We’ve just finished climbing a gruelling up, up and up combination on the dusty roller coaster, and I’m beginning to feel light-headed.
Shit! Have I pushed myself too hard, too soon?
When I glance down at my GPS watch, I see that we’ve ridden almost 18km, and it’s not yet 8 a.m. I hadn’t noticed that the sun has now broken through the early morning cloud, and it hangs proudly like a gold medal in the sky. I can taste salt on my lips as though I have just licked the inside of a packet of Walker’s salt & vinegar crisps, and my lower legs are now caked in a thick dusting of beige sand. I look ahead, and I can see the apparition of Coco’s minibus in the distance. Is it real? What on earth was I thinking earlier this morning, when I was unduly concerned that I might become increasingly frustrated with multiple rest stops on this challenge? I’m now desperate to have a break. Seeing Coco and his bus gives me the boost I need, and so I dig deeper into my pedals, wanting to reach the point where I can have a rest and something to eat – I seriously need to eat.
Drenched in sweat, I carefully remove myself from my chameleon-green bike and prop it against the densely-packed vegetation lining the side of the track. I sense that Costa Rica is a place of extremes: the heat already feels oppressive and airless, whilst the lush, vibrant greens of the foliage are evidence of plentiful rainfall. We’ve been told to expect rain on this trip, and lots of it. When it arrives, it will come down in bucket loads. I wonder when that will be, and how many miles we will have cycled by then. Walking away from my bike feels a tad uncomfortable: I’d just started getting used to sitting in the riding position, but my nether regions are extremely grateful for the reprieve. I walk over to the bus, where Cockney Luke is grinning whilst inhaling packets of salty biscuits and some watermelon slices, which Coco has helpfully laid out on a small collapsible table. The watermelon tastes amazing and I could eat the entire plateful, but I must leave some for the others who haven’t arrived yet.
‘So, how are you finding it, Rach?’ Sam asks, as he is refilling his Camelbak from a large plastic vat at the side of the bus. ‘And what’s all this nonsense about you “not being a rider”?’ he adds, in a deliberately silly voice. ‘You’re kicking ass at the front!’
‘HA! I think I just got a bit giddy, trying to keep up with the fast boys,’ I say, feeling absolutely thrilled that I have successfully faked it as any kind of mountain biker, thus far. ‘Don’t worry, Sam, I won’t be up at the front for long!’
I know it’s very early days, and I’ve already pushed myself way outside my comfort zone. I feel much better after taking on some food – I eat one of my peanut butter protein bars, followed by some of Coco’s salty biscuits, and refill my water bottle with electrolyte solution. There are certain benefits to riding at the front of the pack: we get first dibs on any drinks and snacks Coco has selected for us. There are still plenty of salty biscuits and watermelon left when I reach the bus, but not so much for those arriving later. We also have more chance to rest whilst we’re waiting for the others to join us, and when they do reach the bus, they will need a decent recovery, too, so we have perhaps double the time off the saddle. Finally, there’s the undeniable ego boost of being one of the ‘fasties’. And, as history has proven, my fragile ego is a sucker for these mini thrills. I don’t know it yet, but I will pay a price for my lack of self-control.
We are high up now, and far away from any roads, traffic or civilisation. The only sounds we can hear are the wildlife, which is hidden amidst the rich tropical vegetation, and general chatter amongst the group, which is growing in number. Those riding in the middle of the pack eventually cycle up to the bus, with the stragglers not far behind. I examine everyone as they ride up to Coco’s 20km pop-up pit stop and assess them for vital signs: weariness, chatter (or lack thereof), smiles (or lack thereof), pallor, and general demeanour, and I reach the conclusion that we have all been shocked by the severity of the 15km climb, and suitably terrified by the prospect of what is yet to come.
