When I sit on the bus thinking about it all I invariably find myself yearning for the next opportunity to be 'out there', in the uneven world, the rough places with no handrails and steep drops, heart pumping lungs bursting and eyes straining to grasp the beauty of it all. Then there's the lycra....
Never owned a sleeping bag let alone a mountain bike / I lied about being the outdoor type.*
Actually I didn't. I am and always will be the outdoor type. I didn't become an outdoor type to get the girls (as in the song) mostly because when I was a lad (a period of time increasingly quaint in its prehistoric qualities) outdoorsy types were more home knitted bobble hats and Kendal Mint Cake than Xtreme Lycra and re-hydration formulas. But I did and still do find a bit of extra-urban activity a great way to improve your social life even if it does mean falling over a bit.
It all started when I bought myself a mountain bike. This event was the culmination of a lengthy process of due diligence, throughout which the highest standards of fiscal rectitude, and consumer prudence were adhered to - a) Pub conversation, b) Internet search c) 'Ooh! That looks pretty!' d) CLICK.
One week later the large brown cardboard box arrived carrying my passport to a new life of vertiginous tongue swallowing adventure and all I needed was an Allen Key. Bugger.
Early tool related frustrations were soon forgotten when the following weekend I joined three colleagues on my first Basque biking expedition. We left the train after only 15 minutes and yet the town was far behind us as the first of the mountains which crowd around San Sebastian shouldered past us – we were surrounded. The only thing to do was climb! - actually a lovely latte and biscuity thing would be nice first.... BUT then we climbed!
It's wet in the Basque Country ( I think I've covered that before ) and with wetness comes mud, and mud makes cycling up hill as ...well lets just say it's hard. If you doubt that, get one hamster, put it in its wheel pour two parts runny clay one part cow pat over the rungs and watch it struggle on, paying close attention to its poor little hamster expression...not too happy I think we can all agree.
The hill went on, and on. Then in a turn of events that shocked no one it went on some more. I was fast running out of credible reasons to stop (sticky gears, call of nature, stone in shoe) and was in danger of regurgitating my lovely biscuity thing all over my new shorts. Breathing raggedly I stuck to the wheel of Bob 'King of the Mountains' Bob (who was clearly doing his best to refrain from whistling a happy tune as he glided upward) and hoped to avoid disgrace. Thankfully just as I could go on no further, we went on no further.
Going up seems so unpleasant – until you start to go down.
James our leader for the day “I am rubbish at directions – no honestly. Follow me!” gave myself and fellow greenhorn Karl some pertinent advice before the descent. “Just be careful of your brakes. The last bloke I brought up here broke his arm. Follow meeeee!” ...and he was off. There was nothing for it but to be off too.
This must be the steep bit I thought, before getting to the steep bit. I felt that the gradient, uneven terrain and my lack of an exoskeleton warranted at least a cursory investigation of the breaking options, despite what James has said. I pulled on a lever and found that rolling head long down a mountain was not quite as scary as SKIDDING headlong down one so I released the brake and held on tight.
If I told you that I had not several times during that first descent wished that I was elsewhere doing that cool safe and completely non-life-threatening elsewhere stuff I would be telling a half truth. I actually tried to wish this repeatedly but only got as far as “I wi..” before all brain power was again diverted to avoided bone crunching disaster. Then I fell.
Nothing heroic, no airtime, no cartwheeling just mud and pain. I slipped in a particularly aggressive swathe of muddiness lost the front end and gave my already twisted ankle a nasty bang. I didn't cry but it did make my leg jiggle uncontrollably which could have been mistaken by the casual observer as fear I knew better of course it was pain – oh, and fear.
It was at this point that I started to enjoy myself. The gradient eased the mud retreated and I swept down the mountain with increasing confidence. The relief high was beautiful, mixed with the sense of achievement it made for an addictive cocktail. All too soon we were back on tarmac and moments later plonked our mud splattered bodies in the local plaza for a well earned beer. I was already thinking of the next trip.
Since that first outing I have been up and down four more local hilly spots and in the sterling company of Bob, James, Karl and Paul** I look forward to nearly dieing in the great outdoors as often as I can manage.
* The Lemon Heads - For those who have never heard it listen here.
** All from Northern England. Coincidence? I don't think so..
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