Author: fionnghal

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It takes a lot of bottle

Now I’m not one to shirk away from a challenge. Indeed, those of you who know me will recognise that I actively seek out such animals, and by and large the more insane they are, the better.

So, my cycling challenges are (in no particular order except the first one which did seem somehwat of a pre-requisite for the others) 1. be able to go the damn thing without falling off too frequently, 2. master the use of clipless pedals (same goal qualifier as no. 1), 3. cycle 5000 miles in 2010, 4. conquer at least one endurance cycling event (min 200 miles), and finally 5. cycle a century ride (metric and imperial). It seems to be the case that no 1 had been achieved give or take the odd accidental visit to the ground already documented in the blog. And, as per my previous post, no 3 has been achieved. It became apparent that it was time to start tackling the tons, and where better to start that on my beloved island of Islay.

Enter the Ardbeg Committee 10-year anniversary Gourmet Ride. No prizes which part of that title was the unique selling point! Over we went on the stupid o’clock ferry, having had no sleep the night before on account of remembering, just as we were nodding off to sleep, that the road was shut overnight and a two-hour detour in place. Ah well. For future reference, should you find youselves in teh situation, dear reader, there is next to bugger all on the road from Lochgilphead to Oban at 4am on a June morning. Not even a polecat.

The ride was a marvellous affair. Featuring guest of honour Graeme Obree, it was most certainly not the “leisure ride” I had expected. It became apparent from the outset that it was for serious cyclists and that I would have to pull something special out of the bag to get round. Weather-wise, it was at the same time screaming hot sunshine and a howling wind. Combine this with hills (not little teeny mounds or gently undulating slopes but feckin great big ones) and you have a flavour of the event.

BUT! Never let it be said that I don’t rise to a challenge. Over 64 gruelling miles later I arrived back at Ardbeg distillery, knackered but havng successfully undertaken the ride. And I didn’t get off and push once. Think I’ll have to do a bit more training before the 100miles becomes likely. I’ll get there.

Now you see what I mean by it taking a lot of bottle!

Graeme Obree and Brian Palmer realx at lunch after a VERY long hill

Afternoon tea at Debbie's Cafe. A pattern that is not cycling emerging do you think?

A former champion being very silly on a a tandem

Martin from Johnstone Wheelers enjoys a lemonade after the ride

What makes a Gourmet Ride a gourmet ride? Probabaly this.

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There ain’t nothing like a dame!

I have, as you may have guessed, been well and truly bitten by the biking bug, so it may not surprise you that I have been looking for bigger and better cycling challenges to test my skills and stretch my experience. Or if you you must put it that way, I’ve been looking for mad things to do on two wheels. My recent exploit was a 250 mile charity cycle from York to Amsterdam (and back – very vital piece of the picture that). Held over five days, the event was to raise money for Marie Curie Cancer Care, and involved a party of some 56 women plus 6 Ride Leaders from Charity Adventure – the organising group. So there I was, the lone Scot among a crowd of women with strange accents all standing at the Failford Designer Outlet at stupid o’clock in the morning of Friday June 11th awaiting our departure orders. I was in Team 3 which included a very loud Scouser called Nikki and an interesting assortment of people of all shapes, sizes and ages. Another niggle abated as I realised I was neither the oldest nor the fattest. Now I don’t intend to give you a mile by mile account of the trip. Instead I shall give you a photo montage with suitable captions, and a brief bit here.

What did the trip mean to me? Cycling wise – the challenge of a long distance over a short(ish) time. While not in the Tour de France league of daily distance, it was certainly my first attempt at 50+ miles a day over 4 days (yes, I know I said 5 earlier. the middle one was a rest day). Nor was it challenging terrain, as we were below sea level for most of the trip through Holland. indeed we only went above sea level once – and it was the grand amount of 12 feet and for a mere 45 seconds. The only real hills were between Hull and York including the “challenge” hill that only the confident, the proficient and the downright lunatic attempted. Yes, I did, and it’s up to you which of those brackets you want to put me in. Fund raising wise – I made about £700 which I am pleased about. Otherwise? I made a lot of great friends some of whom I have kept up with and will make an effort to visit, ride with and hopefully team up with again at next year’s event. I am immensely glad I did this challenge and look forward to the next one mid-July.

