Despite my multiple medical woes over the last year or so, I’ve actually been riding more miles than ever before. A good part of this is down to moving to a pleasant little village with a ridiculous name in the Warwickshire countryside. It doesn’t have much in the way of fun off-road riding, but it has a few nice enough bridleways, and a lot of quiet country roads.
It’s enabled and encouraged me to get out a lot more, because riding is more fun when you’re passing green fields and pretty villages, than it is riding through slightly miserable towns with busy roads. Plus it’s a lot nicer passing hares, rabbits and squirrels than it is shouty blokes. Generally, you don’t have to worry about being attacked by wildlife in the UK.
The church at Chesterton
That, combined with the Overvolt, has made a huge improvement in my life, both mentally and physically. I’ve found myself getting out in all weathers, exploring, and just generally feeling better. My knees are still awful, but a lot stronger than they were, and my ankle only occasionally reminds me that I was still on crutches nursing a broken ankle this time last year. And when I’m out on my bike, I can briefly de-stress, and forget the multitude of near soap opera-esque bollocks that I’ve been through over the last year or so.
So now, a photographic tribute to my Overvolt. I’m still very fond of it, and it’s my go-to ‘local’ bike, although the Liv gets all the foresty fun.
Burton Dassett in the snow!Burton Dassett in the fog!Bridleway at the top of Compton VerneyFarnborough by moonlightCompton Verney Bridleway in the sunshineCompton Verney Bridleway at nightMoor to Sea route near Dalby
Although the Overvolt is great for getting in the miles, it’s possibly just a little too big for me. It’s absolutely fine on roads, or easy bridleways, but on the trail it feels a little cumbersome – the standover is slightly too high, and the reach is possibly a bit long.
Now, I’ve always been fairly terrible at tight corners, but I definitely feel like I’ve got worse since getting back on the bike after having my son. When I was on my Stumpy, I’d struggle to have the leg strength to power up around uphill turns. On the Overvolt, I struggled in both directions – I had the oomph to get uphill, I just couldn’t get positioned correctly. Downhill, I just suffered from the paranoia that I wouldn’t make the turn, and go off the edge, or hit a stump, or…
After getting my Liv and realising that it wasn’t a magic bullet for my cornering woes, I realised… it wasn’t. Falling off twice in one ride at Cannock was one clue, but it became particularly apparent in the Forest of Dean, where I was fairly shocking both up and down on the Verderer’s. Part of me got paranoid that maybe my new and really fucking expensive ebike wasn’t right for me. Was the stem too short? The bars too wide? Is the frame TOO small?
But I looked at it logically. Have I always struggled with uphill switchbacks? Yes, yes I have. Have I always been a bit nervy on bigger or tight downhill berms? Also yes. Have I ever managed to ride the Werewolf bypass? Once, about ten years ago. Despite that, can I ride the Bombhole? Yes I can, despite it being a tight turn on a downhill. Well, OK, I came off on it the other week, but that was literally the only time in FOURTEEN YEARS (which I’m putting down to a combination of getting used to a new bike, and overdoing it on the brakes, which were bedding in at the time).
So, I need practice! I’ve been cracking on with the practice – I did a good ride this weekend gone, and felt absurdly pleased that I did a lot of corners that I’d been flunking, and taking other corners a lot smoother. I guess that one of the advantages of starting with such a low bar is that even tiny improvements even great.
It really is a basic thing, but I was consciously forcing myself to look at the exit to the turns – I’m pretty sure a lot of my woes are fixating on my front wheel, checking if it’s going to make the turn, and then not actually making the turn as a result. I’m off to Llandegla this weekend, and I’m aiming to do the red, hoping that I don’t end up splatting myself. I’ve also got a skills course planned, hopefully before our Glentress holiday, so maybe this will be the year where I manage to become marginally more competent at cornering!
And now to close, pictures of the Intrigue so that it doesn’t get jealous.
Forest of Dean family trailForest of Dean – section that makes up part of the Sculpture Trail.Just before Son of Chainslapper at Cannock Chase
If there’s one thing my medical mishaps and general state of physical shonkiness has taught me, it’s that e-bikes are fucking great.
I got Voltron (as my LaPierre Overvolt 700HT is known on Strava) shortly after my son had his first birthday. I was struggling with my knees, as not only had I got the usual issues that had been plaguing me since my teens, but pregnancy had also done a proper number on them.
Did you know that the body produces a hormone called relaxin during pregnancy? It’s supposed to prepare the body for pregnancy by softening the ligaments and cartilage in the pelvis. But, if you’re particularly lucky, it goes overboard on all of your joints, leaving you in pain and more susceptible to injury. SO BLESSED.
I hoped that an ebike would help me get back some fitness. I never planned for Voltron to become my primary bike – the idea was that I’d use it for longer bridleway rides, and my Stumpy would still be my go to for more technical stuff.
