Aidan Harding

Author: Aidan

  • CLIC 24

    Riding a 24hr solo mountain bike race had been an ambition of mine ever since I rode my first team one more than 5 years ago. So, this year I finally went and signed myself up for CLIC 24, a charity 24hr race in the Mendips. Training for it dominated my riding for months beforehand. Sometimes, it clearly was training – riding when the conditions were awful, grinding out the miles each time my body recovered enough to get back on the bike. And when work took me away from bikes, I hit the swimming pool with the same mentality length after tedious length without the rewards of riding.

    So the cliche of such things became true – the training was the hardest part. Riding 10 miles home from work in the dark and rain to swap bikes and hit the “trails”; sloughing through mud so thick that bouncing my entire weight on the pedals wouldn’t always turn them; swearing my way up climbs to discover (hoarse-throated) a mist hanging so thick that I couldn’t see the ground beneath my light; having a 4 punctures in one ride and riding 3 miles home on the rims. Any time not on the bike meant dunking the worst of the mud off my riding clothes and washing them, replacing destroyed bearings, changing brake pads worn down to the metal, getting my shoes brushed down and into the airing cupboard and then trying to take care of all the normal life things.

    But there was still joy to be had on a bike. Not every ride was a solo Chilterns beast designed to toughen me up. Bracknell with Adam and James held twisty singletrack, starry nights, pointless racing, and plenty of laughs. Wales weekenders with Kellie and Tas provided rocky singletrack, speed, beers, and cakes. All riding as it’s supposed to be – fun!

    So after the months of good and bad, it was a relief to see CLIC approaching. Soon I would be able to do other sports again and maybe, if I wanted to, no sports at all. Just imagine that! In the weeks beforehand, the sun finally came out and the local trails became almost laughably easy. After-work rides were stretching to 3-4 hours and still not having the gut-wrenching harshness of winter. Those slippery knots of roots were now just a high-speed jump and a dusty landing. All was looking good for the big day.

    Armed with Emily to keep me fed and watered, and the longest break off the bike I’d had in months the first few laps of CLIC were a doddle. The course took in genuine bridleways with flowing singletrack, rocky sections, and one dirty-great climb. Like a sessioning freerider it was possible to refine my lines indefinitely. Each lap faster and smoother descending, then lock out the forks and crank from the saddle up a long fire-road, unlock before the steep sting in the climb and a loose rocky finish to the road. Also each lap, a bite of food and a kiss and cuddle from Emily. This thing seemed pretty good and even as night fell, I felt incredibly strong.

    Then a surprise visit from Adam made for an awesome lap as he took Emily’s tiny bike out in his sandals and rode round with me. We chatted and whisked along, me feeling like I was showing him my local trails, him feeling like a kid out riding with his dad due to the 15″ vs 20″ difference in bike size. We nailed the descents with confidence born of riding much scarier, steeper, and pointier stuff in the Dyfi Forest the week before. We passed other riders like statues until we reached the final climb. Part-way up the climb and mid-conversation, Adam pointed out that he was panting and I was just chatting away. Well, I was warmed up 🙂 Then as he dropped back a bit there was a crunch of gears, an oof of breath, and a lack of light from where he had been. He bid me to carry on so I rode out the lap hoping that nothing too serious had gone wrong (his gears had slipped causing the battery cable to get pulled out).

    But the laps after Adam were where things took their toll. Suddenly, I wasn’t on autopilot anymore. It was that damn corner again and I know there’s that stupid loose climb and the annoying mud to come after. I don’t even like night riding – I keep missing the lines. How many more times round? I checked my watch more often. I began to notice that I’d got sun-burned during the day. Tea and encouragement from Emily helped, but it wasn’t long before I decided to take a break. I hadn’t planned to sleep but something needed to change or I couldn’t carry on and if I was going to miss some riding, it made sense to miss it in the dark.

    So, stinking, I lay in my sleeping bag for a bit and felt the aches. My mind was just static, though, and I don’t think I reached anything like sleep. We’d set an alarm, but I don’t remember now how long I’d given myself. I just lay there are pondered how pointless this whole thing was. I’d done a good few laps and could just have a good sleep now. I know this place though. That ugly voice inside and how it makes you feel afterwards if you come back to yourself and discover that you gave in without good reason. But I felt like bouncing off the bottom so I let my teeth chatter from the cold (and it was cold), I tried to get Emily to talk me into going back out there. In truth, I didn’t need (or get) forced to leave. I just needed to dip before I could rise. And without fully accepting that I was doing it, I was soon putting on fresh clothes, sorting out my Camelbak, and preparing to go.

