Don’t Ever Look Back

June is the month of the local half marathon and 10km race. Two years ago I planned to enter, started training, injured myself and failed to recover in time. Last year I started training but in May decided that I would rather spend my time cycling so did not bother entering. I declare 2015 the year I will actually enter and complete the race. The weather helps my cause – rain and cool temperatures mean I am less tempted to head out on the road bike. Training goes well and I build my long run up to 18km. Knowing the course I figure that with the last few kilometres down hill the training I have done should be adequate. I leave the peace of my forest and even go training on the pavements in town. I find I actually enjoy it and discover that I am able to run much faster on the road than up on the trails. With a week to go to the race I have the chance to spend the day riding a demo full suspension mountain bike; I don’t take up the offer fearing a fall may put paid to my race. Instead I go for a 15km run. At work I take extra care lifting boxes of stock, not giving my moody back an excuse to seize up. I tell no one other than Eunice of my plans to run and decide to enter the race on the day. The day before the race I am in the local butchers shop – the young mountain biking apprentice asks me if I have done much cycling lately. I say I have been concentrating on running. He asks if I am doing the 10km run. I reply that I am running the half marathon. He starts laughing, seeming not to believe I am serious. He has no plans to run as being young he does not want to ruin his joints. In fact he declares that he cannot even be bothered to go cycling at the moment. I leave the shop thinking that because I have actually told someone of my plans I have spooked my whole race. With no work to go to I spend the day resting and eating to build up energy.

Race day dawns – dry and cloudy with a light wind. We walk down to the local high school where the race starts. Police have placed “No Parking” cones on the nearby streets. There is a clear sign directing traffic to the official parking site. In the true Gallovidian tradition of “rules are there to be broken” people simply ignore the police directive. We watch as a woman squashes a cone between her car and the kerb as she parks, nonchalantly gets out with her kit bag and heads off to the race. I see the butchers apprentice, he is in running kit and has now decided that his joints are up to the 10km race. I register, pin my number to my shirt, give Eunice my free lunch voucher for safe keeping, eat a banana and join the inevitable queue for the toilet. There are signs saying that earphones are not to be worn during the race but it appears that this is another rule that is going to be ignored.

Lucky number?

Both races are to start at the same time – the 10k start is self evident but no one seems sure where the half marathon leaves from. There is a sign which says half marathon but the two marshals standing next to don’t appeared to have been briefed on this. I see the race director and ask – he points to where the unsure marshals are standing. It is to be a staggered start – we go off first. A competitor drags the start flags up from their 10k position and the official starter/ commentator for the day hobbles up from the school on crutches as his is recovering from a broken leg. My race strategy is simple – I have set myself a time of 2:20 which means I need to run each kilometre in six and a half minutes. I take up my usual start position at the back of the pack with the aim of catching people up and not letting myself  be overtaken by anyone.

Ready for the off

The hooter goes and we are off – we run through a wall of sound as the 10k racers cheer us on. I see two of my colleagues and wave – they look shocked to see me. As we leave town for the country I am surprised to see that my pace is far faster than I predicted but I feel comfortable so decide not to slow down. The road up past Edingham Loch is very familiar as I cycle this way so often I even know the farm names. As it winds uphill I pass Torkatrine, Townhead of Culloch, Moss Side and Blaiket Mains. The countryside looks beautiful with the lush green of the grass and vibrant yellow of the gorse. Cows stare lazily as we pass and in some fields the grass is being cut ready for baling. It lies in wavy lines on the ground.  I hear voices behind me which seem to be getting closer. My motto is “Don’t ever look back” so I don’t and my following runners either run out of breath to talk or drop back as the hills ramp up. I must have masochistic tendencies as I love running or cycling uphill. This is where I plan to make my overtaking manoeuvres. I start reeling a few in but I am about to enter unknown territory as we leave the Old Military Road and head back for home. We start to catch up with the back markers of the walk the half marathon competition who started an hour and a half before us. The promised kilometre markers stopped after kilometre 1 and although my watch is meant to bleep after each one I don’t seem to be able to hear it. I do know I am well ahead of schedule so things look good. A woman in a bright yellow shirt is my next victim. She is keen to chat, saying she saw me training in the forest last weekend . I know that she is usually faster than me so I ignore her “tactic” and push on. The road goes right through the middle of a huge dairy farm where I can see cows peering out from a huge barn. A red sign alerts us to a trip hazard – up ahead is a wide wooden bridge. which at first glance looks perfectly safe. As soon as I put my foot on it I see why – the boards are all loose and there are holes in them so I decide to not look down. The road turns at ninety degrees and I hear the sound of another runner crossing the bridge. I sneak a legitimate sideways glance to judge how close they are. With 4km left I am starting to feel tired but remember I have a free lunch waiting at the finish. I feel invincible running down the hill into town cheered on by spectators and cross the finish line – I have done it.

In the two or so hours I have been away Eunice has not been bored as there has been a children’s race to keep her amused.

Future entrants

We sit on a wall watching the last competitors finish while I refuel. Eunice feels I may have won a prize in the over 50 category saying “no woman who finished in front of you looked as old as you”. I am not sure what to make of this comment. The prize giving commences – the butcher’s apprentice has finished 3rd in the under 18 age group. There is consternation as the name of the over 50 woman’s winner is announced – it appears the crowd feels she is actually nowhere near 50. Proceedings then descend into a farce as none of the organisers seem to know what to do next as she has gone home. I am in second place and go up to collect my medal. With work to go to I head home for a shower and more food.