It took a couple of years, but eventually, I had to accept… I am an ebike wanker. I could ride further and faster, but also harder, if my heart rate monitor is to be believed. I started taking Voltron on the trails, which was fun, but not quite as confidence inspiring as I would have liked. It’s a little too big for me, which is fine when I’m bimbling around, but suboptimal on the more techy stuff.
So, I bought a new ebike – a Liv Intrigue E+1.
So far, it’s been amazing – the motor has all the power you could ever want, and the battery lasts for aaaages. I’ve comfortably done 30+ miles of trail centre riding, and still had nearly half the battery left. The geometry is taking some getting used to though, and I’m not sure if I could do with a longer stem and narrower bars, or if I just need to get used to riding a more modern, aggressive style bike.
I’ve had a couple of comedy offs, including a spectacular splat on the Bombhole at Cannock Chase. It’s infuriating, as I’ve chicken out of it on subsequent rides, despite never having an issue for 14 years. That, coupled with my longstanding cornering issues, has led me to book a skills course. Maybe, just maybe, I can be an ambiturner.
So, this last year has been fairly rubbish for a variety of reasons. My mom’s death, the small matter of a global pandemic and, for me personally, the stark reminder that my body is a shonky wreck.
(Incidentally, autocorrect just tried to change ‘shonky’ to ‘chunky’, which is also accurate).
My knees have always been a hot mess since my teens – soft cartilage that gets chewed up easily, missing a couple of ligaments, and so on. But last year, shortly before my 40th birthday, I decided to add a broken ankle to my repertoire.
It was self-inflicted, and completely stupid. I was riding up what is usually a fairly tame bridleway – for context, I’ve towed Mini-Toast up it in a trailer. But this time I was riding solo, it was a beautiful evening, and I decided in my infinite wisdom that I’d try to beat my previous Strava time up the hill.
My line choice was poor – instead of riding within the rut of the track, I rode the raised bit in the middle. It’ll be faster, I told myself. And so it was… right until the point the edge of the line fell away and I went over.
There was pain. There was shock. There was the growing realisation that I’d properly hurt my ankle. I didn’t want to call Mr Toast, as he was getting Mini-Toast to bed. I didn’t want to call an ambulance, because that would be an overreaction, and I was probably fine, and we’re in the middle of a pandemic. So, after rolling around in agony for about 20 minutes, I gingerly got back on the bike and rode the most painful 3.5 miles of my life.
After getting home and crawling in, Mr Toast came downstairs and was slightly disconcerted by my general demeanour. We got my shoe off, rolled up my legging… and it was not pretty. Nothing poking out of the skin, but my ankle was exceedingly wonky. We called 111. They called an ambulance.
The paramedics were amazing. They assessed that I’d certainly done something to my ankle, as one pressed my foot and said, “There should be a bone there, but it’s not”. So off to hospital I went, with delicious, delicious morphine.
Long story short – unstable Weber B fracture, 3 months in a cast, 6 weeks in a moon boot. Not the best way to spend a summer. Especially not in a heatwave. In lockdown.
As the ankle recovered, naturally, something else had to go wrong. I developed an ear infection that lasted three months, and took multiple courses of increasingly aggressive antibiotics to clear. Apparently, I have ‘dainty ear canals’, which means they’re more at risk of infection. Hurray! The ear infection eventually cleared, but the antibiotics kicked off another issue, which I won’t go into as… ugh.
Then, towards the end of 2020, I lost full use of my shoulders. For weeks my shoulders could cause agonising, breathtaking pain if knocked the wrong way. Even when the pain subsided, I couldn’t lift my arms up past a certain point. I couldn’t brush my hair properly, or put it in a normal ponytail (I had to rock a side pony, 80s style). I could only wear baggy tops, or ones that button/zipped up. Fortunately, that only took five months or so to clear up, and I nearly have full mobility back.
So, I’ve been plodding on, with intermittent bouts of IBS which I put down to stress. Only, it might not have been stress, as two weeks ago I ended up in A&E again, and am now missing a gallbladder. Fortunately, this has been relatively minor compared to everything else, and recovery has been quick. Also, free weight loss! Yay! I’m currently assessing what other organs I can get shot of to cheat the scales.
I’m hoping that I can be free of hospitals for a while, and that things might start looking up. I’ve had my Covid jab, I’ve got a new bike arriving today, and we’re moving into summer. We’ve got holidays booked for Forest of Dean, Glentress and Dalby, so fingers crossed I can have a better year this year!
First up, a content warning – this post is going to be fairly miserable, and not contain anything about biking. Instead, I’m going to talk about my mom, and the last few months of her life. With the whole global pandemic thing going on, I don’t think I’ve really even started to process my grief. Maybe writing it out will help. So, you’ve been forewarned.