    My teeth chattered all the way along the start line and all the way up the first climb. My mind half slumbered down the first descent, but eventually I was back in the groove. Going round in circles, knowing that the sun would rise. Still, I’d come around and Emily would be there. Endurance racing is a particularly selfish thing. It feels strange to be waited on but, in truth, it really is all about you for that 24 hours, that ironman, that channel crossing or whatever the challenge is. From a karma point of view, we help each other out and your supporter knows it’s about keeping the pedals (or equivalent) turning. I like that simplicity of life for a while, I like to be able to accept the support for once, and I try to be sufficiently grateful (that includes to random people who help without even knowing you).

    Sunrise is something I’ve always loved at Mountain Mayhem (team 24hr I’ve done loads of times). The warmth and light coming back into the world, the dew being baked off and the trails getting fast. It was oddly unemotional for me at CLIC. Perhaps because it merely signalled another 6 hours of riding to come. For now I just concentrated on my aim: to reach 20 laps.

    One lap at a time, it came to pass. Nothing dramatic, just keeping on riding and eating and not stopping. With a few hours left to go, I was there and it was time for potatoes and a bit of a break. (Potatoes with olive oil and pepper are my treat for endurance riding. They fill, they taste good, and they’re cheap) As often happens in these circumstances, I try to figure out how little riding I can get away with doing before the end. Fortunately, rear tyre damage comes to my rescues. The inner tube is not quite escaping through the cuts, but you can see it in places so I err on the side of caution and time-wasting.

    Eventually, I squeeze in another couple of laps and they’re actually pretty enjoyable. When you can see the finish and you know you can make it, everything seems loose and easy. There’s no rush, just a final few chances to perfect those descents. And when it was over, it felt like an anti-climax. The training had worked – I’d done it and I hadn’t suffered horribly. The training, the support, the $150 shorts, they all did their job. So bring on the next challenge, I guess.

    The facts? About £500 of sponsorship raised, over 200 miles ridden, and 2nd place (but it’s not a race, right?). And it’s not too late if you want to add some post-event-sponsorship!

  • Swimming With Crazies

    The May bank holiday means a lot of things to a lot of people. To mountain bikers this year, it meant the Dyfi Enduro and SSUK – I partook in the former. To Channel Swimmers, it meant the start of their training in Dover Harbour. For weeks and weeks until their crossing, they head out from the pebbles and endure the chilly water for hours at a time. They build up physical and mental strength against the cold; they face boredom and discomfort; and they have their own community bound together by the innate looniness of their endeavour.

    So for a mountain biker and a channel swimmer together it meant driving from Machynlleth to Dover for some endurance sport cultural exchange. The Dyfi was, as always, great fun. Laid back people, hard technical riding and a good vibe. For me, the scary event was the next day… My first cold-water swim accompanied by a plunge into a whole different subculture.

    Arrival in Dover was extremely pleasant as the sunshine melted away what had been a brutally early morning to get there in time. Freda, the matriarch of channel training, seemed nice enough but her hard edge was clearly there inside. As more people arrived, they all seemed too nice to want to dive into that opaque chilly water. But as the time approached, swimming hats were donned, assignments given by Freda, and Vaseline applied. She’d given Emily and me 2km to swim and now the deal was done. I was really going in.

    We walked down the beach hand-in-hand and I couldn’t help remembering a similar situation in Goa, except that time the warm water welcomed us and we played around in the surf. This time the water was drawing back its palm, ready to deliver a slap. Putting thoughts aside, I got in and went quickly into a few strokes. Salt water hit mountain biking wounds. Cold water hit stressed muscles. But it was actually invigorating. My breath was shortened and it felt like a thousand tiny combs were being drawn over my muscles, but there was also a freedom. And with that freedom a liberating sense of the ridiculous – we could be comfortable but we’d rather be challenged.


    As we swam out to the harbour wall, I concentrated on a small world. The strange feeling around my body and keeping in step with Emily. Sighting would have expanded my concentration beyond this little intense world that I could cope with, and into a larger one that I couldn’t. So along I swam, enjoying the sun the novelty and Emily beside me. We reached the wall, exchanged a few words and turned back to our second target before the cold could reach bodies that dared to slow down. This leg felt more like a swim. I noticed how little I could see, thought about my stroke a little, and probed those weird muscular feelings with my mind. Some of the fear had subsided – it didn’t look like everything was about to spasm and leave me helpless.

