Relentless Solo

I packed a suitcase for Relentless. The things that would sustain me for twenty four hours of mountain biking.

A suitcase I would unpack, item by item through the long night and into the dawn. Holding up each piece, turning it over, putting it to use.

On the start line I was at least as curious and hopeful as I was nervous. Reminding myself that racing is not something I can just do, it’s the distillation, the essence, of the training I’ve put in.

I kissed Chipps good bye and we were off.

The start was easy, like the rides with mates where I’d race up the climbs. A little awkward on the descents, feeling the weight of the work I’d put in and the journey still to travel, anxious not to blow it in an inadvertent early crash. There have been too many of those this year, one too many moments of inattention. This race would not, must not, include one.

As the afternoon mellowed and the light turned golden, I was skip happy on the climbs and smiling on the way down. Carrying the memories of a summer of riding, of friends and chat and chilled out evenings as I swooped the descents, weaved my way through the woods and swished over pine needle paths.

But there was no chilled out evening this time, as the sky dimmed. There was a chill, the cold bright beams of lights contrasting with the black. Gels and bars to fuel me and the imperative to keep moving. There were memories of dark laps of Cragg Vale in the Calder Valley rain and mist. Pounding the climb on my limit. Over and over. Hard rides. The kind of rides you don’t just do for fun. And now was the time to make them pay their dues. My legs may have burned and my stomach churned but I tapped out the rhythm up the stiffest hills. I breathed in the dark, rasping to the top. And then my lights found me downward ribbons of relief. They flowed, bearing me onwards, sometimes better even than in the daylight.

I carried on. Lap again. With a nod to the night I’d spent phoneless and a little lost making my way from home to Horton in Ribblesdale on the Pennine Bridleway. The night laps blurred together mirroring that lonely ride. I was grateful for the Thursday night pub rides over the last month, reminding me what it is like to ride in the dark after the long days of summer. Checking kit and gauging clothing for warmth.

The course, which had started to dry in the late afternoon became slithery with night damp and I started to take more care as mud slimed over rocks. The dull exhaustion of repeating the Coed y Brenin Enduro course twice reverberated in my mind. Dragging myself round with Chipps, once ‘moderately’ and once ‘fast’ (although my sapped limbs had only been marginally brisker as I urged them on). I didn’t do that course twice with leaden legs to stop now. I pushed myself to ride on.

Breaking through the double figures barrier was encouraging. The course had few moments when I needed to fight my own disbelief that I could ride it. I kept taking on its challenges. 

It took in the end of the fourcross track, sending riders rolling over what would be jumps hit from another angle. I reminded myself of BMXing with the Monday Night Pub ride. No hesitation out of the gates. No hesitation now.

The roots of doom, snaking out of a muddy rut, sometimes outfaced me, but I applauded my own efforts when I succeeded at our showdown.

Leaving the pits every lap, I dreaded the first stony steep climb. Not so much for my legs as for the awful desire to hurl the contents of my stomach and reject the calories I’d carefully ingested. Stroke on stroke I remembered the Kickelhahn. The steep, steep forest path straight out of the back of my parents’ house in Germany. Slippery and stony, entirely permeated by heavy drizzle, I’d conquered it repeatedly in measure for stomach churning measure. Walkers had encouraged me. I could do it again.

And then, with just a few laps to go, Chipps told me that I was being chased. The gap was staying constant but I could not let it diminish. So I dug into all the nights on the turbo. All the stupid repeated intervals. Go as hard as you can for so long. And so long. And so long. 

There were draggy fire road climbs I could take in hand and pound out a rhythm from start to finish. Then stroke, stroke, stroke, up the northshore climbs. And heave and turn into the delicious final climb, up and away, corner by corner, coiling its way from a wide flow trail into singletrack in the woods. No let up. I’d not spent evenings staring at the seconds passing, praying for them to click through the minute barrier with every fibre of my being, whilst I pushed the pedals as fast as I could, for someone to catch me now.

And as the light started to filter upwards through the dark, the task lightened too. The gap wavered with a mechanical, but held. And I rode the last lap on a plan. Every bit practiced nineteen times.

