How am I supposed to prepare for that? How am I meant to pace myself, mentally or physically, for something which keeps changing and morphing into different versions of a challenge which scared me to death in the first place? It makes a complete mockery of Benjamin Franklin’s well-worn adage, ‘Failing to plan is planning to fail’, because what happens when a plan fails?
(5) EXTREME CYCLING … 480 KILOMETRES ACROSS A FUCKING COUNTRY
How do you explain to someone what a black ski run is, who has no concept of either a green or a red one? How about explaining it to someone who has only just picked up a pair of skis for the very first time? This is a ‘mountain biking challenge’ and in literal terms, I can read about the distance we will be riding. I can refer to a map and get some idea of the route we will be taking (although this can be subject to change, many things depending, including an itinerary which has now been shot to pieces), but I have no clue how it feels to ride a mountain bike for forty-plus miles, day after day. I have no concept of the kind of riding – the different terrain, the severity of the inclines, the heat, the monsoon rains and the many other variables which could make ten miles of riding feel like a thousand; or could make forty miles feel like a walk in the park.
Also, I have no idea how my body will react to spending seven consecutive days on the saddle of my chameleon-green Costa Rican Trek bike. I don’t know which areas will chafe (although I have a reasonably good idea), I don’t know which muscles will fatigue first, or even how that fatigue might manifest itself. I doubt that I will ‘hit the wall’ as it’s very possible to do whilst running a marathon, but does the tiredness creep up in a slower, stealthier way, and cause a different kind of discomfort, instead?
I’m about to undertake an extreme cycling challenge, and – in addition to all the other anxieties – I simply don’t know what it will feel like to tackle this, the cycling aspect of this trip.
(6) THE UNKNOWN
Certainty gives me comfort, just like anybody else. I feel better knowing what the outcome will be, at times desperately searching for it, even when there’s absolutely no way of finding out. It’s part of human nature – if we know the outcome, we can mitigate the risks. But a huge part of my journey in life thus far has been to deliberately place myself in vulnerable situations where I can’t comprehend what the outcome might be, and where anything – including failure – is a distinct possibility.
I had no way of knowing if I’d make it to the start – or the finish – line of the London Marathon, back in 2011, or through the six months of gruelling marathon training after giving birth to my daughter in September 2010. I had absolutely no reference point for guessing at an outcome, and part of my learning was to force myself to expand my comfort zone and become familiar with the anxiety of not knowing. So, from that perspective, I’ve been here before. It possibly explains why I could place myself on this cycling challenge at all – because over the years, I’ve become increasingly familiar with taking risks despite fearing the outcome. And so far, it’s worked! But there are so many unknowns on this challenge. There are so many variables that frighten me, and they are threatening to force my ever-bulging comfort zone to bursting point. If I break it down into ‘the unknowns’ then I could list almost every aspect of the trip as falling into this category and therefore causing me anxiety: I don’t know who will be on this trip; I don’t know where or what we will eat from day to day; I don’t know where we will sleep each night as we make our way across a strange country. I don’t know where we will be cycling, or even how it feels to be on a bike of any description for more than a couple of hours at a time. I don’t know how the group dynamics will develop as we become increasingly fatigued and irritable. Will Julie turn out to be intolerant of Veronica on her continuing quest to find a sloth orphanage? Will Veronica’s Ironman husband become irritated because we simply can’t ride fast enough to maintain his interest? Will my Other Half end up wishing he were anywhere else other than confined to a small two-person tent with me and my BFF, anxiety, for over ten days?
* * *
The alarm goes off, but I’ve been awake for ages. It’s 4:30 a.m. and the floodlights around the Astroturf pitch are glaring offensively through our thin canvas tent. I can hear the rustling of bags, the unzipping of tents and general murmurings as my fellow cycling companions rouse themselves, ready for our first day of riding. We’ve been told that today will be a long day, and although mentally we can try to prepare for that, the truth is we have absolutely no idea what lies ahead.