The results are not published for another two days due to “technical problems”. It seems I did indeed finish first in my age group but since there were only two of us competing it does not seem to matter all that much. More importantly I was not last – there were thirteen competitors trailing in my wake, no one passed me and not once did I look back.

A new trail in town

The second round of the Scottish Cross Country Mountain Bike Championships was held here five weeks ago and in spite of the length of time that has passed, the events of the day need to be shared……

The young butcher’s apprentice has entered the two lap taster race. I ask him if he knows if there have been any changes from last year’s route. He thinks there may be a slight change at the beginning and end of the race but has not ridden much lately as his bike is once again in need of repairs. So close to the race he seems unperturbed that he has done barely any training – the confidence of youth.

A day before the race I go out for a run which doubles as a recce of the course as I think it will be. It soon becomes apparent that tomorrows course, although containing some of last year’s elements, is very different this time round. An orange arrow points to a brand new section of twisty trail which disappears into a dark, thickly wooded area. I pass by this area often but the entrance to the trail is so well hidden I have never noticed it. I return home to get ready for work and instruct Eunice to go for an evening ride to suss the course out so we can determine where the best spectator spots will be.

The decision is to begin watching the race at the start / finish line where a tight technical section has been created. The day is divided into two sessions – the morning sees the women, youth, taster and super/ grand vets race; while the afternoon session is for the elite, junior and senior men. During the lunch break there are to be shorter races around the main spectator area for 8, 10 and 12 year olds.

The first session proves entertaining. In spite of minimal training the butcher’s apprentice easily wins the taster race and his bike is still in one piece. A female youth competitor runs over the line clutching one of her cranks while a boy runs the last two kilometres having got a puncture. Most of the young lunch time competitors spend the morning riding their bikes round and round the car park. I grow exhausted watching them – they have yet to learn about pacing themselves. Pre-race they refuel on burgers and sugar laden soft drinks from the catering van. The youngsters races are the feature of the day. Even at such a young age you can begin see the type of riders they will turn into as adults. Some already have the straight legged descending style of true cross country racers and even look the part with their lycra outfits. There are the baggy short wearing trail riders who seem more interested in show boating than their race position. A boy called Rory insists on trying to jump over the barely visible remains of a small tree stump – his efforts becoming less flamboyant every lap.

Looking the part

During the first lap of the under 8’s race a mother runs behind her young son giving him a helpful push whenever the terrain goes uphill. She does not appear for the second lap, having either exhausted herself or been told by race officials that this is not allowed. A boy, obviously seeing adults wearing protective padding, has decided to wear his football shin pads in case of any mishaps. Just like in adult races the world over there is the question of race etiquette. A young girl is caught behind a much slower boy. In a quiet voice she politely says ” Excuse me please rider”. He either does not hear or pretends not to. A boy held up in a similar situation just shouts “Rider” so loudly that the boy in front visibly wobbles and nearly falls off. Some competitors are not fully focused on the race and look up whenever they see someone taking a photo.

Triple trouble

The race tail enders are accompanied by some of the riders from the mornings youth race – they act both as sweepers and offerors of encouragement. and advice. A competitor is riding in completely the wrong gear for the terrain – his legs are spinning at a ferocious pace and it is suggested that a harder gear might be a good idea. They try to make riders believe they are going to catch the person in front of them but as the laps go by they get not closer and by the last lap are visibly exhausted and barely able to hold onto their handlebars. At one tricky rocky outcrop a girl gets off and pushes – a girl after my own heart.

The build up starts for the men’s’ races. There is the usual pre-race posturing where bicycles are paraded and performances in recent races discussed. I notice a man stood beside a full carbon Trek bike – he obviously has masochistic tendencies. The bike has no suspension of any description and is a single speed. He claims to a fellow competitor that he is “Riding for fun”. Race started we retrieve our own bikes and ride to the tricky, steep descent that marks the end of the new trail section.

Looking ahead

The single speed, riding for fun man is more competitive than he let on; holding his own in the top ten. Mountain bike spectators are strange in that we don’t relish falling off our own bikes but are quite happy to watch others come to grief as long as there are no serious injuries. A rider at the front of a bunch coming over the top loses control. The marshal alerts following riders that they need to stop while he picks himself up. As he stands up and dusts himself off the other riders take this as their cue to start racing again. He has other ideas and instead of waiting for them to pass gets back on his bike and sees if he can get in their way again. A rider carries his bike down the steep slope – he is abandoning the race as he is feeling ill. The marshal shows him the way back to the start – he is obviously genuinely unwell as once down on flat ground he does not remount his bike but just keeps walking.

With time running out until I have to eat and get ready for work, we relocate to a section of technical trail close to home and watch for another half and hour.

Almost home

The next day I ride the new section of trail thinking that not many people know about it and it being a Monday I will have it to myself. It twists narrowly between the thickly wooded trees. There are plenty of roots to contend with and a few short steep descents. I end up walking these as the roots and uneven ground before and after them means it is not possible to just sit back and roll down. The blue race tape is still hanging from the trees and I come across a specially constructed bridge.