Back in May 2019, I took my mom on holiday with my son and dog, whilst Mr Toast was at Google I/O in San Francisco. We went for a slightly less exotic setting, staying at a forest lodge in Sherwood Forest. My son took his balance bike but I remained bikeless – thanks to arthritis, my mom was in no physical shape to look after a toddler and frequently over-exuberant dog.
I have many memories of the trip. My mom was frequently infuriating, funny and kind in equal measure. She adored her grandson, and enjoyed getting out into the forest on her rented off-road scooter – even though she was, quite frankly, a menace on it. She literally ran into Ethan’s balance bike at one point… whilst he was riding it (fortunately no injuries occurred!)
Born to be wild.
However, I noticed that she couldn’t eat as much as she used to. This wouldn’t have been a huge concern, appetites can change as you age, but she admitted that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat more – she felt like she couldn’t. She suffered from terrible indigestion and reflux. I told her to go to the doctor when she got back, and she promised that she would.
Despite her usual antipathy towards the medical profession, she did go – I think it had been worrying her for a while, she just needed someone to tell her that she should. An endoscopy was quickly arranged in the following weeks. Leading up to that, we wondered what it could be. I thought perhaps a hiatal hernia, trying to avoid the idea that it would be the original big-C. Sadly, the endoscopy showed what was ‘almost certainly a tumour’, in the words of the doctor.
More tests followed, at a variety of hospitals (Burton! Derby! Nottingham!). My mom said that, even if it was early stage cancer, she didn’t want treatment. She didn’t want her remaining time, however long it was, to marked by hospital visits, surgery and drips.
I sat with her as the oncologist gave her the results. The cancer was advanced and aggressive oesophageal cancer, and there were other tumours around her body. The best but unlikely case scenario, they were all independent primary cancers, but they were most likely metastases – the oesophageal cancer had gone on a tour around her body. I started sobbing uncontrollably. My mom comforted me. She was fine with it – being the eternal pessimist, it was what she was expecting. I was not fine.
She firmly told the oncologist that she didn’t want any chemotherapy or surgery. She didn’t want to ‘drag it out’ and, to be fair, she’d been whimsically pining for ‘happy hunting ground’ since my dad died. She’d seen both her kids happily married and have children, and her arthritis was robbing her of more and more of her independence. I still wasn’t fine with it, but I didn’t try to talk her out of it. Apart from anything else, she was a stubborn old mare, and I knew it wouldn’t have worked.
She carried on in comparatively good health for months. Her bad days of reflux got worse, but, on the whole, she was relatively stable for the rest of the year. We booked a family Christmas meal, not knowing if she’d make it, but she did. She made it to my nephews’ birthday parties, at the end of December, and the start of January.
Then suddenly, she went downhill. She had an extremely nasty fall, and agreed to go to St Giles, the local hospice, for convalescence. They saw the bruising and sent her to A&E at Burton, suspecting that she’d broken something. Fortunately it was ‘just’ bruising, and she stayed at St Giles for a couple of weeks, where she proceeded to be a pain in the arse there. How?
Well, throughout my life, mom had a drinking and smoking habit that would make Keith Richards blush. Remarkably, despite it being a bone of contention through my teens and 20s, she actually managed to cut right back on the drinking in her last few years. However, the smoking remained. I remember the oncologist raising a brow as she explained how she was now only ‘a light smoker’, smoking around 20 a day. Really, it should have been no surprise that she’d come down with oesophageal cancer, more that she hadn’t come down with it earlier.
Anyway, as mom recovered in St Giles, she hit a snag. Quite rightly, you’re not allowed to smoke indoors, and that includes hospices. However, you are allowed in the smoking shelter in the carpark… if you can get there. If you can’t, you have to wait for a relative, as the staff won’t do it (again, quite rightly).
This meant that my mom’s usual greeting as we visited her in the hospice was, “Can you just take me outside?” And lo, we’d roll her outside in a borrowed wheelchair, and she’d proceed to chain smoke 2-3 cigarettes in the space of 15 minutes.
After a couple of weeks, after it was evident that she was not going to die imminently, she was sent home. She was quite irritated by this – not the being sent home, but the being told that she wasn’t going to die any time soon. After a week or so after being at home, she took another downhill turn.
In addition to having a horrendous cough, she started to go delirious. She called the carers murderers. She didn’t know that she had cancer. She didn’t know that dad was dead. She didn’t know that nan was dead. I broke her heart by explaining that nan had died nearly 30 years ago. I wondered if honesty was the best policy. We thought that perhaps the cancer had finally spread to her brain.
My brother and I braced ourselves. We started sleeping on a mattress on the floor, taking care of her as she called out throughout the night. We were exhausted. She said that she wanted to die at home, but she also said that she never wanted to be a burden, and my brother and I were being pushed to our limits. So, back into St Giles she went, to spend her last days.
Except… she didn’t die. She just kept on going, and the doctors decided that, as she was being so stubborn, perhaps they should treat that chest infection.