Climb the boardwalk through the woods, heave up the tiny kicker (twenty times and the bastard hadn’t got me yet), metronome my way up the stony path, head down and not looking up as it steepened, just thinking of flying down the rolling pathway beyond. Tickling my way up the next stiff challenge and out onto the fire road that bore me to the top. Remember to look out one last time on the Nevis range, glowing in the light. Remember to smile.

Then head down and focussed on the narrow stony, twisting descents. No false moves, no big risks. A few dabs on the greasy bits but nothing too slowing. Wind back up the singletrack, the boardwalk, the smooth curves of the pine needle path, slither my way round the rooty bit and not let it phase me (a dab doesn’t matter, stopping or crashing does). I could fly down the bowl and up out the other side. Breath slowly over the narrow bridge (a handlebar caught on the handrail would be messy). 

Scrabble round the edge of the car park scrappily, walk the only bit of the course I was prepared to give in to by the end, to the edge of the dual slalom. Right hand held wide off the brake so as not to lose it on the now-sloppy roll in chute. Then over, and out. Once the path turned onto the final climb I was happy. Smooth. Knocking it out. Down that last lovely descent, curvy and swoopy and fast, dipping my bars left and right, skimming the stony patches, shoot down the last steep section, fluttering the final twists, out of the woods. Gone too soon. But into the peace of knowing that another lap. The last lap. Was done.

All those rides wrapped into that one, long day. Rides with friends, rides alone. The whole spring and summer condensed and distilled into one. My baggage unpacked, each piece appreciated. It had served me well.

For twenty four hours I hadn’t asked where I was in the race, because this was about riding. Finding out how far I could go, how high I could climb. The shadows of the other riders crossed my tracks now and again, a chaser chased but I didn't know whether for first or last place. This, absolutely, was my ride, I’d done my 20 laps. 200km. 7,000m of climb. The ride of my life.

second vet woman, third overall

not bad then 

Thank you to Chipps, the best pit crew in the universe (among many things), to Jason Miles for sending me the impossible sounding task lists which packed the suitcase, to everyone who's ridden out with me, put up with me, fed and cheered me on, you are all lovely. 

Thanks also to Scot Nicol for sending the gorgeous Ibis Tranny for testing at Singletrack (I think I've comprehensively checked it over). 

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Crash and Burn... the Mayhem remix

Back in the mists of 2014, when I was dreaming up goals for this year, Jason (concocter of super training plans and 24 hour soloist extraordinaire) said "let's do the Bristol 12 as pairs". A couple of weeks later, after I had (with some trepidation) said yes, he added "we'll win". Oh. OK. No pressure then.

So I applied myself to the matter of getting faster with urgency and fervour. And with some success. Second at the Glentress 12 told me that the training plan was working. But I'm not one to stop there - we were going to Bristol and I didn't want to be the one to let down the team (aka world-record-holder-Jason-Miles-champion-solo-24-hour-racer). There were two more weeks of hard work and a week of tapering to get through before THE RACE.

At that point, by some sleight of hand, THE RACE got upgraded. The combination of a little date vagueness and a wedding Jason had to attend meant we were no longer doing Bristol. Instead, he cheerily informed me, we could do Mountain Mayhem the week after. And, hey presto, the twelve hour race I'd been training for became 24. Oh, and our mate Daz would stand in at Bristol so I wouldn't miss out... Sometimes people can be a bit too kind.

I stuck to the plan. Intervals on Tuesday - or I could go circuit racing locally. There's no substitute for racing to make you go fast, I muttered to myself as I left the turbo alone and set off in the rain. Sadly, the turbo might have been a better idea. Within a lap I was taken out by a side swipe, knocked unconscious and bundled into my car for a trip to A&E. It had happened so quickly I'd not even let go of the bars and landed - fast and hard - on my cheek and elbow, scuffing both as well as my knuckles. It was not pretty.

As I sat in A&E waiting for my X-Ray and took one of those honest selfies that I didn't want - but had - to take. Just to make sure I properly grasped the reality of the situation.

They checked on me regularly but, whilst it looked bad, I knew I'd felt worse. My perfect blood pressure reading cheered me up. The X-ray didn't. The fancy full skull scanner showed a cheekbone fracture. It didn't hurt too much, I told myself. It would mend. One of the race organisers kindly brought Chipps - both for moral support and to drive me and our van home. By 2am I was allowed to eat and a kind nurse made me a plate of toast. Shortly after, a doctor released me with a packet of industrial strength ibuprofen and head injury instructions. No contact sports for three days. Good, I thought, cycling isn't a contact sport.