A bridge too far

The trail opens up into a grassy area and in spite of having had to walk in places I decide that at the end I will cut back to the beginning and ride it again. Three riders unexpectedly appear going in the other direction and I suppose they must be copying my idea of repeating the trail. I reach the top of the final steep descent which, after having stood at the bottom of yesterday, I have no intention of riding it. I peer over the top and feel like I am being watched and indeed I am. There are four riders below looking up at me. I calmly pick up my bike and making sure I remain upright, walk down to the bottom. They are still staring me, saying nothing. I get back on the bike and ride off heading for home – a repeat ride will have to wait for another day.

A Morning Dip

It is the Crossmichael open water swim. Even if I was a strong swimmer this would not be the race for me – I tend to find most heated indoor swimming pools cold. No longer having a van to get changed in, Eunice has invested in a dry robe. It looks like a giant dressing gown and within it you are meant to be able to get changed whilst still maintaining your decency in public. Anyone who has ever seen me trying to get into or out of wetsuit would realise that this would not work for me. The robe has a fluffy pink lining. A few weeks ago it had been hung on the washing line overnight to dry. Looking out of the window I noticed that the blue tits were taking a great interest in it. A closer inspection revealed one sat on it plucking at the pink fluffy lining. Surprised at being discovered it promptly dropped its beak full of brightly coloured nesting material and flew off. I had to quickly rescue the robe from the line before anymore of the lining was stolen.

There is a chill in the air – in fact if you close your eyes to the fresh spring greenness it feels like the start of autumn. Having weeks earlier decided to consign all hats, gloves and scarves to the back of the wardrobe I find myself backtracking and seek out a hat. I look at my down jacket, think how cosy it will feel but decide that this might be overkill and settle for a warm fleece. At the race venue we manage to park about 200m from the waters edge. This means that if the weather takes a turn for the worse I could in theory make a dash for the car – however I am not sure this would look good, so come what may I am going to stand outside and watch the race.

The event is over 3 distances – half mile, a mile and two miles. All competitors start together and the route involves swimming out to the furthest buoy, which has a strange pointy shape, and back. This equals half a mile. Those swimmers doing the longer distances have to exit the water after each lap, run round a chair and then do it all over again. An added sighting aid for the swimmers is that the turning buoy is directly in front of the small graveyard and church at Bridgestone over the other side of Loch Ken. This together with the cold choppy water does not serve as motivation – at least the sun is still shining.

The route

Team photo

The “warm” up

Competitor hat colour determines which race they are in. Purple for the half, blue for the mile and yellow for the brave two milers. A man in a purple hat is complaining that he has a hole in the crotch of his wetsuit but seems confident that it will not hamper his race. There is a lot of nervous laughter but I am starting to feel cold myself and wish I was wearing my down jacket. One of the spectators seems to have had a confused wardrobe day – he is wearing a pair of shorts, wellington boots and has topped this off with winter parka complete with fur lined hat.

Trying to see the funny side

At no point in the race briefing does the race director actually tell the competitors what the signal for the start of the race will be. Hence, when a strange sounding siren goes off there is a delayed reaction before anybody starts swimming.

The start

With the race underway there is not much for us spectators to see. I keep thinking I am hearing the sound of horses hooves but it turns out to be a young girl on a very modern looking black and green pogo stick. Ten minutes into the race a blue hat can be seen swimming back to the slipway – their swimming style is such that they are obviously not the race leader – it is in fact the man with the hole in his wetsuit abandoning the race.

Wind blown pirate

The wind gets up even more turning the water ever choppier. At last the leader comes into view – yellow capped number 21. He is tall, thin and stands up out of the water easily. There is none of the usual open water wobbliness about him. As he runs he shakes his arms and hands; there is a smile on his face and he quickly re-enters the water. The leading mile swimmer completes his first lap – he looks cold. Eunice follows him – she is slightly unsteady as she leaves the water. The race director asks if she is ok – she nods but is having trouble speaking due to her facial muscles being paralysed with the cold. More swimmers come in – many of those who were intending to do more than one lap decide to abandon due to the weather. Looking out towards the graveyard I can’t see the pointed turning buoy anymore but think nothing of it. Number 21 completes his second lap – he appears to be the only swimmer unaffected by the conditions and although he has two more laps to swim the victory is surely his. The one mile winner comes in – he lies face down on the slipway shivering. I strain my eyes to try and catch sight of Eunice. At last I recognise her distinctive stroke but it is as if she is swimming in treacle, at times appearing to be going backwards. I am relieved to see her exit the water, she is actually smiling and gets a hug from the race director. Second place is hers. It turns out she had been told by one of the safety canoeists that she was off course but this was because the marker buoy had slipped its moorings and she was dutifully following it.

Watching others suffer

Now shivering with cold myself I am glad to retreat to the comparative warmth of the car. All around the car park swimmers are wrestling with their wetsuits; many from within their dry robes.