Ready to leave. Please note I am wearing three layers of clothing in this picture. It is NOT bulgy bits!

My Roomies for the weekend - Lesley, Diane, Kath, Jean, Jane with other friends Pat and Madi in the background

The Roomies under the Humber Bridge. Lots of blue sky and the weather was that good all 5 days

The Black Dog Babe awaits the off in Rotterdam

Pat and Madi

Helen in white and in black, Nikki, the mad Scouser. Heart of gold but it was like having Lily Savage with you at times.

Pat's piles?

the only bit in Holland where we were above sea level. 12 feet to be exact and only for about 45 seconds.

In Amsterdam there is a cooncil section dedicated to removing bikes from canals in case they clog them up

Our glorious ride leader, Mark

The positively gorgeous Team 3

The Roomies made it

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I’m too sexy… Wardrobe traumas to make you go starch raving mad

My friends Jill and Susan have just attended a fashion show held in the local church hall. Now instantly I suspect you are getting the picture that this was not exactly Gianni Versace or Vivienne Westwood, and Naomi Campbell did not feature on the catwalk. Instead it seems to have been the local churchfolk getting a chance to try on the offerings of the local boutique – Allison’s. Bear in mind here that the “locality” is Greenock not Milan, and that the average age of churchfolk around here is nearer Methuselah than Miss Dior. Not that I wish to paint it as some sort of Victorian freak show revival… Yes, well, OK, we’ll not go down that road.

The main upshot was we got talking about our worst ever clothing experiences as children. Now both myself and another friend had mothers who had aspirations in the seamstress department. For which read were too mean to buy us real clothes. For the purposes of maintaining confidentiality, I shall identify this friend only as Jane S. – which is as much a pity as it is pointless since that actually is her name. Anyway, Jane and I have hideous flashbacks even to this day of frightful affronts to fashion perpetrated on us by our mothers.

My childhood memory is deeply scarred by recollections of clothing items – each one vying for top place in hideousness with the one before. Such nightmare-inducing garments included at the less repulsive end an immensely itchy hand-knited beige hat and scarf set, working is way through the kilt with the onboard bodice which would have restrained Hannibal Lecter, right up to her crowning glory – the pink cape wth no discernible arm holes. I am still scarred – psychologically and physically- by these and many more items of apparel torture. It wasn’t only the design faults of such items; her fabric choice also left a huge question mark over the availbility of standard dress-making materials such as cotton in 60s and 70s Greenock. Why for instance was it necessary to construct a sun top from what was so starched that it seemed like I was wearing an industrial form of linoleum? The obvious shortcoming of this particular garment was that it point blank refused to move when you wanted to resulting in near hernias. No, you moved only when the garment decided and even then only in very straight lines. It also meant that the offending item (akin to the cladding they sometimes out on the outside of buildings) was damn near indestructible (believe me, I know – I tried. Oh how I tried!) resulting in it being a part of me for what seemed like an eternity. It is probably the one and only time in my life that I was thankful for developing a set of bodacious boobs as it meant that the inquisitorial torture device could be consigned to the dustbin of doom. I actually suspect she was so proud of it that it went to a charity shop or, as happened in our twee end of Greenock, a “Good as New” sale. I am delighted that it caused me pain no more but I temper that with a degree of concern that it found its way to some other poor sod who has now confessed to all sorts of sins such as witchcraft, adultery, murder and liking the BeeGees rather than have to wear it for so much as a nanosecond longer.

