My First Enduro, by Lulu-R age 50

Machynlleth Sunday the 1st of September 2019

Image courtesy of Anita Gellatly

So Lulu, when did it all start to go wrong?

Right from the start I guess. I’d wanted to have a go at an Enduro for a while, and I thought it would be a bit of fun at the end of the XC season. I really didn’t put a lot of thought into it. I just Googled MTB Enduro, this event came up, it was in the right place at the right time so I entered, simple. I mean how hard can it be?

I should have done a bit more digging, rather than just watching few clips on YouTube and some programmes on Red Bull TV, because lets face it those guys are pros. Then there’s the infamous GoPro effect, everything looks slower, smaller and easier on a GoPro. At that point I was expecting it to be like bike park riding. I thought it would all be rideable, the question was how fast you could ride it. And if there were some really gnarly bits, I was expecting a B-line like the XC events. I got that wrong.

Then there was the e-mail form Charlie with the link to the start list. When I found my name, I’d been allocated number 13. Cue ominous organ music! It washed over me at the time, I’m not superstitious. I mean, it’s just a number, right?

The week before the event The Fear began to set in. Pre-race apprehension is bad enough on it’s own, but pile on some professional stress and I was on the verge of falling apart. The Friday before the event everything went wrong at work and I had to stay late when I really wanted to be a home loading my car and packing my bags. I was stuck on the factory floor and I wasn’t drinking enough. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was getting dehydrated. Then when I did get home things only got worse.

Plan A was to drive to Machynleth and back on Saturday, then do it all again on Sunday. I wanted to come home because it was home, to wash my bike and fix it if I had to. It would also give me the chance to change anything I might have got wrong or overlooked. I called my Mum to double check plans for Sunday night, and to tell her what I was going to do, and she told me I was off my trolley. It was two and a half hour drive each way, did I really want to drive for ten hours do and do the event? Not really. I did a quick internet search and booked myself into a BB for Saturday night. The down side was I had a lot more packing to do. Instead of chucking my bike in the back of the car, with some dry clothes for the drive home and something to eat, I now had two nights away to think about. I had to be sure I’d got all the bases covered on the bike front. If something did go wrong I wanted a spare on hand. I doubled up on all my riding gear and I made sure I had a comprehensive spares kit; tyres, tubes, disc pads, cables, chain, rear mech, the lot.

I wanted to be in Machynleth by eight on Saturday morning, which meant leaving home before five thirty, and getting up at four thirty. This might sound horrific to you, but for me it’s a normal workday. I could do it if I was in bed for ten. At eight o’clock I realised this wasn’t going to happen. So what did I do? I said fuck it and opened a bottle of San Miguel. A fatal mistake.

It was nearly midnight by the time I got to bed, and to make matters worse, instead of a nice clear head I was looking at the world through beer goggles. After all, it was only practice on Saturday. And besides, it was only meant to be a bit of fun. I didn’t have any podium ambitions, I just wanted the experience.

This is where you hear the sound of the needle being dragged across the record as I do a rapid back track to correct the previous statement, and my schizophrenia starts to show. In my head, the rational me, the bits that thinks it’s in control of the body I live in, didn’t have any podium ambitions. The other bit of me, the bit of me that’s best buddies with my body, the bit that whispers in my ear, saying things like, ‘You really need to buy a Yeti. Your life won’t be complete if you don’t buy a Yeti.’ That bit of me thinks I’m greatest rider that has ever slung a leg over a bike. That bit was saying, ‘You’re going to blitz this. You’re going to shred like a pro. You’re going to win this.’ So half of me was up for a riding for the experience, the other half was up for win.

I made to the event HQ about 10:00 on Saturday Morning, and it was pissing down. I wasn’t bothered by the rain, the forecast said it would stop before the afternoon. I got soaked when I mooched up to the signing on desk to collected my number and timing chip. I bought a cup of coffee and took to my car and waited for the rain to stop. After a futile attempt at the cryptic crossword and an almond croissant I decided I’d better put my bike together. There was still a bit of rain, but my phone was telling me the worst had passed.

Number 13. That was number on my board and transponder. Yep, number 13. And it began to raise it’s ugly head before I’d even finished putting it on my bike. I pulled out my scalpel to trim the zip ties, slid the blade out and stable myself in the palm of my hand. Was this a careless accident, or were malicious forces taking control? Was this a sign of things to come? At the time I thought nothing of it, but perhaps I should have paid heed as my blood began to drip on the grass. I ignored this evil portent and carried on blithely.