I peer out of our tent and see that our minibus driver Coco and his helpers are already at the side of the pitch, laying out various breakfast options on a long wooden bench. I don’t feel hungry, but I know that I need to eat.
Coffee. Where’s the coffee?
I see some cheap plastic cups next to a large metal decanter, which is enough reason to wriggle myself out of the tent and head over to the pop-up breakfast bar. My Other Half is still in denial, his head hidden deep inside his straitjacket sleeping bag. My heightened anxiety is helping me, in a way: there is so much adrenalin now flooding my system, I’m on autopilot.
‘Good morning, Sam!’ I say to our lovely guide, who has been up for a good hour already, making final adjustments to various bikes and no doubt preparing for the other aspects of the trip that we need not concern ourselves with. He looks tired, but focused.
‘Hey, Rach. You sleep well?’ he asks.
WHAT? I realise this is polite, early-morning chatter, but I can’t think of any suitable, honest answer. NO. I DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. NOT AT ALL. I consider the irony of my current predicament: there is nowhere for me to hide here. No place for me to go to escape my fears. I’m truly, and fully, exposed. The only small comfort is that I’m wearing my baseball cap, which feels like a luxury. A few of the guys had a shower late last night – we heard loud groans coming from cockney boy Luke as he stood cursing underneath the metal pipe with a steady flow of cold, dirty water. I decided to give it a miss, and continue to wear my filthy cap instead. I haven’t taken the plaits out of my hair for days, and I wonder if it will ever be straight – or clean – again.
The black Costa Rican coffee goes down well. It doesn’t taste anything like my regular coffee back home, but it’s hot, and I trust that it contains some caffeine, which I will so desperately need when my adrenalin finally runs out. I pick at some strange white bread and take a slice of watermelon, but I can’t face eating much. I’ve packed some peanut butter protein bars in my Camelbak, so I’ll be able to have those if I get hungry later.
‘Right, guys, we’re planning to head off in ten minutes’ time. That’s TEN MINUTES, so finish up whatever you’re doing. Meet by the bus when you’re done!’ Sam shouts above the bustle.
There’s a sudden rush to swallow last dregs of coffee, and the Scots finish inhaling their Jenga stack of carbohydrates at the wooden bench. I’m done getting ready – my travel bag is loaded onto the bus, my bike is all set. I’ve filled my Camelbak with bottled water combined with a couple of electrolyte tablets, and the same with a plastic water bottle mounted on my bike. I still don’t feel entirely comfortable drinking from my Camelback – I prefer using my plastic bottle, this being what I’ve gotten used to since looting my daughter’s fluffy unicorn drinks bottle just a few months ago for my early biking challenges. And at this precise moment, familiarity is key. I need to remind myself of things I already know: I know what a mountain bike feels like, I understand the gears and I’m familiar with drinking from a plastic water bottle mounted to the bike frame. These things are important, and they give me a small feeling of comfort.
My double-shot black coffee has taken effect, and I’m ready. I’ve fastened my lid (I never tire of calling it this instead of ‘helmet’) and put my cycling gloves on. I’m standing over my bike, ready to go. One by one, the others in the group make their way over: it’s now 5:10 a.m.
‘Come on, guys! We’re ready to leave!’ Sam shouts with some sense of urgency, as Co
co piles the last of the large travel bags onto the compartment underneath the bus. I can feel my adrenalin surge as I know that once we hop onto our bikes and begin pedalling, it will be many hours until we can get off them again.
* * *
I’m unsure of the collective noun for cyclists, but ‘peloton’ sounds far too competent and professional to describe the group of us. So, the swarm of us set off, away from our five-a-side football pitch campsite and our pop-up buffet bar of Costa Rican budget breakfast options. It’s only Day 1 in the context of the cycling adventure, but we already feel as though we’ve been through a lot. Daunting as it is, it’s also a huge relief to get on the bikes. Many of us in the group were wondering if we ever would. This thrill enables us to override our extreme tiredness and frustration from the days of travel mayhem we have endured and there’s a buzz of excitement in the group as we finally roll away for the goal we have all come here to realise: to ride across the county from the Pacific to the Caribbean coast.