It’s not yet 9 a.m. We’ve been riding for over three hours, and we have the rest of the day looming over us like an IED. After refuelling, I perk up, and it dawns on me that there is something incredibly liberating about being here, drenched in sweat, with absolutely no concern for anything other than the task ahead. I’m not wondering how my hair looks or consumed with worry over having tired, baggy eyes. Instead, I resign myself to the reality that by the end of today, I may well be as sweaty, filthy and exhausted as I have ever been. But I simply don’t care, because we are all in this together. We will all be caked in thick layers of beige dust from the mountainous tracks; we will all have visible traces of salt on our faces and our clothes, and we will all smell like the contents of a teenage boy’s bedroom. And, once I’ve got my head together, following an injection of pure carbohydrates, I allow myself a mini ‘YAY ME!’ celebration that I’m doing this, and I’m doing it … quite well! Keeping up with the fast boys at the front of the group is seriously challenging me (and I’m successfully disguising how hard I’m working), but I’m managing it. ‘Fake it till you make it’ … Seems the well-worn mantra is just as effective for riding.
You’re doing this, Rach! You’re bloody doing it!
My Other Half isn’t having such a great time. Understandably stunned by the severity of the climbs on this roller coaster of rough terrain, he simply isn’t used to any of this. He doesn’t say very much, but he doesn’t have to. He looks exhausted, and – quite possibly – he is in a state of mild shock. I can’t help but feel bad, because this was my idea. We pose for photos next to a sign with a huge arrow pointing backwards to Liberia, the place we have just come from, and an oversized number 20 (km) printed alongside it. It feels like we’re on our way – we’re only 20km into a 480km ride, but we’ve made a start.
‘Hey, guys! Come and have a look at this!’ Cockney Luke has been wandering around our elevated pit stop, and he’s spotted the first of our major landmarks of today: the Santa Maria volcano. I walk just a few hundred yards around the corner, and there it is: far in the distance, and separated from us by vast green fields and clumps of dark trees, which look like kale. The white, fluffy clouds are hovering in the sky just above the volcano’s vent, making it look like a child’s depiction of volcanic ash. I smile at the simplicity of the image, whilst contemplating how far away it looks to be. Suddenly, the enormity of the task ahead consumes me and I can’t quite grasp how much further we still have to go.
‘Right then, team!’ Sam shouts over the lunchtime hullabaloo. We’re another 25km further en route to the Caribbean, and closer to our destination for the night: a camp at the base of another volcano. The shock of the morning has finally worn off, and reality is sinking in. For the first time, I can feel my female undercarriage beginning to grumble following hours on a strange – and unyielding – bike seat, which is no doubt exacerbated by the bumpy, hilly terrain, combined with the intense heat. It feels incredibly uncomfortable, but I have limited options available. At break stops (there hasn’t been another one since Coco’s 20km pop-up pit stop) and at lunchtime, I head straight for the nearest restroom facility – which has proven so far to consist of a large bush and a small, dirty hole in the ground – and I smear myself and my sodden padded cycling shorts with anti-chafing cream. The greasy white gloop is now everywhere, stuck in my fingernails and daubed all over my black cycling shorts. It reminds me of those dreadful, sleep-deprived, middle-of-the-night nappy changes, when streaks of Sudocrem would appear on every surface in my tired desperation to spare my baby daughter from the horrors of nappy-rash.
‘Listen up!’ Sam continues, as constant chatter bounces around the cheap plastic tables we are gathered round. ‘This afternoon’s riding is pretty serious stuff,’ he proclaims, immediately silencing the socialites amongst us. What on earth does that mean? My first instinct is sheer panic at the prospect that the riding so far is not considered to be ‘pretty serious’. WTAF? I’ve only just managed to bluff my way through an entire morning o
f bulging comfort zones, cycling at the very edge of my confidence and ability. Not that I have a massive appetite for lunch anyway (I’m full-to-bursting with peanut butter protein bars, salty biscuits and watermelon), but any hint of hunger has now vanished completely.
‘The bus won’t be able to accompany us for ANY of the last 20km of this afternoon’s ride,’ Sam tells us. ‘This particular section is completely impassable by vehicles. It means you WON’T have access to the bus, or anything on it. You will ONLY have what is in your own Camelbak – no drink refills, no food stops, no Coco – and it will be INCREDIBLY DIFFICULT for us to help you during this section. Please be aware that the riding on this part of the route is extremely challenging. The terrain is very technical, with boulders, loose rocks, and some very sheer climbs. JC has ridden this section recently, and he tells me some parts have been made even more difficult by the recent heavy rainfall, which has resulted in large grooves and potholes becoming even larger. Those of you who DON’T want to take on this part of the ride – after what has already been a challenging day – have the option to jump onto the bus and ride with Coco, where you will meet up with the rest of the group at the end. It’s entirely your choice; you have fifteen minutes to decide.’