When I got on my bike and started riding I realised I wasn’t feeling very good, but I couldn’t understand why. Yes, I’d had a couple of beers the night before, but I didn’t think three bottles of San Miguel would account for how drained and unsteady I felt. My numbers looked good, my heart rate and power were right where I wanted them, but I just didn’t feel with it.

As I climbed through the woods I got my first glimpses of Stage 1. Looking at it from the forest road it was nigh on impossible to make an assessment of the level of difficulty, but it was enough to wake up that part of my personality that hates me, the bit that wants me to be miserable and fail horribly. It was whispering in my ear saying, ‘You can’t ride that, it’s far too difficult for you. Look at it. It’s steep and muddy. And you hate mud. You’re going to fall off and hurt yourself’. The Fear had begun to sink it’s teeth into my nerves, and when the fear gets hold of me, I ride like an idiot.

The part of me that thinks I’m a superstar, that’s the bit that I want in control when I’m riding my bike, but it always jumps ship as soon as The Fear turns up. The Fear can’t ride for toffee. When The Fear is whispering in my ear I have to think. The last thing I want to do when I’m throwing myself down a steep, unknown, muddy trail as fast as I can is to think about it. I want the superstar me holding the bars. The bit that doesn’t think, the bit that does. The bit that can feel the flow and goes with it. The Fear hates flow. If I can feel the flow I can banish The Fear.

I throw myself into Stage 1 with reckless abandon, looking for some flow, but flow proves very hard to find. It’s a narrow trial, tightly marked between tape, without much in the way of line choice. The further into it I got, the steeper and tighter it became, and there was absolutely no sign of flow. I was riding like an idiot, and the further down the hill I went the bigger the idiot I became.

Almost at the bottom there was a little drop, if drop is the right term, you could roll it. As I approached it The Fear decided it was the perfect time to throw a party and I panicked. I grabbed a handful of brakes and took a trip over the bars. The next thing I know my face is in the dirt. To add insult to injury my bike landed on top of me and got tangled up in the tape. I couldn’t get the damn thing of my leg. I was trapped under my own bike and had to wait for a marshal to help me up. I wasn’t hurt, but my ego and confidence were badly bruised. The marshal told me it was a spectacular fall, which didn’t help, but it was the first of many.

As I was stuck there I stopped and watched a few riders ride it before I had a second attempt. They made it look easy which gave me the confidence to have another go. I rode it, but it didn’t feel good. I was clunky and amateurish at best, but at least I did it.

As I started back up the hill for Stage 2 my confidence was seriously depleted, and I was in danger of losing what little I had left. I was frantically trying to press the reset button and find my mojo but it wasn’t happening. I felt out of my league and out of my depth. I was hoping Stage 2 would be easier than Stage 1.

It turned out my wishes fell on deaf ears. If the first two sections were the ugly sisters in a pantomime, Stage 2 was definitely the uglier. It was steeper, tighter, twistier and muddier. There were several ‘fuck me’ moments as I struggled from top to bottom, and a few places that forced a complete stop to assess the situation. One section was so steep that my initial reaction was, ‘How the hell are you supposed to ride down that?’ It was obvious from the tyre tracks that a lot of people had, so my attitude was if they can do it I can do it, and threw myself in. Threw is a bit of an overstatement, crept gingerly is probably more apt.

I made it down, just. How many times did I end up lying on the floor? I lost count. About the only positives I could take from the experience was that I could get from top to bottom and falling off my bike wasn’t necessarily a painful experience.

That was it, my morning was done. Stages 3,4 and 5 were closed for the Mash-up event, and wouldn’t be open for practice until three-thirty. There was nothing else to do but head back to my car and eat. I was hoping I’d feel a little more human with some food inside me. With the joy of hindsight, I should have gone back and ridden the first two stages again, but I was demolished, demoralised, scarred and scared. At the time the idea of putting myself through it again was very unappealing. And I wanted to ride the transition to Stage 3, even if I couldn’t ride the stage.

After lunch and a long wait in the car, I headed up the hill to Stage 3. I kept telling myself I could do this, but trying to big myself up was having little effect. It turned out to be fairly straight forward with just one bend that caught me out, and if I remembered to take the right line in, it wouldn’t be a problem in the event

Stage 4 was mostly do-able. There was very steep section with a dodgy turn in and a dodgy turn out. When I first saw it I pulled up. “Bugger me, that’s steep.” I told the marshal. It was another moment where I was facing The Fear. I had to ride this, there was no other way down. I watched a couple of guys have a go at it. One dropped it in the middle. The other made it down but failed to take the corner at the bottom and went straight on it the bushes in a hail of oaths and curses. Then it was my turn. I backed up the trail so I could roll in, approaching wide to the right, giving me an easy line in, then with my weight all the way back I dragged my back wheel down the bank and cleared the bend at the bottom without an issue. The marshal cheered and complimented me for riding it well. Wow! I’d done it. I’d found something positive, a bit of flow and The Fear was on the back foot. I had to build on this.

