North, drinking in stories of the Three Peaks Cyclocross race, racing in Belgium; the Paris Roubaix and the local 'cross scene.
'Well, I looked round at the top of Ingleborough and the three Swiss chaps were still hot on my heels, so I had to go to plan B'
'What was that John?'
'Well, to run up Whernside as well'.
He was talking about running up the near vertical side of Simon Fell, dropping down the other side and running straight up to the next summit. With a bike on his shoulder. No wonder he won. And the question 'what would John North do?' still prompts an extra mile or an extra push out of us whether training or racing.

Sporting heroes are wonderful (and I have glowed with joy at the achievements of the British women's cycling team) but it's the amazing things my friends and contemporaries do that truly spur me on. Some of their achievements are world-class. Others may seem more everyday. But they're still important. They make me picture myself trying that bit harder. Reminding myself not to be narrow, not to stop considering new challenges and absolutely definitely not to give up.

Jane, who trained and prepared meticulously to ride the famous deep winter Arrowhead endurance race, completing all 135 miles of the trail in extraordinarily cold conditions (down to -55ºC!). Tiny and slight, she had to do a series of 10 second sprints just to keep warm. Her description of her ride terrified me, but she rode, and trudged for 34 hours to be the first European lady ever to finish the course. A ride in which more people failed to finish than actually completed it.

Jane's one of a crazy crew of people who think that racing on mountain bikes for 24 hours (or longer) is a perfectly normal weekend activity. I bow to her - and other 24 hour racers I know - like the redoubtable Amy,  irrepressible Jason and genially stoic John Pitchers who recount their tales of racing through long nights, deep mud, hard rocks and all weathers.

They almost make it look too easy though - easy for people who inhabit a world apart. It's the people like Lisa, a woman I normally know as a beautiful and well-dressed customer, devoted mum and supporter of her 'cross riding husband and son, taking on her first 24 hour mountain bike race who make me think. Seeing her standing, make-up-less and full of fear on the handover line but absolutely determined to do her lap, instantly made her into a hero to me.

My business partner, Nicola, is a crack road runner who has juggled her children, our business and her own fitness. Getting back into form after the birth of her first son was such a challenge. Fitting in training and especially achieving a racing weight. But after a few attempts (and still not clipping below the goal she'd set herself) she won a race for the first time in her life at 31.

They're all there to remind me not to limit myself. Fear and self-doubt are there to be overcome, and it's amazing what you can achieve.

Then there are the people who don't let circumstances stand in their way.

My first landlady, Bridget, in my 20s, who as a teenager recovered from polio to resume training and become a professional dancer. The doctors told her she'd never dance again and would always walk with a limp. If you were very perceptive, you might still notice her slight limp, but dance she did. John Pitchers, the 24 hour racer, who has repaired himself, mind and body, after being thoroughly broken by a driver not paying attention. Another friend Liz, not giving up on life when struck by a severe mental illness and inching her way back to reality and happiness. Lately, my friend Sarah who has got back onto her mountain bike after a severe rupture of her shoulder joint. We ride together with Kat, who wheezes her way up every climb, asthma inhaler in backpack, just in case.

And a friend who only just held onto life after he broke his neck when he fell awkwardly during a bike ride; Michael Bonney. He lives on a ventilator, unable to move from the neck down. Yet he's not given in to despair. He has kept on adapting technology until he can use voice operated computers to work, keep up with friends and squeeze every possibility out of the limitations which have been set for him.

We need these people around us to show use the way to do things - the people who face adversity and deal with it. When every day is a struggle, finding the strength to believe that things will get better and to persevere. That's inspiring.

And closest to home, the person who doesn't crack under pressure. My partner Chipps never loses his head or his sense of humour no matter how hard the circumstances. He seems to draw on special reserves when the going gets tough, cheerily fixing broken things or shepherding broken-spirited people off hill sides.

The people around me set examples - none is perfect but between them they grab life, defy gravity and  push frontiers. A conspiracy of trying, keeping going, keeping smiling; everyday heroism.

As I pedal along, I meditate on this human thing, this glorious web of endeavour and aspiration that provokes one step after another, all our achievements spurring better out of each other.  Each one reminding me that there's a point to keeping on. They all say 'don't give up'. And every little thought that keeps me going past that point or this is important.