Skilful undressing

We start to head up to the pub where all competitors have a free burger and hot drink awaiting them. Number 21 runs past us on the way to his car – his energy levels still as high as ever. At the pub the landlord seems to think I am a competitor – it must have something to do with the fact that, like the other swimmers, I am wearing layers of clothes. I purchase a cup of tea and start to warm up. One of the purple hat swimmers declares that he could have done more than one lap. This is not the opinion I heard him expressing when fresh out of the water. That’s the thing about suffering during races – you quickly forget how awful it was and want to do it all over again. So that will be the two mile race for Eunice next year then…….

A pint at the pub

After a day of rain showers, the sun comes out just in time for my walk home. Handing over to my colleague for the night, I leave the shop saying I am going up to the loch with a beer and a few snacks. The thick layer of green moss which has been clinging to the tree stems all winter has started to recede. It has been replaced by what at times seems like fifty shades of green. The most eye catching of these is the vivid, fresh colour of the new beech tree leaves. As we walk up the path, the colours enhanced by the soft light of the sun make you feel like you are in a giant cathedral – it is akin to a religious experience.

Down at the loch side the water is still. Over the far side the herons can be heard occasionally squawking loudly. They have once again built their nests out of sight so we have to content ourselves with watching them fly back to the hidden nests bringing supplies of food for their chicks. The late afternoon sun warms us as we drink our beers. All of a sudden a female Mallard duck appears from the left. In her wake can be seen a number of what look like newly hatched ducklings. The male duck follows at a distance with the air of the proud father about him. A quick head count reveals eight. One of them seems to prefer its own company and swims at a distance from the rest of the family. When it eventually re-joins the group it is roundly castigated by the mother.

Ducks in a row

Twice during the week I include the loch side in my runs but the duck family are nowhere to be seen. Exactly a week later the weather and work commitments allow us once more to go up to “The Heronry” for a pint. We go prepared with binoculars and a slice of our finest seeded homemade bread. However, there is a deathly silence surrounding the loch, even the herons are quiet. There is not a bird to be seen. We begin to fret about what could have happened to the ducklings. Feeling relaxed after half a bottle of beer has been consumed, we attempt to lure the duck family from where ever they may be hiding. I whistle like a song bird while Eunice attempts a sound more gooselike than duck. Never the less it works – a female duck appears but our hearts sink as there are no ducklings in sight. At last one appears quickly followed by six others – there is only one missing; probably the adventurous loner. Their mother greedily gets her beak to almost every morsel of bread we throw into the water; her brood content to swim about around her. We walk home through the green cathedral happy.

Two days later we arrive at the loch to find a very small bicycle leant up against the pub bench. A small girl and her father are at the waters edge throwing bread out to the ducks. There are a few male ducks snapping at each other in their usual bad tempered way along with two females – one appears to be paired with one of the males as they swim close together. There is no sign of any babies but the solitary female seems distracted and keeps swimming in small circles. How does a bereaved duck behave? We have no idea but I find it hard to believe that in the space of two days all seven ducklings have been killed. The girl gets too close to the water and her wellington boots slip on one of the many roots. She falls and lands on all fours in the shallow water. Immediately she tells her father that it was because she was too close to the edge – he agrees and they both conclude that her mother will not be best pleased with the mud she now has on her clothes. She declares that she will now not be able to ride her bike home – this does not auger well for her future in the world of mountain biking. Embrace the idea of falling and being covered in mud would have been my advice to her. The father picks up her bike and they set off home.

The sky darkens and rain starts to fall. We stay seated as there is a large patch of blue sky following  the rain. A group of birds start making their way towards us – it is the Greylag Geese which were last seen a month ago and I had thought had just been using the loch as a stopping off place as they migrated north. They have produced four young ones and swim up close – the male hissing at any ducks which get too close.

Staying put

A dog walker and her two dogs arrive and asks if there are any ducklings. We say that they are probably dead but point out the geese to her. She says it is three years since there have been any geese on the loch. A couple and their dog arrive. Two of the dogs go for a swim and we are subjected to a shower of water as they shake the loch from their bodies. They all leave and the sun comes out. Thinking of going home we are surprised to suddenly see the duck family come into view – all seven are present and correct.

All present and correct

We linger awhile watching them clambering over the rocks and diving in the water for food. At this time of year a pub at the pint is proving a little stressful; especially now there are four young geese to account for as well.

Exorcising a few demons

In the past, whenever I rode my mountain bike, there was always the thought in the back of my mind that I could get injured. However, since my crash on an innocuous section of fire road I have begun to see things differently. Falling off is not necessarily reserved for tricky sections, it can happen anywhere. I vow to stop thinking of all the possibilities of what could go wrong and just ride in the moment.

Time to put this into practice – we head up to the red trail via the skills loop. We try our hand at riding a section of the black skills which I have recently realised is achievable. A short, steep rock to get up and then a gnarly descent eventually finishing in a mini rock causeway. My first attempt is unsuccessful – I end up riding off the left edge of the causeway. With my heart now beating slightly faster I repeat it successfully. It takes me another half an hour to feel warmed up and finally at one with the bike and it turns into a good ride. I manage a section I have never been able to do before and ride others which I have not managed in a long while. Some bits I normally do with ease I mess up but I am feeling so good on the bike that it does not matter. Descending the Slab Bypass I discover which rock is responsible for grinding down the teeth of my recently replaced outer chain ring as this time I hear the sound of metal on hard granite.