    Finally we reached point two and just had to get back to the beach. End in sight, the strokes became monotone. A trudge, a thought about lunch, a mouthful of salt-water. But soon it was shallow enough to stand, so I did. And stumbled. And stumbled some more. As the blood rushed from my head, I flipped from feeling strong to disoriented and weak. Many hands helped me along and I tried to push them back a little – so used to coping alone. But this wasn’t something to cope with alone. I can’t even remember how much I dressed myself. Not much, I think. Minutes later, wrapped in many layers and still shaking from the cold, I could really appreciate why people come down here. They need each other to face these challenges, they’re bound by something most people will never experience, and they’re just damn nice folks who enjoy hanging out together.

  • India – don’t try to make sense of it

    The facts are these: I spent the 11th to 28 January backpacking around India from Bombay to Goa, Kerala, and then back up again. It was awesome.

    The trip consisted of many tiny fragments and many special moments, all churning together to make a delightful state of chaos. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think that I could draw these events together to form a coherent narrative. So what follows is a collection of the fragments. They don’t fit together like a jigsaw, they just exist as a reflection of the tumult. Nothing that we tried to do in India ever went exactly to plan, but since everyone else’s plans were also shifting around us there were always way though. Like a rickshaw on a busy street, we didn’t try to go to fast, we worked with the flow, and somewhere in the gaps we found ideas and adventures.

  • Dystopian dream

    My dreams have been taking a dystopian turn. This morning I was in some sort of (prison?) camp that contained a school-like building (all lino floors and heavily painted radiators) and a field area with a wire fence. I was being taken to see the unfortunate people and felt a mix of anticipation and unease. I would have to confront my discomfort at my privileged position compared to the unfortunate, I would search to balance my curiosity against having respect for their humanity, and I would have to be on my guard a little to make sure I wasn’t going to be exploited myself. So out I went to the field, and along the wire fence was a row of fellow-fortunates, all sat on the ground in sleeping bags (why sleeping bags when it was blazing sunshine? I don’t know, but don’t ask Freud). As I approached, there was a signal from the other side of the fence and the ragged line of fortunates wriggled back. We were under the control of the comfort of the unfortunates – it was us who wanted to read them. I joined the line, and we did a little wriggling hokey-cokey until finally an unfortunate stepped forward (what happened to the fence? – it’s a dream, they’re allowed to cheat). I spoke to him, I have no idea what about, but as the conversation went on he lunged forward and made to grab whatever he could. Fortunately, the sleeping bag was pulled tight and my possessions were inside, but he found some sunglasses on the floor. I sat shocked for a second and looked into his unashamed face. Would I have done the same if I were on his side of the fence?

    It was getting too disturbing and as I turned to leave, I saw many other fortunates pulling out of their bags and heading back to the school. They must have had similar experiences. Maybe they had learned all they needed, or maybe they required time to reflect on things. As I walked back, I wondered how they could avoid any of the unfortunates coming with us but, as I had that thought, I felt a tugging on my rear pocket. The confusion and disquiet of my earlier confrontation now blazed out with a single tip. Grabbing the hair of my “attacker”, I quickly dashed him against a wall. As I saw his pudgy, panicked expression, I recognised him as another fortunate. I wanted to beat the unfairness out of him, but my restraint was holding. Then, of course, I woke up. You should have been expecting that… I did say it was a dream.

    Conclusion? Maybe I should re-read Brave New World.

  • Nietzsche Would Have Ridden Singlespeed

    Man is a bridge to the superman; man must overcome himself: all that jazz. Nietzsche would have ridden a singlespeed and ridden it up this hill. He’d have seen the point of struggling in a battle that you can never win. Toiling against a hill that’s not just long enough and steep enough but, in the winter, grossly unfair. It’s not just about muscle, not just about technique, it’s an examination of your psychology. The hill is hard, it’s harder than you are and it will beat you, but will you commit yourself fully to taking it on? If you are going to fail, will you fail with a whimper or a cry of exhaustion? At any moment you could fail. A couple of inches of leaves remove every visible detail from the trail and drag at your every pedal stroke. And then as every fibre, every twitch, every ounce of concentration is keeping you moving straight up the gulley, a hidden tree-root spins the back wheel out from under you. The frustration is beyond words, but the hill is here to teach you lessons not to patronise your self-worth. Accept your limitations, get back on, accept that it will probably happen again. It’s one dark gulley of the soul and I love the chance of success it offers in the summer just as much as the certainty of failure in the winter.

