Lesson Four: Love

TRAIN YOUR BRAIN ☺

Give your mind a success workout as well as your body

with Karen Darke

LESSON 4 : Love

We can be kind and compassionate to others in a way that we rarely are to ourselves. I have certainly specialised in ‘grit’ and for most of my life have thought of it as an ally that means I can set my sights high and achieve. Of course, this grit has led me to some great places, but also to pushing on when I should have stepped back.

If we are pushing too hard all the time to fill a hole in our soul of not being enough, then we will most likely reach breaking point in some shape or form: accident, injury, burnout, illness, or a general falling apart of our life until we get that actually, we are okay, and we learn to be kinder to ourselves.

“But I don’t want all of the great stuff and the challenges and achievements to end” I have heard my inner voice object, thinking that no pushing means laziness and no success. Beneath the voice in me that is ‘scared’ to back off in case it means losing out on life somehow there is a wiser voice; a knowing that with commitment, consistency, self-care and acceptance, that hard work will still happen and that this is a far better recipe for success. We do not need the grit or the self-abuse to succeed.

I’d like to share a powerful adventure that taught me about love & self-care…

In the autumn of 2018 as part of the Quest 79 series of rides (https://www.karendarke.com/quest-79/), myself and two close friends travelled to the village of Gangotri high in the Himalaya of northern India. Our plan was to cycle from the source of the River Ganges and follow the river downstream to its sacred heart in the ancient city of two-thousand temples, Varanasi.

The nights are chilly when you’re at altitude, and at about four thousand metres high, deep gasps for air are frequent. At the end of our first day in Gangotri, recovering from days of travel by air and jeep, I collapsed into bed exhausted and very cold. I didn’t have the energy for another game of twister navigating around the mountain village, as un-wheelchair friendly as you can imagine, so I decided to rest up while Christine and Kevin went for an evening stroll down to the banks of the river. I buried myself deep into my sleeping bag in search of warmth and recovery. I was just drifting toward sleep when they burst into the room and Christine excitedly pulled the layers of duvet from my face. “Kevin just proposed!” she gleefully announced “on the banks of the Ganga! But it’s to be a secret. No-one is to know until we get back to Scotland!” I was so excited for them, and as I lay in the darkness later, I thought how special it was that this was no whim or impromptu thing. They had been together for ten years, and they were apparently more in love than ever.

And so, the sealing of their love became the ‘secret’ of our journey with the river, and it seemed to set the tone for an incredibly special month. Everyone we met effused love to us. We were cycling through a remote, non-touristy part of northern India, and the people welcomed us with open arms. Our hearts were touched by each and every one of the people we briefly came to know. This is partly thanks to the experience of travelling by bicycle in any country as the barriers of glass and class are somehow deleted and it feels easier to connect with people. It was extra noticeable in India though as the bicycle is the major means of travel. The further downstream we rode the more we were swept into a torrent of bicycles, mopeds and rickshaws.  Our days were not typical of cycle touring. There were none of the long lonely days in the saddle. Each day brought a full on, continual pedal party. We had gangs of schoolchildren riding with us, whole families on mopeds chugging along beside us, and if we were to stop even for a brief bottle of water we were immediately surrounded by people with their curious and kind smiles. We were offered help, water, biscuits, a place to shade and usually a billion selfies.

We were riding through a land with different values to our own: a land reigned by connection, community, care, curiosity and love. In remote villages, women and children would often come into our rooms and sit with us, interested. They didn’t want anything from us. They just wanted to be with us. For no fathomable reason, we felt the same. It was unusual and special just to sit in the presence of other people, without words, speaking with our eyes.

At the end of our ride, we celebrated with a traditional wedding ceremony on the river in Varanasi, all thanks to the help of friends we made along the way. We watched bodies glow on the ghats as we drifted to a setting sun, peaceful on the holy waters of the river that had led us through a vibrant voyage of love. The ride with the Ganges – I called it ‘The Sacred Way’ – was unexpected in every wonderful way possible. It was a journey with heart in every revolution of our pedals.

It was like no other journey I have taken. It was an adventure through extreme external conditions of heat, humidity, pollution, traffic, poverty, busy-ness and intensity, but somehow free of any struggle. It seemed to me like everything should feel hard but instead it felt the opposite.

Love yourself and those around you more

Our journey down the Ganges was so hot, sweaty and intense that without caring well for ourselves and each other we would never have managed, let alone enjoyed it. We quickly established a routine to give ourselves the best chance of being our best. We slept early, rose early and began riding by dawn to be finished by midday before the stifling heat and fumes began. We planned our food and water in advance so we’d never be short, and stopped routinely to keep our bodies fuelled and to take in more liquid than we were losing in sweat. In the afternoons, we hid in a fan-cooled hostel or hotel room to find peace and recovery time, ate curry and laughed a lot. The old me judged and thought ‘we should we be riding all day, we have a long way to go’ but the new me thought ‘we’ve done enough today so rest and enjoy this experience of India’. Letting go of a ‘should do’ mindset creates more space for ‘could do’, and that brings back a sense of choice and freedom. It allows a lot more fun and enjoyment.

It’s easy to be way too hard on ourselves. It’s something I’ve noticed a lot in the world of sport, and if a coach isn’t shouting, people shout at themselves about not going hard enough or fast enough. No wonder so many people fight a feeling of not being ‘good enough’. What about choosing to believe that we are each doing our best in the circumstances that we have, and that is definitely good enough. The possibility exists that we will enjoy stuff even more instead of making things a struggle.

When we practice self-care; when each cell in our body is flourishing instead of being tortured, I am convinced we can be better than ever at whatever we do, and really enjoy the journey a lot. We can trade in pressure and struggle for better health and more peace. Here are some of my thoughts on ways to love yourself and those around you a little harder.

(1)   Appreciate yourself as you are, and that means accepting your weaknesses: you don’t need to explain away any shortcomings. We all have our unique skills and strengths.

(2)   Have compassion for yourself and take care of yourself like you would your best friend, a loved child or family member. Take time for self-care practices that you know help you be your best self. When we are filled up in this way, then we can show up to love others from a place of fullness and presence rather than from a place of lack that is within you.

(3)   Drop the use of ‘should do’ and try replacing it with ‘could do’. This simple shift of language helps release pressure and creates more possibility and freedom to choose what you need. 

(4)   Make friends with any foe or struggle in your external environment. Know that the world, the weather, that ‘person’ is not really against you. When you drop the war inside you, the enemy disappears.

(5)   Have compassion for others. Everyone is doing their best from their level of consciousness.

Karen has 10 years experience as a professional athlete, an MA in Development Training, a Masters in Sports Psychology and High Performance Coaching & is a qualified Performance Coach & Hypnotherapist.