Antibiotics can work miracles. In a couple of days, my mom was fully lucid again. We explained how poorly she’d been, and she was quite shocked by how she’d ‘lost her marbles’. There was a price though – she’d regained her marbles, but lost the use of her hands. The doctors thought that it was most likely the arthritis rather than the cancer. There wasn’t much to be done.
She received visitors again. She was even well enough that Ethan could see his nanny for one last time. She was well enough to ask him for a Wotsit. He dutifully hand fed her the rest of the pack without prompting.
One of the best things that happened was that her brother, who she hadn’t spoken to in over 25 years, came down from the Lake District to visit her. Although she’d professed that she didn’t want anything to do with him, when she was delirious, she called his name. I think that their estrangement had weighed heavier on her than she liked to admit, and him visiting had laid a ghost that had been troubling her to rest.
Then… then Covid-19 happened. As March rolled on, it was obvious that things were getting worse. The hospice removed all the tea-making facilities, increased the amount of hand sanitiser (which they already had a lot of!), started operating closed-door source control on some of the rooms… then they stopped visitors. Every day I phoned to ask how she was, and the answer was the same. She was stable, unless something acute happened she was fine for the time being. They started talking about moving her to the long-term residents unit, as she evidently wasn’t going to pop her clogs any time soon. My brother went to Cheltenham for a few days, calling me for updates. A few days before Mother’s Day, the hospice said that visitors were allowed again, with restrictions. My brother went to visit. I got her a card. I’d see her on Sunday. My brother started to feel a bit iffy, and had a temperature. He let the hospice know, and they told mom that he was isolating, so couldn’t visit – but I’d be along on Sunday.
It was about 3.30am on Saturday 21st March when my phone started ringing. I recognised the number. My heart started racing. Let’s face it, it was fairly unlikely the hospice were calling to tell me that everything was fine. They told me that ‘something had changed’ and she had started to decline rapidly.
I got dressed, and got in the car for the hour or so drive to the hospice. My brother rang me, distressed. He couldn’t go, he was isolating. I told him I’d keep him updated.
I got to the hospice, and went in to see mom. She was still alive, wheezing and gasping for breath. She said my name a few times, and I sat with her, holding her hand. I told her that it was all right, that it would be all over soon, and that she would be with dad and Robert. I told that I loved her. She replied, “I know”. Those were her last words.
Yes, my mom accidentally quoted Star Wars on her death bed. Way to go, mom!
Her breathing slowed, and she seemed to calm down. Eventually she settled into what looked like a restful sleep, but with her eyes slightly open. I called a nurse. I’ll never forgive the look of pity on the nurse’s face as I asked if she had passed, and she said, “Yes, love, I’m so sorry”. She closed my mom’s eyes, gave me a quick hug then said, “I’m not supposed to do that at the moment”.
Mom died on the day that Boris closed the pubs. Because of course she fucking did.
The rest is a bit of a blur. I remember being in the hospice’s remembrance room, and talking to another nurse as she went over what happened next. She was apologetic, telling me that normally they’d be offering tea and hugs at this point, because of covid everything had to be a bit more clinical. I made a comment about mom being a bit of a pain about us wheeling her out for a cigarette on her first visit. The nurse giggled and admitted they’d found fag butts by the windows that time. My mother, the rebel.
Eventually, I stood outside of my brother’s house, and we shared our grief through a window. He was pretty much a wreck. He had covid, so he felt like shit. Because of that, he hadn’t been there when mom died, so he felt like shit. He didn’t know if mom’s sudden decline was because of covid – we’ll never know, she wasn’t tested – so he felt like shit. It didn’t matter though – after nearly 15 years of saying that she was ready for the knackers’ yard, mom was finally free of pain. We still both felt like shit.
Her funeral arrangements were almost comical. Lockdown was now in full effect, and my mom – or rather, her body – did a tour of the local Co-Op funeral directors. She was supposed to go to Burntwood… but they got furloughed. So she went to Brownhills… then they got furloughed. Then she ended up in Lichfield, and after two weeks of isolating, my brother and I met again over her coffin. To the director’s credit, she looked a lot healthier than when she was alive. We laughed and cried, and prepared for the not-so-big day. Only six guests allowed, we ended up with five. Mr Toast couldn’t go, as he was looking after Ethan – due to lockdown, no-one else could.
I arrived at the crematorium and was surprised that the gates were closed, with a security guard. I confirmed which funeral I was attending, and off I went. The funeral was weird – no hugs from the few that were there – but I took solace in the fact it’d be the last time I had to listen to Barbara Streisand.
As we left, there seemed to be some sort of police yard on the graveyard, with blue flashing lights and officers in stab vests. It turned out that the reason why there was security on the gate was because an earlier funeral had breached the capacity rules by quite a lot, and they didn’t want it to happen again. The police had come and dispersed the crowd, but had returned as some mourners had sneaked back in. I giggled. Mom would have loved the drama.