We head off cycling, awkwardly at first, unsure of our bikes and of each other. What is unfamiliar to one of us is equally so for us all, as we form a disorganised pack riding behind Sam. He’s now been joined by the main Costa Rican cycle guide, helpfully named JC (I’m relieved that he isn’t another ‘Mark’ or ‘Scott’). JC is built like a brick shit house, and, looking at his bulging calves, I can fully imagine that he can power his way through mountains rather than cycle up and over them. His younger assistant is a slightly-built, quiet chap called Carlos. The three of them – Sam, JC and Carlos – will take it in turns to lead us on our way cycling across the country, whilst the other two sit back and manage the different ability levels within the group. They will rotate these roles, but JC is ultimately the one who will steer us along the right route, up and around the right volcanoes (yes, you read that correctly), and towards the end destination for each day.
I’m stuck behind one of the Marks, who is chatting away to Posh Sally. He’s riding slowly beside her and I feel hemmed in. We’re cycling through a small town square, and it’s important to keep our wits about us until we are away from any traffic, although it’s not yet 5:30 a.m. Fucking hell! I can feel my frustration building, as riding along the quiet main roads at a very pedestrian pace is already irritating me. I thought this was an EXTREME cycling challenge, I think to myself, as JC makes a sudden turn into a gravel lay-by and comes to a halt. We all follow suit. What? We’re stopping already? I look down at my GPS watch and we haven’t yet ridden 4km. This is ridiculous! My mind is now racing with other worries. This is going to be THE MOST FRUSTRATING DAY/TEN DAYS EVER if we’re going to be stop/starting every 4km along a 480km ride. And there I was wondering if I’d be able to keep up! If anything is looking doubtful now, it’s my ability to manage my frustration that this challenge is so pedestrian my non-cycling seventy-four-year-old mother wouldn’t be out of her depth. WTAF!
‘Guys, guys …’ JC shouts above the noisy chatter – some of which is borne out of similar exasperations to mine, and grumblings about stopping so soon. ‘The reason we have stopped is because we will shortly be taking a sharp turn OFF the main road,’ he tells us. I wonder if he will make us stop before we make any turns … off any roads. ‘… and when we turn off the road, we will begin the first climb. This will be a long, tough section of approximately 15k. Coco will meet us with the bus at 20k, where you will have your first stop for drinks and a snack. Ride carefully, as the track is very bumpy. And take your time on the steep sections. OK? Right, let’s go!’
We scramble back into some semblance of a pack and once again I struggle to manage the cocktail of adrenalin, caffeine and irritation flooding my system. I just want to get going! I need to feel like all this was worth it, and to chip away at the terrifying prospect of having to ride 70km before the day is out. Stopping and starting, then standing around chatting about our lives back home will not make any headway into our task ahead. And I didn’t come here for this: I came here for a challenge, not some prolonged game of Patience.
Turning off the main road comes quickly, and it comes as a relief. There’s a wide, sandy track ahead of us, and if I look up, I can see it snaking up and around blind corners. This is more like it! I think to myself, as the prospect of being stuck next to Chatty Mark whilst riding slowly along a noisy main road is no longer a possibility. Yes! This is more like it!