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Life in Lockdown - Living in an Unintentional Community (Philippa Battye)

Life in Lockdown - Living in an Unintentional Community

By Philippa Battye

When friends ask how I’m doing in the midst of the Covid crisis, my answer ‘fine, no complaints’ is said with a touch of underlying guilt. This is because amongst the considerable difficulty which some are enduring, I feel fortunate to be getting by relatively unscathed. This is due to different things; my parents good health, the nature of my work, lack of dependents, and accommodating landlords, but most importantly, I think it is the surroundings and situation in which I’ve found myself living.  

After 9 years in London of intense house share living with a very demanding work life, I left and spent 18 months roaming freely, mostly by bike, rarely staying in any one place for more than a month. Then by chance, good timing, and a serendipitous collision of bikepacking races and architects (in a petrol station forecourt on the West Coast of Ireland), I ended up where I am now - living in rural South Gloucestershire in what you might call an UN - intentional community. Twelve of us live within the fragmented remains of a former grand estate, hemmed in by cow-fields, sheep and woodland. Some have been here for decades, myself on and off for 15 months. It seems we all - families, couples and I - were all drawn here by the compelling setting of the place, with no promise or intent for it to be anything more. However, shared values, common creativity and willingness have led us all to live collectively, in a communally supportive place. There are no territories or private gardens across the site and woodland; everyone's door (often literally) is always open. During lockdown, this has meant for most of us our day to day interaction with the world is relatively unchanged, as we are mostly self-employed and already choose to work from home. Of course, being a freelance creative (there are 3 musicians among us) comes with its own challenges and considerable uncertainty. As an architect I am fortunate that my bread and butter project is also where I live, and during Covid I have evolved from architect to sometimes woodswoman and cowboy builder (turns out cycling endurance doesn’t transfer as well as I hoped!). 

Photo credit: Philippa Battye

So, when Covid hit, we all sprung into collective action, the apocalypse we often joked about preparing for (one couple are obsessive foragers, fermenters, brewers, and sometimes squirrel shooters) seemed to be upon us. It was established who fell into the vulnerable category, and some reshuffling of living arrangements meant those in need could be isolated. One neighbour (mechanic and lover of all things engines) got his tractor on site to plough a small field, which if the intermittent frosts don’t kill the wee tatties will yield 2500 spuds! The chicken house which had been a work in progress for a few months got promptly finished where 9 chucks now happily reside. Our existing shared vegetable garden and polytunnel was prepped, potting sheds added and the composting is now a military operation. (I should add that I am far from green fingered, more often found unknowingly trampling over parsnip seedlings than nurturing them through life).  

So, our normal modes of activity were boosted by a sense of immediacy, which seems commonplace among many streets, villages and communities across the country. In many places neighbourly support has had a heart-warming resurgence from days before my lifetime. My sister, having lived on the same street in South London for 8 years, is now on a WhatsApp group with her neighbours, introducing themselves, looking out for each other, sharing seedlings, and telling stories of ‘I remember when this street...’.  

Beyond the day to day though, a spring and summer of plans have of course been put on ice - I’d be on my way to Spain right now by ferry, train and pedal power for a cycling race. Exploring on my bike and long-distance races have increasingly become a core part of what I love to do. Forces seemingly outside of my control compel me to move, seek the unknown, and more recently to find limits of what and where I feel comfortable and capable. But for now, like everyone, being asked to sit still has had a more positive impact than I might have expected. This constrained existence has quietened my restlessness. I have been given permission to stop - stop pushing, seeking, striving, just be still.  

Photo credit: Philippa Battye

This has left my mind free from intermittent thoughts of planning and preparing for something in the future. Instead my present mind is liberated, and I can better appreciate where I am and what I have to be grateful for now. This is the longest I’ve stayed put since I quit my job. So instead of coming and going, packing up and vacating my house each time I leave, I’ve made myself a little more at home. I am experiencing the joy of seeing seeds I sowed turn to saplings, planting them out and watching things grow. It turns out there is great joy in the familiar, and extraordinary in the everyday. Plus with some extra time and shifting perspectives I’ve been able to give more thought to my longer term housing solution by designing my own ‘lighter touch’ home - an off grid cabin in the woods, which now I just need to get on and build! However, alongside the settled-ness of my current situation, my thoughts still wander to past moments etched on my mind which evoke that sense of limitlessness - a remote Pyrenean moon rise shared with friends, the elation of being whipped along in a tailwind through a Scottish glen, blinded by heavy rain, or simply cycling day after day with nothing more than basic needs to worry about. These moments shared with fellow wanderers allow me to feel more connected and alive.  

Photo credit: Philippa Battye

Aside from a novel sense of calm, and the goodwill and connectedness that many are now experiencing, I am acutely aware that there is still considerable suffering as a result of the pandemic, heightened by the inequality that exists around the world. It is an unfortunate truth that those with less tend to suffer more in difficult societal and economic circumstances. The obvious injustice is that the lower paid workforce tend to be exposed to most risk, yet without them our basic infrastructure that keeps the wheels turning would fall apart - binmen, bus drivers, cleaners and carers, shelf stockers and delivery drivers. All those who provide for our basic needs - food, education, health, care - who’s rewards do not match the fundamental necessity of what they do. Pangs of guilt niggle, knowing I’m having an easy time of it while others are not. But, of course, suffering and inequality is not new, these are not a result of Covid, and my conscience should not be cleared once the pandemic blows through. Covid shines a light on the differences that exist across society all of the time. While at the mercy of the same force it is harder to turn a blind eye, and I feel those injustices more keenly.  

There are, however, so many things to be thankful for, and Covid also illuminates what is good, and what could be great. Bicycle sales are booming, while car sales plummet and planes stay on the ground. Streets are emptier of cars, air is cleaner and safer, cycles begin to rule the road. Local exploration is the new big adventure, as we discover what is and always has been right outside our front doors. Plus the necessity and benefits of daily outdoor activity is being given the airtime that has been long overdue. As I pedal through Bath's deserted city centre (reminiscent of wobbly 4am walks home as a student), I am reminded what a beautiful city it can be. Normally, on any given Tuesday, it is hard to move through the throngs of visitors, while the Georgian architecture which Bath is renowned for goes unnoticed, lost behind soulless shops, and franchised eateries. But now the streets are empty, with diminished opportunities to spend and consume - instead the fields and lanes around where I live are full of walkers, runners, cyclists - more than I’ve ever seen. I reflect on these silver linings when things seem a bit bleak - what longevity might these Covid enforced changes have... Nice to imagine what the impact on long term health and wellbeing could be. There will of course be a cost to life, but we can find some solace that lives might be improved or saved in the future if individually and collectively we recognise the potential for positive change.  

