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.

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.

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

Do not fall off your bike

I've just been to the physio. Not just any physio. Mills Physio. She's very good at cyclists (here she is, with her favourite piece of advice writ large - there's probably a bike propped just out of view too). And she know how much doing the Three Peaks means so she's not going to tell me not to do it or not to train to do it. She's going to tell me how to.

At least that's what I hope, as she moves shoulder, the right, through all its range and shows me the muscles that are not extending properly. And for comparison runs the nicely mobile left one through its paces without any of the winces and grimaces she's just elicited.

If you fall off your bike, onto your shoulder, it can become quite sore. And if it's sore, you hold it into a position to protect it, causing more stiffness and swelling and pain when you move. Until you come to the conclusion that you are condemned for ever to a lop-sided existence with twinges whenever you reach out in a way that is not-approved by the newly clenching muscles.

Which won't do if you're planning to use said shoulder for carrying your bike up several largish peaks, never mind directing the bike in the right directions on the way down.

So, to rewind. I was enjoying my cyclocross learning curve with the every-other-week (ish) discipline of the Yorkshire Cyclocross Summer Series. Every session was a voyage of discovery - from realising that my bike was equipped with stupidly high gears to learning not to follow slow giffers up hills too closely (they may roll back and take off your rear derailleur). Two races ago, I learned that falling off can have consequences.

I'd just started enjoying the race, there was only one woman ahead of me in the field and I was flying. Maybe I should always take a quick deep breath or something when I get that 'I'm flying' feeling. I flew on though, down a short, steep, grassy bank and my wheels went from under me. I'd obviously chosen a better line the previous times. At the time, I was less bothered about the pain in my shoulder than the fact that I was having difficulty getting my chain back on. It lost me maybe a minute as the other women in the field all sailed past. Once I'd managed to overcome my fingers and thumbs, the only thing that mattered was catching them up and regaining second place. I did but I was fairly breathless by the end!

Two weeks later, I rode a much more conservative race and finished bruise free (although ending up in a tape dead end meant another battle to keep my place, so many things to learn). But the shoulder niggled. Another couple of weeks later, I gave in. It wasn't getting better on its own and I was having to be very ginger with my training.

Carrying my bike had even less appeal than usual. I have felt quite battered after off-roading and mountain biking sessions and ever so slightly under the weather all the time. I didn't manage the 100 mile ride I had as this weeks' target and I am beginning to worry that the shorter rides and skills won't be enough. I need endurance too. 

The pain was only sharp if I moved in certain directions, and I managed to ignore the lower levels of it to get on with stuff. I usually accept that falling off is part of learning but I've been careful not to - and probably stiffer because of it. None of the effects have been huge, but it has been a drag; a small constant debilitating effect. 

So I ended up on Ms Mills couch, with her digging her fingers into muscles to persuade them to release their crampy hold and set my shoulder back on straight. It's really odd how interconnected the sets of muscles are, how sensation is referred as one muscle is relaxed and then another. It hurt quite a lot which made me realise how out of true the shoulder had become.

I decided not to try and ride my bike today, just to help the shoulder get used to being back in place before I start doing things to make it tense up. I have exercises to do to help strengthen the back of the shoulder so that it isn't so prone to rolling in and a nice stretchy band to do them with. I have been told heat is good and not to carry bike for a few days and to let Ali know how it's going next week.

Post script: It took me a while to get this up. Shoulder is definitely on the mend, but I have to be careful. Carrying will start next week.