The group settles into a rhythm, and our characters are soon revealed. It’s becoming clear who the group leaders are, and who wants to be at the front of the pack. It’s easy to see those who want to push a fast, early pace, and those who are happy to sit at the back. Cockney boy Luke and his pal are strong riders. And so are the three Scots. Mark and his Non-Scot friend are slightly older and not quite as powerful as Luke and the three Scots, but they are still very good mountain bike riders, and push themselves to stay with those at the front. Veronica is being permanently safeguarded by her Ironman husband in the middle of the pack, whilst Julie and Karen – the two older women – are happy taking their time riding slowly at the back. Sally is naturally fit, and she is riding happily alongside one of the Marks, who is still chatting away. They look to be having a pleasant conversation, and she’s not having any difficulty maintaining her pace whilst responding to Mark’s plethora of questions.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling to know where I fit in. My high adrenalin levels and built-up anxiety means that my body naturally wants to go fast, and so I push on towards the front. Plus, I haven’t moved for days! Being stuck in various airport lounges and then airplane – and bus – seats has been hell, and I just want to move. My Other Half is not wired in this way, and so he – sensibly – sits in the middle of the group, pacing himself for what is to come. I don’t ride with him; I don’t know why I can’t – or won’t – slow down. I ride along the wide, steadily inclining sandy track, and all I know is that movement makes my head feel clearer. I’m finding a rhythm, and I can feel my heart beating in my chest. I’m alone with my own thoughts, but I’m so focused on riding my bike that my chimp has been completely silenced. It’s the magical combination of being outside, in a beautiful place, and feeling my body working, whilst my mind becomes quiet. It is the same joy I once experienced with running: it’s the feeling of being alive.
It’s still very early morning, and thankfully, the baking sun hasn’t yet burned its way through the clouds, but it’s already getting hot. I’m growing in confidence with my Costa Rican bike, and – as expected – I find that having a similar model back home helps me to feel more confident with changing gears and handling the nuances of the weaving track, which is like being on a roller-coaster ride. Up, round, down … up, round, up … up, up, round … up, down, up … Every possible combination of ‘up’, ‘round’ and ‘down’ means that there’s not a single moment where I can switch off my concentration. We’re climbing again now, and the dusty track is making it feel like hard work. The pale, sandy gravel is loose under my wheels, and I must push hard on my pedals to keep moving forwards. The short downhill sections require just as much focus. I stand up on my pedals and trust in my bike to roll safely down the loose, bumpy ground at speed, whilst turning sharp corners. I don’t know how, but I’m trying – and managing – to keep up with the three Scots who are riding at the front. Besides, I still have Cockney Luke and his bulging calves within sight, so I know that I’m maintaining a decent pace.
‘I see we’ve got a speedy one here!’ one of the competitive Marks shouts as he suddenly increases his pace and rides up alongside me. We’re approaching an up, round, up section again.
Bloody hell!
‘Hardly!’ I reply, wondering how much polite conversation I have in me, and, more worryingly, how many more variations of the up, round, down roller-coaster ride it’s possible for this off-road track to present us with. This is vastly different to the first few frustratingly slow road kilometres that lulled me into a false sense of expectation, and a laughable worry that this challenge wouldn’t be challenging enough.
Those concerns are now long gone, as I continue to push onwards, around and upwards along this seemingly endless sandy track.
I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. We have fragmented into distinct sub-groups, and my early synopsis of the people and their personalities on this trip appears to have now been confirmed. Being neither a man mountain, nor built like a brick shit-house with calves like oversized breast implants, I’m continuing to work harder than I should be doing. Running is a different sport entirely, and it requires a different type of fitness and physique. Sure, I’d likely kick Cockney Luke’s muscly ass over a 5km run, but on a bike, he has the benefit of power. Nevertheless, I am choosing to push myself.
Push, push, push …
My Other Half is nowhere to be seen. I haven’t ridden anywhere near him for what feels like many miles. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he struggling somewhere at the back of the group? He’s very fit, but – like me – riding isn’t his thing. Over the past twenty years, he’s crafted himself into a runner, not a rider. But I don’t have time to worry about him just now. He’s got to pace himself, and – like the rest of us – he’ll have to get himself through every single mile en route to the Caribbean coast. I simply can’t imagine what he’s making of all this. Surely, it’s not what he signed up for. No doubt I’ll soon find out.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 19