    Arriving at the top is like returning from another world. To be without the insistent strain, the mocking and impassive mix of gravity and terrain – it suddenly seems strange. The world has more colour and intensity, and you just happen to be at the top of an excellent trail down to Wendover.

  • Not yet a human fly

    Well, I’ve had my first attempt at climbing… and it was really good fun.

    Just like the first time I went mountain biking, there was an initial period where I had to make a step change in my perception of what is possible. Watching Phil or Nik flow up the wall and even across the roof really opened my eyes. But more than that, I had to open my own ability to commit to things. An interesting head game – just the kind of thing I like (see riding planks).

    So, under the tuition of Phil, off I went to try to figure things out. Bouldering was hard with no clear idea of where I was going and the need to swing my feet around to make any progress. Still, I managed a couple of little moves, even if they did require close direction from the ground.

    Then over to an inclined wall with holds on it. “If you saw someone riding a mountain bike the way you’re holding onto that wall, you’d laugh at them”. OK, lots to think about – stop stressing my arms so much and use those legs that I spend so long building up. I try to relax and stand more, rather than trying to pull myself along. I try to remember how lazy and economic Phil’s motion is. As I start to make my way up, he advises to me to pretend the wall is a woman and lean right into it (little did he know there’s a specific woman in mind these days, but that’s a whole other story). At maybe 2m up, I am up close and personal with the wall and he tells me to put my hands behind my back. It’s scary, but I don’t fall off. That’s interesting – maybe I’m more stable than I thought. I go up a bit further and then freak out a bit. I can’t see where I could go next and there’s a bit of ball/harness interaction going on.

    Back on the ground, I watch Graham getting a lesson in how to belay. It looks kinda hard, but a responsibility that I’ll have to take at some point. Whether he’s working for Phil or Nik, they both make it look easy. Damn them.

    Eventually I get back to the wall where I’d freaked out but this time with more commitment. I take some useful direction from the ground. I accept that, if I fall, the rope (and Nik on the end of it) will hold me. And I make it all the way to the roof. A claimed 7m according to the internet (which we know never lies), but I’m awful at judging distance. This time the grin is huge when my feet hit the floor. Another sport that’s not as good as mountain biking, but very good all-the-same.

    We do some other stuff, and as my confidence builds my arms decide they aren’t having it any more. It’s great to watch the others tackling their own progression, and I feel eager to push my own. I had expected fear of heights to be a big problem and, in a way, I feel cheated. Since I was concentrating so hard on what I was doing, I just sidestepped the fear, instead of having to conquer it. Maybe that is a kind of conquest. I do know that trying to raise my hand to eat an apple seemed like an awful lot of effort and if that isn’t a sign of an evening well spent, then I don’t know what is.

  • Swimtrek in Malta/Gozo


    My first impressions of the water were the blue, the depth, and the grin so wide that it interrupted my breathing. We had jumped off the boat under sunlit cliffs and my trepidation had duly been slapped by the shock of the water. But as I started to swim, as I started to warm up, the grinning had taken over.

    A dozen of us were out there in two groups – finding our way; feeling salt in our mouths; and searching for a group dynamic that would tie us together for the week. I soon found myself attached to the feet of Keith, taking advantage of his open-water experience so that I had only a very small world to worry about. It helped to calm the scary and exhilarating feeling of being a small dot in a big sea. I could dip fully into the joy of swimming without walls and I could marvel at the pitted cliffs rising above me in gold and sinking below in blue.

    And as the first swim went, so had the first evening of the trip. The unknowns of 14 people who had come from different directions to the same place. The trepidations melting into enjoyment as a dynamic emerged. Past experiences and future excitements had fizzed up and down the long dinner table.