Here we are, 10 months later. We’ve not got probate yet (because of covid), and so we’ve not sold our childhood home yet, or even managed to get it decorated (because of covid). And most of all, I still can’t believe that she’s gone. I think because EVERYTHING is so weird, it’s hard to grieve properly. I don’t get to see her on weekends, but I wouldn’t be able to anyway, because of lockdown. I can’t phone her every day after picking Ethan up from nursery, because he’s started school, but isn’t at school, because he’s at home, because of lockdown. Sometimes I feel bad because I don’t feel anything, then sometimes I’ll howl with grief because I remember something, like the existence of armchairs.
There’s also a sense of relief that she isn’t here to have her last years marred by lockdown. My mom basically loved three things, her family, smoking, and going out for dinners (sometimes it was questionable whether it was actually in that order). I think the idea of no more cafe lunches or pub dinners would have horrified her – as I’ve said to many a person, her dying on the day the pubs shut was possibly the most on-brand thing she ever did. But it still hurts. The first time I went into a Morrisons cafe (back when ‘Eat Out to Help Out’ was the order of the day, before, ‘Oh shit what have we done? Abort! Abort!’) I burst into tears, as I remembered all the times we’d eaten there when I’d taken her to do her shopping.
Anyway, that’s that done. Thanks for coming to my therapy session. RIP mom, you’re dad’s problem again now.
You know, it really was a shame that I didn’t keep up with this blog. The month after my last post, I rode Pivot 24/12 and got a podium place! Third! With a trophy, and everything! Admittedly, there were only four women in my category (12 hour solo, under 40s) – something like eleven had dropped out due to the horrendous weather, which also ended up curtailing the 24 hour race. It would have been a great post. Really uplifting. Look, here I am with my trophy – sadly not on the physical podium, as the wind made it too dangerous.
Instead, I’m posting in 2020. Now, I’m sure everyone’s aware by this point that 2020 has been a bit shit, but I’ve found it particularly… trying. Let’s tick things off the list, shall we?
Global pandemic: Got to say, didn’t see that one coming. Here in Blighty we’re currently riding our second wave. Yay.
My mom died: OK, we did see this one coming. She was diagnosed with cancer last year, which had already spread, and she actually had relatively good health until the start of this year. I still can’t believe that she’s gone though, and despite our occasionally fractious relationship, I miss her like crazy.
I broke my ankle: First time I’ve broken a limb, and I did it on my bike! I tried to peg it up a hill as fast as possible to beat my previous Strava time. It didn’t end well.
Fortunately things are coming around a bit now, and I’m riding more than ever. I’ll possibly detail my recovery a bit more in future posts, so I can look back cheerfully at this amazing year….
Yes, another good ol’ stretch between posts. In my defence, this time I have a slightly better excuse: like the US elections, my site was compromised by the Russians! It took a bit of work, but it’s now back to normal and safe again. Huzzah!
So, what have I been getting up to? Well, I’m still riding, although crushing mommy guilt (as well as a genuine desire to spend time with my son) prevents me from getting out as much as I used to. Ethan’s got a trailer now, so I’m looking forward to getting him out on more rides.
I’ve got a Lapierre Overvolt ebike (known as Voltron) that I use for getting in the miles, but Devastator the Stumpjumper still reigns supreme on the technical stuff – mainly because my ebike is slightly too big for me, and weighted oddly due to its small frame size.
I can still push it a lot on the ebike though – with the strain on my knees much lessened, I can pedal harder and faster. Today I pushed myself so hard over 30 miles that I felt dizzy and nauseous when I stopped. Once the ride was over, I treated myself to a ham sandwich, a slice of malt loaf and a shower.
Unfortunately, the nausea made a sudden and dramatic reappearance whilst I was in the shower, culminating in surprise projectile vomiting. If you’ve ever wondered what malt loaf looks like approximately 20 minutes after consumption, the answer is “exactly like dog shit”. My shower was followed by an intense bath cleaning session, and then another shower. Because picking chewed up ham out of the plug hole is kind of disgusting.
If you’re feeling iffy reading this, just be glad that you didn’t experience it first hand.
So yeah, still possible to push yourself on an ebike to the point of being sick. Yay, I guess?
Today’s adventures aside, we’ve got a couple of weeks before our anniversary trip to Scotland. We haven’t been for the last two years, as in 2016 I was two weeks off giving birth, and last year Ethan was a bit to little for such a long car journey. My fitness still isn’t quite up to how it’s been on previous visits, but I’m hoping that I’m up to the task – Voltron is staying at home, so the initial climb should be interesting…
Ah, the daily check of the weather forecast, hoping that as the day draws closer, the forecast will improve. The sinking feeling as the forecast gets worse instead. Oh dear.