Murmurs circulate around the plastic tables as people ponder on their options, and the distinct personality types come into play once again. Cockney Luke and his fit cycling pals are relishing the prospect of this – some real mountain bike riding – the cycling equivalent of the offensively macho 1990s Yorkie bar slogan: ‘Not for Girls’. The older Marks (I use the name ‘Mark’ generically, referencing those who are strong, experienced riders, and who are happy hanging onto Luke’s coattails) are slightly apprehensive, but most certainly up for the challenge. Julie and Karen are both quiet – I assume they are, like me, seriously mooting their options.
The riding thus far has been significantly more challenging than myself or either of these two ordinary superwomen had anticipated, and we are at the very edge of our ability. Karen makes the sensible decision to quit whilst she’s ahead and ride on the bus with Coco. She figures that this is only Day 1 of our cycling adventure and she must have enough left in reserve for whatever lies ahead on Days 2, 3, 4, and … shit! When will this thing end? Julie, on the other hand, completely refuses to entertain the prospect of hitching a lift with Coco on the bus. ‘What? No way am I getting on that bus!’ she pronounces to Sam, incredulously, as he works his way around the group, asking each of us in turn for our decision.
I find myself once again in a comfort zone no man’s land: I’m both terrified that this will be a bridge too far, and completely beyond anything I’m capable of tackling on two wheels, whilst at the same time aghast at the prospect of bailing out and sipping a can of Coke on board Coco’s Safety Bus, whilst the others scramble their way along 20km of hardball mountain biking terrain.
‘Yeah, I’m riding,’ I say to Sam, as his eyeballs meet mine.
Whatever happens, I can’t duck out now – I must be brave enough to give it a try.
‘Good girl!’ Sam says, as though he hadn’t even contemplated that I might furnish him with any other response.
Karen smiles and waves wildly from the window as Coco drives the touring support bus away from us. I briefly wonder if I could run fast enough to catch up with it. She doesn’t seem at all mithered by any Bastard Chimp rampaging in her head, unlike the one who is now jumping up and down in mine. It’s very clear to see that Karen is simply delighted with her decision to stick her bike on the roof of the bus and sit this part out. I envy her lack of self-flagellation.
‘Right, guys! I’ll be riding in the middle of the pack, and Carlos will be hanging at the back. Try to keep moving as much as possible throughout this section, and please let the more confident riders go in front. This is only fair for those who have more mountain biking experience and technical ability. The three of us will help as much as we can, but we can’t ride it for you! JC is leading from the front. Let’s go!’
With that, our rather subdued non-peloton gets back into action and rides away from the roadside hut with dirty plastic tables and matching chairs. It takes a few kilometres for us to lose all semblance of civilisation, but once we do, it soon becomes very clear why this section has been described as ‘impassable’. I think back to the dusty, beige roller-coaster track from the early hours of this morning, and I laugh at the thought that, as difficult as it felt at the time, it was a piece of cake compared to this! THERE IS NO TRACK, PATH OR TRAIL HERE! The roller-coaster track may have meandered endlessly up, down and around in a million arduous combinations, but it was a track nonetheless. This? Some spiralling, deep grooves carved in the side of a volcano littered with loose boulders, tree roots that have been ripped up from the earth, and – well, the only thing missing is molten lava cascading down the mountainside, which we are supposed to be riding. It dawns on me that my ego may have forced me into a corner from which it is now impossible to escape. I simply have no option but to make my way along 20km of the most ridiculous – seemingly impossible – technical terrain on two wheels.
My mind has a flashback to just a few months ago, when the task of riding along the (ahem) ‘bumpy’ canal, avoiding extendable dog leads and low stone bridges was a challenge.
