SXC Round 1 - Kirroughtree

The last race of the 2010 XC season saw us compete in the Eastern Championships, on a fast, flat, sun-baked, erm...”Eastern” course. So when the 2011 Dales Cycles Scottish XC Series got underway last weekend at Kirroughtree in the Galloway Forest Park, things couldn’t have been more different! Let’s set the scene. Saturday evening and what seems like half of the Scottish mountain biking world are tweeting about the fast, dry conditions . Sunrise over the forth road bridge seemed to confirm their predictions and left both of us wondering whether our early morning packing frenzy should have included some semi-slicks. An hour later, with scotch mist hanging in the trees and very damp looking sheep by the roadside we had our faith restored in Metcheck!

For those of you that don’t know Kirroughtree is a gem of a trail centre. One of the 7 Stanes it is particularly well known for “McMoab” (southern Scotland’s damper but greener answer to Utah slickrock). Thankfully for Rachel, who finds the idea of a big slab of rock, let alone the cheesegrater granite found around Newton Stewart, quite quite terrifying, it didn’t feature in the SXC course. Damned lazy first-aiders! What the course lacked in white granite-covered whales, however, it more than made up for in a classic SXC mixture of big climbs and fun, sketchy descents. The overnight rains had not been kind to the early “natural” section of technical climb, however, which had gone from dry, to spongy to mud-spraying, wheel spinning give up and run territory. It did make for plenty of chirpy conversations, though, nobody prepared to admit that they didn’t have the breath left for a chat after hauling a mud-plastered bike up the hill! By far the defining section of the course was a slick, mossy, over the edge of control descent where i was expecting (based largely on total racist bias that all Scots are born knowing how to descend effortlessly on two wheels) to be taught many valuable lessons, all with style and panache. Suitably adrenaline-filled, you were then spat out onto a fire road through the arena to start the whole process again.



After second breakfast, and a fully waterproofed reccie (both perhaps signs of a seasoned competitor? – i like to think so!), it was time for Rachel to line up with the rest of the women’s racers. The elites, doing 4 laps of the course, were shown the way by Torq rider Lee Craigie, who led into the first corner and never looked back, with last year’s series winner Elke Schmidt comfortable in 2nd, and Leslie Ingram in 3rd. Rachel made up a place on the last lap, after marooning me in the feed zone with only the wildlife for company during her final lap, to come in 4th, and she assures me much more importantly “not last”! Having spent the last month searching out new places to ride, and watched Rachel ride with common sense and temerity, it was good to see her back to her old descending ways and with a smile on her face!

Free from feeding duties, i had just enough time to scoop the worst of the mud out of my bike’s stays, and oil the chain before it was time to head out and warm up. A quick blast up the hill left me suitably out of breath, clammy, and wondering why on earth i was pinning on a number and not going for a nice ride with slower people. The elites were called forward. Not feeling very “elite” i didn’t respond straight away, but when i did, the commissaire did nothing for my confidence by asking me “are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”. I mumbled something about being an expert rider, and promised i would try not to get in anyone’s way, and he seemed happy enough with that. We were reminded by the start marshall that we would be doing five, not four, but five, count them, five laps. Oh well, i am supposed to be an “endurance racer” i thought!

SXC MTB Kirroughtree 2011 from Rachel Fenton on Vimeo.

The whistle went, and for the first time in my life, when not at traffic lights, i found my pedal first time. No excuse in hand not to, i sprinted to stick to the wheels of the proper elites in front. It lasted until the first corner, where the climbing proper began, and my legs decided to remind my brain that i should have been further back. Ahead, i could see all my fellow riders slipping away into the distance, bugger. But something amazing happened, the guys immediately in front started getting closer again, and the ones further away didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. I chuckled at the memory of “the ones in here are small, but the ones out there are far away...”. Coming through the end of the first lap, i could still see Rob Friel and James FM ahead through the feed zone, and did my utmost to chase. It was not to be however, the anthem having the unfortunate side effect of inspiring confidence that this rider’s skills do not match. Going off one of the rocky drops, i landed a little heavy, and heard the snake in the tyre hiss. D’oh.Puncture fixed and back going, i came through the feed zone sufficiently soon that Rachel thought my meltdown was merely physiological rather than mechanical, and my thoughts went back to catching up lost time. I patted myself on the back for riding more tentatively over the drop that had got me last time, and then promptly pinched not 200yds further on. Game over.

