Running. My default state of being. Cycling, my new game, my new mode of transport, the challenge to my girly lack of mechanical nous.
I had a stern word with myself at the beginning of May. I had conquered my injury goblin and returned to form, and chucked myself headlong down and up the hills around glossop in the hugely enjoyable midweek fell races the crazy folk of the Peaks usefully and enthusiastically lay on. I did well. But a nagging voice whispered caution. Triathletes are so called, because they tri hard to be good at sports they aren't naturally disposed to, in my case riding a bicycle fast.
My salvation came from two sources. One, the happy realisation that my fell running clubmates also enjoy a spin about t'hills on a fast bike. Not only that, we have a bona fide hardened cycling guru in our number. Rod has a fearsome reputation, so it was with a little trepidation I turned up for a 'social ride' one Saturday morning. All my fears were chucked out with the new shorts I had bought - yes it was still Winter in May - ten of us set off at a chatty pace for romiley and the fabled Policini cyclists cafe. The first major thing I learned was that riding uphill slowly in an easy gear is, well, easy. And nice. Then the whole peloton feeling kicked in. I felt safe, protected, supported, and special. Cars waited politely before passing us, or being waved and nodded on. I can imagine their occupants shaking their heads to one another, "look at those MAMILs, no hang on. That's a bird. Poor lass, oh lots of them are birds.."
Chatting and riding was also a totally new experience. Lovely. It's great to be inducted into a new tribe, and Rod did it just right. He was firm on the rules, which makes perfect sense on the roads, and enthusiastic and confidence-building when it came to technical skills - "go on, right up to her wheel, no Right Up..*pushes me along*..like that. *zoe does face of fear* ...etc.
Don't even get me started on Gilbert cake at Polocini.
So, the other factor. Now I come to it, I can't decide. It's either the weather, or the man I'm spending my time with, who's threatening to beat me in the BUPA ride end of June, but also well up for a date ride.
Thanks to these two things I ticked off two big ticks in May. First : I took Mathilde on the train to the Isle of Arran and rode up and down the coast on a mizzly gusty afternoon, all on my own. I got through it by imagining its much nicer than the wind Marianne Vos must have to ride into. Second tick: rode 40 miles, with Rod's Social Ride Club, including the climb from Ladybower up to Snake Summit, during which I came over all Froomey and shot off up the slope to catch a lone veteran. Silly me, didn't save any matches and blew up on the final pull and let a boy beat me to the top.
So, I feel more prepared for triantics, I feel I can ride properly, I'm getting the hang of the gears, the balance, the shoes, the bollockings for having a mucky bike (sorry Rod) but now there's the pressing matter of the water and its frigidity. Aquathlon time is two weeks off, and my fingers and toes have still not felt the brisk chill of the Quays.
Plates in the air. Always with the plates.
I had a stern word with myself at the beginning of May. I had conquered my injury goblin and returned to form, and chucked myself headlong down and up the hills around glossop in the hugely enjoyable midweek fell races the crazy folk of the Peaks usefully and enthusiastically lay on. I did well. But a nagging voice whispered caution. Triathletes are so called, because they tri hard to be good at sports they aren't naturally disposed to, in my case riding a bicycle fast.
My salvation came from two sources. One, the happy realisation that my fell running clubmates also enjoy a spin about t'hills on a fast bike. Not only that, we have a bona fide hardened cycling guru in our number. Rod has a fearsome reputation, so it was with a little trepidation I turned up for a 'social ride' one Saturday morning. All my fears were chucked out with the new shorts I had bought - yes it was still Winter in May - ten of us set off at a chatty pace for romiley and the fabled Policini cyclists cafe. The first major thing I learned was that riding uphill slowly in an easy gear is, well, easy. And nice. Then the whole peloton feeling kicked in. I felt safe, protected, supported, and special. Cars waited politely before passing us, or being waved and nodded on. I can imagine their occupants shaking their heads to one another, "look at those MAMILs, no hang on. That's a bird. Poor lass, oh lots of them are birds.."
Chatting and riding was also a totally new experience. Lovely. It's great to be inducted into a new tribe, and Rod did it just right. He was firm on the rules, which makes perfect sense on the roads, and enthusiastic and confidence-building when it came to technical skills - "go on, right up to her wheel, no Right Up..*pushes me along*..like that. *zoe does face of fear* ...etc.
Don't even get me started on Gilbert cake at Polocini.
So, the other factor. Now I come to it, I can't decide. It's either the weather, or the man I'm spending my time with, who's threatening to beat me in the BUPA ride end of June, but also well up for a date ride.
Thanks to these two things I ticked off two big ticks in May. First : I took Mathilde on the train to the Isle of Arran and rode up and down the coast on a mizzly gusty afternoon, all on my own. I got through it by imagining its much nicer than the wind Marianne Vos must have to ride into. Second tick: rode 40 miles, with Rod's Social Ride Club, including the climb from Ladybower up to Snake Summit, during which I came over all Froomey and shot off up the slope to catch a lone veteran. Silly me, didn't save any matches and blew up on the final pull and let a boy beat me to the top.
So, I feel more prepared for triantics, I feel I can ride properly, I'm getting the hang of the gears, the balance, the shoes, the bollockings for having a mucky bike (sorry Rod) but now there's the pressing matter of the water and its frigidity. Aquathlon time is two weeks off, and my fingers and toes have still not felt the brisk chill of the Quays.
Plates in the air. Always with the plates.