Photo credit: Philippa Battye

Through all of this I have waves of immense gratitude. For my health, the support and love of friends and family, my surroundings, but also my freedom. To have your physical freedom restricted makes you remember how lucky many of us are in the western world to have autonomy over how we chose to roam and navigate our worlds. I feel for those whose ability to move and explore is limited, either physically or by the expectations and pressures put upon us - which can be difficult to overcome.  

So, this novel state of mind and renewed appreciation for all I have and am at liberty to do has left me feeling a bit like a coiled spring, or maybe more of a slinky? Latent energy ready and waiting to be released. For now I’m in no rush though, I’m taking great pleasure in the stillness. We won’t be compressed forever, and all the potential and possibility is still there. When things do return to normal, I’ve no doubt our enjoyment and appreciation for all we’ve been deprived of, will be amplified by this fleeting time without. Because, as my late grandmother told me, in the words of Rabindranath Tagore:

“no one lives forever, and nothing lasts for long”

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Photo credit: Philippa Battye

Philippa Battye

Philippa is an architect, maker and long-distance cyclist.  Currently most of her energy is directed at trying to keep a happy balance  between all three, in order to maintain passion for and meaning in the things she loves to do.

Find Philippa on Instagram @philippabattye and check out her website here.

Life in Lockdown - Losing Long Distance (Grace Lambert-Smith)

Life in Lockdown - Losing Long Distance

By Grace Lambert-Smith

In many ways, the last six weeks have recalibrated my ‘important to me’ list, which in itself has been an adventure within my four walls. I had a whole calendar of events lined up on the bike: a 1000km audax in May followed by a 1000km two-up in the north with my friend Jane just a couple of weeks later. The year would peak in the Pyrenees in June where I’d navigate myself from one end of the range to the other. And after all of that, I’d probably settle on a beach somewhere for a few days. I couldn’t wait, except I’ll have to now.

In January, I completed a goal I’d been chasing for twelve months by riding the final 200km ride of my Randonneur Round the Year. I felt so strong, invincible almost. I was ready for whatever the rest of 2020 threw at me. 

Of course, I wasn’t. 

Photo credit: Grace Lambert-Smith

With a calendar now devoid of excitement and friends in faraway places with whom I am unable to ride, I had to re-evaluate. What do I want to get out of this year? What can I do in place of the events I was so desperately looking forward to? I had waited so long to do these rides and now they had been snatched from my reach. 

Cue the community. 

It turns out that I’m a member of a wonderful bunch of like-minded people who crave the same things I do. Very quickly, there were suggestions of backyard campouts and urges to ride local lanes I previously omitted from my loops. I turned left where I’d previously turned right, I took the gravel road where I’d usually continue on the tarmac and I pitched up to join a night of others sleeping under the stars. 

Photo credit: Grace Lambert-Smith

My physically distant friends have actually become socially closer: I’ve never had so many video calls and flurries of messages between friends I’d usually chat to on a maybe monthly basis. Life just gets in the way, y’know? While social media has always played a fairly important part in my (social) life, it’s become a lifeline. 

A couple of weeks into lockdown, I began to feel less confident in myself: my fitness felt like it was deteriorating and my cycling clothes were reaching their lycra limits. Jane offered me a free trial to a virtual cycling platform, and with only perhaps a couple of kilos to lose but mental and physical strength to gain, I took her up on it. 

Photo credit: Grace Lambert-Smith

Since then, we’ve become closer friends, bonding over our shared pain before, during and after a turbo session. We’ve created fictitious events in our calendars to build up to in hopes they’ll be realised. We want to ride together, laugh and enjoy these hopefully-happening weekends away but we also want to ride hard and feel strong. 

Jane’s much more disciplined than me, but I think our virtual partnership has helped us both. It’s made me more accountable, it’s given me someone to talk to on a near daily basis and the would-be events are something to look forward to. As she lives alone, I hope I’ve been able to provide a good ear for listening and my clown-like humour that tends to accompany it. 

Photo credit: Emma Crome

I’ve also spent an hour every couple of weeks co-hosting Audax chats with Liam Fitzpatrick who rallied around to find a panel of guests each week. We grab a beer, sit in the garden and fifty or so fellow audax riders join in for a chat. On the surface, it’s a screen full of faces but more than that, these are the people I’d expect to share a wheel with, the people who might lend me £1 if I fall short at a cafe and the people who’d wait for me while I fix a flat at 2 o’clock in the morning. 

Don’t get me wrong, I desperately miss the human contact of riding bikes, calling in at the cafe, eavesdropping on conversations in the street. I mourn the events that have been cancelled but more so than I realised before these ‘uncertain times’ I miss the company. I miss racking my bike up next to someone else’s, I miss the simultaneous clipping-in sound at the start of a ride, I miss the cackles of laughter at silly place names and the sighs of frustration at elusive information controls. 

Photo credit: Grace Lambert-Smith

I always thought I was quite introverted prior to lockdown, but perhaps I’m realising that I’m more of a social butterfly than I care to admit. I don’t mind my own company: I’ve done plenty of solo rides before now and I’ll certainly do more I’m sure but for at least the foreseeable, I’ll be putting more emphasis on riding with my friends, maintaining my training plan catch ups with Jane and forging new friendships through mutual affection for riding bikes. 

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Photo credit: Grace Lambert-Smith

Grace Lambert-Smith

Grace is a rider with a propensity for long-distance audax events, cycle tours and anything in between. Having completed a Randonneur Round the Year and PBP in 2019, she's looking forward to discovering whatever's next on the long ride ahead...preferably with her friends.

Find Grace on socials @thisisgrace_ and catch up with her blog here.

Life in Lockdown - Riding the Covid-Coaster (Caroline McKaig)

Life in Lockdown - Riding the Covid-Coaster

By Caroline McKaig

I love rollercoasters, I love the thrill, the speed, the excitement; but they can also be very unpredictable, uncontrollable, and even scary. That for me, is my Covid-19 journey. So many good things have come out of this situation we have all been thrust into; whilst going on my daily exercise I have seen families out exercising together, spending time, laughing and enjoying each other’s company, communities have rallied round, helping one another in many different ways from sharing ideas, recipes, fitness tips, to helping one another do shopping and collect prescriptions. This experience is joyful and humbling at times and I am aware of all the positive things that have come out of this journey. 