Chipps wasn't so convinced.

"Promise me", he asked, "you won't go racing on Friday".

I looked down at my feet. Friday was stage one of the Holme Valley Two Day Stage Race. It was going to be as good as a road race gets for me, even though it would be insanely tough. Plus I'd already cased the course and it would be my friend Hannah's first road race - I couldn't miss that! He raised his eyebrow and added,

"Without talking to a doctor. Ask Jim."

Jim is an anaesthetist who's worked in A&E. I'm sure he's seen far worse, so I nodded.

Luckily I wasn't working the following day so I trundled to Hebden Bridge and got my bike fixed and the fantastic Blazing Saddles. The wheel needed trueing, the Di2 resetting and the bars needed new tape. Meanwhile, I started treating my facial road rash with medical grade honey - it's antiseptic and keeps the scabs moist which helps healing and prevents scarring.

The swelling seemed worse on Thursday so I caved in and took an ibuprofen before setting off for work. My colleagues were sympathetic. Poor you. I didn't feel too poor though, I felt I just had to fix myself and get going again.

By Friday I was beginning to feel myself. I even spoke to Jim, who was suitably vague. His advice went along the lines of "if you feel ok and you haven't been sick or seen double, you probably are".

I told Hannah I'd pick her up in the van and if I felt up to it I'd start on the line. Once there, of course I felt up to it. After all, there was a proper sense of occasion. All the Women's Tour of Britain pro team riders were lining up, ready to test their legs for their big race in a couple of weeks time. I didn't care whether I rode along at the back, I just wanted to be there, bobbing in the wake of road cycling's elite.

In fact, I didn't just ride at the back. I applied myself very hard to riding well in the bunch. Although I seemed to have a hard time on the flat I was reeling people in on the last climb of the first lap when the race was pulled up. A car had had an accident - nothing to do with the race - in the finishing straight and the road was closed. That'll be the only time that I get given the same time as Laura Trott then.

On Saturday I felt pretty chirpy. We did a time trial followed by a road race and although coming 30th overall is no great shakes, both Hannah (her first road race and 28th) and I finished. There were girls crying on the verge in the last stage so crossing the line was good enough for me. Scabby but unbowed, I began to feel a bit better. Helped a lot by the infectious enthusiasm of my Racing Chance Foundation team mates who seemed to be really proud of my endeavour.  Thanks!

The following week was tapering ready for Bristol and I took extra care because healing is tiring work. I took daily photos of the process, which was kind of fascinating. The swelling kept reducing and the scabs receded. The honey had worked and they left just a smooth red mark in their wake.

The Bristol 12 race was hard. We lapped one on, one off, relentlessly. The weather was grim and I spent most of it feeling sick. And we still didn't win.

Daz was doing a great job of lapping between 32 and 36 minutes, and I went from a pretty nifty 35 up to a stomach churned 48. We missed the podium by a minute - if we'd been even a tiny bit strategic and swapped a lap we would have been on it. The whole thing was a blur - twelve hours seemed to go so quickly. And I was suddenly, very, very worried about Mayhem.

I spent an afternoon stalking the previous years' lap times - they wouldn't be much longer than Bristol. So I pleaded with Jason for us to do double laps from the start to create a bit more recovery time. During the week, my final scabs dropped off, leaving only a red mark on my skin. Even if I felt worried, at least I looked ok!

Once the race started, I should have stopped worrying. Jase did the run, grabbed his bike and was off.

Two laps and just over an hour later, he was back and it was my turn. I enjoyed the course, enough fun to keep me entertained thoroughly.  I put in a decent time - even though I snapped my chain on my first lap and had to ask for help from passing - and kindly - Jo Burt.

We double lapped with steady efficiency, opening up a lead with the first set of laps. Jason is a machine. An ace, cheery, enthusiastic teammate but a machine nevertheless. I just had to keep going (and not listen to my self doubts) and between us we'd rack up a decent total. The baking sun gave way to a blissful shower. He came in from his laps.

 "It's a bit greasy so be careful out there". He paused, and smiled. "But not too careful, right?".

I tried to keep it steady but I caught up with one of the VCUK Ph MAS team girls near the beginning of that lap. I wasn't really racing her but I'm always being beaten by them on the road so it was a matter of pride to make sure I came in first on my home turf. Even if I'd done double the laps she had.