Well, not quite. There were still 4kms to cover, on foot, with a broken bike. Being a good citizen, i did a spot of litter-picking on the way, and by the time i got back to the start finish had pockets full of gels packets, several postie rubber bands, and a chain! How do you lose a chain?! I also had a front-row seat for the final-lap battle between GT team mates Dave Henderson and Gareth Montgomerie who had been locked together since minute one, and were only separated by a final sprint for the line, Gareth just pipping Dave. An evergreen (i only ever see that word applied to Nick Craig; surely a compliment then) James Fraser-Moodie picked up the final podium spot passing Rob Friel on the last lap. First expert was fellow Fife-dweller Doug Shearer in fifth.



Thanks as ever to sponsors AW Cycles, to the Scottish XC Series for putting on a chilled, fun and well-organised race, and to Rachel for being a bottle hander & cheerer without compare. Full results can be found at www.sxc.org.uk , and photos will be up on http://www.colinrobinsonimaging.com/ (it’s not all horses!). The next round is a bit closer to home for us at Aberfoyle on April 24th.

Northern Exposure – a mountain TT in mountains (well, big hills)

So, my first race of the year has been and gone! It does seem like ages since i last ineptly pinned a number to myself, and it’s always good to get the first race nerves out of the way before the BMBS creep into the picture (as they do every year – it’s always a shock!). I had originally intended to get a good training race in by doing the first round of the Sup6r Six road race series (basically the Scottish equivalent of the Premier Calendar, but with lowly races for mere mortals like me too), but alas it seems road racing is alive and well up here, and i didn’t get a ride in the 80-strong 4JWV field. Rachel did get a place, so we decided to divide and conquer – she’d do the RR on the Saturday, i’d do a local mountain TT at Knockhill on the Sunday. I’m just going to repeat my last sentence, because i love saying it so much – there was a mountain time trial held not far from where i live. Ah good, getting rid of the east-anglian chip on shoulder!

So, the first weekend of March rolled around surprisingly quickly, and before we knew it, it was time for Rachel to face her first ever road race at Gifford (just south of Edinburgh). The god of small things in cars had other ideas though, and after having got up at 6:30am to make the race start with plenty of time, we found our dreams of getting across the Forth bridge evaporating in the car park of a bowling green near Windygates as we waited for the nice man from the RAC to arrive. By the time our new ignition coil was fitted, our second of the week i hasten to add, we were already going to be far too late to Gifford to make the race, so a bit disheartened by the failure of our four-wheeled transport, we headed home to have a nice day cleaning and fixing bikes.


Blur is model's own!

Things were a bit more civilised on Sunday – my start time of 1332 made a lie in not only feasible, but in my view an absolute preparation necessity. There were quite a few names i recognised entered in the race, quite a few of whom had double-headed; doing the sup6r the day before for good measure, including Dave Henderson who i’ve had the pleasure of standing on the same podium as was back at the nationals in 2008. A “misunderstanding” between Rachel and myself about how far away the event HQ was (we thought, on the basis of a lie we had repeatedly repeated to each other that it was half an hour, it was actually an hour!) made for a sharp exit when we realised we had some distance to cover. Pasta in plastic tub in the car formed the basis of my less than gourmet lunch, and as soon as we arrived i dashed over, signed on (minus license – oops!), and jumped on the turbo to warm up.

A quick dash down the hill, and i was ready to start, with a hungry like the wolf looking Paul Newnham only a couple of minutes behind. D’oh! I got going, straight into the first big climb of the race that took us all the way up to the knockhill car racing circuit, before dropping us back down to the valley floor on a fantastic serpentine descent. I was too chicken to use my tribars much on the descent, having used them for a sum total of 30 minutes in the past two years, i figured that was asking for trouble, but gradually as the race went on my confidence grew. A little too late, sadly, as a flying Paul N came storming past me on the descent, riding amazingly fast, obviously due to not having the dilemma of whether or not to use tribars to worry about! Either that i was distracted from my usual lightning descending by the amazing views, and the pictures of various scantily-clad ladies strewn across the road at one point – you decide!