Photo credit: Caroline McKaig

However, I also have times of feeling completely overwhelmed and unable to comprehend the situation. I find it difficult to get my head around it and understand what we are all going through, and the enormity of this evil virus. This feeling can stop me making the most of the unexpected gift of time we have been given, my brain becomes foggy and it’s difficult to think clearly and be productive. This is partly due to my dad being in hospital with the virus, he became unwell at home and deteriorated over a week.

He was taken to hospital in an ambulance one Friday night and was in ICU on a ventilator for two days. This was one of the most frightening times we have had to go through as a family. Knowing how deadly this virus can be we were very worried. Since he went into hospital, we have experienced a real rollercoaster: progress one day, to further complications discovered the next. It has been turbulent, but he is making progress and is on the road to a full recovery. It’s tough being stuck at home and feeling helpless.  

My dad has just turned 70, his birthday plans cancelled due to the lockdown. He is a fit guy, he cycles, and we had made plans to do a few big rides together for the first time this year, but for now these are not important; health and progress is all that matters.  

Photo credit: Caroline McKaig

To get through these tough times I have used my bike as a therapy tool, it’s keeping me sane and happy. There is nothing better than getting out, following the guidelines (no car, not far, no gnar) and just breathing in the fresh air, I am lucky to live in a place where I can access quiet roads (even quieter now) and also semi remote but easily accessible cross country style rides. I’ve used this opportunity to discover new routes close to home; what is down that wee path, or where does that lane lead me to? I’ve found some little gems along the way and and I now appreciate even more than before what I have right here on my doorstep. Being able to get outside has been my saviour, it makes everything feel slightly normal again, concentrating on the pedals going round and moving forward, whizzing through the air, really helps me to deal with the craziness of the situation, almost like it’s all being blown away.  

As I suck the fresh air deep into my lungs however, the thought of my dad in the hospital still relying on the occasional oxygen ‘top up’ is never far from my mind. It almost makes me break down in tears, and makes me feel quite angry, why him, why us? I almost feel guilty too, I am breathing so deeply and he (and many others) are struggling to take a breath, it just doesn’t seem fair. But I know my dad would want me to keep going and keep pushing and this spurs me on to get stronger - physically and mentally - to support him. I share stories and pictures of my rides with him over social media and video calls and perhaps he’ll be experiencing a touch of jealously!? I hope this might aid the healing process, make him even more determined to heal quickly to get back out there with me! 

Photo credit: Caroline McKaig

Getting out on the bike is my escapism, my normal, but this can only be done once a day and not for the long periods I would usually enjoy, so we have had to adapt to having more time at home. What to do with all this time, with nowhere to go and two kids (Angus 10, Annabel 7) to entertain? We have embarked on our own path of learning and adventure within our little space; I built some simple wooden mountain bike features from a disused wooden gate and created an obstacle course round the garden, which has kept the kids (and the big kids too) entertained for hours! Being a teacher of Design and Technology I am used to working with my hands and crafting things, so these were not new skills for me, but you can never underestimate the sense of achievement when using something you have built yourself, that intrinsic reward can be addictive…soon I’ll have no garden fence left!  

We are now in the second week of the school Easter holidays and I had planned a solo multi day bikepacking trip which was meant to have been my first big solo adventure. I had planned a route (the bottom loop of the HT550), got all the kit and was really looking forward to it. I was of course really disappointed that this trip cannot go ahead at this time, so in a bid to still experience a little bit of adventure, and also to make the holidays feel like such for Angus and Annabel we had our own wee micro adventure in the garden. I set up my tarp, we went out on a short bike ride together, set up a fire, toasted marshmallows and then spent the night sleeping outside. 

Waking to the sound of the birds chirping was liberating, I felt free, removed from the lockdown and constraints of the situation we are in, and to be honest it felt like I could have been anywhere, it just so happened to be my back garden. Although very far removed from the adventure I had planned, it was still fun and brought excitement and joy to my kids. In the morning, with sleepy eyes and wild hair ‘we did it mummy’ Annabel said, it was a precious moment. All three of us felt like we have achieved something, and the most beautiful thing is I got to experience that with my kids, who would not have been present if I had gone on the adventure I had planned.  

Photo credit: Caroline McKaig

This time is not normal, I’m not even sure what normal is, or what normal will be in the future. When we will be able to disembark from this rollercoaster ride no one knows. But what you can do in the meantime is enjoy the time we have been given, set yourself a challenge, try something new, create something with your hands. Appreciate what you do have and engage with something that makes things feel less crazy. For me this is biking; for others this may be reading a book, baking a cake, or spending time in the garden. Let’s hope all the good things that have come out of this turbulent journey can continue to flourish and that people are more aware of what is most important to them in this overwhelming world we live in.    

Stay safe. Stay home… unless you’re riding your bike! 

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Photo credit: Caroline McKaig

Caroline McKaig

Caroline is a mum of two, a secondary school teacher of Design and Technology and volunteers her time to run a girls bike club. She lives in the beautiful Scottish borders with her family and loves to ride her bike, exploring the variety of trails, roads and paths in her local area. She also likes to venture further afield to experience new places, and has recently caught the bug for bikepacking.   

Life in Lockdown - Reframing Lockdown (Eleanor Jaskowska)

Life in Lockdown - Reframing Lockdown

By Eleanor Jaskowska

I won’t lie, I was initially relieved when my races this year were postponed. I was excited to have another go at a long distance race, but I was also terrified. In some ways, and I’m ashamed to admit it, I was thankful that I had been given an exit. With All Points North postponed and TCR pushed to 2021 I had a little bit longer to stay in the warm cocoon of my comfort zone. 

This time last year it was all about Paris-Brest-Paris. By this point the 200, 300 and 400km qualifiers were in the bag and just the 600km to go. I was dialling in my position on my fixed gear bike and learning to spin faster than I thought possible downhill!  

Photo credit: Eleanor Jaskowska

In the end I loved the challenge of riding PBP fixed. It gave me that perfect combination of a major stretch but still achievable target that helped me to focus and really push myself. I was so surprised that I’d actually managed to finish that it felt like an out of body experience. This partly influenced my decision to try something bigger for 2020 and sign up for a few ultra-distance bikepacking races.   

Having a goal certainly helps focus the mind. Without any immediate events or racing it is harder to be motivated. I’ve realised that I have a tendency to look towards external goals (Audax patches or races) rather than internal goals (being fit just because). Without these motivating factors it’s certainly harder to force myself out the door unless  my mood and the weather are perfeectly aligned. Thankfully we’ve had the driest April in living memory. The roads have been a bit busy so I’ve taken to exploring my local area off road and been so surprised at the amazing rides that were sitting on my doorstep this whole time!  