Time to go as I now need therapy having indulged in such painful recollections. People ask me why I like wearing loose fitting and baggy clothes (“it’s not feminine you know!” they cry). The truth is I am as a result of childhood fashion infanticide, a clothing claustrophobe. I have an inbuilt abhorrence of Berkertex, Dereta et al -all brought on by having been forced as a child into vile vestments that I have only touched the tip of the iceberg of here. Am I the only one in the west of Scotland who hears a menacing tone – nay, an outright THREAT – in the words “classic A-line skirt with matching fitted jacket”? I suspect not.

I shall form a support group immediately.

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Headaches really are…erm…a pain in the arse

As is a common theme in this great saga that is my life, the fickle finger of fate has intervened yet again at a totally inappropriate time. There was I all geared up for my greatest (i.e. only) cycling challenge yet – the Etape Caledonia – only to be smitten by a lurgy in the form of an exploding head. Not once, not twice but thrice was I so smote, the first of which occurring after my flat at the beginning of the Walkers ride last Thursday. (On an aside, please note that although I had been a Walkers member for a matter of mere days at the time of that incident, it did allow me to become a club record holder. Albeit it is for the shortest recorded ride on a club night, but hey, it’s still a record and I’m proud of it.) It transpires that my headaches are also accompanied by massive BP hikes (no, not petrol price increases – blood pressure. Do pay attention) To cut a long story short the quack has suggested I don’t go belting about the Perthshire countryside for 80+ miles until there’s some indication of why I should be recording levels normally associated with seismic activity. It’s all very frustrating especially as my BP has been tediously normal all my life. The temptation is to be very melodramatic and imagine meningitis, brain tumours and haemorrages and panicky nocturnal rushes to hospital where you are met by the cast of “Casualty” who rush you about on a trolley shouting cycle injury related phrases like “Major lycra trauma coming through – her Gore Tex jacket doesn’t match her Specialized shorts!” and “She’s asystolic! Too much static from her helmet hair!” I suspect I may just be away on a flight of fancy here. I’ll stop shall I?

Anyway, the bottom line is Etape Caledonia is a no-no for this year. But I have already booked my place for next year’s event along with Etape Hibernia (the latter being just an excuse for a weekend in Ireland but who’s caring.) As it happens there seems to be a bunch from Walkers going along which is good.

And talking of Walkers, which indeed I have done at least three times so far, I yesterday undertook my first Saturday ride with the boys in the shape of Alan and Matthew. If you ever meet them you’ll understand why “shape” is an altogether appropriate word! We did a rather splendid if somewhat warm tour of several counties including South Lanarkshire, Glasgow City, East Renfrewshire and at least two of the Ayrshires. 43 miles or so including the FGH (work it out: your starter for ten is that the last two words are “great” and “hill”) that is the Eaglesham Moor. Not only a hill but one in the midst of a crosswind that took your bike sidey-ways regularly but always when you least expected it. All in all I thought I coped admirably for one who isn’t usually good at hills (and, of course, for one who is in the clutches of a major illness!) Hah! Maybe I’m getting better at this cycling stuff but hills are getting noticeably easier. Hope so.

Right, I’m off now to find out how my friend is coping with her major-liver-failure-soon-to-be-transplant. I am not alone in suffering department. Headaches? Sore hip? Back pain? What a pain in the arse it all is!

See y’all again soon.

(with apologies to anyone reading this who might actually have a serious illness.)

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To cap it all…

A strange week all in all. Work, in the shape of additional tutoring sessions owing to imminent exams and panicking pupils, kept me off the bicycle in the early part. Then, my planned outing with the Oxymorons (that’s a reference to Walkers Cycling if you haven’t bothered yourself to read my previous post!) literally came to a halt 100 yards up the road when my tyre mysteriously flattened. To add injury to insult, this brought on a migraine type headache of gargantuan dimension, involving projectile vomit and a weird vision pixellation of the sort you had to pay a lot of money to experience in the 60s. It also curtailed my Johnstone Wheelers outing today as the pain has not quite departed yet. I am reminded of the classic description of the two phases of seasickness: stage one is when you are afraid you are going to die, and stage two is when you are afraid you are not.

