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

Wrynose. Not Bust.

This week I came back to earth with a bump. Everything seems to have gone wrong. Two days to sort out a faulty phone line in the shop, hardly denting the enormous pile of admin and Chipps is away so there's no cycling to work whilst I've sole custody of Clover the poodle.

So, what should a girl do to have something to look forward to? Oh, yes, of course. A 112 mile sportive from Lancaster, over the Wrynose pass and then back again. Can't be too bad can it?

The logistics were 'interesting'. A 4am start to walk Clover the poodle before setting off in the mighty Doblo to arrive in Lancaster by 6.30am. I've never done anything like this before on my own, but I quite enjoyed spending Saturday preparing for it. I cleaned the kitchen so that I could set my bike up in it. Popped over to Blazing Saddles for a spare power link for my chain (just in case) and they kindly gave my bike a quick once over and tightened a few bolts (!). Then I set out all the food ready. Got out my BMC bag and organised riding gear and post-ride gear. It was great having a set of kit that all worked together. Perfectly orderly and organised.

At 5.05am I set off for Lancaster. The motorways were empty and the directions all worked. I pulled into the car park. Signed on. Set myself up.  Chatted idly to the chaps in the cars next to me.

"How long do you reckon it'll take?"
"Oh, I'll do it in 7 hours". In a slightly disdainful tone which implied that I most definitely wouldn't come anywhere near that.

OK, so I am in flash new kit with a flash new bike. Maybe I look like all the gear, no idea. Or maybe they're just seeing girl on a bike. Of the 106 entries when I entered, I was one of two women. I wondered why?

I'd looked at the Wrynose or Bust route profile and it wasn't excessive, Chipps and I rode comparable rides in Spain. For fun. I've been over the Hardknott and Wrynose passes before (although I turned the air blue with expletives) and I fancied a rematch on my new bike. I was hoping that the Granfondo would give me wings. I decided I'd rather do it on a signposted route, in a group when there were people around, than on my own, whilst Chipps was away.

So there I was at the start, suddenly feeling that I needed to do it in a decent time just to prove that I was worth my amazing bike and my flash kit, and that it's no big for women to ride, and ride well.

It wasn't a mass start, we just trickled out, one at a time. Not a good sign for getting into a group and sharing the wind. I couldn't persuade my Garmin to work so I just decided to go for it. Found a bloke, chatted to him. Jumped into a little group, couldn't keep up with it. But found another. And so on. Taking my turn if they'd let me.

With nothing apart from a vague memory of the route and geography to tell me where I was or what time it was, it was quite a surprise when we hit the feed stop at 44 miles. This marked the transition from the rolling section of the route to the start of the Lakeland climbs. We'd come a fair way, round the coast and through changing countryside. A nice jaunt, but now it was time for the hills to turn into mountains, capped with fells and scree. Clouds hovering round them, but luckily today, not closing in.

I stuffed down malt bread and bananas and started out when another chap went. I couldn't keep up with him (or rather I couldn't accelerate when he did which amounts to the same thing but is an annoying process). So I slogged out that section on my own.  It took me through the gorgeous Dudden Valley, which rolls through stunted woodlands, and grassy sheep strewn verges. I recalled riding it once, in the opposite direction. And with delight realised that the route would only take us over the Wrynose, skipping its even nastier friend the Hardknott.

A chap caught me and we played tag as he out-climbed me, but I raced past him on the descents. Eventually he overhauled me, and became a marker ahead, a white shape leading onwards, towards the Wrynose Pass.

There's a long, flat aisle laid out before the alter of Wrynose. Which means that, as you look ahead, you see the procession of cyclists that clearly sped before you, suspended on the face of the pass to come. With a few moments observation, it's apparent that they're slowly hauling and winching themselves up and over the pass. And soon it will be your turn.

I took the road that reared before me steadily. It's not quite as intimidating if you keep your eyes down and only look at a section at a time. I was standing in my pedals over the steep bits, sitting every time the gradient lessened. It's always a relief to reach the top. And the air was not blue.

The descent is rapid and twisting, a case of not overcooking the brakes whilst looking looking looking round corners and down the valley for approaching cars, stray sheep and any other impediments. A guy in front of me had blown his tyre. I tried to let my brakes breathe whenever I could see far enough ahead to let rip.

The killer with the Wrynose is not the pass, that's done in the head and with will power. The kicker is the steady climb after it towards Ambleside. It's where the damage the pass has wreaked on your legs is apparent. I could feel the start of cramp. I swallowed a gel. Fumbled for more food. But kept spinning. The battle between relief that the pass is over and disappointment that it's not all downhill from there has to be won.

I was expecting Ambleside at any minute, but the route swung round before reaching the town proper and took us to another timing station (66 miles done) and then towards Hawkshead. I'd forgotten where the next feed station was on the route and was feeling my legs. Another gel helped. A couple of guys passed me at the feed station. I caught one of them and we chatted our way along Windermere.

Someone had meddled with the arrows and there was confusion in the last few miles before the feed station at High Newton (86 miles). I panicked that we'd never reach it and when we did, relieved, stopped a little longer than I should have done, hungry and tired. My companion over the last section left whilst I was still stuffing down an egg sandwich and second cup of tea. I thought there were people with me when I left, but ended up ahead of them and riding alone.

There was a great descent out of High Newton, twisty and steep and rough. Kind of fun. Perfect on the Granfondo, which feels stable and secure even on the steepest bends. But then the route was back into ripping along flat lands and rolling hills. There was a series of climbs which started to put me into the wind. A couple of pairs overtook me, but I couldn't keep with them for more than a mile. If I could settle in behind I was fine, but I need to learn to accelerate. On the other hand, I'd see groups ahead and speed along to catch them only to realise that they were slower participants of the shorter routes. Sitting behind them would only get me home to my poodle at a snail's pace.

Overtaking one such group, I suddenly realised that I'd ridden ninety odd miles and could still outride people who'd done a shorter course. Maybe my training had done some good. I could feel proud.

The last ten miles was howling, and I felt battered by the constant onslaught. I was joined for maybe the last three by the chap I'd played chase with on the Dudden Valley. Funny how things pan out. We chatted and took turns to deliver ourselves out of the wind and home to the blessed relief of the Halton base.

I took 8 hours and 9 minutes to complete the course. 112 miles and 2,800m of elevation. Overall, I was 35th, out of over a hundred entrants. I hope that was respectable enough for anyone who raised an eyebrow at the start not to do so the next time they see a woman signing on.

As for the other lady, she finished last, in 11hours and 14 minutes. But she did it. Where were the rest of us? There were plenty of women doing the two shorter rides run alongsdie, but just the two of us taking the route more epic.

For our pains though, we had a great day out. There was all the cake a girl could eat (if she wanted) and some very fine chaps to chat with on the ride. The event was well organised, sign posted and marshalled. The checkpoints and feed stations were run by jolly, kind and encouraging people - despite standing at their posts for goodness knows how long.

I suppose it's reasonably hard work to see the scenery, but a ride like this is rewarding. Each variation reminds you how far you've come, from the flat lands of the coast, inland to touch the clouds and back, rolling through woodland, then farmland and to within a breath of the sea. There's all that landscape wrapped into the pride and elation of reaching the end of the ride.

Wrynose or Bust
SportIdent times
The beautiful 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!

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.