Call That Cycling?
by Helen Curtis

Please read this first

If, like me, your idea of cycling is a gentle meander along the odd country lane, don't even think of trying mountain biking.

I did. In the mountains of Wales with my beloved bike and a spare pair of moderately knobbly tyres, I thought it necessary to try a mountain bike trail. The maps looked unnervingly like piste maps, bringing skiing mishaps sharply to mind. I reassured myself with a quick check of the brakes, a facility sadly lacking on skis. Having rejected the black and red routes, from a desire to start with something gentle, I chose a tame dotted green track through the trees with several short cuts in case of bike disaster.

Now, I am very proud of my bike. Its kingfisher blue flashes a cool but sporty message as I whizz round traffic jams on my way to work. It's easily the smartest bike I've every had. When I think of earlier experiences of hard tyres, rod brakes and copious amounts of rust... I would have died for this bike.

On arriving at the cycling centre I was confronted with a most amazing spectacle. Bright and strange machines were being unloaded from Range Rovers and minibuses, some with bits of frame seemingly missing, others with pneumatic insets in ugly and massive front forks; all had tractor tyres and flickered with every colour of the rainbow. And the riders! A cross between ice-hockey goalies and Italian footballers (you know, the ones with the two pairs of shorts), they were seriously scary. I looked at my beloved machine. It looked back, fearfully.

At this point, what do you do? Give up all notion of taking to the hills to experience the thrill and beauty of real biking? Do you tie your bike back onto the roof rack of your Orion and head back to town hoping no one noticed? Or do you don helmet and cycle clips and, with a swig from your state-of-the-art water bottle, pedal off towards the start?

Well, of course I set off. After all, I had one advantage over all those lycra-clad fashion victims: I was a damned good cyclist. I'd been cycling for years, all my life in fact. I had leg muscles to prove it. See you up the mountain, chaps.

Half an hour later, I was pushing my bike up a hill that made K2 look flat. "It's only the first bit that's steep," yelled my son from somewhere above me. But the first bit was still going on. Sweating and breathless, I muttered angrily about the futility of it all. Skinny riders overtook me regularly, looking like gaudy caterpillars curled round their twiggy machines. My bike wanted to be ridden, I could feel that, but my lungs had other ideas.

Eventually the track did seem to flatten out enough to allow an attempt at pedalling and, after a few wobbly skids, I was actually cycling. The green dot on the post told me it was now going to be easy so I tried to smile bravely and look around. Another overestimation of my abilities. The moment I took my eyes from the rocky track a piece of sharp granite leaped out, knocking my front wheel askew and me into the heather. More cursing. At least on this 'easy' route there was no one to laugh.

An hour or so passed before I had any notion of enjoyment; this was when I at last reached a stretch of tarmac which, apart from some gear-change-inducing slopes, ran gently back to the start. By which time I was in that shaky state of knowing you have been terrified but, having got through it, just slightly regretting that you will never do it again.

But why 'never again', you ask? The uphill struggle was one thing, exhausting and infuriating, but at least you could feel the odd calorie burning off. But at the top of the hill, with a nauseous rush, came the knowledge that I would have to point the wheels downhill and, as at that terrible moment at the top of a ski slope, go for it. I couldn't even zigzap my nervous way down, and those brakes were about as much use on the mud as a snowplough on ice.

So for twenty minutes my teeth clattered in my head as me and the dear old bike jarred and bumped down our rocky way. "I wasn't built for this!" screamed the bike. "Nor was I!" I squealed back. Neither of us could properly express our relief at reaching the tarmac.

Now, please do not think I have anything against this sport. The scenery was wonderful. The hillsides buzzed with exotic riders popping out from woods and precipices like colourful bugs. Many happy riders, including my now besotted son, scrubbed their strange machines before stowing them back in their purpose-built vehicles and setting off for home where the streets are clearly too flat to cycle. It has all the ingredients of a thrilling, adrenaline-pumping sport.

Only, please don't call it cycling.