Grimace is model's own
The mid-section of the course definitely suited a strong time triallist rather than a climber, and left me wondering who this course does suit. I’m not really sure; i can think of plenty of time triallists i know who would have absolutely hated the fact that the whole race required constant changes of pace, but equally someone light enough to climb really fast would have struggled with the faster sections – i guess it just suited hard men. As i got into the second half, people started appearing in front of me – juniors were racing as pairs, and some were starting to struggle on the tough climbs. Equally, people started passing me. Next to come through was a certain Mr Henderson, catching me for four minutes. As the minutes ticked by, i started to wonder whether i might be able to beat Rachel’s best 25 time of 1:04:4?. At the final turn at Comrie, my watch read 1:03. I thought maybe, just maybe, but then i was met by a wall of lumpy tarmac; back down the gears i went for one final grovel to the top. To add insult to injury, the guy who set of a massive 8 minutes before passed me on the final climb to the line, he was absolutely flying. I didn’t even come close to Rachel’s time, in the end, finishing in 1h11m i think. Results to follow, but at the risk of sounding trite, that wasn’t really the point of today!



It would be easy to be upset about this, but losing 5 minutes to Hendo actually makes me pretty happy; it says that although i’ve basically only been back in training for a month after the madness of the move, i’m not totally out of shape. I’ve got three weeks to try to pull something together for Sherwood, and i’m pretty excited to give it a go. I’m now sitting here on the sofa with very sore legs, especially after going out for a spin with Rachel this afternoon that turned into an intervals session. But i’m happy, and i don’t have the race nerves as badly as before this morning. Let’s see what the next six months hold!

The New Life

I'm settling nicely into life up here in the "Kingdom"; i love my new job, and i honestly struggle to remember the last time i felt this excited by both going to work and riding my bike. It's been a while! Rachel and I have made it a weekend hobby to explore the local riding spots - they're rather more plentiful than they were back in East Anglia - within an hour's drive of our house, there are in excess of 20 places to ride an mtb, leaving us spoilt for choice. So far, my favourite has to be Blebo Craigs/Kemback Woods - a compact gem of a place - a mixture of dark forboding conifers and light, open beech and oak trees, tucked away just a few miles from St Andrews. Even better, it's within easy striking distance of a quick ride from work come the summer time - perfect training to get me ready for the Scottish XC Series.



And what perfect training it is, perched on a steep hillside hidden away in the rolling terrain of Fife, with some extremely steep downhill trails peppered with drops and jumps, followed by a nose on the stem climb back to the top of the woods. There's no respite, but if you feel ready for a challenge it's a great place to test your limits (and occasionally exceed them).



Last weekend was a busy one - Rachel and I headed over to Blairadam forest (another cool riding spot, albeit a bit further away) for the Scottish Universities Student's mtb champs - we were both racing in the old gits races, just as an early test of form. The weather had not been kind to the course, the sections that had been a bit muddy the week before were under three inches of thick, sticky, slippery scottish clay having been comprehensively chewed up by the sport race earlier in the day. The race was a shock to my underprepared, over-strained body, and i soon found myself totally unable to follow the pace of the front riders. I settled into trying to ride the course well rather than fast, making the most of the anthem to get through the trickier lumpy sections that had many other riders off and running, but bizarrely i found some of the riders who'd gone off harder ahead of me either swimming into view, or standing at the side of the course looking unhappy. Certainly, some of the roadies who turned up got rather more than they bargained for. The last few laps were a mixture of great amusement and great annoyance - there's nothing more frustrating than picking up some much mud and leaf matter that your wheels cannot turn. I eventually finished third of the alumni, and a lap down on the champs winner who must have been one very speedy runner!



Straight after the race, we drove on to Rock UK - the location for the 24hrs of Exposure later in the year, where the WXC Team were having their team bonding weekend, and Sara and Paul were busy putting the finishing touches to their ideal course for the 24 champs. We were greeted with good food, and good company, and were looking forward to some good riding on the Sunday. The weather had other ideas, and having stolen toast, jam and special k (what kind of a cyclist has special k for breakfast?!). After food, it was time to brave the torrential rain outside, fully waterproofed and ready to go out onto the 24hr course. Sara gave us the guided tour, including showing us a beautiful bit of natural engineering that she had been indulging in during the week, and then left us to our own devices in the rain at Newcastleton (wisely as it turned out). Rachel and I tootled around for a lap of the red route ourselves, and then were greeted by Paul, Trevor and Keith, all looking very cold and damp at the trailhead. We were enlisted to hit the route for a second time to “sweep” for lost riders – i think Paul was glad there were people even dafter than him there. Of course, after 3hrs of heavy rain whilst we were riding, as soon as we stopped so too did the rain. A not-so-quick lunch in “town” and then it was time for the team building activities, which were spectacular fun, especially with Trevor in charge of affairs!