Looking ahead

Arriving at “Shake Rattle and Roll” I feel confident of riding the whole section without stopping. Two rocky hills, a long flattish stone causeway followed by the last hill which comes in two parts. Half way across the causeway I have a wobbly moment but keep pedalling and reach the end. The last hill proves my undoing – my normal line is to go left over the rocks but I allow myself to be sucked in by a broad, less rocky line which has opened up to the right. I get it all wrong and have to put my foot down. I decide my future mantra here is going to be “Last = Left”

Ride nearly over it’s a chance to try and improve our Strava times on the Back Straight Sprint before the pedal back home. Above the loch we contemplate dropping down to sit next to it for a while but time is running out – the less exciting prospect of an evening at work beckons.

One swallow does not make a summer

It has begun to feel like summer. As a cyclist this means a gradual decrease in the amount of clothing worn for a ride. I have reached the stage of only having to wear a single long sleeved cycling shirt, three quarter tights and a pair of lighter full fingered gloves. Overshoes are no longer required. With the weather set fair I have excitedly planned a long Sunday ride. As it includes some never before used roads I am uncertain of the exact distance but figure that in the sunshine a 100 plus kilometres should not be a problem.

The day does not dawn as expected – there is a thick layer of cloud and a breeze has got up. Hoping the sun will soon burn the cloud off I stick with my between seasons outfit but do make one concession by deciding to wear a gilet. I regret having decided against the purchase of a new brightly coloured pink one which had three rear pockets and therefore ample space for the array of snacks I like to accompany me. Now I am stuck with a boring black one, the pocket of which is so small as to be impractical to use. I stuff all the food I will need until lunch in my cycle jersey and hope that while moving my gloved fingers will be able to reach under the gilet to retrieve things.

Not concentrating while getting on to my bike it starts to roll back towards the kerb – I should have taken this as a sign of things to come. As we leave town the sun does indeed come out and as the first part of the ride involves steady climbing we start to warm up. Neither of us are feeling particularly full of energy and start debating whether the original route is a good idea. While mulling this over we start to pass fields of sheep with their newly born lambs. The farmer has adopted a complex identification system – on the left are sheep with numbers which seem to match those of their lambs. On the right are sheep which look like they have been marked by someone who has got bored with numbering and decided on a more free spirited approach. There is a sheep with “DEF” on its side, another proudly displays a blue star, then there are various combinations of X’s – “XX”, “3X” etc. The more unfortunate sheep have nondescript marks haphazardly sprayed on them in either red or blue – this is the point at which the sheep marker must have run out of inspiration. A car of French tourists, which had earlier passed us, has stopped to take photos of the graffiti sheep. A red kite keeps us company for a few minutes and I see my first swallow of the year. We come across a field of cows – a calf looks like it has just been born; its body is still wet and it teeters on its spindly legs as it tries to remain upright. A group of still pregnant cows look on, some actively helping the new born to stay upright. The road descends in a series of swooping bends but with a car on my back I am unable to make the most of them. Eventually I decide the driver is too timid to pass me so I start using the whole width of my side of the road. When the car eventually does go by it is of the boy racer car type – black with orange wheels. He accelerates out of sight and I can only think that he was enjoying the view of women in lycra.

At Corsock we decide to do the looped section of the ride in reverse. This proves not to be a clever decision. I have studied the Ordinance Survey map but have only taken on board the roads we need to take for the original route. We are going to be heading high up onto the fells on very minor roads which are largely unsigned and where a knowledge of farm names is useful as a navigational aid. The sun is still out so optimism prevails. We stop in the small village of Balmaclellan for a short discussion on the mystery of the route ahead and come across the strange statue of Old Mortality.

Old Mortality

History Lesson

North of the rather impressively named St John’s Town of Dalry the now slate grey skies and cold wind force us to try and find a way to shorten the ride. There are visible patches of snow on the hills to our left. We start looking for an official cycle byway which goes up over the fells and joins the road to Moniaive. The quality of the road is unknown and as we turn up it I notice a sign on the left indicating the way to somewhere called “Cloud Cuckoo Lodge” – this just about sums the day up. The road surface is acceptable and there are even some sections which have been recently renewed. The rounded hump of Cairnsmore of Carsphairn is clearly visible but it looks nothing like its 797m of height. Up here there is a complete feeling of desolation and it is so cold – if only I had packed a jacket. With “The Green Tearoom” at Moniaive now relocated to Thornhill the plan had been to eat lunch out in the open. Up here is hardly ideal but I know that I need to eat soon – I have been fantasising about eating the home made Scotch egg and washing it down with a bottle of chocolate milk. With no shop for miles this is not going to happen. We stop next to one of the numerous cattle grids and shelter next to a low stone wall. Apart from the sound of the wind and the call of a sky lark high up in the sky there are no other sounds. It is as if we are only two people in the world. Back on the bikes and still climbing steadily we start to see signs warning us of livestock on the road – these have been placed over the original signs which were warning of the presence of a bull. The Herdwick sheep up here have had the sense not to give birth yet and are still heavily pregnant. Viewed from behind as they flee from our bikes, they look as wide as they are long. With the sky ever darkening we reach the main road and start the long descent into Moniaive. It is good at last not to be climbing but the quickening speed means the cold is even more bone chilling.