The only real glitch was the quiche incident. Back in the pits, cyclist brain pattern kicked in: nom, nom, hungry... aha quiche... nom nom, quiche gone. I thought that would be ok an hour before I set off on my laps. By halfway round the first one I was feeling sick. I saw Jase as I passed through the pits and asked if he could do a three lap stint to give me a break. By the end of my second lap the sickness had eased off a bit, but when I came into the handover I received stern instructions.

"Don't eat quiche. Go to Debbie, she will tell you what to do". Debbie, Jason's wife, queen of the lap times, team strategy and the food stores, told me not to worry, to get some pasta down and have a rest.

Once I'd done as I was told, it was my first night laps. The sickness was gone and I was lit up with the power of several suns courtesy of Exposure so I positively zoomed round the first of my laps. Sadly, a couple of the suns went out (full beam on the head torch only lasts for a single lap, something I'd failed to think of before setting out with it on max) so the second lap was a little less radiant and consequently slower. But I was back racing and there was no more sickness. Our lead kept increasing steadily.

"Don't over do it", Jason said, "keep it steady", as he handed over. "Tidy job this".

That's good then, I thought.

Two more dark laps and I was fine, a little tired, but fine. I nearly ran into a chap whose lights had gone out at one point - so I lit the way for him for the rest of the lap and got him back to the pits safely. Then it was light again. Laps 11 and 12. I was beginning to crack slightly and wondered out loud whether Jason might like to to an extra lap again. "Not really", he said. And to be honest, I didn't really mind, if he trusted me to keep trucking that was fine, I just didn't want to slow the job down as I could see my lap times creeping up.

Between us we had 25 laps done - and a 4 lap lead with about 3 hours to go. As I was thinking about getting ready for my next set, I heard a surprise voice outside the tent.

"Let's have a brew".

Debs had done the maths and told Jason we'd won as he passed the pits, the last straight of lap 26. He'd got off the bike at the handover (a lap before I was expecting him) and come to tell me. Our nearest rivals were flagging and calling it a day - and even if they hadn't, their lap times meant they couldn't overtake us in the time left. It didn't quite sink in properly but I definitely enjoyed that coffee.

A couple of hours later I changed into my favourite cycling dress and did a valedictory lap with Chipps for company. We reminisced about the insanely fast 'how late can you brake' grass stretch, the evil ever-increasing-in-steepness penultimate climb (which somehow I rode lap after lap, even after I'd stopped believing I could) and the weird trail litter shaken loose from bikes. We found Daz near the end, broken by soloing on an empty stomach and shepherded him back safely to the bar (what could possibly go wrong with that?).

In some ways it was easy. A nice clean, systematic accumulation of laps - 27 in all (which would have put us as 4th in men's pairs). In other ways it had been hard. The night is strangely quiet and plays tricks with your head. Worrying that I wasn't going fast enough was probably sub-optimal. I'd never done anything as long and intense before - but now I know that I can, those thoughts need to be laid to rest.

So really, overall, Mountain Mayhem was awesome. Less than three weeks before, I'd crashed my brains out and everything looked bleak. But I held my nerve (and whatever he thought, Jason didn't ever suggest I shouldn't do it) shook myself down, kept going and we got to stand at the top of the podium, grinning from ear to ear.

Thanks to Chipps, Debbie Miles, Singletrack Magazine and Team JMC for sorting so much out, Exposure lights for illumination, mechanical assistance from Fibrax (and Jo Burt) and Ibis for making the fantastic light and fun Ibis Tranny I rode. Thanks too to Jason Miles for his crazy idea. And being an ace teamie. Nice one.

Done. No dust.

The strangest feeling. I wasn't worried.

The day dawned. Or rather, a dimmish light seeped from behind the cloud blanket. The air was thick with drizzle. But I felt impervious to it. Very matter of fact. Make breakfast. Eat. Put clothes on. Go.

I forgot all sorts of things (to brush my teeth, apply chamois butter and pack a lip balm) but I had reached the point of don't care: go. This thing had been calling me for some time, and it was time to get on with it.

