Yesterday I got my boots sorted out. The cleats were worn down to a level of ineffectiveness that was getting dangerous and they'd been in the wrong place for months.
I sat on the bed, unable to decide what to do. After another week of riding to work, I felt too tired for a big ride. Eventually I completely dressed in cycling clothing with all the figuring that I'd go out and see how it felt and then make a decision.
I fixed the cleats on the boots and set out without a coat or gloves for a little test ride up the hill.
The feet fine. The bike felt surprisingly comfortable. For some reason I was expecting 400m of torture but no, it was comfortable - almost easy - even if it was fully loaded.
Unfortunately, a vicious wind ripped up the valley and it started to rain. Cold and snivvelling, I retreated to the house, put the bike inside and changed my clothes. Instead we dressed like hikers and walked into Sheffield for lunch and a spot of urban training.
Today however, nothing was going to stop me from going out. My fears of a torturous bike had been allayed, I could go out with ease and riding in the rain would give me an opportunity to finally take my lightweight paramo out for a proper test ride.
With all layers assembled I stepped outside to lock the door. I'd been here before - that feeling of being indestructible, immune to the weather. This is what I do - tough. That's me. I certainly didn't care that it was raining - that my rucsac was already wetted out as I swung it onto my back.
I rode back up the hill and onto the climb past the pump track. Half way up my left knee was screaming in pain again - there's the familiar bleedin' torture - ignore it, it might go away. I pedalled across the sodden rugby field and up the short kicker into the woods. At least my tyres held out over the slippery tree roots and I managed to pedal the loaded bike up and over without my legs dying or the wheels spinning out.
It was a different matter on the descent as I scrabbled to maintain control and avoid a sideways slither off the path and into the brambles. I only just held it together which was a relief as there were a lot of people around. I survived the road crossing and dropped onto my local trails.
Things went well in the woods and then I climbed up onto the roads that lead to the open hillside. By the time I turned away from roadways, I quickly realised I no longer wanted to climb any further upwards, especially not to follow another exposed road towards the peak. Instead I rode as far as the Good Dog's farm then made the decision to complete a loop of the valley before heading home.
For a fleeting moment I enjoyed myself. I was in the trees again. I considered a loop over Stanage, up to Burbage and back via Houndkirk but I soon realised I was a bit tired and fed up so I stuck to the original plan and continued to the top of Wyming brook past a succession of soggy-doggies until I reached the road to the Sportsman.
At least I cheered myself up by blatting down the descent on the big bike with hardly a touch of the brakes to slow me down and no sense of sideways about it.
On the traverse to the next offroad section I wondered if the Apple Shack would be open for flap jack but as I watched to see if they were open, I was momentarily startled to see two adult bucks leap across my path. One of those days when you know you've seen all that you came out to see.
I rode the final climb with moisture soaking through my gloves and into my fingers all the while enjoying the birdsong.
I've been reading "The Lost of Art of Finding our Way" by John Edward Huth as a book I lucked on in oxfam. I decided to recall the alternate route home from the trail through the housing estate - hoping to find my way across the cemetery into Crookes village. It was a fail and instead I crossed to Stephen Hill and dropped down to home the quickest way possible - across the tarmac - and all in time for lunch.
As days out go it was a short one but everyone's got to start somewhere. It was one of those days that you feel that its impossible that in 3 months time you'll be riding 110km a day over mountain passes and wonder how the hell you're going to get there.
It might have helped if I hadn't taken the kitchen sink with me but there you go.