And so, Dear Reader, I fear I must fall back on the old diarists’ response when faced with a week of not a lot to say: I’m going to say not a lot but say it at great length.

A thread over on the Internet Bonsai Club raised the issue of a plant that calls itself “lucky Bamboo” which in fact is neither lucky as it dies with a certainty and a degree of melodrama best reserved for the baddies in a John Wayne western, nor is it bamboo, being part of the Dracaena family (Now, should I have ticked the Flora box as a further classification for this entry?). Nor is it a bonsai despite being sold in countless garden centres and stores as such. It is, IMVH(and not at all biased)O, an abomination on a scale with all forms of extremism or intolerance, or with Andrew Lloyd Weber getting prime time TV slots to recruit staff to his latest insult to music. However, the story:

I overheard a wonderful conversation between two members of the public in my local IKEA a month or so ago, where this “lucky bamboo” is sold as a bonsai. The conversation was along the lines of “it must be a bonsai because it’s small and it’s in one of they (sic) shiny pots”. The chat then got round to the issue of cruelty (with the female stating that the “LB” would grow to about twenty metres high if it wasn’t so cruelly inhibited) before veering off into a decision to buy a fairly hideous s-shaped Ficus because that was a “proper bonsai”.
It was a choice between walking away and running them over with my trolley. But as I was carrying glassware I opted for the former.

Quite apart from the “it’s not bonsai” aspect, I cannot stand lucky bamboo for the totally irrational reason that it reminds me of asparagus which I couldn’t hate and detest more if it were cyanide.

For no reason other than catharsis, I shall tell you that my other flora related irrationality is Hydrangea. I detest this for the very adult and mature reason that it reminds me of the swimming cap my mother made me wear when I was younger but old enough to be very aware of what constituted “cool” and what did not. The swimming cap had rubber “florets” which wobbled about much in the same way as Hydrangea petals do. And it was sweetie pink! Cool? Not on your nellie! It was almost as uncool as the early swimming costumes which were made of that hideous ruched fabric which increased its weight at least tenfold when it came into contact with water. I am sure whole generations of Scottish schoolchildren learned how to swim simply to avoid instant drowning at the hands of their own swimwear. The hydrangeal swimming cap, btw, met its (literally) sticky end when I discovered why manufacturers put the instruction “Do not cover” on radiators. Nothing deliberate about that at all! And this momentous revolutionary strike on my part was followed not long after by a major breakthrough for equality when the powers that be in leisure centres suddenly recognised that, wonder of wonder – who’d ever have known? – boys carried nits and headlice too, and rather than tackle the issue of making boys wear swimming caps “head on” (sorry!), they took the softie route and just made the offending garment optional. Pity. I’d have loved to have seen some of the great hairy bears of blokes that frequented the Hector NcNeil baths in Greenock wearing hydrangea swim caps.

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Doing it in a group is so much better

Now I just know as I write that title that the netpervs will hit on it in droves which does rather amuse me somewhat. Not of course that I am desperate to attract readers to this blog, but …

Anyway, on to the real reason for the titterworthy title. This week I have undertaken my first ever group rides – one with the Thursday “beginners” group at Walkers Cycling (yes, I know. It’s an oxymoron) and a second on today with the 30-milers at Johnstone Wheelers. The irst was on a wonderfully mild windless night but the second was in good old-fashioned Scottish dreichness. I have subsequently augmented my cycling wardrobe (now there’s an image to conjure with!) to the sum of one jacket, waterproof and hi-vis, and one pair of lightweight waterproof overtrousers.