I need them, that is you, all of you with your stories, your triumphs and heroics - to help me stick to the plan, persevere and believe that if you all can do it, then I can do it too.

My first century and other novelties

For a person who blithely applied to ride 244km of Belgian roads, bergs and cobbles, I've not actually been very far on a bike. I've never even quite tipped the 160km which makes up an imperial century, for instance. And I've never really had a structured approach to training. So there's a lot of new at the moment.

So far, I've followed The Plan. This in itself is a novel approach to cycling for me. But there's more, besides building up the distance (about which later), first I have embarked on a completely new experience:  intervals.

On Monday, Jason took me in hand to show me the ropes. So brief, so innocuous. Just three mad dashes up a long gravel slope, spinning my legs each time on the way down. Then circling the Philips Park trails for five minutes. And repeat. And again. Then I was allowed out to play on my mountain bike hard tail with the regular Monday Pub Night Ride, where I ambled along at the back with a cheerily deflating rear tyre.

Intervals. Serious face.

The following day I felt, ever so slightly, crushed to a pulp. The plan required that I repeat my efforts on Wednesday. Cheers Jason. I didn't make the mistake of going out for a social ride straight after, but the effect on Thursday was, if possible, even greater. My legs appeared to be made of lettuce.

This seemed to please Jason quite a lot.

Lettuce-legged and ready for the super-commute home on Friday

He instructed me to commute to work, not to do too much on Saturday then get 'a decent ride' on the Sunday. By which he meant at least half the length of the Ronde, or more; two thirds maybe, on a flattish route.

Setting out from Warrington with Si

Nothing, if not obedient, on Sunday I found myself heading out on my first ever hundred mile ride. My fellow travellers were my partner, Chipps, and our friend Si, who planned our route from his home in Warrington. It seemed odd driving out of the valley to find somewhere flat, but it was what was prescribed. It was even odder as we realised that the day had dawned bright and clear and promised to be not only warm, but also, sunny.

The ride was a treat - not quite flat but definitely more rolling than we're used to. Si had found a sequence of the quiet kind of lanes, mainly lined with hedges and trees, that are one of the defining characteristics of the English countryside. We rolled southwards through farmland, arable and dairy, in which Spring was definitely springing. Nantwich and Crewe were to the east, but we were oblivious to them as we skirted towns, and avoided traffic, chatting about rides, and road surfaces and bikes and events.

Chipps and Si on the lanes

Our destination was The Old Priest House Coffee Shop in Audlem, a cafe famous with cyclists. Our stomachs grumbling that bars and gels eaten on the hoof (or should that be wheel?) were not proper food, we stacked the bikes and sat down for the treat of the day; a quiet lunch of Staffordshire oatcakes - an oatmeal pancake served warm (unlike the Scottish variety) - rolled around eggs and bacon. With a pot of tea, quickly and sympathetically refilled, it was a perfect stop.

Rested and refuelled, we pressed on. After turning east for a few miles, we began to work our way northwards. I realised that our route crossed and recrossed the M6 motorway. Come this far and we'd usually be dodging juggernauts and weaving through traffic on our way to or from visiting friends or some far flung mountain bike event. But the little lanes had - almost deceptively - coaxed us fifty miles in the sunshine, left here, right there, freewheeling down hills and straining in the pedals to crest little ridges. We had left Cheshire, almost touched Wales and were beyond Stoke-on-Trent in Staffordshire whilst scarcely noticing the distance.

Emergency pie

The afternoon set in as we passed the Jodrell Bank observatory. A quick stop for a snack whilst admiring the view. It's an amazing construction, bright white in the sunshine against the blue sky - and for a second a couple of russet pheasants posed in a bare field in the foreground, creating a postcard scene.

Dusk started to fall as we spun the last ten miles back into Warrington, with Chipps encouraging me to practice sitting on his wheel, a vital energy-saving skill on a long ride. Somehow a hundred miles had slipped by, a hundred sunny miles, easy and sweet.

So, that's training so far. The things you think will be hard will be easy. The things you think are easy wipe you out. Your legs are sore, but you get used to it. And it's not (thank heavens) always raining.