Having said that I was slow off the mark with lining up and quite far back in the line up, close to Chipps and a few other friends. The weather forecast (damp and windy) had made me choose winter tights. I'd decided to go for my more flexible shoes even though they weren't waterproof, with wool socks which stay warm, wet or dry. I set off wearing a waterproof jacket. I didn't take it off for the whole race. 'Damp and windy' proved to be an understatement.

The start was great. The bike is light and suited to gentle uphill so I flew ahead, making up places, keen to get a good position on Ingleborough. The first tracks were easy, the kind of farm tracks I love riding. But we were crossing streams within minutes. A pair of riders collided in front of me, and immersed themselves in a brook. It was salutary. I jumped over it, noting that it would be good to keep dry for as long as possible.

As the hill became steeper, the true bogfest began and I realised that trying to dance every mud puddle was futile (mud puddle, there must be a word for that. Muddle is taken though). I was quite happy slogging up though, and reasonably fast. Making sure I didn't lose a shoe in the sucking mud. But that was the warm up. I'd seen the pictures of Simon Fell's crazy angle and was just waiting for it to start.

Steep went steeper and we started to enter dense cloud. Shouldering the bike was not too bad - turning it to the wind accidentally was a big mistake with much staggering and the odd falling over episode. Perhaps the carbon wheels, with their deep rims, were not the best choice. Too late now...

Despite this (and weaving across the almost vertical slope at the pleasure of the wind) I was doing pretty well and moving slightly faster than the column which had kept to the left to use the fence for support. Once the 'super steep'™ bit was over, there was still more 'quite steep'™ before the path flattened and we were disgorged, disorientated, in dense grey mist on the top of a grey, stone splinter strewn plateau. Tape guided us through this monochrome landscape to the marshals, and the first dib. The feeling of achievement and elation was amazing! If I can do this, I can do anything.

The descent flashed by - a bit stumbly to start with. I was finding dismounts and remounts challenging. After a few 'surprise dismounts' I came to realise that the winter tights were descending slowly and acting like a slingshot whenever I tried to get into the saddle. I'd get on and then be surprised to be spat off again immediately and unceremoniously. In fact, the whole wet kit, wet legs, wet shoes for sustained riding was a new experience. My brain switched off to the discomfort (good - I kept going) but also to the consequences (bad - I found it difficult to square up the fact that things that I would usually find easy were much more difficult with soggy kit as I became more tired).

For Ingleborough, though, this wasn't yet an issue. I made it down the descent on a wave of elation to the delightful sight of Stanny with his bag of treats. I ate half a banana and took a bottle filled with energy drink and set off. The link road to Whernside wasn't far off and as I rode I reflected that maybe I hadn't eaten enough. Then it dawned on me that my food was in my backpack. For a couple of minutes I actually deliberated about getting at the food but fortunately (although stupidly slowly) came to the conclusion that I had to do it. I stopped, stuffed a bar into my mouth and got going again, resenting every non-moving second. Note for next time!

I don't remember much about Whernside, apart that the rain and the wind were worse. I had to push in places when carrying would have been more efficient for fear of being swept off the stone staircase into the mist-filled abyss. It felt like I was being sandblasted. There were a lot of steps. They were slippery. So was the bank next to them. I kind of ground at it, rather less enthusiastically than I might. I kept losing my bottle - its magnetic attachments which worked off road on other occasions were really not up to this. I hoped that it wasn't a metaphor.

The descent off Whernside was probably my least favourite bit - I kept trying to ride it but it was low visibility, deceptive and wet. The water bars were hidden in puddles as were the edges of the path at times. There were so many ways to come off the bike. Slipping off the edge of the slab path stalled the bike and led to falls. Cycling along the boggy bank led to sliding off to left or right. Or to plunging the front wheel into bog pools, creating another version of the stall and off. Falls created amazing cramp throughout my legs which I've never felt quite so comprehensively before. Chipps caught up with me at this point and disappeared off into the mist (my race strategy was to keep ahead of him for as long as possible so that if I had a serious failing of any kind he'd know and possibly be there to shepherd me down to base).

This was where the conditions bit me - my wet kit flapped around my legs, I found it hard to remount and avoid the crotch-slingshot effect, and my brakes did not want to work, ultimately ending in a comedic 'can't brake, can't stop, steer into reeds, over the bars' dismount. That hurt quite a bit and when concerned fellow riders picked me up, I was vastly grateful. I was a little more circumspect after that, giving steep terrain a miss and running more. I did manage to ride some rocky gently sloping sections and gave myself a little cheer for getting over quite a few water bars. In retrospect, they should not have held much terror but I was probably empty and a bit cold which was affecting my mind and skills.