In my newfound enthusiasm for riding and racing, i have “accidentally” entered a road TT, largely because it had the word “mountain” in the title. It’s the Knockhill MTT this coming weekend, and as the organiser told me two years ago that the event was run with 3” of snow on the ground, i’m expecting a tough one. The move has still left me a little sluggish, so i’m not expecting to be chasing a fast time, but it’ll do me good in the run up to Sherwood. With the season moving earlier and earlier, it looks like i’m going to have to resort to early season races more and more as times go by. Anyway, so long for now, ride it like you stole it,
Chrispy.

Mr Angry.

I'm settling nicely into life up here in the "Kingdom"; i love my new job, and i honestly struggle to remember the last time i felt this excited by both going to work and riding my bike. It's been a while! Rachel and I have made it a weekend hobby to explore the local riding spots - they're rather more plentiful than they were back in East Anglia - within an hour's drive of our house, there are in excess of 20 places to ride an mtb, leaving us spoilt for choice. So far, my favourite has to be Blebo Craigs/Kemback Woods - a compact gem of a place - a mixture of dark forboding conifers and light, open beech and oak trees, tucked away just a few miles from St Andrews. Even better, it's within easy striking distance of a quick ride from work come the summer time - perfect training to get me ready for the Scottish XC Series.

And what perfect training it is, perched on a steep hillside hidden away in the rolling terrain of Fife, with some extremely steep downhill trails peppered with drops and jumps, followed by a nose on the stem climb back to the top of the woods. There's no respite, but if you feel ready for a challenge it's a great place to test your limits (and occasionally exceed them). As soon as it rains, the loamy soil becomes slippery, and the trails do cut up and become seriously muddy in places, especially when the snow's still falling on the Cairngorms. The last time i went there, there was even a guy giving up his Sunday afternoon (clearly riding time!) to rake the leaves and twigs off the trails - bliss.

The added advantage of being based north of the border is that right to roam applies to everyone - any navigable path by any non-motorised means of transport is fair game, as long as you behave sensibly. Of course, this is excellent for everyone - ramblers can walk where they like, mountain bikers can ride their bikes wherever it is sensible to do so, even horse riders can add in their two pennith. And the price we pay for this enormous privilege? It's really a very small price, we merely need to behave sensibly and responsibly. This means the application of common sense by all these groups - obviously it would be daft to ride a horse up a downhill mountain bike trail, or ride an mtb fast down a narrow, much-used footpath, so simples - don't do it!


Maybe we could all learn a lot from this little chap!

You can imagine my disappointment then when last ride at Blebo, i was met by a man walking his dog up what must have been an impossibly unpleasant trail to walk - it was part of one of the steep chutes i mentioned above. He was invisible from the top of the trail, and when we did see him, we did our very best to control our speed and be courteous, only to be met with a tirade of abuse about the mess mtbers were making of the forest. Granted, the weather and riders had not been kind to this section, but really it would have been far more sensible to set off with the intention of riding down it than walking up it, regardless of the condition of the topsoil. And therein lies the rub. When we are all equal in the eyes of the law, and common sense is to be applied by all, then the one barrier we have to overcome as mountain bikers is the perception of "how it was". Sure, it used to be the case that he would have been well within his rights to shout and scream at us for riding on footpaths or private land, but no longer. All access groups stand together in the eyes of the new laws, and we have to make it work together, or really we all stand to lose a great privilege and opportunity to squabbling and infighting. Ultimately, that outcome benefits noone apart from the landowners that the access charter was set up to protect us all from. So next time you come across a walker on the trail in Scotland, be polite, be courteous, and if they cut up nasty - remind them that now we're all in this together.

Guest Blog: MTFU Training – Life through the eyes of a ‘50s tester – Installment 1.

Hello loyal readers – i’m assuming that there’ll be more than one of you, or i might be sued for that remark under the trades descriptions act or the like, but never bother. Let’s try that again, shall we. Good day. And welcome once again to my online diuretic of my thoughts and adventures hosted here on the world wide fund for spiders...web. Although this is the first one i suppose, so i might get sued for that and all.