    Back on the first swim, the calm seas couldn’t last forever. As we turned around one false headland after another, I started to hope that the next one would reveal the bay that we were headed for. When it finally did, we had come around the island and I had my first experience of “lumpy” water. We just had to swim down to a clearly visible rock and into the bay. No problem – just like the final hill on an mtb ride. Thus began the labour. Waves pressing against me like London commuters, holding me back. My hands caught water too early or too late, and my breaths often caught water instead of air. Maybe there is something to this open water business. The cliffs were crawling past now, but they were moving. The primal bit of me thought, “Yeah!” whilst the most of me thought “Food… tea… food… tea…”

    In the end there was tea and there was food. The protection of the bay gave us calm waters and the November Mediterranean sun bathed us in what must have been about the finest place on earth for that moment.

    And that was just one bit of one swim and one bit of one dinner. Swimtrek was a great adventure – full of laughs and sunshine and swimming. They’ve made something that’s nearly as good as mountain biking. And since mountain biking is the best thing in the world, ever… that’s not half bad.

    My photos
    Eric’s photos

  • Cheddar Bikefest

    It’s all Adam’s fault. In defiance of the knee problems, I’d started riding again and it had been fun. The pain wasn’t any worse, and I could get out on bikes again. And then he went and mentioned Cheddar Bikefest. An 8hr race with a dodgy knee? Tempting… very tempting.

    Deciding about Cheddar was postponed, but the riding was coming thick and fast. Commuting through the Chilterns, cheeky night-rides in Bracknell Forest, a long ride in the North Downs where I could watch James’ tyres tickling autumn leaves off the ground, a post-work death march round the Chilterns for some unsuspecting victims. All good stuff and a new physiotherapist who might be able to help me out. It was kind of her fault too. Anyone’s fault but mine. I asked her if it would be a bad idea to do an 8hr race and she said it wouldn’t do any permanent damage.

    So that was how I ended up sitting in stationary traffic on the M4, listening to England vs. Tonga and hoping to get to Winscombe before midnight. I felt like a fraud – I used to ride endurance races, but who was I kidding now? And did I have all my gear? And did I have enough food? And would the toothpaste-tube/gaffer tape repair to my tyre hold up? And would I have the strength to crawl over the line if it all went wrong?

    Eventually, the traffic moved and after that, I finally arrived. Just enough time for lemon tea and an exchange of fears with Adam before bed.

    Race day came with all the usual doubts. There’s going to be a whole crowd of real bikers there, and then I’m going to be this fake with my stupid bike with one gear. Putting on my cycling clothes helped. At least my body had some residual memories of the good rides and the strong rides. Some confidence chipped away at the doubt.

    We arrived at the event pretty late. With 1/2 an hour before the start we were still queuing to register. That’s not what I need. What I really need is the time to take a dump. All the usual buzz is going around: “What’s the course like?” “What tyres should I use?” “I hardly rode at all this year – I’ll be slow.” “No I’ll be slower.” I try to think positive. After all, soon I’ll be riding my bike and I like riding my bike.

    15 minutes to go: We’re attaching race numbers, and preparing bags to take up to the solo riders area. You can hear the race briefing going on. I hope it’s not important. Soon we’re spinning up from the car to the start line, laden with fig rolls. Winding through the crowds of team riders, there are minutes to go before the start. It’s going to be a Le Mans start, with us running around a BMX track to our bikes. This is going to be tight. Another solo rider’s support person offers to carry our bags up for us, so all we have to do is find somewhere to drop our bikes. The PA announces “12, 11, 10, 9, …”. I pull my seatpost up to about the right height and we jump the fence. We nearly reach the back of the pack before the start and I have my gloves on by the first corner of the run.

    Adam and I enter the lap together and it starts with a crowded climb which isn’t too steep, but is sprinkled with roots. It seems like a good idea to get up some speed so that I can carry momentum over the slippery sections. “See you when you lap me,” calls Adam. This seems awfully hard right now and I’m not looking forward to doing this climb repeatedly over the next few hours.

    We turn right through a gate and along a trail where the best line involves putting your arm through a hedge. The hedge turns out to be quite solid. Two more gates, a nice, open 180 degree sweep around, and we have a little descending. I pick a fairly natural line and this feels like something to look forward to each time around. We pass some marshalls (kids in army uniform – a enthusiastic staple of mtb races!) and then switchback up the hill. This is a challenging climb it soon gets steep and rooty, but just on the right side of do-able. Then it gets steeper and rootier. Then it gets impossible. One of my fears came to pass: I was going to have to push on every lap. At least I was comforted by the fact that everyone else would have to push, too.