A short Tour de Yorkshire

It's only March and we're already gripped with Tour de France fever. The Grand Depart, departing from Leeds and the two stages that wind through some of the best cycling in the world has more than just my cycling friends chatting in pubs. There's genuine excitement at the spectacle breaking through our traditional reserve - not to mention that (grudgingly) we've come to realise (with a string of medal-winning Olympians and two consecutive Tour winners) that Brits are not too shabby at sport on two wheels.

So it was not so surprising to see a steady stream of cyclists - loners and club groups - in the Dales at the weekend. We were visiting and riding out with our long-time mountain biking friend, John Pitchers, at the  Mountain Bike Livery  in Appletreewick. "You're lucky the conditions are good" he said, as we plunged, hub-deep, into a bog. After traversing the 'softer' ground, our stiff climb out of Kettlewell and hard work over the moor was rewarded with a flying descent down a little-used track to Starbottom, taking in rocks, grass and entertaining slither.

A typical Dales bike ride - a couple of hours to climb and descend 600m. Fantastic but not quite the training I need, so the following day I decided to ride the 60km home, taking in some of the Tour route. 

Sunshine and showers in Kettlewell

In just a few months the Tour will speed out west from Harrogate, through North Yorkshire, then wind its way the down through the narrow lanes of the Dales. It will pass through this green, farming, landscape, divided into neat fields with drystone walls, punctuated by stone barns for hay and grazed by sheep. Look up, and the moors above the fields are just bare and craggy enough to add a feeling of remoteness, and when the clouds cluster darkly about them, warn that this is not an entirely benign territory. 

When I set off from Burnsall, it wasn't quite damp enough to count as truly raining but it was a long way from dry.  And this is the thing with cycling in Britain. It may not be at the extremes of anything, but it's definitely not gentle either. Our landscape is beautiful, but it is always ready to throw a curve ball; a midsummer hailstorm, a rolling blanket of fog or a gale force wind, just for fun.

I wondered about the Tour de France riders - I hope they'll get at least some sun for their stages in Yorkshire. It's beautiful in the sunshine but sapping when the weather turns.

My route took me through Addingham (a nice chap let me jump on his back wheel for a few miles of company - they're a cheery lot, my fellow riders) through Silsden to Keighley. I thought I'd follow the Tour route via Haworth but my cyclocross bike was seduced away by the cobbles of the main street into a quick detour.

Then heading back onto the route on to Penistone Hill I hit 'real weather' as the wind and rain decided to drive the message home.

At this point, barely able to see and so soggy that I felt as though that was my substance to the core, I could think of nothing I wanted to do less than the long exposed climb out of Oxenhope over Cock Hill.

Miraculously I rediscovered the bottom gear, I've no idea where it had been hiding but it was a welcome moment! And at the top, seeing our own valley ahead spurred me on. This is a beautiful landscape, bleak and windswept, but lovely.

Pedalling downhill into a headwind just to get a bit of speed was annoying - on a still day, the descent from the top of Oxenhope Moor is one unending and exhilarating swoop, picking up more and more speed as it slips off the bare moorland, down into the valley into the shelter of green woodland and the town of Hebden Bridge.

Once in Hebden I turned off the Tour route (which carries on up Cragg Vale, our local hill climb and the longest continuous climb in the country) and towards home. On the way there was just one little errand to do. Visit the Makepiece sheep:

They were grazing quietly, so I tiptoed into the field with a feed bucket before pedalling the last few miles.

Home at last!

Despite the weather, I can't wait to get back out. We really do have some of the best cycling in the world - and it's brilliant that more people are going to see it.

So, this training thing...

I like being fit. Fit enough to nail a climb and still focus on the descent. Fit enough to take on a big day out and come home smiling. Fit enough to line up at the start of a race and put in a creditable performance. And mostly, that's what I am. I'm not particularly focussed about what I do, I just like to be able to ride whenever, wherever and whatever I like.

But this Tour of Flanders, this is quite a ride that I've put myself up for. And I want to do it well. I'm honoured that BMC are giving me the chance to do it and completely overwhelmed at the Granfondo bike I'll have to do it on. So I probably need a bit more focus.

The route is varied. The first 100km runs on what look like A roads cutting in from the flatland of Brugge (or Bruges) to Oudenaarde where the hills of Eastern Flanders start. This is where the fun begins; the cobbles and the 'bergs. I have been poring over this year's route. The names of the towns and villages it passes through. Waardame to Ruddervoorde. Zwevezele on to Egem. Flemish names. I love the sound of them.