So why the group rides? My cycling guru tells me that the advantages of group riding outweigh and downside. I must admit oflate I have been getting a little bore of my own company (I’ve heard all my own jokes before ater all) and going out in a group certainly should alleviate that – not to mention inspire me to get off my arse and get out. I will also offer me the chance to get a better idea of how I am doing cycling wise as at the moment I have little to compare myself with other than what I saw during the Braveheart run. It also gives me the chance to try new routes as again I am a little bored with my “commutaroutes”. But by far the major plus is that I will be experiencing “proper” cycling – pacelines, drafting and all that good and clever real cyclist stuff. I say “will be” because the two rides I undertook this week were more in the way of social runs than cycle rides as such. In a couple of weeks time, once my exam pupils are offloaded, I will be going out with the Walker’s Wednesday night group which is an organised ride-out for those wishing to step up to a more challenging ride. I look forward to that enormously.

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Feckin’ Technology

Do forgive me, dear reader, for I have been away. Now by this I most certainly don’t mean that the men in the white coats have finally caught me. What I do mean is that the miracle that is modern technology (or “modren” as the kids up here pronounce it) has temporarily wafted off into its own personal ether and left me bereft. We made the mistake of deciding to change from one provider who shall remain nameless… (oh what the hell -from Virginmedia)… to Sky. The Sky people duly came and fitted our satellite dish and we have been enjoying hopping through an even bigger array of channels – each with a niche market of probably only about 3 viewers – in the hope that somewhere there might be one that we might actually want to watch. But the real crunch came with the switch in broadband internet provision. This involved two men from BT clattering about in our roof space looking for a cable (something that happened, I might add, because I’m only a girl-type person and the wire I was pointing at – the one coming out of the wall and going into the back of the computer – just simply couldn’t have been the one that connected the internet outside world to our desktop system.) Three hours and several new swear words later we got this sorted and, as an additional benefit, they found the patio chair cushions I thought I’d lost. Given the amount of time they took, I think I might be right in surmising that the hunts for Lord Lucan and Shergar may now be called off, but at least they put every last bit of our out-of-sight-out-of-mind clutter back in its rightful place. But, and here’s the really annoying part, apparently we’re weird because we wanted to prioritise the internet rather than the telly. But oh no – we have to wait 10 days to get connected to the Sky system. Customer rights? My arse! So in order to stay connected, I have bought a dongle – a Vodafone mobile broadband device to be specific. But, the powers that be at Voodoofone have been mighty sly – there is an automatic Content Control on the device. Now I don’t believe Voodoofone has suddenly decided it has a role as a custodian of the nation’s morals. Call me cynical but it does rather seem to me that they realise that people get these things to connect while on holiday etc to things like Facebook and other social networking sites. Which are blocked by the Content Controller. Which costs a quid to get lifted. Hmmm. Anyway, I am now speaking to you from a Content Control- free dongle – which presumably means I am having unprotected text here. Catch ya later for more updates.

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Bicycle Ups and Downs

Ah the joys of cycling! Yet again it has failed to rain for a few days and I have been making the best of it by doing another half-century. As part of my commuting to Lochwinnoch of late, I have been adding in my visits to pupils – many of whom are now panicking because the light-bulb of realisation suddenly has switched on alerting them to the fact that their exams are merely a few weeks away. Thus it was I was able to go to a pupil in Paisley then down to Glengarnock and back Lochwinnoch for my RSPB stint. At lousing time I decided to take off for another wee jaunt round the Longbar Loop. All these were the ups – metaphorically in that I felt quite good and literally as it involved a fair few hilly bits.

And then came the down.

I had to take avoiding action to miss a suicidal feline and in doing so, hit a pothole. POTHOLE! It was a feckin CRATER!! The bike went down. I went down. The rear tyre decided it didn’t want to be left out of things. And went down.

Now a couple of months back I went to maintenance course run by Walkers Cycles and boy did I get my money worth today. I got dead smug at remembering all the stuff I’d been taught, so off came the tyre, out came the gash inner tube, visual check of inside of wheel rim, new inner tube in and partially inflated and tyre back … erm… shit! “The difficult part is putting that last three inches of tyre back on.” Neil had told us on the course.

