Monday, 8 August 2011

Day of Rest

They will rue the day they asked me to write a blog. Please feel free not to read it.

No bicycling today. A fair bit of thinking about them and carrying them in vans but no actual riding. We are driving to Scotland, to a bit near Stranraer where the inlaws live. There is the vague hope tomorrow of actually riding together with my husband for one of the few times since life before children. Admittedly much of the before children riding consisted of him waiting for me at the top of hills while I swore under my breath.

The 7-Stanes are around here- some waymarked trails in lowland woods, and we are hoping to get to Kirroughtree. It has McMoab, which is a slabby Black Trail that I will balls up and do a depressing slow motion fall, having bottled it at a critical point. I am then predicted to have unsightly bruised knees, which will remain un-skirtworthy for the best part of ten days. Thinking about it that way I shall wear pads, hopefully only bruising pride and putting yet another ding in poor Brad's coat. I have said he can have a re-spray if he gets me round Wales intact, in the colour of his choosing. Well it will probably be black again actually, but I like to think the bike approves.

I picked Brad up on my honeymoon in 2004 in Santa Cruz. He is a long suffering Santa Cruz Blur, who I remain enormously attached to, emotionally and often also via cleats. I have even forgiven him for throwing me in a river bed just after I got him back to Britain, recognising that I was partly to blame. The bottling/braking/falling-to-one-side combo occurred close to the edge of a drop, resulting in a Wiley Coyote style tumble down the side. Honestly though, Mountain Biking is great. The whoop to fall ratio is massively favourable compared to most activities.

Road bike is called Francine. I have been caused to name my bicycles by Canadians, for whom it seems customary. Francine will need exercise when we return to base and the Cycletta training should do it nicely.

Anyhoo, a chance to wear the jolly Minx socks at Moab, smashing as they look with pads. Can't beat a free sock.
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