I am a fan of Belgium in general. It has both an inclusive and friendly biking culture and great beer. Earlier this year we spent a happy weekend in Antwerp with our bikes. We spent a day riding the network of Fietswegs (low-traffic and off road bicycle routes) to the Trappiste Abbey (and brewery) of Westmalle. In the Abbey cafe they'll pour you a 'half and half'; half Westmalle Dubbel, half Trippel. A delicious, isotonic sports drink that it is. Honest. And the miles fly by on the way home!

From the flat(tish) north of Belgium, the Tour of Flanders route winds south to south east until it reaches Oudenaarde and the onslaught of the 'bergs. There are fifteen climbs taking in the Koppenberg,  finishing on the Paterberg. That's the bit I've done before.

I just need to be fit enough to get the first 100km out of the way then let my mountain biker's legs really enjoy the cobbles and the 'bergs. Last time I managed to weave my way up all the cobbled climbs between various walking, struggling and painfully slow riders without putting a foot down. It was a dry day though and I need to be prepared for it to be wet - it is Belgium after all.

Getting out isn't a problem. I love being out on my bike, but there has to be a bit of focus now - training rather than just riding - with 5 weeks (and counting down) to go. I have help though, in the form of Jason Miles, elite 24 hour racer and all round nice guy. Otherwise known as Terrahawk. I like to think I'm following The Terrahawk Training Plan.

He's advised some decent road miles 2-3 times a week - that's where my 40 mile commute to work comes in handy - and intervals twice a week. 'Don't worry if they don't even take an hour' he emailed, cheerily. 'If you like you can come over on Monday. See who can make themselves vomit first'. Then at least one five hour ride at the weekend to mind meld with the new bike.

Then Chipps and I are off to Spain at the end of March for a bit of warm, dry riding, I can use that week to ensure that I get some really long rides under my belt. Then it's just tapering until the big day.

At one and the same time it seems eminently doable and totally terrifying.

"You'll crush it" says Jason. I'll keep that in mind.

Cycle commuting

I love the idea of getting my training done before I get to work. And, having counted the weeks to the Tour of Flanders, I have realised that I need to be disciplined and regular in my riding. I've even got a plan.

So today I set off in the pre-7am half light, spirits dampened by a light drizzle but hoping that the optimistic weather forecast - drying out - would prove correct. I took a straw poll and decided to ignore the pessimistic, shower-laden BBC. I also decided to ignore the knobbly tyres on my cyclocross bike - after all a bit of cushioning on the road surfaces can't go amiss, can it?

My route starts and ends in beautiful countryside but the most direct route skims Greater Manchester, taking me through its satellite towns; Royton, Oldham, Ashton and Stalybridge. The roads are lined with the red brick terraces I remember as a child growing up in the Manchester suburb of Audenshaw. The dark, wet gleam of the tarmac; puddled and potholed is particularly familiar.

I head out through Littleborough and Milnrow first. Turning my back on the Pennines and towards the towns. Urban cycling, weaving through traffic, lifting the front wheel over the chunks missing from the road surface. Checking that the blink blink blind of my rear light is still visible to the streaming traffic.

The weather turns grim. Rain sheeting down as I climb towards Oldham. There's a headwind. It's kind of comforting in a 'now it can't get any worse' way. I curse my optimism. This is, to use the technical term, minging. A grey, wet whipping with occasional gusts that shove me across the road. I wonder about the etymology of 'minging' and decide it must have been coined in honour of Ming the Merciless. The lashing I am getting shows no mercy. Slowly but surely it is finding every weak spot in my gear and seeping in. Little fingers of cold prod at my ankles and even my legs are not immune.

8am and three duffel-coated shuffling school children catch my eye. They have JD Sports carrier bags slung over their shoulders, maybe they're off to some pre-school sports session. Maybe it's just what's in at the moment. They're bleary and slightly crumpled looking.

The world is waking up, going to school, going to work. As I hit Ashton I realise that the light has shifted. It's brighter and the rain is more heavy drizzle than drops. Unusually my feet are cold. I swear by my winter boots with thick mohair socks, but water has seeped down my legs into them and is refusing to warm up. I make myself eat a bar, it tastes cold and far too healthy.