I very nearly bailed on Pivot 24/12. The spectre of Mountain Mayhem 2012 loomed large, with the added complications of a seven hour round trip and having to leave my son for the first time, only one week after his first birthday. What if the course was too technical, too brutal for me? What if Mr Toast couldn’t get mini-Toast to sleep? What if the entire venue was a mud bath? And camping? I hate camping!
Eventually I pushed all of those thoughts to the side.
I wouldn’t know about the course unless I tried it. Anything too tricky, I’d walk.
Mr Toast is perfectly capable of looking after his own son.
Venue a mud bath? Well, it couldn’t be much worse than Mayhem 2012, could it?
Camping? Suck it up princess.
I have to admit, the event didn’t have an auspicious start. The two hundred mile journey took five and a half hours, for a start. The weather restricted itself to a light drizzle throughout the journey … until about twenty miles out from Newnham Park, where it promptly started pissing it down. Glorious.
I met up with my fellow Chase Trails soloists. Dave and Andrew helped me set up my new tent (a ‘Fresh and Dark’ one from Decathlon), Petra provided me with food (although I’d gorged on half a massive bag of cashew nuts on the journey down – optimum pre-race nutrition there…), and we continued to check the forecast in the vain hope that it’d improve.
(Ron Howard Voice: It didn’t)
As I snuggled down for the evening, checking my phone for updates on the Toastling and listening to the rain beating down on the tent, I admit I was filled with regret. Fortunately, I slept relatively well (with the Fresh and Dark tent actually being fresh and dark), and woke up determined to attempt at least one lap, hopefully two.
Still, there was a general feeling of panic as I did the usual race preparation, and some less usual preparation – as I’m still breastfeeding but was without my darling offspring, I sat in the tent for over twenty minutes accompanied by the gentle honking of my portable breast pump. It was a bit surreal, to say the least.
Eventually I found myself on the starting line, heart racing. And off we went.
Being the consummate athlete in peak physical condition that I am, I quickly fell to the back. Petra, bless her, kept on waiting for me to catch up as I bimbled up the Clif Climb. I may not have been particularly speedy (*cough*), but I rode it without stopping both laps. After the climb it was into the woods and…
OH.
MY.
GOD.
The course was brilliant. It was honestly a huge amount of fun, even in the mud. I had to walk a couple of bits, but I like to think that I could have ridden it all in the dry. My main issue was having to pull over for faster riders on their second (and third…) laps – I ended up spending a lot of time standing off to one side trying to find a gap in the traffic. I’m also terrible at maintaining speed in slippery conditions, so there were a few steep inclines that I didn’t have the momentum to ride up. With the patience of a saint, Petra continued to wait as I made my merry way along at a leisurely pace*.
Then disaster struck. Petra had a puncture. After trying for a while to sort the canister out and failing, and her pump being broken, Petra bravely sent me on to find help. What would have been helpful is if I’d remembered that I had a new shiny pump in my bag, purchased for exactly such a scenario. Sadly, this thought didn’t occur to me until fifteen minutes after abandoning Petra. Oh dear.
Fortunately her husband Dave, being the speedy chap that he is, was already on his second lap. He soon caught up with me after having helped sort the puncture. We approached the river crossing – through the water, or over the bridge? Decisions, decisions. I decided on the water, but completely messed up my approach and went over at the top of the slope, right in front of the marshal. The marshal kindly helped me up, made sure that I was OK, and then promptly started telling riders to avoid the bridge as another rider had come off at the same time as my acrobatics.
The rest of my first lap was uneventful, and I pulled off the course for lunch, because I’m basically a Hobbit. I scoffed some pizza and was joined by Abby and Andrew. They seemed quite pleased that I was enjoying it, because… well, my feelings about Mountain Mayhem 2012 are well known.
Determined to at least qualify, I set out on my second lap. The course had deteriorated a bit more by this point, so there was a bit more walking, but some of the sections were still surprisingly quick – and some had been improved by the rain, as the mud was now thin and watery instead of thick and clay.
I fell off a few more times on the second lap, but the main issue was reoccurring cramp in my left leg. Ow, ow, ow. I managed to get through most the episodes with dignity intact, but then I had a particularly bad cramp in the arena, so close to the end.
However, this episode highlighted one of the greatest things about the weekend – how bloody nice everyone was! From chatting away over pizza, to even the fastest riders waiting patiently or taking the time to say thanks as you pull over, small children giving high fives – it was a great atmosphere. And if you get cramp in the arena? Expect spectators to shield you with their umbrella, offering you drinks and waving your leg in the air in an attempt to banish the cramp!
Given that the weather wasn’t improving, and my cramping and falling off shenanigans, I decided to call it a day. I was absurdly pleased though – my first endurance race since Mountain Mayhem 2012, a year after pushing a human out of my nethers.
