Riding the gauntlet

I grit my teeth, stand up, dig in, surge forward with great enthusiasm. My inner voice keeps a steady pace with my pedaling - why, why, why, why?

I puff and pant and dig deep for every ounce of energy to keep me moving forward, all the while I am being overtaken by ten year olds, who started the race after me, and who are traveling at alarming speeds, fearless and fleeting. They dodge, they weave and it takes all my mental and physical ability to stay on the straight and narrow and upright on the bicycle and not be knocked over by them. I move to the side of the track, to avoid an accident. The area is more rugged and I bounce over boulders, and slip and slide in the mud which was created by the night rains and which the sun has not got around to drying yet.

The morning at the starting line, the sun was shining, but there was a chill in the air. The tension was palpable. As I looked around me I encountered a sea of bright colours, and bodies of all shapes and sizes. All around last minute adjustments were being made. Tyres pumped, gloves fastened, glasses cleaned. The announcer, who sounded as if he was speaking underwater, issued instructions on the course on which we were about to embark. He told us of route markings and dangers to make note of.  I gulp. I have second thoughts. I ask myself why it is that I am doing this, and I ignore the voice of reason telling me that this is not such a good idea - that I would be better off watching the bags and the valuables with the other ladies, and enjoying a bacon and egg roll in comfort. I pushed my bicycle forward to the start line and waited.

The hooter sounds. Up out of the saddle, I am pushing hard. Two metres and we all come to a halt. We walk. We push. Then the path ahead clears a little, and we are back in the saddle, and off once again.

We round the corner, and suddenly the track falls away. Riders whizz past me and coast down the slippery slope. I take the more cautious approach - stop, get off my bicycle, and walk down the embankment. I nearly lose my footing on muddy, tyre-flattened grass. I have not even traveled a kilometer and already a sense of foreboding is washing over me.

At the bottom of the slope I bravely remount, intent on riding the remainder of the 20 kilometre course. One down, nineteen more to go. I tell myself that if ten year olds can do it then so can I. I fail to acknowledge that they do not drink or smoke, and that they were probably all in bed by 9.00pm the night before, while I was still out and about until after midnight.

In a bid to stay fit during the winter months I took up the sport of mountain bike racing. I inherited a bike from my ever-growing child and we entered our first race. He is loving every minute of the cycling which our team all participate in, but this is no surprise since he is built like a racing snake and super fit to boot.

The day of our very first race was glorious. We made an extra early start to ensure that we were prepared and on time for the race. 10 kilometers of "mountain biking terrain" awaited me. The other options I could have chosen were 25 kilometres, 45 kilometres and 75 kilometres. I erred on the side of caution to start off with.

The sun was baking down by the time we lined up at the start line. I noticed that a large contingent of the entries for the 10 kilometre race were all under the age of 10 years, and I smugly thought to myself "this will be a doddle". One kilometer into the race and I was panting and wheezing like a chronic asthmatic. I had fallen, and my shin was bleeding, I could already feel the grit in my teeth as the dust blew up around me. By the five kilometer mark I was reconsidering the idea and telling myself that this would be the last. When I crested the final hill I could not wait to rip off my gloves and my helmet and fall to the ground with exhaustion. The finish was in sight. I was hot, I was sweaty and I was covered in a layer of dust. As I smiled a lot and people looked at me oddly until I realized that my teeth had turned brown with the crust of dust which coated them! The child had been languishing at the finish line for about an hour already, remarkably dry and unaffected by the whole incident.

For our second race I bravely entered the 20 kilometre event - no more kiddies races for me.  I clearly had not learned anything from my past experience.  The day dawned, no sunshine this time, instead a chill wind and a light drizzle which soon turned into rain. The temperature hovered around the six degree mark as we stood turning blue at the starting line. The hooter sounded and we were off. My tyres slipped and skidded, but once again that biking lobotomy prevented me from taking the path less traveled - i.e. the one back to the car. I watched the other cyclists race away into the distance. I kept a steady pace and congratulated myself on not falling in the thick sludge which constantly felt like quick sand trying to suck me in. At times I had to dismount and dig the clogged twigs and mud from the wheel which stopped it turning.  Out on the course alone I sang to myself in a bid to stave off madness - despite that this may have been a sign of madness itself. I fell around the 4 kilometre mark and my shin bled for the remainder of the race. My sock turned red as it absorbed the fruits of my latest assault by my bicycle.  I came last by a long, long way, kindly escorted in by the marshalls who found me lost and riding on the 45km course!

During our first six months of mountain biking I bled an inordinate amount of times. My bike and I entered a battle of wits, a test of strength, and it always won. Even when I thought I might be getting the better of it, it found a pothole in the track, or a boulder, or a puddle of mud, which it gingerly negotiated its way to, in order to unseat me. I gave up holding on like a rodeo rider, adopted the spaghetti arms I had been advised to ride with and gave in to each and every tumble. My shins and my psyche are equally scarred.  I know that in an ideal world man and machine are supposed to be one, but I get the feeling that each turn, over each bump, my bicycle is staging an attack against me. I know this because it has been so successful in doing just this. Unceremoniously dismounting me against my will, at the most inopportune times I can ever imagine, so that I make comments like "oh dear" and "oopsy daisy" in the presence of complete strangers, in order that I not rudely use the expletives I would much rather be using. I curse inwardly.

Aside from this I have to admit that this form of exercise has indeed benefited me in many ways. I have noticed that my fitness in other sports I play is far superior to what it used to be and I am delighted about this. To add to this we have the most amazing social outings at almost every event we enter, come rain, hail or snow. A large group of my friends and all their children are also thoroughly enthusiastic about the sport, and a day which starts out at around 5.30am for us, usually ends up with a great social in the company of my precious friends. We're all at various stages of fitness, from those who enter the marathon races to those who only brave the much shorter races like I do. The post-race stories are always exciting and I know that I am not alone at times with my constant struggle with my bicycle. We have braved all manner of weather and a range of temperatures, and at the end of the race the sense of achievement is tremendous, even if we are not able to enjoy it immediately due to sheer exhaustion the moment we cross the finish line. The teenager has found a "hobby" at which he excels and is hoping to take the sport much further and I hope that he will be successful. At the time of writing this my bicycle is currently in the shop for repairs. Despite that it was accidental, I feel a little smug that for once it came off second best.