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

Nearly there...

So, I am as excited as a child at Christmas. I am collecting together the gear (I've cleaned this little low profile backpack and bladder off for the occasion). I lay awake last night thinking about the course and wondering about the weather and realising that I didn't really care. I just want to do it!

I went to see Ali this morning for a second look at my shoulder. She confirmed that it's getting better and told me to cosset it a bit this week. Not to get it cold, give it a nice heat pack one night and generally recover.

So, the training. Yes, I've been doing some. Not as much as I'd like but enough to feel moderately prepared. At least an extra CX loop every week. Another competition - the Singletrack Up the Buttress for cobbled climby madness (second elite woman since you ask). And another 'cross race.

On Sunday 23 September we stopped off on our travels for a bit of London League cx. We thought it would be balmy and warm down south. We were, oh so, wrong. A solid hour of heavy downpour - although the course was such good fun that I didn't really notice until I peeled my clothes off and they puddled on the floor.

The best bit was that I slid off on a corner, and nothing hurt. There were at least 13 women to chase down as well - I made it upto 5th place which wasn't too bad considering that I didn't start too well and  I've had a bit of enforced tapering - a week in London for London Fashion Week. Although that was definitely part of my training to drink like a cyclist. Champagne at 10am anyone?

The course was really fun - Redbridge Cycling Centre hosts mountain bike events and they routed the 'cross race round a couple of blue route bermed corners, through some muddy singletrack and over three decent sized humps as well as up and down more standard playing field fare. The rain gradually increased the slipperiness but the mud never became really deep and boggy which was nice.

I tested out my shoe choice - I think I am going to stick to my Pearl Izumi non-waterproof but flexible mountain biking shoes and try and keep moving fast enough not to get cold. Other than that I have stacked neatly every possible combination of mountain biking wear I possess. And some nicked from Chipps as well.

It's likely to be not-that-nice on Sunday so I'm expecting to be wearing tights (maybe winter ones), a base layer, jersey and a waterproof. However, last year it was bright sun by the end of the race from a rainy start so I am keeping all bases covered.

And taking a pair of Sealskinz socks. Just in case I turn into a wuss halfway through. I changed into them halfway round the Mary Towneley Loop I did earlier this year and they improved my soggy life for quite a while!

Right, back to more packing and bike fettling (or, more accurately to stand next to Chipps and look on as he fettles the bikes). There'll be an equipment list before the end of the week...

I have been really rubbish at collecting sponsorship. Please sponsor me - for Amnesty or Greenpeace! These links go straight to my JustGiving pages, go on, use them xx

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.