The  grocers shop at Moniaive is open – I don’t really want to stop but Eunice is hungry. We enter to find it serves coffee and there are a couple of leather sofas to sit on. Knowing it would be a mistake to sit down and get warm Eunice buys a large banana and toffee muffin to take with her. The woman serving at the till suggests that if we do not want to stop she can do us some take away coffees. Obviously not a cyclist herself I wonder how she thinks we will drink it while cycling at the same time. Once more we head up on to the fells – the difference this time is that this is familiar territory, the sun has started to come out again and these fells seem less hostile than the ones we have just come from. As much as I enjoy hill climbing on a bike, today even I have had enough and the thought of the hill leading to Clarebrand fills me with dread. Decision made –  we will return the way we came and in so doing can stop and get a photo of the graffiti sheep. However, in our absence they have moved away from the road and only the blue messy one is really visible. The boy racer is still out sight seeing in his car.

Graffiti Sheep

I am relieved to see home – just under five hours in the saddle, a hundred and six kilometres cycled and over a 1000m of climbing. I am reminded of the old saying  “one swallow does not make a summer”. At least it did not rain and I have established that the shop in Moniaive does sell chocolate milk – it was just too cold to drink it. I have even got sunburned and now have a ridiculous tan line half way up my calf to remind me of our cold ride into the wilderness.

The many meanings of the word “simple”

I draw back the curtains to find it is snowing and the wind is once more howling. It is my day off but unfortunately I will not be able to shelter indoors from the weather. Instead I have to catch the bus to Dumfries as I have an appointment at the optician. I have barely recovered from my shift at work last night. Not only did I have work under the watchful eye of my manager but it was time for yet another work related quiz from head office. This one concerned the fact that from the beginning of April all shops are going dark i.e. cigarettes will no longer be allowed to be on display to customers. The quiz is slapped down in front of me along with another document detailing our legal responsibilities as a retail outlet. There are ten questions and at the top of the sheet of paper it says that ten out of ten is the required pass mark – no half marks allowed. Failure to get full marks means the test will have to be retaken until the perfect score is achieved. I feel like I am back at school doing a comprehension test. I voice the opinion to my manager that the whole thing is ridiculous; particularly the bit about the half marks. She doesn’t seem to think so and starts explaining the marking system to me. At this point I decide to shut up and get on with it. Part of me wants to deliberately put down wrong answers but with her watching me I manage to do it properly.

By the time I have eaten breakfast the snow has stopped and the sun has come out. On the bus a woman is on her phone to a friend. She is complaining that her mother rang her earlier and told her not to bother washing her hair as the weather was so bad. Now the sun is shining, her hair is in a mess and so has had to be tied up – it is all her mother’s fault. I study her closely – she appears to be in her late twenties and therefore surely capable of deciding when to wash her own hair. She spends the rest of the journey dipping into her cavernous handbag for various forms of makeup and applying them to her face. The warmth from the sun makes me feel sleepy and through the steamed up windows I can see a light dusting of snow on the hills.

With time on my hands before my appointment I head to the bank to deposit a cheque. As soon as I enter the bank I am approached by a bank employee who asks me what I want to do today. I feel like saying that I want to  go home to my simple life living next to the forest but think better of it. He takes me over to a machine on the wall and shows me how to deposit a cheque without having to interact with a human being. I watch open mouthed as it spits out a receipt including a miniaturised image of my cheque. It’s not even half way through the morning but I start to think about what to eat for lunch. I go into the food hall at Marks and Spencer – I had forgotten how big it is. There is so much choice that I decide to come back later. At the chemist I am given an extra receipt with my change which says “Have you downloaded the Boots app?”. Luckily I do not have a smartphone.

At the opticians there seem to be more employees that customers. Once more I am spoken to as soon as I walk in – this time by a woman holding a tablet. Directed up stairs another employee shows me an encapsulated piece of paper which has a list of medical conditions and welfare benefits on it. She asks me to point to any of them that apply to me. Since it is not a computer screen I wonder why I have to point instead of just speak. Since none of them apply to me and this phrase is not on the page I have to reply verbally. The eye test passes without a hitch and as my eyes have not deteriorated there is no need for new glasses. Part of me wants to browse the frames to see if I like any of them but I cannot face having to interact with the style advisors so I leave the shop. My spirits lift with the thought that the spare cash can be used to buy a work stand for my bicycles.

Looking at my watch I see that the next bus home leaves in just under half an hour. The thought of getting away from noise and people sees me heading back down to the riverside and the bus stop. There is a notice on the bus shelter wall saying that in the event of the river being flooded no buses will leave from here and goes on to say where the alternative service will run from. I wonder why anyone would even think a bus would stop here when the mighty Nith river is in flood.

On board the bus I start thinking about how the natural world is content to slowly evolve with time; in sharp contrast to the human world where the pace of technological advancement grows ever faster. I walk home through the park enjoying the peace – I am glad to be home. Planning to spend a few hours on the computer I discover that there is no internet connection. My go to trick of switching the hub on and off does not work this time. Without access to the web how can I find the phone number of the internet  provider in order to discover whether this is a general problem or something specific to this house. Eventually a number is found on some old paperwork relating to the broadband installation. I decide to eat lunch first. My curiosity is drawn to an advertising leaflet delivered with the morning’s post. A local beauty salon is looking for models to try its range of permanent make up – all this for £150 and the ability to look exactly the same every time you look in the mirror. I start to think maybe permanent does not mean forever. Perhaps the woman on the bus would have found it useful.