Photo credit: Eleanor Jaskowska

In a woodland just off a popular bike path out of Bristol there are the most brilliant natural mountain bike trails. My climbing skills have improved (the bar was set pretty low) learning how to distribute my weight better on a steep incline, picking a line through a loose rocky climb. Finding ways to push myself and improve without trying anything dangerous is totally up my street! I’ve never been one for white knuckle riding!  

The bike family has also grown by 1 as lockdown provided the perfect opportunity to build up the cyclocross frame that has been sitting in the kitchen since before Christmas. Spending evenings pouring over maps and routes looking for byways and bridleways. For anyone living in Bristol Katherine Moore has been sharing some amazing routes in her komoot profile that have given me hours of joy! I’m just amazed at the dirt and gravel trails that were hiding just behind the road routes I’ve been riding for years. The cross bike has been perfect for linking up these sections.  

Photo credit: Eleanor Jaskowska

Having started riding bikes on tarmac, coming from a utility cycling background into road and long distance cycling it feels like something has finally clicked for me with off road riding. A combination of practice, skill and confidence. I’ve also found a treasure trove of riding in my local area and while I’m grateful for the opportunity I can’t wait to ride with friends again to share the experience. 

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Komoot that Route with El!

Check out our Komoot that Route session with El from Match the Miles earlier this month.

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Photo credit: Eleanor Jaskowska

Eleanor Jaskowska

El is a Welsh girly swot based in Bristol. She can't remember a time when she didn't ride a bike. Growing up in rural Wales her bike gave her exploration and independence in equal amounts. Things started getting a bit more serious when she was writing up her PhD and needed a lot more headspace to help her get through. She started wearing lycra and riding much further. Things escalated quickly and within a year she was signed up for the Transcontinental race and taking on her first 400 and 600km Audax events.

Life in Lockdown - Adventuring at Home (Dr Heidi Smith)

Life in Lockdown - Adventuring at Home

By Dr Heidi Smith

I have always considered myself a global citizen. I’ve been called a traveller since I can remember. If I settle too long in one place, those who know me best ask…are you moving soon? Prior to my most recent move I had been in one place for 15 years. I put down roots, and found my home in Tasmania, Australia. When I announced I was leaving, most said, ‘it’s about time’. I smiled. It was.  

Photo credit: Dr Heidi Smith

Ever since I departed my homeland for the far north and landed here in Scotland I have dreamed of an adventure by campervan. I was booked for 2 weeks of uninterrupted exploration and adventure. I had asked anyone who would listen, where should I go? Initially I wanted to visit all the islands, but I soon acquiesced that I had to focus on a few, so my heart and eyes went towards the Inner and Outer Hebridean Islands. I was to drive north from Edinburgh to the far North West, and then make my way slowly south criss-crossing the islands and mainland. The only time bound destination: the return of the campervan.  

I had been putting in long days and nights at work, so that I could walk away and leave work behind for those 2 weeks. The weather I knew would be glorious. A mixture of everything I’ve come to expect, and yet it is often sunny where I roam. #alwayssunny I attach to my social media posts that I share with friends across the globe. Yet, even when the winds slow my progress and the rains provide any skin not covered with a free dermal abrasion, it is me that is #alwayssunny. Travel, adventure and exploration are core to who I am.  

But instead of heading off, I had to cancel this adventure. The decision lay heavy on my soul. While I knew this decision highlighted my privilege to even have this decision to make, my heart ached. It ached for the movement, the adventures big and small I’d have along the way. The long restful sleeps between long days of walking in no particular direction. The long driving days with spectacular vistas in every direction.  

Instead, I find myself at home. A comfy, cosy place I’ve made my own. I’m good at making a place my home. I enjoy reinventing what home means for me when I land somewhere new. Once I’d made the decision, I felt a great relief lift from my body. I looked around and knew how wonderful the next few months would be, as I adventured in this space. Close to home.  

Photo credit: Dr Heidi Smith

In these past 6 weeks, I have found new ways of being adventurous. Daily I dive into podcasts of myths and legends of Scotland. In short spurts I travel the landscape daily and meet the people and places, and the stories that belong there. I find wool that has been lovingly dyed to represent these stories and landscapes by local Scottish women. Through knitting these colours, and reading the stories they come from I find myself connecting to places I’ve never seen; relating to place and landscape through knitting. I teach myself how to knit intricate Celtic knot work, which now drapes my shoulders as I type these words. It warms me while I sit in my home office working to deadlines like nothing has changed. And yet everything has changed.  

Where I live on the East Coast, somewhere between Edinburgh and North Berwick, the high walled gardens and courtyard of my home have always made me feel safe and nurtured. Now, all the more so. The sun streams in through my window and I eat lunch with the sun at my back. When I venture outside, outside the walls that contain us here in this safe cocoon, I feel strange. It’s been many weeks now, and only going out once a day feels like a new kind of adventure. The wide expanse of the sky and water as I ride along the Firth of Forth calls to me, encourages me to ride further. My body is keen. But it lies to me. When I return home, I feel the aches, the injuries. A new normal for me, but one I’m yet to accept. It doesn’t stop me from venturing out, day after day. But some days I ride slower, less far, and stop more often to enjoy the views. I find new places, look for routes where no one is. Follow paths and roads absent of people. Along the water, that’s where most people go. I’ve stopped going there, keen to find places without people. By the time I return to my cocoon, I feel a sense of relief. A homecoming to the cocoon within these walls. I can hardly wait to return to my needles, wool and stories.  

Photo credit: Dr Heidi Smith

While listening to ‘Braiding Sweetgrass’ (Robin Wall Kimmerer), she talks about how we might become indigenous to a new place, in the absence of misappropriation. Through coming to know and care for the land, we are connecting to place. In conversation with a friend in Scotland, he turns me to the words of Jim Hunter, and how becoming local is a commitment to living and being in place. Hearing these things I feel more confident that I will achieve this goal of mine, to become connected to this new land, place, home. As the needles click and the scarf grows longer, I wonder how I might achieve this while being bound by these walls. Unable to venture too far from home. While I am coming to know this place intimately, I still long for the far-flung places I am always drawn to. The places I was meant to be discovering right now.  

And then, in an exchange on Facebook, it comes to me. I lament that I miss the Southern Sky. Whenever I walk out at night, my face moves towards the sky and searches out the Southern Cross. It’s an automatic response, I can’t stop it. I don’t know that I want to. Instead what stares down at me is a foreign sky. My friend responds, ‘another (Aboriginal) story I just read says when you know your sky, you know your country. It’s a mirror image of all the things and events relevant’. This speaks to me more keenly that anything else, and somehow it brings together my adventures and frustrations of the past 6 weeks.  