When I finally reached the bottom of Whernside (which seemed to involve fording several torrents - only one of which had a bridge) I was very relieved. The doubts which had beset me in the mist vanished (probably as Stanny stuffed jelly snakes into my mouth, washed down by more energy drink). I'd come this far, I would finish.

The link road seemed to take forever and I managed to add some Clif blocks to my calorie intake. They're quite tricky to open whilst cycling though (note for next time). At the bottom of Pen y Ghent I turned down the lane - familiar with it from cheering Chipps there last year. As he'd told me, it was just the kind of terrain I like riding on a cx bike, stony and not too steep. Wonderfully, my friend Kirsty who was there to cheer offered me water and when I asked whether she had sweets, one of her friends broke up a bar so that I had it handy in my front pocket.

Riding Pen y Ghent lane would be something I'd do for fun on a good day. On Sunday, it was satisfying as I ground up it, refusing to dismount as people around me were doing. I even rode the three foot deep puddle at the bottom (I was bemused that I managed it - it was a really odd feeling to have water lapping your thighs as you ride).

Eventually it became too steep and rocky. The wind was hard work and quite often I had to wheel rather than carry just to avoid being blown away. I had a few dispiriting moments as I seemed to get slower and slower - until I remembered the bars in my pocket. They were so easy to eat and as I chomped them down my mind cleared and my feet started to move faster again.

People were dashing down the hill on the lane as we struggled up - and I envied them! As you near the top of Pen y Ghent there's an amazingly steep section, after which you hope it's over. Of course, it's not, there's a upwards sloping boggy section to go (how we can have bogs at the top of mountains is a mystery - but they do seem to be a speciality of the area) before the welcoming sight of mist clad marshals. Again, a wave of sheer joy passed through me. Turning back onto this now gently descending, but horribly boggy, terrain, it looked like the promised land. Well, as far as we could see. Which, honestly, wasn't very far.

Despite the bog, from which we slithered onto the loose, rocky path, the descent seemed to go so quickly. There were still a few people struggling up near the top (which meant, happily, that I was not last). I became happier and happier, uncovered my brakes and let rip. I was delighted to pass quite a few people. I'd been eyeing up the path on the way up and it felt familiar enough to pull the stops out.

Sadly one lady got me back on the link road - my highest gear was too low to help me keep my advantage as the last two miles are almost entirely downhill.

But in all, I am delighted. I finished and a lot of people didn't. It took 5 hours and 45 minutes - longer than I hoped but fast enough to make me 23rd woman in a field of 57. I got a medal. I might wear it round the house occasionally. It has been the most physically demanding thing I have ever done. I tested the limits and measured up.*

*If I ever want to raise money for charity again though, I might pick something easier next time. Like a coffee morning.
You can still donate on my justgiving pages. Go on: amnesty ... or ... greenpeace the choice is yours.
Thanks! Beate

Adrenaline boot camp! The Singletrack Weekender

The Singletrack Weekender 

14/15 July 2012

I've not raced much - a handful of cyclocross races, a couple of laps of Sleepless in the Saddle last year, Hit the North and the Dyfi Enduro (although strictly speaking, it's not a race, it's a challenge). I'm actually terrified of them. Beforehand a nagging, grumbling, doubt about the wisdom of entering builds to a crescendo of screaming banshees of fear, screeching the details of my physical, technical and nutritional lack of preparedness as the race approaches.

The sound of fear, in my case, is very rational. It details how little experience I have of mountain biking, of racing, of bike fixing. How skilled everyone else is, their years of practice, their respect for the course. I'm a beginner. What am I doing taking on difficulty and danger? Why? I won't win and I will probably end up looking stupid. With bruises. If I'm lucky.

The solution. Do more races. Make them seem normal. Or that's the theory.

I entered the Weekender right at the last minute. I know Lee Quarry, the venue, and navigating it the first time was pretty scary. But hey, I have had a few fun days there since, where I've not been terrified (as much) and I have been on a skills course since then. Or so I told the voice of fear.