Sadly the race did take a bit of a toll – my shoes ended up in a skip, I’m covered in bruises, and my bike is away for a new bottom bracket. I’d do it again in a heartbeat though – let’s hope that next year has better weather!
I’ve been managing to get out on the bike a bit more recently, which is fortunate, as I have Pivot 24/12 next week. We’ve had months of hot, dry weather, so naturally it stands to reason that it starts pissing it down as soon as my race comes within sniffing distance.
Fitness-wise, I’m not doing too bad – I can do 16-20 miles off road fairly comfortably. Tech-wise, I’m a bit more frail. I’ve done the Forest of Dean blue (which was fine), Dalby Blue (struggled with the berms at the end), and Follow the Dog.
Despite having ridden FtD without issue more times than you could shake a stick at, there were numerous points where I had to stop. The turns at the end of the first section. The exit to the first section. The tiny plank stream crossing on the second section. Most of section 11.
It wasn’t all bad news – I rode the Steg and the original boardwalk with no issue. Yay! I’ve also been trying to do a bit more off-piste to prepare for the race with… let’s just say ‘mixed results’.
I did the Summer Classic. As I was a bit out of shape and out of practice, I entered in the beginners’ category. I felt a bit guilty, as obviously I’ve been riding for a while and done quite a bit of red graded stuff. I needn’t have worried.
It was fucking horrendous. The course was the hardest I’ve ridden – loose, rutted, rooty and steep in places (confidence not helped by another beginner going over the handlebars on a chicken run in the first five minutes).
I was determined to finish, despite having a pretty miserable time, but we started to get lapped by the under-16s. The lads were polite and passed safely. The leading girl caught me on very narrow singletrack and barged me off track whilst screaming at me.
I picked myself up out of the heather and thought ‘fuck this!’. I was having no fun, and was being rammed by children. FML. I bailed around the halfway point, angry and miserable – not emotions I usually aim for when riding. I reported the rider, but she suffered no penalty – I’m guessing because a beginner doesn’t really matter compared to the regular elite racers. It’s amazing though, I’ve done Mayhem and Sleepless, and never encountered anything like that.
I seriously considered bailing on Pivot, but I’ve been assured that Pivot’s completely different, very relaxed and friendly. It’s going to be hard for me though, not just because it’s my first solo endurance race, but because it’ll be two nights away from my son. Apart from the emotional aspect and the gnawing feeling of guilt (which I always feel when I’m out riding instead of being with t’boy), I also have to take the breast pump, or risk blocked ducts and excessive leakage.
I generally have a pretty monogamous relationship with Devastator, my Stumpjumper. He’s confidence inspiring, fun to ride, and lovely to look at. But sometimes, I get curious about other bikes, so it’s great when demo day season kicks in.
Sadly I missed the Specialized demo day this year, but I hit the Leisure Lakes one the following week. It was a glorious orgy of bikes!
I attended last year’s Leisure Lakes demo day as I was helping to man the Chase Trails tent. I was also five months pregnant, so restricted myself to a Haibike Sduro ebike. This year I started off the same, only a slightly smaller Sduro (35cm instead of 40cm). It made for a more comfortable ride, but the smaller Haibikes are only available with the Yamaha motors, due to the battery – the Yamaha’s slide out sideways, whereas the Bosch lift up – and there’s not enough room in the frame for that.
Not that the Yamaha motor is a problem – I avoided the demo loop that took in the last few sections of Follow the Dog, due to fear and cowardice, instead heading down the blue. I hoped to do the short blue, and hoped I didn’t run too much over the allocated 30 minutes. 20 minutes later I was returning the bike with a big grin on my face, having cackled merrily all the way up a hill.
Bizarrely, I probably get more out of breath uphill on an ebike than on a regular bike – on the latter, I have to go into an easy gear and spin up hills, due to my substandard knee cartilage and lack of ligaments. It’s a big strain on the legs, but not so much cardio wise. On an ebike, I’m pedalling like the clappers and guffawing as I fly uphill. Lovely stuff!
Second bike was a bit off an odd choice – a small Orange P7. There’s something lovely about a nice, simple hardtail (Mr Toast has a gorgeous SIngular Swift). As I rode out with Chase Trails’ trail builder and noted Apple fanboy Will, it became fairly obvious that ‘small’ in Orange wasn’t quite small enough.
Again avoiding the demo loop, we rode to the start of Section 12, which marked my first attempt at riding any of FtD for over a year. The P7 felt a bit skittish and unwieldy, but that was down to the too small, rubbish rider. I literally stopped on a descent that has no drops and is a straight line (and is in no way off piste, ahem) because I panicked over what might happen. Boooo!
Third bike was a Specialized Turbo Levo, Spesh’s full susser ebike. Despite my better judgement, I ended up on the women’s ride, which was going around Follow the Dog. So, after being off FtD for well over a year, there I was, on an unfamiliar bike, in a group ride (so putting myself under loads of pressure).