Photo credit: Dr Heidi Smith

I’m now adventuring in the sky. I’m paying close attention to the sky during the day – noticing its brightness, greyness, moodiness. And at night, I’m learning about the constellations, the moons, the stories that connect them. Getting to know the sky, so that when I am let free of these walls and able to adventure again on the landscape of Scotland, I will come to it with a knowing of a different kind. While never leaving home, I am coming to know this place I now call home, in a way I never would have, had I not been confined. Re-defining adventure along the way, as I read, listen, ride, walk, knit my way across the landscape and the sky. I’m grateful for the privilege I hold in this opportunity to grow.  

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Photo credit: Heidi Smith

Dr Heidi Smith

A human finding their way along the path of life. Having conversations and building connections with people, places, and the more than human kin I meet along the way. I work at the University of Edinburgh as a lecturer in Outdoor Environmental Education.  Originally from Australia, now of Scotland. 

Find Heidi on Twitter @drheidismith

Life in Lockdown - Summer V2.0 (Katherine Moore)

Life in Lockdown - Summer V2.0

By Katherine Moore

I write this at my home desk, a giant wall planner in my peripheral vision blocked out with great swathes of colour, the mid-section awash with blue, then penned over in a scrawled frenzy of black biro. 

Granted my freedom last autumn with the decision to go freelance, this summer was going to be big. Endless trips and jollies, mostly work related, and mostly in the UK, but with some really exciting video missions to Ireland, guiding new gravel routes in the Pyrenees and a bikepacking rally in the Dolomites too. We’d launched Unpaved Podcast this year, and we’re scheduling a road trip to record series two, travelling all over the UK to speak to off-road riders in their backyards. As a writer with a tiny little chromebook and unlimited hotspot tethering, I’d set myself up to be able to work from anywhere, and indeed that was the intention. The endless storms of the winter and being almost house-bound working on my own meant that I was looking forward to this summer season more than ever.  

Photo credit: Katherine Moore

It’s hard to grumble, isn’t it? No matter how the turn of events has affected you personally and your day-to-day life, unless you’re fighting on the front line, you’ve lost someone near and dear or are struggling to get by with life’s essentials, any whine or moan seems so insignificant, so trivial. Yet so many people’s lives have been affected in relative terms, and I think it’s important for everyone to be able to vent their frustrations.  

Then there’s a difference between venting and dwelling. I’ve held back moaning publicly (apart from when as a newbie freelancer I wasn’t going to qualify for any government support), but to my close friends we’ve opened up about how we really feel. Then I’ve moved on. A few days perhaps for it to sink in, and now it’s onto summer V2.0. 

Photo credit: Katherine Moore

Summer V2.0 

We were taking every day as it came, weren’t we? Nothing really seemed that serious until it was here. Doing all we can to follow government guidelines here in the UK, we’re granted daily exercise outside and advised to visit the shops just once a week for essential groceries. Both my partner John and I are working from home, which I’m grateful to say is like a little sanctuary to me. He was going to move in soon anyway, but this has just accelerated the process… 

Within the confines of our new routine, we have to look for new ways to get our adventure thrills. I can’t deny that I was relieved when one of my hardest events for this year was cancelled, the long miles just not coming to me yet after such a hard start to the year with awful weather and dwindling motivation. With nothing so serious to ‘train’ for, things take on a different meaning. 

The situation makes me realise, now more than ever, how important the outside world is to me. More than for exercise, to train or to socialise, that’s what bike riding is to me. It’s the total immersion in the natural world; the feel of the crunching stones beneath my tyres, wafts of wild garlic, hawthorn blossom and passing horse stables, spying roe and muntjac deer through the hedgerows, the cackle of green woodpeckers from up in the trees.  

Photo credit: Katherine Moore

I’m probably riding slower. Taking more pictures, smelling the flowers. As my now sole riding partner, John is subject to my endless pauses. Sure, we miss the coffee stops, the pub lunches, and really miss camping outside. With no garden, bar a bike washing space, it would be impossible for us to recreate that luxury at home.  

Not wanting to take the biscuit with our daily exercise, we’re sticking fairly close to home. After John finishes work at 5.30pm every day we head out to the east of the city, avoiding the built-up areas and out onto the quiet lanes, eerily devoid of traffic. Each night I have targets in mind; not efforts, not wattages to hit, not distances nor speeds; but these are new sectors to explore. Byways, bridleways, unmetalled roads, hidden singletrack; we’re slowly and methodically covering our doorstep and riding every glorious section of dirt we can.   

Photo credit: Katherine Moore

To keep it for myself would seem selfish. Admittedly right now there’s a lot of people that can’t access these parts, but I hope that when we can exercise and travel freely again I can share these golden trails with my friends. Documenting through endless photographs of tracks, usually with John’s butt ahead of me for scale, it’s a daily process of route plotting, riding, uploading, and then refining. My latest mission is a route that circles the city of Bristol taking in the best off road tracks and trails in the green belt, perhaps a future event in the making…  

My mum used to set me ‘projects’ in the school holidays when I complained I was bored. Writing a series of picture books or planting a miniature garden; this is no different. It gives me purpose, and I still get to indulge my outdoor habit. 

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Photo credit: @forthehellofit.cc

Katherine Moore

Katherine is a gravel and bikepacking enthusiast who judges her rides by stoke level, rather than speed. When she’s not scouting out the best long distance and local off road routes in the UK, Katherine works as a writer, presenter and host of the Unpaved Podcast. If you’re out on the trail you’ll likely see her from a mile off, thanks to her rather bright colour palette. 

Find out more at www.katherinebikes.com and www.unpavedpodcast.com. Find Katherine on socials @katherinebikes and @unpavedpodcast and check out Katherine’s Komoot collection here.

Life in Lockdown - A Lesson in Living (Alice Lemkes)

Life in Lockdown - A Lesson in Living

By Alice Lemkes

I got quite used to shifting heavy and awkward loads during the Resolution Race last Hogmanay. But I didn’t anticipate how hauling Lee for six days might prepare me for a cross-transfer of resources during the Coronavirus lockdown.  

After a period of taking stock and rolling with the waves of fear and stress surrounding the pandemic back in March, and the urgency to mobilise, to help, to be of immediate use, we paused. With an uncertain future reaching out, and all races and trips cancelled, we realised we could stave some frustration by redeploying our cargo bike skills within the local community. 

Photo credit: James Robertson

Omnium Cargo were kind enough to let us keep one cargo bike after we reached Copenhagen. A dream come true for a once-upon-a-time courier in London delivering coffee beans by cargo bike. I often look back on that period as the most care-free I had felt in employment and wonder whether I’d ever achieve such job satisfaction again. The cargo bike has since been taking up the entryway of our tenement building. It has been waiting for this moment. Lee and I now ride six days a week, split between afternoon grocery deliveries for a zero-waste social enterprise and evenings spent shuttling surplus food between supermarkets, chefs, and hostels, returning home windswept and tired-eyed.   