Stage 5, the last of the day. Sitting at the top I was feeling good. There were a lot of people dithering at the start, thinking about riding it. A guy comes up on a Santa Cruz, mutters something about being in a hurry and disappears down the trail. I didn’t think he was going to hold me up so I jumped on his wheel and followed him in. I go hell for leather for the first couple of turns, trying to match his pace, but I clip a root and get tossed over the bars. It’s an unceremonious landing in a puddle of mud, but at least it’s soft. So much for the high speed approach. The rest of the stage was fairly straight forward, I think. At least I wasn’t worrying about it like 1 and 2!

That was practice dealt with, but I didn’t feel good about it, not very practiced. It was both a lot harder and a lot easier than I was expecting. I wasn’t expecting the stages to be so tough, but I was expecting the transfers to be longer.

When I got to my Pub B&B in the middle of nowhere, I was feeling very ropey. On top of feeling off balance and off colour, I was also feeling beaten up from all my offs. None of them had been really bad, but the accumulative effect had taken it’s toll. The first was the worst. My neck and shoulder had taken the brunt of the crash and both were feeling stiff and sore. It was an irritation, not a problem, at least that’s what I told myself.

I showered and headed down to the bar. I really wanted a G&T and something good to eat. My G&T looked fantastic, but I struggled to drink it. My supper on the other hand, barely touched the sides. I wolfed it down without a second thought. My head really wanted another G&T to soothe my nerves, but my body didn’t. After a short, futile battle I decided to give in to my body’s wishes and headed up to bed while I was still relatively sober.

I was in a state as I lay on my bed, struggling with the cryptic crossword, I couldn’t concentrate. My head was full of worry for the next day. Not only was I feeling far from well, but my fear was so great that I was on the verge of pulling out. I wanted to cut my losses, play safe and avoid the humiliation of riding like an idiot. I could take the transponder back and go to Coed y Brenin for an easy trail ride. I’d enjoy that.

I knew I could do the Enduro, but that part of me that thinks I’m a cycling superstar was out of the office, not answering the phone or replying to emails. I was stuck with The Fear, and it was pissing me off. But like a lot of things in life it felt inevitable. I was getting dragged into it whether I wanted to do it or not. The superstar rider me was away on vacation, The Fear had invited itself to stay for the weekend, but the fleshy blob of bone and meat that hosts my thoughts was still hell bent on doing it, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I might not want to start, but I knew I would.

I had a terrible nights sleep. I was worrying about the event, or more to the point, Stages 1 and 2. They’d got under my skin, wormed their way into my circulatory system and had come to rest in that part of my brain that likes to fret. I couldn’t get them out of my head and they were becoming monsters. I was looking at the hardest parts with a magnifying glass, pebbles were becoming boulders and little steps had turned into cliffs. I could ride them, I had ridden them, why were they such an issue. I’m a good rider. I know I’m a good rider, but my confidence had jumped ship, and with it my ability to ride my bike.

I eventual fell into a fitful sleep only to be woken by the sound of torrential rain lashing against the window. I rolled over and told myself it would be okay, the course would be dry by the morning. As long as it was dry before people started riding it, It would be fine.

In the morning I was still feeling unsteady and off colour, and on top of this I’d got a really bad attack of pre-race nerves, and a stiff neck. The sun was shining, but it wasn’t helping to quell my fears as I ate my breakfast. I kept telling myself the stages would be dry, the sun will dry them. I kept telling myself I’d feel better after eating, but I didn’t.

I got to Machynlleth in good time and built my bike up. There was no rush, I was the last lady off and my start time was 10.01. I been to the loo, yet again, and couldn’t be bothered to go back to my car, so I had twenty minutes of sitting around the start area to get through. I had everything I needed in my back pack, including 2 litres of water. I was as ready and prepared as I’d ever be, but I still felt woefully ill equipped. I knew I could ride the stages, but I was going to struggle, and I was not a happy bunny.