The man at the call centre cannot answer my question – I have to wait until I can be redirected to someone with more knowledge. In the meantime he attempts to make small talk and asks if I can download any web pages. I say no and repeat that I have no connection. He goes on to say that when I do have a connection I will be able to go onto their website and get helpful information. I say nothing and am grateful to be quickly passed on to a woman who can answer my question – it is a fault in the local exchange which they are endeavouring to fix as quickly as possible. I thank her and am about to put down the phone when she offers me some advice – when the smiley face light on the hub changes from orange to white the system will be working. Although prone to episodes of stupidity even I know this. Exhausted I go to the kitchen, make a mug of strong coffee, choose one of the remaining birthday double chocolate fairy cakes and retire to my armchair. I give into the fact that even I cannot live without technology, close my eyes and to the sound of the steadily falling rain slip into a deep sleep.

The Queen’s Birthday

It is Eunice’s birthday and the day has not started well. Her present from me is a wooden backgammon set. Before it arrived in the post I was instructed by the company selling it not to sign for the package if there were any signs of damage. It is delivered intact and after removing the plastic packet and taking it out of the cardboard box I find the actual game is in a box covered in clear cellophane which I do not remove. I had wanted to look inside but with my history of never being able to restore things to their original state I leave well alone. Printed on the side of the box are the words “Quality checked in England” – what could possibly go wrong? It turns out the quality controller could not count to fifteen as there are only ten black counters. I fire off an email to the company expressing my dissatisfaction that what is described as a quality product has a fault which makes it unusable.

We head out up into the forest on the bikes. There is no plan for today’s ride – the sun is shining and the world is waking up after the long winter so there is much to celebrate along with the birthday girl. Her present to herself has been a smartphone and being competitive by nature she has downloaded the Strava app. This is her first ride on the trails using it. Before we get to any Strava segments I take her to see a scary rock and north shore section I found recently while out exploring. A steep rock of about three metres leads onto a narrow piece of north shore almost at right angles to it. After a few metres this steps up on to yet another wooden section. Anyone riding this would have to be in complete control of their bike – this is not where you can just point your front wheel and hope for the best. The first time I came here I looked at it fearfully and then just retraced my wheel tracks. Eunice decides that we are going to walk it with the bikes. This is in itself scary as the wooden sections narrows to a point where there is just enough room for my feet and no room for the bike so I have to carry it. I begin to think we will reach a section which we won’t manage to get down and then we really will have to turn back. The last part has a downhill rock slab so steep that the only way down would be to actually cycle it – that is if you were brave enough, which I obviously am not. To the left of it is a smaller rock and mud section which is less steep. Eunice takes pity on me and lifts my bike half way down this while I concentrate on staying upright as I clamber down. We regroup in one piece at the bottom.

The rest of the ride is uneventful except for the fact that Eunice is riding everything fast so as to maximise her Strava awards. I more or less manage to keep up. Close to home we decide to take time out at the loch side. The steep path down to the waters edge has for months been blocked by a large fallen tree. Even though this is an unofficial route, the workers carrying out the face lift of the forest have cleared the tree away. A second line has started to form and I set off this way. Unfortunately in my rush to get to the bench for a sit down I forget one of the first rules of mountain biking – always look as far ahead as possible. I have drifted completely off the track and am headed for a rock which is far too big to ride over. I manage to stop in time and decide to take the road more travelled.

Queen of the loch

Eunice excitedly pulls out her phone – she has registered 16 achievements including a QOM. For the uninitiated this stands for Queen of the Mountain. The herons squawk their congratulations from the other side of the water. Even the grebe is being vocal today – that is when it is not doing its underwater swimming stunt.

I return home to an email from the seller of the backgammon set. A new one is being sent today and as the manufacturer does not want the faulty one back we even have spare parts. All those Strava achievements and five counters short of two backgammon sets – this is birthday fit for a Queen.

Forest Facelift

For a month the car park at the Town Wood entrance has been closed for improvement work. This is an area some of my runs pass through and I had at first thought that I would be able to sneak through out of construction hours. This proved not to be the case as the area was completely sealed off. Then unexpectedly a portaloo appeared about a kilometre away from the car park on the path to the loch – right next to the impressive wooden sculpture of the Three Salmon. Surely this was not going to be a permanent feature I thought. Shortly afterwards workmen and construction vehicles arrived – this work had not been publicised. Some access points were sealed off and even out of this area equipment blocked the road. Returning after a particularly muddy ride on the bike three workers stood and watched as I tried to squeeze through the only space available which was between two of their vehicles. One of them was “kind” enough to close his door so as to give me more room.  I decided to get off the bike and ease it through the space instead of possibly scraping it against the vehicles. It was only when I got home and looked in the mirror that I understood the reason for them staring – my face was covered in mud.

Knowing some unofficial paths down to the loch I thought I could still find a way through on my runs. This proved not to be the case as every exit out of the loch was blocked. I hastily beat a retreat but at least now knew the reason for the work. The path around the loch was being completely reconstructed to make the area more accessible. Some sections of the path had become so waterlogged over the winter that it was no longer possible to avoid having your feet disappear into a layer of mud.