    Eventually, the trudging was over and we were into another do-able climb. Balancing my way up the wet rocks, I eventually reached the top and took a right turn towards the main descent. In the whole 8 hours I never really got a good hold of the top section. Loads of roots, rocks, and off-camber. All of it slicked up by the rain. The only solution seemed to be momentum and quick reactions. That stuff passed and gave way to swoopiness which could be great on your own and “interesting” with slow riders around. Then into “witches wood” pointy wet rock deflecting you all over the place and, again, it’s momentum that keeps you going roughly in the direction you intended. Nearly at the bottom now, and I can go left or right of the tree. It turns out that left is a disaster of a line. I scoot my way back onto the course and hope that the soreness in my nuts will go away soon. Body behind the saddle and chest on it in order to duck under a tree, and then a little swoop downwards. We duck into a gully and then back out again, and I notice the exit seems tricky: Steep up with rocks in it. Lumpy-bumpy singletrack that seems designed to test how badly your forks deflect takes us around towards the main site. Nearly home and a surface of wet wood chippings steal some energy. Finally, we ride through the middle of the BMX track and across the line.

    Starting lap 2, I feel a bit more bullish. There’s less traffic and the lap is less than 25 minutes. Everything is going well until that up/down gulley near the end. The tape around the course has fallen down and I miss the turn in. Waddling back, I rejoin the course having lost my flow and promptly fly over the bars trying to get up out of the gulley. It doesn’t seem to have hurt but leaves a sour taste for the lap. And then as I pull into the arena I can see blood dribbling down my arm. Not too much, so I ignore it and resolve to take the gulley better next time.

    And another lap starts. My thoughts are still too cogent and I haven’t reached the endurance riding zone. So I start to think about giving up. And while I’m thinking, most of the lap disappears under my wheels. This time the descending is fun. I’m picking slightly better lines and enjoying the angry buzz of my freehub.

    Past 2 laps, I stop counting them and just count down to the next food stop. It was maybe 4 laps before a fig roll. A little longer before I swap camelbak bladders for more water. On that occasion, a kind supporter of another solo rider refills my second one for me. She seems amused by how grateful I am, but it makes a big difference. Over the course of the race, I talk to all 4 other singlespeed riders. They all seem up for the idea of fixing the race, having some beers and then just riding the last lap together. But that would be giving up, and I have to beat Adam by a healthy margin.

    So the race goes on and, as I get more tired, the thoughts of giving up have no more space in my reduced brain. I ride, I push, I eat, I drink. Until 18.00, that’s what I do. At 17.00 I see Adam lying flat on his back in the solo tent. I stop to attach my lights and he says I have to get 2 more laps in. That’s what I had in mind, so I’m going to time the next one. He’s going to accidentally leave it too late and only do 1. Fair play to him, he’s still going in the longest race he’s ridden. I set off, knowing that I’m laps down on the RAF guys and laps up on the guy in 4th. It’s only for pride (and fun) now. Lap 1 comes in at about 25 minutes by my watch, so I take it easy on the second. Walking big sections now and chatting to other riders.

    I roll home with 10 minutes to spare, and it feels like a job well done. Hot chocolate, a toastie and some cotton clothes bring me back to the real world satisfied. Coming 3rd out of 5 is not the greatest achievement in the world, but it’s better than a kick in the teeth and it was fun. And it was the first time I got to stand up like a podium finish. Maybe I will train through the winter…

  • The Sad Truth About The PCT

    Well, I’d been trying to keep the dramatic tension for anyone who didn’t know about how the PCT ended for me. The rate and detail of posts about it probably gave the game away though, so other topics are going to creep in-between, but the story will get finished. After a while my knee packs in and I come home, but stuff happens first. Interesting stuff 🙂

    Also this means I can let people know about Morgan’s solo progress. The last time I heard from him was yesterday and he’d passed half way. I’m happy for him, impressed by him, and pretty damn jealous of him.

    So another interesting thing is a another possible knee self-diagnosis… http://www.emedicine.com/pmr/topic104.htm Who knows if I’m right though. We’re approaching the 1 year anniversary though and it’s hard to remember what riding was like when the limiting factor was my lungs, my legs, or my willpower.