There is nothing quite as satisfying to me as a fully loaded bike. Whether that is loaded with other people’s groceries; a mountain of surplus bread and crate-fulls of other edibles balanced unconvincingly on the platform; or whether that is camping and cooking equipment for a solo-trip.  I have everything I need to perform the tasks I have set out to do, and over and above speed comes autonomy and the empowering awareness arising from the familiar ache of my grafting thighs that I am creating motion and journeying with purpose.  

Photo credit: James Robertson

What a privilege it is to spend part of my day outside feeling free and autonomous and purposeful like this, having redeployed my resources (a cargo bike, my time, my good physical health) to connect with communities that are having a harder time getting the things they need. It’s not without its stresses; with no clear system for redistribution we are often riding round Edinburgh attempting to shift food before it goes bad - connecting with local chefs, or reaching out to friends to save waste. It’s tiring, things often go wrong, and it always takes longer than we expect. On the other hand, we are finding a sense of connection to a local community: I collected catering pots from the Quaker Meeting House and took them to a friend’s mum so she could turn the crates of root vegetables picked up from Waitrose into hot nutritious meals for a shelter. Ironically, I am more connected to the city and the people in it now than in the previous six months after moving here.  

Photo credit: James Robertson

But it isn’t the only way I’m feeling more connected.  This lockdown has softened the business-as-usual of my anxious brain, and - surprisingly - enabled me to access much of what I escape on adventures to obtain.    

Adventure tends to be about doing. But all the while I crave simply being. Often I go on an adventure to escape. Escape an acute period of stress, anxiety, debilitating storylines and limiting beliefs, attachments to external objects, a sense of lacking autonomy. So I run. I go off in order to meet myself again. To take a breath from narratives and step out of the spiral. I go in order to be. But in amongst all of the going and doing, I am still dogged by “should.”  

Photo credits: Alice Lemkes

I have realised that my adventures have always been laced with self-improvement, and always with a ‘should’ at the forefront: should be better at this self-supported thing, should be fitter, should be more inquisitive, should be more present, should be on my phone less, should be able to cope, should return a better version of me, should certainly return leaner....Isn’t ‘should’ the most exhausting thing? It is ‘should’ that gets in the way of presence. And the ‘simply being' I crave eludes me because I have held on too tightly to all the ways I am not good enough.  

Six months ago, I finally left London for good. I relocated away from friends and regular plans, and a calendar that would be full for weeks at a time. I thought I might finally find stillness, but found that ‘should’ followed me: the things I should be doing, friends I should be making, nature I should be connecting with. And, of course, I should be getting stronger, faster, more productive, more peaceful, more playful, more creative, more introspective, more connected. I was still living life a few months ahead: toward the next adventure, toward the beginning of the race season; a long to-do list stretching out of bikes to fettle with, kit to try out, bike-packing systems to hone, long rides to be ridden and mid-week efforts to be completed.   

Safe in the arms of purposeful future plans. 

Photo credit: James Roberston

And then Coronavirus eradicated all of them. Hit Pause. But this pause hasn’t been an interruption to normal life; it has been a lesson in living now. There are no races to plan for, no hobbies to begin, no training regime, no other people’s achievements to contrast my daily activities with and compare and fail against. I can begin each day with an intention: how would I like to start my day? It is actually the only thing that matters.  

The lockdown has afforded me space. Stripped back from ‘should’ I have a deeper awareness of what I miss, what is important, and why I cherish these things.    

Don’t get me wrong. I really do miss adventures: the self-propulsion into new places; the space; the connectedness to earth and to new people and to myself. I miss the farce and discomfort, the hardships and the suffering: the sleepless nights from frog and grasshopper chorus and mosquito-bitten eyes; single-track that cannot even be pushed through; lunches on petrol station forecourts and basking in pure filth. I miss it all.   

Photo credits: Alice Lemkes

But I am cherishing the playfulness that comes from not having pressure, the inquisitiveness that comes from not having pressure, the noticing that comes from not having pressure. Simply being. Whilst the natural world is jubilantly bursting into life before me, Lockdown has been a time of excitement and possibility. I hope I can find ways to stay connected to my locale, my neighbours, and my self, when I am eventually able to scarper further afield. I’m looking forward to taking these new, kinder perspectives back into the world of competition and comparison and hope to retain this anchoring that will enable me to enter races with curiosity. 

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Photo credit: Augustus Farmer

Alice Lemkes

Recent escapee from England, most likely to be found riding a cargo bike around Edinburgh and attempting to fit a PhD into a more itinerant and adventurous lifestyle. 

Catch Alice on Instagram @lemkiss and Twitter @alicelemkes.

#matchthemiles day 5 story // Ian Fitz

It’s always darkest just before the dawn. It's 4.30am, 1st June 2016 on the banks of Loch Lochy.

I’ve ridden right through the night and now it’s early on the final day, dawn has broken and another stunning sunrise has erupted over my shoulder, chasing me down the Great Glen. Yesterday’s ride began 215km ago at Sheneval bothy in the heart of the wilds of Fisherfield and, so far, yesterday’s ride has lasted for 25 hours. Riding a bike is still ok. Surprisingly I still feel strong. But staying 

awake at the same time is now impossible. I have tried everything I can think of - talking to myself, in my head and out loud, singing (badly), music, slapping myself. Really hard too. I have a word with myself. Still only 3 days and 20 hours on the race clock with 100km to go. So far ahead of where I’d even dreamed I might be at this stage. It’s stupid to risk that.

So a timed one hour sleep is administered. Crawl into the bivy, helmet still on, set a one hour countdown timer and asleep the moment my head touches the ground. Out. like. A. light...

What seems like seconds later the alarm sounds, a rhythmic noise that vibrates through the hard ground, to be echoed by the throbbing pain emerging from both feet and my still damp arse, all burning with a searing intensity that is still vivid in my mind now. Unlike the other stops I’ve made a bad error and forgotten to remove my damp socks and the sweat soaked bib shorts that had been on for those 25 hours I've ridden today. 

Down in the Glen the cool morning air is still and midges swarm as I hurry to roll up my bivy. A crunch of gravel on the track to my left barely registers as a blur swooshes by in the furthest corner of my sight line. I'm not totally sure if this last part is a real memory or came later. But it's vivid enough. 