The Weekender is a three part event which must be completed on the same bike. In my case, my trusty Ibis Mojo. The bike that likes to stay upright*.

The first part is a trials test. In which you have to attempt a very steep, technical hill climb, ride down a skinny log without falling into a pond, up and down some hefty steps, track stand for 30 second and ride over a see saw. I managed two of these (the skinny and the see saw) - to my surprise. I didn't expect any! I didn't try either of the two more testing trials - fishing a duck out of the pond whilst riding the skinny or riding a ring of slabs - proper trials rider stuff and you were given penalty minutes if you failed.

 *see, it likes to stay upright

After the trials came the downhill, the most terrifying part for me. Getting a grip, I decided to try out the  course in sections. Not to worry about fast lines and slow lines, just about finishing in one piece.

The main obstacle - in my mind at least - was the drop into the arena. From floor of the arena, my eyes, and head told me that the steeper line was smoother. Peering over the edge, they back-pedalled rapidly into the squealing realm of 'you will die'. Watching burly bloke after burly bloke disappear over it did nothing to quell my fears. Onlookers added pressure, the fear of looking an idiot was coming through loud and clear.

But the second they all disappeared, I sneaked up to, and over, the edge. Saw the terrifying sight of my front wheel disappearing down a near vertical slope but instead of panic, heard the voice of great firmness saying 'Commit to the line. Get used to it'. And I was down, and being sped towards the next section by my bike.

In the event stringing the sections together was harder than I expected - carrying the momentum from the first section and hearing the crowds to boot. I had to get over that edge despite them.

I did. Commit. Maybe not quite to the line I'd taken in the clear headspace of practice. There was a collective intake of breath. But I was right out over the back wheel and I didn't brake (or breath). And then I was down, over, onwards, scarcely believing I'd done it. Veering slightly wide in my joy. I made it through the gaps, down the singletrack and in and home. Not in a terrific time but unscathed. And proud.

Just because we could, I went for a second run. Fluffed two bits that had seemed innocuous and ended up having a little sit-down with Mountain Rescue to nurse my multi-coloured knees. Oops.

Hey ho, I was through and with a total thirteen penalty minutes (ten from the downhill and three from the trials). Which may not sound great, but the best female downhiller had only one less. The idea of the penalty minutes was to even the odds between trials riders, downhillers and the cross country riders. Those with penalty minutes set off after those without.

The cross country race was on Sunday. Three laps of Lee Quarry. That sounded quite short so I decided just to take a drinks bottle and some Clif shot blocks, just in case. I regretted that when the sun came out. I needed a drink and I had to slow down to get my bottle in and out of my jersey. Never mind.

The thirteen minute group was quite large. I set off at the same time as Kirsty but was not really in contention to pass her, ever. My steady pace, however passed Sue, a minute ahead of us and the other woman vet, on the first long climb, not to mention a fair number of blokes. Hurrah.

I was glad to have had a recce of the course. There were a couple of intimidating points but I had them cracked by the second lap. And there were lots of the fun berms of Lee Quarry included in the course which was fun. At least I tried to remember that they were fun, the pressure of racing sometimes interfered. But the more laps down, the more that eased. The only really, really annoying thing was dropping my chain. Twice. And on both occasions being overtaken by the same bloke. I caught and passed him twice on the last lap. Then right at the end he sneaked up behind me and passed me on the finish. Being annoyed was soon tempered by the fact that he admitted that trying to keep up with me had motivated him to finish the race.

So, what has this to do with the Three Peaks? I need racing experience. And that was racing experience, with plenty of adrenaline, peer pressure, crowds, shouting, performance anxiety, raging self-doubt and a bit of sheer terror thrown in. And I did get over them. I may have scared a few people when I dropped into the arena on an 'unconventional' line. But I didn't panic or grab at the brakes. Which is good to know, satisfying. I'm going to do any races that come my way, just to help get used to the whole thing.

And, best of all, I made my first podium. I was thoroughly beaten by Kirsty in my category (well done!) and Julia who won the senior women's race. But I was second vet and third overall, which was very satisfying. And I get a pair of Shimano shoes, which look like they may come in handy for the Three Peaks.

Now, please click and sponsor me! Amnesty or Greenpeace - the choice is yours. And I'll be very grateful (and thinking of you) all the way up Whernside and down Pen Y Ghent.