Well Neil, you certainly didn’t lie about that.

I got there after a lot of swearing and asking a small boy to hold the wheel while I pushed and shoved. It worked.

Upshot? I completed my half-century – sorry, my latest half-century – with a bit of a bruised patella and a dent in my ego which was cancelled a bit by having fixed my first puncture since 1969.

Gen up!

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Islands in the Sun.

Guess what? It isn’t raining. Now, a pessimist up here (or a realist as I prefer to be called) would say that this means nothing other than that it’s going to rain. Indeed when I stayed in Greenock (btw “stayed” is Scottish for “lived”) the saying went that if you looked across the Clyde and couldn’t see Helensburgh it meant is was raining. If you could see Helensburgh, it merely meant that it was going to rain. Anyway, back to the current weather in Elderslie. Not only is it not raining, the list of other “nots” includes not snowing, not icy, not windy and, mirabile dictu, not grey and dismal. The combination of this happening is what makes the situation worthy of comment (and there you thought it was just because I had nothing else to say), especially as it means I have been able to get out on t’bike quite regularly. In shorts and shirt sleeves on two occasions. Why it’s been so sunny that I have got quite a nice suntan about me. Well OK – my arms and legs have a slight tidemark. So, I thought it was time to notch up another half-century in the sun and off I went to the island of Great Cumbrae, which no-one ever recognises under that moniker, preferring as one does to call it by its more common soubriquet of Millport. Now Millport is remarkable for very little other than being shut for about 6 months of the year. It lacks the charm of the Isle of Bute (or Rothesay as it is commonly known, or Rossey as it is known by the even more common!) The other thing Millport is famous for is the fact that when the sun shines everyone and their dug heads for it as it is an easy (i.e. flat) island to cycle or walk round. I thought I’d be a real smartarse and get there in the morning before the hordes arrived. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that Caledonian Macbrayne – that custodian of Scottish waterways – had omitted to take into account that it was now officially “the season” and had not put the larger ferry on. So after missing the push-me-pull-you by one car, I finally got there about 11am. However, I managed three circuits approx 30 miles) before the madmentos arrived and the way was blocked in places by tandems driven by nutters and, at one point, a leprechaun and a Dennis the Menace. Now, I’m all for people getting on their bikes, but… they do need to realise there’s a certain etiquette to be followed. Oh god, I’ve become a bike snob. Anyway, one half-century was the upshot and boy I felt good again. But next time, not Millport please.

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Half-Century / Real Road

Well hey! Look at me! I just did my first 50 miles on a real proper road (as opposed, that is, to being on the Tacx – just in case you thought I forayed off into some parallel universe somewhere to notch up virtual half-centuries.) It was a strange little meander through various bits of North Ayrshire and then Renfrewshire to make up the distance – made all the sweeter by the fact that I’ve been orf the bike because of an exploding nose this week. As a result I struggled on anything more than grade 4%, speeds were poor and the last 6 miles or so were killers. I suspect it was pure obstinacy that got me round. Why do I kill myself like this? Perhaps if my mother, in our 45 years acquaintance on this planet, had even once told me she was proud of me or of something I’d done, I wouldn’t feel the need to go about killing myself to prove things that don’t need proving. So, FFS, SOMEONE OUT THERE TELL ME YOU’RE PROUD OF ME SO I CAN START TAKING THINGS A BIT EASIER!!

Man, that was cathartic!!

Update: I have just uploaded stuff to Garmin TC. and according to it, the hill I bottled out of was a grade 18%!!! Not sure I actually believe that – seemed more like a 12% to me. But… no wonder I’m knackered! Next time I’ll persevere with it instead of wimping out as the road over to Largs isn’t too bad for the most part gradient-wise, would be good training and… has Nardini’s at the end of it.

Ya know what? I’m almost proud of myself now!