For those that don’t know me, i’ll introduce meself. Often imitated, but never innovated, i have been compared to a young Arthur “the Engine” Smith (winner of the Wetherby BAR on 4 non-consecutive occasions, and Yorkshire’s premier Fred Astaire impersonator), and also now i’m not so young, to an older Arthur Smith. Mind, i did make the comparison meself, after which things got a bit ugly, and Arthur stopped talking to me. Having spent my long and varied career in alpacka jackets of many colours (but mostly black), i feel i have much to teach the “younger generation”; vet riders have no stiff upper lip these days. Why only the other day i was out in the rain with my group (“the lad’s” as i like to call them), and as i passed the turn to head back out for another fifty, i could see out of the corner of my eye the tears of joy rolling down their faces. Albert was the worst; having had a couple of months off for his hip replacement, you could hear him yelping with delight all the way home. We’d have got our ears boxed for such a display when i were a lad. I remember a cold Christmas in 1946 when me da gave us nowt but individually wrapped coals...but ah’ve digressested again. You good people (person) haven’t come here to read the ramblings of an old fool. So i’ll get straight to the point.

This morning, on the way back from the butcher’s where i’d bought my daily pound of offal (it’s a right treat with a boiled cabbage, and good for your humours too – you kids might want to write that down; that’s a golden tip is that) i got waylaid into the local newsagents. How you ask? Well, i’ll tell you (and you should know better than to question your elders). On’t magazine rack in the window, plain for all the world to see, was a copy of the so-called “Pro Cycling”, it’s cover adorned with the a image of a sun-bronzed Adonis climbing through the sun-drenched hills of some distant Mediterranean landscape. “Blood and sands” i thought, rudely awakened from daydreaming about what the Mail might claim caused cancer today, “what kind of an image is that to project to the youth of today?”. And I was right, What kind of an image is it indeed? Where’s the true motivation in a picture like that? There’s not a juggernaut around to take a tow off, and you’re hardly going to break the comp record if there’s a bloody great alp in your way.

And it gets worse. Oh aye. INSIDE this alleged publication, they have adverts for shorts. But not the woollen ones that we all know and love, no, these are made of a new, space age material called “lycra”. Now tell me this, if you don’t have the classic woollen keks on, how d’you know when to go home on a rainy ride, because these lycra jobs won’t have you spending a night in the cells for indecent exposure, that’s for sure! And Chamois Cream? There’s no way you’d catch me putting cream down there, it’d spoil the taste of the prime cuts of beef it is my pleasure to use for padding. No bloody way, i don’t care if it’s got a nice minty tingle or not!
So, in surmise, it’s no surprise to me that these young bucks who ride the Gyros d’Italy and the like dope, they’ve had it so easy they don’t know what hard work is. A few 100milers would have them straight, i happen, maybe this Contador lad’d be alright if he beefed up a bit.
What? Why are you walking away? Was it something i said?!

Stay tuned for instalment two when i’m once again feeling like a grumpy old man.

Cult Racing MegaCross

Only my second cross race of the year, and one where it would be all to easy to make a James Naughtie mistake with the title sponsors. Rachel's thoughts on the experience can be found on here new blog here. My report from the men's race later in the afternoon is below:

Having cheered Rachel along, and even found time to take some fairly terrible pictures whilst wolfing down some Shotbloks (my, what a nutritious lunch i hear you say!), it was all too soon my turn to take to the freezing start line. A small, but “elite” (in BC report parlance) group of ‘crossers assembled on the front row, clearly the appeal of driving to Bradford for a kicking hadn’t been sufficient to keep them from the real competition. After last year’s competitive lay-off between September and March, i’ve been keen not to stop the racing juices completely over the winter months this year, and so took to the line with a mixture of apprehension and satisfaction. I had a hard act to follow, however, with Rachel almost doing a “Spud” and winning her first race for the team!