  • PCT Day 4: Mt. Laguna to underneath Sunrise Highway

    Our plan for the day was to head along the Laguna rim and see how well my knee held up. Unfortunately, we were behind schedule and would need more food, so we decided to split up for the first section. Once again, Morgan was taking up the slack caused by my failing knee – this time it was so that I could get a head start at around 8am, and he would go to the store to get food when it opened at 9. We were to rendezvous 10 miles down the trail and I was to coddle my knee by taking breaks and stretching as much as possible.

    It felt great to be moving again and I was soon stripping off layers in the morning sun. As I headed gently downwards, the terrain was still quite wooded and it felt kind of like home. I was having more visions of mountain bikes, but this time it wasn’t me riding them. Maybe I was getting into this hiking thing after all. I was making steady progress and, since I had the map, marking arrows at ambiguous junctions for Morgan.

    In terms of feeling like a progression, there was little stimulation. The trail “just” followed along the rim, but it was one of those days you get in the mountains where you just run out of superlatives. Your breath gets taken away so often that you have to be careful not to stagger down the cliffs that have you agog. Where the road to Julian had had fleeting glimpses down to the desert, now I could stand at the edge of the train and see the mountain plummet down to the sand. I could take in the scrub that hung on so tight to the walls, and the brown swirling desert down on the floor. Looking way out I could see more mountains out to the other side. I wished that Morgan was there, but I contented myself that he’d be seeing this soon enough and I should just be glad.

    I made my way along for a couple of hours, pointless competitiveness kicking in and making me determined not to get caught up until I’d made it to our meeting point. Despite this, I managed to maintain some semblance of being a grown-up and every hour I put my camping mat down in the dirt (usually right there on the trail) for a stretching session. Lying there in the scorching heat and easing my worn legs into a variety of positions, it was hard not to laugh. What would I say if someone came along? “Yeah, I’m hiking the PCT but my knee is bust. I reckon I can fix it by stretching!”

    As it turned out, I wasn’t the most ridiculous sight out there though. At one point, the trail had turned away from the desert valley and towards wider, flatter, chaparral covered expanse. The sand was reflecting heat back up and there was no shade at all (aside from the desert umbrella!). Then, from the haze comes this guy running along with his bare chest that red-brown colour of someone who’s spent too long in the sun, or maybe the colour of the inside of a medium-rare steak. With his Oakleys and his little 0.5L water bottle, he was the perfect Californian. Still, I had to admire the apparent working-order of his knees.

    Eventually I made it to the meeting point with Morgan and set myself up on a picnic table to wait. It had been a depressing last hour as my knee had started to fail again and every little downward slope had me reduced to shuffling. As always though, taking off my shoes and looking out across the land made me feel better, made me wonder if it was all in my head. Soon enough, Morgan arrived too: striding along with his straw hat beginning to fall to pieces.

    We had Top Ramen noodles (Brits: that’s super-noodles) to add to our existing supplies and he’d got himself coffee so we were stocked for the trail. The water at this picnic ground was from a trough for horses and it featured both dead insects floating on top and live wriggly things swimming inside. It was time to break out the water filter for its first use. The filter was simple – attach one end to a container, dip the other in the dodgy water and pump away. We managed to load up with water and we were soon ready to see how far we’d get before sunfall.

    The very first bit of trail was astounding. It passed close to the existing road and up a broken one which was luxuriating in the lengthening shade provide by a high wall to West. This wall was covered in graffiti from kids who could easily make it this far from the road. Turning your back on the scrawls, the view was once again awesome. Down into the desert again, but here the vantage point framed our view with nothing but reddish brown rocks. We took photos and drank it all in before turning up the road for more progress.

    It wasn’t long before my knee was a serious problem again. We were in an area that had been heavily burned by wildfires and as I ducked under a sooty tree we had the idea to make a walking stick. With the stick to support my weak leg it was possible to go much faster down the hills and not to risk falling. So it was with tripod footfalls that I made my way along and we chatted the afternoon away. It was to be our first night out in the real wild with food to be cooked rough too, so pretty soon I was looking for a clear area where we could use the stove. In the end we settled on top of a huge granite slab and enjoyed super-noodles with the setting sun. It was just like the photos you see in outdoor shops but immeasurably more awesome.

    The day ended with a bit more progress along the trail and then a frantic search for space to make a camp. My little tent and Morgan’s bivi weren’t going to need much space but a lot of the trail was narrow with either thick brush or steep cliffs coming off. Eventually we found a spot, pitched up (half by feel) and tried not to think too hard about wildlife hazards. I drifted off hoping that no-one would steal my stick.