From Ashton it's easy to Stalybridge, the gateway, in my youth, from city to countryside. But before I can head out for the hills, there's the climb to Mottram. This is a deceptive road. It's lined with houses and trees so how can it be so soul sapping? I turn my legs slowly until it tops out. It's the first of the three climbs I tick off on my way to Buxton.

From there I head into the hills and a different kind of riding. The second hill takes me from Charlestown to New Mills up tiny hedged lanes which were probably originally just tracks to join the farms to the valleys. The weather, if not fine, has definitely let up. It doesn't quite disappear, shoving me with the odd gust of wind now and then, but there's no longer water running down my nose.

I regroup at the start of the canal section from New Mills to Whalley Bridge. A waffle before I set off cheers me up. Just Long Hill to go then, taking me out of Whalley Bridge up into Buxton.

Long Hill is an accurate description. It does not let up for forty minutes of climbing. I curse the pack on my back (laptop, clothes, sandwiches). I curse my knobbly tyres. I curse the whole idiotic idea as I winch, painfully slowly, up and up. This is, of course, what training is about. About getting fitter. Stupid pack and knobbly tyres have added a bit of resistance to this session. The mantra for these winter rides is 'my summer self will thank me for this'. It had better.

At the top of Long Hill the sky brightens. There's even a small patch of blue between the ragged clouds. I sail down a gorgeous roller coaster of a descent into the town. I'm always amazed at how far you can ride on a bike. The app on my phone says 64km today. 983m of climb. That'll do for a start.

I unlock my shop and peel off my wet kit. In a matter of minutes I'm dressed in my knitted best, ready to open the doors to my Buxton clientele. I love this transformation!

When I get my new Granfondo it'll be fun do to this on an actual road bike with skinny wheels and long haul attitude! I can't wait to introduce it to the joys of commuting over the hills and a great way off.

Ups and downs (and not all of them on a bike)

You know, some weeks are crazy. Like at one and the same time the most amazing and exciting and the most awful and depressing.

Just had one. On the one hand, we've had to come to terms with the fact that our first, much-loved, Makepiece shop just isn't working in the premises it moved to at the end of last year and we have to close it down, with everything that entails.

On the other, I was told that I've won a trip to do the Tour of Flanders sportive and the perfect bike for it: a BMC Granfondo, on which to do it. It's a massive challenge which will be an an amazing experience.

I can't really describe the inside of my head. Like the constant pulsing of a lighthouse beam, slowly rotating between a million lumens of excitement and a rather deep, dark sadness. Then back again. Round and round. Happy anticipation keeping me going through the worry and the stress.

This contrast is rarely so stark but it's a heightened example of what cycling does for me. When things are good, it makes them better. When things are difficult and life is a challenge, it helps me rise to it.

I get onto my bike and it takes me over the hills, one pedal stroke after another. Almost literally it takes me outside of myself. I get to look at new things and peep beyond the valley's rim. And when the rain is coming down sideways and filling my shoes, I look down at my still pedalling legs and it makes me giggle at the nonsense of the endeavour. Fighting my way up the gradients, sweeping down the hills. Cycling makes everything in me work together - head, heart, lungs and legs.

It's particularly noticeable on my mountain bike, where the trail takes over my mind. Everything is concentrated on picking the line, keeping poised, holding, pushing, pumping the bike maintaining momentum over rocks and drops, taking the turns, looking looking looking forward.

The trail winds ahead of me and that's the challenge I have to accept. Get it wrong and it may hurt. Or worse. It teases my brain like a puzzle of roots and rocks. I look at the jumble in front of me and something inside, something unconscious and brave takes over and orders it, and orders me forward. Push my wheel over here, roll down the sliver of smoothness I can just about discern. Hit that ledge and keep moving, lift over that step without pause and onwards. Look round the bend, turn my head and drag my body into that look and the bike will go. There are no worries here, no niggles, no concerns. Everything extraneous to keeping this bike on this line is excluded. And as the spell works, it unlocks elation. The exhilaration of speeding downwards combined with enormous satisfaction of a job well done.

And even back in the real world, that satisfaction lingers. So even in this crazy week, when things are really pretty grim, there's a bike, a reason to get on it and the prospect of long roads, cobbled climbs (a different technical challenge) and a view quite outside the valley. What more does a girl need to get through?