What the hell happened? How did I go from there to being here? What would the rest of the group say if they had any idea of my inexperience or ineptitude? Can I hide it from them all the way across Costa Rica? Four hundred and eighty kilometres right up to the Caribbean Sea? Is it possible for me to fake it for so long?
Cockney Luke with his breast-implant calves is nowhere to be seen. He and his small posse of real, Yorkie-bar-eating mountain-biking boys have cut loose and left us for dust. His power and confidence on the bike are surely enough to crush any boulders and vaporise the otherwise wheel-buckling tree roots churned up by the volcanic earth. I, on the other hand, must weave and gnarl my way up, over and around the same. My legs are caked in a thick paste of beige sand, sun cream, trails of sweat and dried salt. My padded shorts are as saturated as if they’d just been taken out of the washing machine’s rinse-and-spin cycle. My arms and my back ache from holding myself in the same position on my bike since some ungodly hour of the morning, which feels like it was a fortnight ago. I’ve been topping up my metabolic fuel tank with protein bars, energy gels, electrolyte tablets dissolved in water, salty biscuits and watermelon, but my body is simply not used to this. It’s like suddenly discovering there’s a Mile 27 of the marathon: the shock and fatigue of this new place is all completely unknown. Basic survival instinct means that I simply must do whatever is necessary to deal with this unfamiliarity. I realise that I’m left with only two options: (1) I adapt to the circumstances, and slowly make my way to the Caribbean coast on two wheels, or (2) I crumple into a heap of sweat and tears, and crawl onto Coco’s minibus for the remaining 440km. I choose option number (1) – to sit firm on my bike, and to keep pedalling.
I’m slowly grinding my way up the volcanic hillside, which looks to have been subjected to a recent landslide. I can see where water has cascaded down the deep channels in the ground, dragging all kinds of debris in its wake. The trenches are easily deep enough to catch my front wheel, and many times I simply hop off the bike before my nobbled tyres become wedged in a crevasse. Fucking hell, not again! I’m now muttering to myself, repeatedly. My head is bowed, and I’m focusing only on moving my wheels forwards – well, upwards – in whatever way I can. My words range from various frustrated expletives right through to desperate attempts at self-motivation.
Come on, Rach. Keep going, just keep going. There is absolutely no point in stopping, now. It will be over soon. The more effort you put in, the quicker you’ll get to the end. Remember the last 5 per cent rule? This is it: it’s the last 5 per cent.
‘I can’t ride over this,’ I rasp to Sam, who is now riding right by my side, doing his best to keep the small splinter group of us inching ahead when it’s clear th
at we are all ready to throw our bikes down the bastard mountainside, sit down and weep. A silence has descended, and there’s no longer any chatter about jobs back home or previous cycling expeditions.
No, I haven’t cycled across Peru, or paraglided off Mount fucking Kilimanjaro!
There are no words. Nothing can be said to make this any easier, or to make the route any more tolerable. I’m now so far away from the series of mini cycling challenges I set myself back home that I can barely bring myself to think back to my own apprehension at the prospect of riding five miles along a loose gravel path.
What the actual fuck was I worried about?
But the fear was real for me, then, just as the overwhelming task ahead is, now. The only thing the two have in common is the sure knowledge that they will both – at some point – come to an end. Eventually it will be over, and this time, I will have one MASSIVE, FUCK-OFF index card to place in my bulging box of mini ‘YAY ME!’ accomplishments. Or I might just begin a new box…
‘Push the bike over the really tricky parts, Rach,’ Sam says kindly, keeping his words succinct, as even he knows that he can’t do a single thing to make it any better. ‘And when you feel like you can, just start riding again. Look around you: everyone else is struggling on this section, not just you. This is highly technical, and it’s nothing to do with fitness,’ he continues.
I smile at him weakly and glance behind me. I can see Julie approaching, weaving her way up and over the impossible holes and unstable lumps on the ground. Her short, dark hair is glistening with sweat at the base of her cycling helmet, her sodden clothes vacuum packed onto her body with perspiration. She has a fixed stare which makes it appear as though she’s in a trance. I watch her for a few moments longer as she continues to push, push, push down on her pedals – pedals just like mine – and she continues to force her bike to inch forwards, up and over the inhospitable terrain.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 20