The commissaire kindly pointed out where we would be going on the first lap, making a particular point to talk loudly and slowly to the non-locals (that was most of us!), and then gave us five minutes warning. Five minutes. Crap – white knees exposed to the winter breeze, the skinsuit was doing nothing for my core temperature when standing next to a frozen lake. I tried to distract myself with memories of Gran Canaria until the whistle went, and i was off for my “lull them into a false sense of security” start (patent pending). Sure enough, i got ritually elbowed out of the way, and ended up some way back of the leading group, engaged in a good battle for the higher single-figure placings. I had ridden around the course and knew that i would be less strong on the “field of tea cups” section at the back of the course – luckily with elbows out and shouts of “it’s just my riding style” i managed to hold position until a cheeky passing manoeuvre from a Cambridge Uni rider woke me up. Not being ready to cede a position to an upstart from my alma mater, i gave what i like to think was a spirited chase. Thankfully for me, he blew before i did, and i picked him off on one of the increasingly greasy and unrideable bank sections.



Coming into the final lap, it was a case of trying to stem the rot, and i quickly became aware of a rider closing fast. In a panic caused mainly by lack of racing, i tried in vain to ride him off my wheel (bad plan) rather than sitting up and forcing him to take up the pace to the line (better plan). He passed me on the draggy grass in the final straight, and i didn’t have the heart to spoil his day (cough cough cough). 9th place was actually a lot better than i was expecting, but i was disappointed to be beaten by a man sporting a fantastically unfetching blue cat-suit. Justifiably perhaps, i received further friendly “abuse” for this on finishing, unable to return fire through the chilling air in my lungs.

Once again i seem to have blinked and missed the 'cross season almost entirely; i had originally had planned to blow the winter cobwebs off with a blast around the Rutland National Trophy, but given that the Belgies tend to turn up to this one i figured i wouldn't get value for money racing around for two laps before being pulled. So i'll be relegated to pit crew and tub-gluer for Rachel for that one, and put what little racing form i have into the last round of the Eastern League at Ipswich on January 2nd.

Fickle

I am 28 years old. Since the age of five, barring the last eighteen months, i have been in education; a dedicated task you might think, but i would disagree. At the age of sixteen, it was clear to me that i would be an historian, or possibly a journalist as a career. By seventeen, i had decided that i could change the world for the better by devoting my life to chemistry. On to university, and the endless memorising of rules, coupled with a complete inability to do practical science without spilling things made for a hasty exit, stage left, from the world of chemistry. Through the next archway i stepped, into the cosy world of mathematics, where the only hazard was over-sharp pencils. Unable to even contemplate the impossible infinity of careers that lay ahead of me, i kept going, doing a masters in applied maths, and then a PhD in string theory, each step in a different direction, leading nowhere but taken for the journey, not the destination.

At some point during my early time at university, having been the fat wheezy kid with a note from his mum at school, i decided i would make life more challenging by trying sport. I started with that most Cambridge of beginnings, rowing. And i sucked. Big time. It almost came as a relief when a crash with another boat left me unable to row, and once again i could exorcise the serial malcontent within by trying something else new. I blew what remained of my student loan on a shiny new road bike sitting in the window of the local bike shop, the neat, slick tyres, the tidy sweep of the handlebars appealed to the perfectionist in me. With no idea where i was going, my first few rides turned into grim marches through the windswept fens to the north of Cambridge, where the best reward for an hour’s slog into the wind was ten minutes with it at your back. I loved the purity of the effort, and the freedom it gave, but something was still missing.

And so it was that one afternoon, a few weeks into my fledgling attempts at cyclesport, my next door neighbour pointed out my error. “Looks like a nice bike, buddy, but the wheels are too big, and the tyres are too slick. Take it back, and see if you can get a proper bike”. And so it was that i bought my first mountain bike. The two of us rode out to the local woods, Ash the knowledgeable and competent dirt jumper, and me feeling very much like a fish out of water. In that first session, i managed to crash twice, bending my brake lever and causing my front wheel to resemble a pringle. I spent the rest of the week walking to lectures with a rather uncool swagger from the haematoma spreading over my left leg. But i was hooked – i had become that oddest of beasts, the Fenland mountain biker.

Over the last decade that i have lived here, as you might have gathered from my introduction, things have come and gone in my life, and yet bikes have remained remarkably constant. I have dabbled in cyclocross, cross country racing, road racing, crits, and even tried unicycling, and again perhaps my reluctance to make a firm decision shows through. And yet, never have i considered abandoning two wheels for anything else. Perhaps the pattern of life is reflected in the outlook of the cyclist; in daily life we can be too preoccupied with the destination to enjoy the journey. But really, the journey is everything that we have.