On the Koppenberg in 2012

Oi, Cinders, you shall go to the ball...

I like the Belgian Spring Classics. They have the air of bike carnivals blended with the whiff of cyclocross style grit. Fiesta meets sideways rain. We've spent happy evenings huddled round the laptop watching the pros slogging it out over narrow lanes and brutal cobbles lined with enthusiastic fans allowing them just enough room to weave their way through.

For me though, the absolute best thing is that mere mortals can ride the route - in their thousands - the day before. A group of us rode the Tour of Flanders in a slightly abbreviated version (140km) in 2012. It was absolutely ace. The route took in rural lanes joining farms and villages, threaded through with sections of cobbles, small towns with cheering bystanders on the steeper climbs and huge feed stations dishing out handfuls of waffles, honey cake and bananas to thousands of smiling cyclists. We finished far more quickly and easily than I expected and I was already looking forward to trying the full 240km version, which begins much earlier in the morning and takes in 100km of Belgian plains before hitting the fabled cobble climbs.

A year passed and the logistics evaded us. But we swore we'd plan better for 2014. Chipps prevaricated as we debated the length. He's not a fan of the early start and petitioned to do the 140km version 'but faster'. I wavered, 100km of dual carriageway might not be quite as fun on a bike as I envisaged. Then came the news from the diary department. Chipps would be travelling for work on 5 April. And indeed also a week later when our alternate plan - the Paris Roubaix sportive - was taking place. I may have pouted, ever so slightly.

I started trying to work out whether there was a reasonable way of getting there on my own. The ferry from Hull as a bike passenger? Driving is tiring and the car ferry expensive for just one. It seemed to need quite a lot of planning and my life is busy.

One evening I was cooking and Chipps was on the internet. "Look, you could win a trip to do the Tour of Flanders with BMC". It was a long shot. I thought he was teasing me. And I scrolled through the pages and pages of entries. Yes, a very long shot.

Then it occurred to me that there were no women applying. Surely no bike company would make a competition for men only? I was horrified at the thought and started scrolling again. Look, there's one (after a few clicks). Oh, no, she wants it for her husband. Why were there no women applying to go on this fantastic ride? More scrolling before I found a single, solitary female. OK one, maybe more but my scrolling finger had run out of steam. The sample I'd taken just wasn't good enough. I thought I'd better apply just to make sure that BMC knew that there were girls out there who'd love to do the ride.

So we spent the evening digging out photos and crafting 'pick me, pick me' into 150 well-chosen words sprinkled liberally with enthusiasm for all things bike and Belgian. And I went to bed happy. I didn't think for a second that I'd win, but it was a nice thought. So I dreamt of cobbles.

In the morning it was apparent that the computer had hung and the application hadn't gone through. Life got busy and I finally remembered to resubmit the (now forgotten and must be rewritten) paragraph on the 14 February. What a fine Valentine's evening we had! You can see it here.

I got an email from Steven Jonckheere at BMC the following Wednesday asking me to call him. It was Chipps' birthday. I think I emitted several small inadvertent squeals whilst trying to articulate how delighted and honoured I was to be chosen to do this ride and act as an ambassador for BMC.

Then I spent another hour staring at the internet looking at the BMC Granfondo, the bike I seem to have won to ride the Tour of Flanders. An amazing carbon dream of a road bike developed by mountain bikers to take the rough with the smooth. Feather light and undoubtedly lightening fast. Shiny electronic gears I'd never even dreamt of. And disc brakes like all the best bikes.

That evening we went for a birthday meal with friends. I may have mentioned it once. Or, more likely, several times. Oops. Excitement is difficult to contain! It's a good job that Chipps is a kind, tolerant and supportive man (and only a tiny weeny bit envious).

BMC has put together a group of six riders to ride this event. A diverse bunch. Some of us look extremely hardcore (and fast) whilst others look like they enjoy the lighter side of cycling. Hailing from six different countries and three continents. Oh, and whilst I am the only Brit, I'm not the only girl. Credit to BMC for choosing such a varied group, I hope we'll be show off your bikes well.

So, I'm off to the ball after all. Better get some training in or my glass slipper will come off and my bike might turn into a pumpkin.