The final bag clipped onto the bike and I know it's time to move again. But putting shoes on those battered feet is an ordeal and the first foot onto a pedal smarts, making me cry out in pain. Despite the early morning sunshine the world is a dark and unfriendly place today, a world of pain and uncertainty. For the first time I have doubts. Big doubts. How can I ride another day in this state?

Other leg swings over and meets equal horror as foot contacts metal. A weak-willed attempt at sitting on the saddle results in more howls of pain. 

How can a bike be ridden when the saddle can't be sat on and the pedals can't be stood on? 

There's still a long way to go to the the finish. A 100 kilometres I guess. That's a good day’s riding. And right now I am done. Everything had been going so unbelievably well to this point. Up to now, for four days, I'd been floating round the route in a bubble. It hadn't been effortless, far from it, but I'd been a joyous voyager in that bubble. An unimaginably simple time spent floating down glens. Up and over hills. Laughing over unrideable sections cruised on a fully laden bike. 

But now things are different. Now that once magical bubble has been poisoned, gone toxic. In the last few days my bubble stretched to the far horizons, cocooning me and all I could see; now it has shrunk and tries to crush me. I can't focus beyond the front tyre, never mind 100km down the route to the finish where I need to be.

One of the many incredible things about riding these long days, pushing body and mind right up to the limit  is that emotions swing so wildly. From utter ecstasy to sheer despair and back. The closer you push towards the edge, the quicker that transfer can happen. That’s the real contest in rides like this. With your own mind, body and mood. Not against the other riders.

Enough of this now. I need to move. I push off and start rolling.  Pedal. 5 seconds standing, 5 seconds sitting. 10 seconds standing. Count them. They hurt. And they. Are. Long. Seconds. 10 seconds sitting. 20... Then 30. Then... Just shut up and get on with it. It's grim. But it is happening. Pedal and grimace. Soak up the punishment and the pain. It’s going to be a long, long day.

Then a few minutes late I am saved. I see another rider in the distance. Stand up and sprint, catch up and throw out crazed conversational tentacles hoping that something will stick and we can generate some sort of ‘other’; any alternative to the current reality. Within minutes, but without discussion,  it’s obvious we will ride to the finish together, not racing anymore. 

What followed was one of the best days riding I’ve ever had. Or really one of the best days I’ve ever had. The culmination of four already unbelievably perfect days, finally heading to the finish line after so much planning, dreaming, commitment and effort; a master-class in how real mountain bikers ride bikes, some comedy crashes trying to follow those lines that look so easy. Conversation, camaraderie and companionship that would provide an alternative but equally perfect end to the ride.  Until then I’d enjoyed glorious solitude, a tiny speck alone in a huge and beautiful landscape. But at that moment there were only a handful of people on the entire planet who had been in the same bubble, lived these last few days in the same way. No-one else would fit in this situation. Sticking together at the stage meant we were a more powerful force greater than the sum of our parts. 

Later, in the hot afternoon sun three of us roll across the finish line together. All of us changed by these last few days, by everything that’s been under our wheels, on our horizons and in our minds. Forced by those experiences to re-evaluate our own limits and what we thought possible. 

On finishing I lie down, totally spent. Bike down, shoes off, laying in the scant shade of a small tree. Water is put in my hand and I drink bottle after bottle, 3 litres in 20 minutes. James Robertson, the photographer, is around trying to get the photos of people suffering that he seems to like so much. 

There is suffering now but also incredible joy, satisfaction and pride bubbling up in me, all tempered by utter disbelief. I have no idea how I pulled that ride out of the bag. I didn’t even know it was in the bag. I've never, ever ridden a bike like that before, let alone for so long. Slowly things come back into focus. I notice Lee is asleep, just flaked out on her side on the tarmac."

Images by James Robertson

#matchthemiles day 4 story // Lee Craigie

Ok. Things are starting to unravel. The stress and fatigue are starting to get to us all. Sometimes you feel euphoric and full of energy and in the next moment you feel despondency and exhaustion hit you like a wave. Welcome to the penultimate day of a bikepacking race, or week 7 on lockdown! 

Words by Lee, images by James Robertson 

"I arrived in Dornie in quite a state. Dropping my bike on some grass and weaving into the tiny local shop, I stood swaying slightly while looking cross-eyed at all the things I could buy. Paralyzed by choice and indecision I made myself pick things up: some sandwiches, custard, cupcakes, milk, coke and sardines (sardines?). I then staggered outside, where I emptied my framebag onto the grass to find something (I can’t remember what) and buried myself in calories. When I emerged from my calorie coma a few minutes later I stood up to survey the scene and I was shocked at the carnage I had created. The quiet village green with its newly cut grass and neat rows of flowers was strewn with wrappers, tools, clothing and half-eaten cans of fish. I had grass in my teeth and hair and was giggling uncontrollably. A local man was standing outside his house, keeping a safe distance but obviously curious. I raised a hand in salutation and he turned quickly and went back inside. I returned to the shop in a slightly more composed state to buy food for my onward journey. The kind woman behind the counter pretended to ignore the grass and the memory of the wild beast that had visited her just moments before. I behaved impeccably this time, but still felt a bit like a drunk teenager trying to buy her second bottle of Thunderbird. 

Now significantly revived, I checked my map and headed out of town again towards the beginning of the next long hill section. I was on the west coast but about to start my journey inland through Glen Affric. Tis glen, with its mature native Scots Pine and loch-filled valley floor, is beautiful and tonight it was especially so. I took another moment to stop and appreciate it before getting stuck into the long jeep track that would eventually deliver me to Tomich.

 I rode along completely content in my own skin and company and allowed myself for the first time to entertain the fantasy of what it would be like to finish. I imagined being in the arms of someone who loved me and instantly began to cry. Not a quiet demure wee tear but a breath-catching, heaving, deep-down sob of a cry. It shook me to my core and I realised that although I might feel ok physically (pretty good in fact) I was on the edge of an emotional trough.

I knew from our chat a lifetime ago at the Whistle Stop Café that the lead riders were planning to push through the night for Tyndrum and that they were all ahead of me. I didn’t feel sleepy but I was moving slowly. It was 11.30pm and I couldn’t think straight to make a plan. Somewhere from the survival part of my brain came the reasoned argument that if I couldn’t think straight I should probably stop and hit reset. Yes, it meant the others would get further away but the risky alternative was to try and push through the fatigue into uncharted territory. I’d carried on through the night before but not after four days of intense, sleep-deprived riding, and it didn’t feel like a great time to experiment. I rolled out my bivvy on a patch of grass by the roadside in Glen Moriston, took my shorts and socks off and clambered into my sleeping bag. I’m not sure I even slept that night but for two hours I remained horizontal and let my body and mind shake down."