After a week the loch work was complete and the car park reopened –  it was time to view the makeover.

Car Park Stone Circle

Subsequent work has since taken place and the stones in the circle are now joined with rods, while metal leaves are attached to some of them. Three golden hedgehogs are dotted on rocks close to the car park. An excerpt of a verse from “Poor Robin’s Almanac of 1733” is etched on a low rock which serves as a seat. It concerns the belief that hedgehogs have prior knowledge of the prevailing winds for any given winter and therefore build their nests accordingly. Since I have never seen a hedgehog here perhaps they have lost the ability to see into the future. I can’t help thinking that the local red squirrels will be feeling left out as they are the reason many people come to walk in the forest. Beware the disgruntled reds showering the golden ones with pine cones.

Metal and Rock

The Rare Golden Hedgehog

Throughout the forest large signposts have gone up helping visitors find their way to the shore at Kippford or via the picturesque lochs to Colvend. Many of the walking guide books for the area seem to mark these routes in red on their maps. Up to now this has been a recipe for confusion and disaster as some walkers see the arrows indicating the direction of the red mountain bike trails and follow these instead.

Lost No More

The smoothed out path round the loch will make it easier to take in the views while running – no need to concentrate on dodging puddles and wet roots. The mountain bikers who perhaps wrongly use the walking path will probably not be as happy as the construction work has even smoothed out a few interesting features to the side of the route. However, more people will now be able to enjoy the peace and tranquillity down by the loch. This means my “pub”, The Heronry, may be busier this summer – just as long as “customers” remember it is a bring your own snacks and drinks venue and all litter should be taken home.

Easier Access

Stillness

One of my aims for the winter had been to get out on the road bike more. Looking back at my training diary I see that since the beginning of November I have only been out twice. This has not been because of lack of motivation but is down to the weather. Strong winds, torrential rain and when these were absent – ice and snow. As much as I like road cycling my passion is not so great that I am willing to brave any of these elements. Cold, wet and a few hours away from home is not a good place to be.

Today it is all change on the weather front. There is not a breath of wind, the overnight frost has started to melt and the patchy fog has started to lift. Walking into town for some shopping I notice that this sudden disappearance of wind has caused the normally chattering jackdaws who hang out at the primary school to fall silent. Yesterday I had watched intently as one had removed a large twig from a nest under the eaves of the building. It sat on top of the give way sign and appeared to be trying to trim the twig. This was a time consuming process and I started to move off; realising that a middle aged woman staring into space outside a school may be viewed as suspicious. At this point the bird grew tired of its project, let go of the branch and flew back up to the nest.

The butcher’s assistant is a cyclist and asks what my plans for the day are. I reply that I am going out for a road cycle. He declares that he will be doing the same thing on Sunday and is planning to ride a 100 miles. He claims he will do this without stopping;  fuelled only by a few energy gels and a Mars bar. Although I plan to ride only around 60 kilometres I will probably be taking as much food although I will be swopping the chocolate bar for something more energy rich.

In honour of the cycle I have actually spent time cleaning the bike; including what seems to be a few years worth of dirt from the chain. White is not a great colour for a bike as every speck of dirt shows up on it, but it was the only colour available the year I bought it. I decide that perhaps this summer the white bar tape should be replaced with a darker colour. Black is probably the most practical but I am fancying red.

The wait is over

I set out on the ride with good intentions and vow to keep an eye on my cadence so as to prevent laziness creeping in. This does not last long as I start scouring the fields for newly born lambs, with no luck. The heavily pregnant ewes are silently nibbling the grass before their peaceful existence is shattered by the arrival of the lambs. Looking over the Solway  the sea is like a giant lake with barely a ripple disturbing the surface. Just before I turn back inland at Caulkerbush the road surface is covered in water and I have no option but to ride straight through it. With no front mudguard  the discoloured water splashes onto both my lower legs and the bike reaching as far as the white taped handlebars. Since I have promised the bike that in future it will not be put back into the garage dirty a post ride cleaning session will now be necessary.

After 30 kilometres I start to find my rhythm but I have still not found any lambs. The blades of the two wind turbines at Crofthead farm are motionless. Up ahead a woman from one of the farms is out for a walk. Her wax jacket is draped over her shoulder and in one hand she carries a pair of thick looking black gloves. I am beginning to feel over dressed myself. We exchange greetings and remark on how spring like the day feels.

At last my lost lambs. Climbing up Fell Hill I hear them before I see them. Their high pitched bleats mingling with the deeper baa baa of their mothers. I ride past a thicket of trees containing a number of crows nests built at the tops of the branches. I am reminded of my late grandfather who always said it was going to be good summer if “the crows were nesting high”. It took me a few years to realise that the crows always seemed to put their nests in the same place regardless of the weather.

At Kirkgunzeon I eat the last of my energy bar and crossing over the main road know that the climbs are all out of the way now. The best part comes at the end of the ride – the swoopy descent past the sawmill back into town.  Bike cleaning and more food beckons…

A week on – the wind has returned and the butcher’s assistant is nowhere to be seen – perhaps he is still out there?