It wasn’t a complete disaster, but I was very, very nervy, and massively struggled with… corners. Downhill switchbacks, uphill ones – I’m normally pretty bad with them, but that day… yeesh. I did also nearly come a cropper just before the Rollers, when I took the ‘easy’ side of the rock feature, over cooked slightly, headed towards the drainage ditch, hit a stump, but miraculously managed to correct myself. My heart was in my throat, but I was quite pleased at my save.
I did Twist & Shout, hovering at the back. However, I was painfully conscious that I was a) on the only small Turbo Levo they had to demo, and b) holding everyone up. So I bid the ladies farewell, and headed back to Tackeroo. I was alternating between frustration and satisfaction – I felt that I’d embarrassed myself a bit, and recognised that I’ve got my work cut out to return to my previous level, but at the same time, I’d got back on the red route, ridden Tackeroo, etc.
My cunning plan was to next demo a Cube ebike. However, the small was out. Did I want to demo a standard bike? Sure, why not. So I demoed a 13.5″ Cube Stereo, and it was actually rather lovely.
Emboldened by my earlier efforts, I took the Cube to a different part of the Dog, and did the Bomb Hole. And you know what? I actually did it in a half decent time (for me). I’m guessing it was because the Cube was a good size for me, very nimble, and more like what I’m used to.
So, overall musings – Orange P7 was a bit useless for me as it was too big. The two ebikes were really good fun, and it was interesting to see the difference in the motorised assistance. The Specialized felt like it kicked on the first pedal stroke, giving you instant zoomy fun, whereas the Haibike felt like it took a few pedal strokes to kick in, a bit more subtle. On climbs, however, the Haibike felt like it gave quite a bit more assistance – however, that could have been because I’d been riding for a while and was possibly a bit knackered by the time I was taking the Levo uphill! Either way, I’d definitely love an ebike for exploring.
For trail centre riding though, I definitely felt more comfortable on a normal full susser – which is fortunate, as I have an excellent one in my Stumpy!
I had a pretty easy pregnancy, all things considered. I managed to get out on the bike a couple of times during the first two trimesters, but being fairly risk averse at the best of times, I took it very steady. I even got a heart rate monitor to make sure that I didn’t go over the oft-cited 140 limit. This gave me two options:
Flat, easy routes such as Draycote Water and the Stratford Greenway
Riding an e-bike
I generally stuck to 1, but I did get the opportunity to demo an e-bike at the Leisure Lakes Demo Day last year. It was glorious – it was the first time I’ve ever been able to ride up a hill with no knee pain whatsoever. It also created the (probably comical) sight of five month pregnant woman sailing past a load of other riders. I was doing 11mph. Uphill. To put this in context, my Garmin normally autopauses on the same hill because I’m going so slow…
But, just as summer was cranking up, so was my girth, lack of balance and pelvic girdle pain, and it was getting increasingly difficult to ride. One of the hardest things was the feeling of restriction and desperately missing the woods, especially whilst the weather was glorious.
Fortunately my relatively easy pregnancy was followed by a relatively easy birth – unlike his mother, my son was a speedy little fellow (less than four hours, I’ve had longer bike rides!). Six weeks later I got the OK from the doctor, and went on a short ride down the greenway. I managed just under ten miles of flat riding without too much grief, but was a bit tender afterwards. Which isn’t hugely surprising, really.
Since then, I’ve been gradually increasing my riding. It’s been slow going, as I’ve been breastfeeding, so it’s been hard leaving the little fellow, but he takes a bottle well so I’ve been able to get out a bit.
Since he hit the six month mark, I’ve gotten a bit more adventurous and started ‘proper’ riding again. I was hoping to have an ebike when I got back riding, as it make it easier riding through winter, with dodgy knees and baby weight, but after a sensible look at our finances we decided against it. Maybe next year. 🙁
So, it was just me and Devastator. I was a bit worried – it’d be my first real test of fitness. What if my legs crapped out on me? What if I couldn’t cope cardio-wise?
I won’t lie, it was tough – I was only doing the blue route, but it was the hardest I’d found it in years. I loved being out though, although it was cold, and miserable, and my knees hurt. Happily though, my woes were more muscular than cardiovascular – I hadn’t lost too much fitness, but my joints were still knackered from longstanding injury, pregnancy (hello, relaxin!) and the excess weight I still need to shed.
I’ve been out a few more times over Sherbrook Valley, and once over Dalby blue. Dalby blue is massively improved since the last time, with more single track added. Again, I struggled a bit – I found the initial climb very tough, and the final descent (hooray for flat bits!).
It’d be so easy to get demoralised, as I have been in the past, but I just loved being out, unperturbed by my shoddiness. Ultimately, I’m in a better place than I was when I first started biking, so I’m sure I can get back to where I was!