To compound my issues I was having a bad attack of trans-participation-in-sport. It was my first XC race all over again. These were all new faces, a whole new crew and I was the stranger, and I thought a strange stranger. I had all those questions running through my head again, questions I thought I’d answered long ago; should I be doing this? Do I look like a man? Is this fair? What do they think of me? Do they think I’m a man? Do they realise I’m a tranny? Is my presence going to piss someone off? Does anyone care? At least my worries about being able to do the event had been supplanted by something purely theoretical.

Once I’d been given the go ahead to start, and I was on my bike and pedalling, an inevitable calm settled over me. This was it, I was in it, I just had to ride and do my best. I had a lot of time to contemplate as the first transition was almost exactly an hour. I hung back, I really didn’t want to get involved with my fellow competitors, I wanted to keep my distance. I don’t know why, but I did. I guess the gender issue was weighing on my mind, not to mention The Fear. I knew I was the last woman on track and I didn’t need to blow all my energy unnecessarily chasing the person a head. I wanted to save myself for the stages.

When I got to the start of Stage 1, there had been a hold up which had precipitated a queue. I slipped by and waited 10 meters or so up the road. I was feeling very antisocial and I didn’t want to get involved in any conversations, The Fear does that to me. An issue compounded by the fact I have a very masculine voice and the last thing I wanted to do was to use it. I was lost in a world of my own as I waited for my turn to start. I was feeling pensive, and I must have looked it, because a guy said I looked fully focused. I replied “I’m terrified!” And I was.

I was called to the start, the last lady down the hill. A frisson of excitement was added because they had one of those beepers like you hear on the telly, so it was beep, beep, beep, beep, beeeeep. And I was off.

I threw myself into it with all I’d got and nearly dropped it on the first corner, so I decided to slow down a bit. The overnight rain had left the track a healthy covering of slime and there was no grip, it felt like I was riding on ice. This was probably a worst case scenario for me, mud takes it’s place high up in line up of things I hate. The Fear was loving it, yelling at me every chance it got. I was stiff and riding like an idiot. I hadn’t got far before I had my first off. I can’t remember how it came to pass, but on a steep section I had a trip over the bars. I got up and carried on only to have another episode down shortly after.

I was almost at the bottom. I’d only got the drop I face planted off in practice to negotiate, and I knew I could do it. Approaching it I heard the dreaded call of “Rider!” And had to give way. It pissed me off immensely because not only had I been caught, but it destroyed what little rhythm I’d got, just before the crux of the stage. Then when I got to the little drop I seized up completely. I had a meltdown. I grabbed the brakes and bailed, I gave up and psychologically abandoned the event. I got off my bike, shouted “FUCK” very loudly several times, and pushed my bike down the drop.

It was official, I can’t ride for toffee. I am pathetic. A know nothing numpty who shouldn’t have been there. All hope was lost. I rode out of the end of the stage and began the transition to Stage 2 under an apocalyptic thunder cloud of post ride, piss poor performance induced rage. I wanted to vanish.

“You race XC don’t you?” Someone asked as I was trying my hardest to disappear up my own arse. I think it was Liz Greaves (Kona Bikes UK). She told me she’d just fallen off in Stage 1 as well. It broke my mood and I started to laugh like an idiot. It was the escape I needed to get out of my depression. Things couldn’t get any worse and now I had an ally. The outlook was beginning to improve.

At the start of Stage 2 things got a bit strange. The transition time was tight, but thankfully there was a bit of a backlog of riders waiting to start. This saved Liz and I from incurring a time penalty. However when the time came for the lady before Liz to start, she decided it was time to have some kind of crisis. First it was her seatpost, then she had to blow her nose, then it was her gloves, her pads, then her goggles. All this messing about meant that Liz’s allotted start time, and subsequently mine, were becoming a distant memory. Were we going to get penalised because of her issues? Should we have pushed in in front and left her to it? I don’t know, but it didn’t seem like the done thing, and very different form the world of Time Trialling. In a TT you have an allotted start time, if you miss it you’ve missed your start, hard cheese you’re out. This all felt far more nebulous. Perhaps the rules need looking at.

Stage 2 was the ogre in my head. It had been tough yesterday, but if Stage 1 was anything to go by, this was going to be a nightmare. I tiptoed into it and then started to tiptoe my way down. Even being super cautious it was too much. On the long, steep, off camber sections I rode my bike like a scooter, one foot out for balance. It was all very well until I got to a turn and had swap feet, a problem exacerbated by shoes and pedals clogged with mud. Clipped pedals were a big mistake and I was cursing myself for not bringing flats, it would have been so much easier on flats.

And yeah, I fell off. I can’t remember how many time I fell off but it was at least twice, possible three, maybe four, more? Despite this I was actually enjoying my slide down the hill. I could do it as badly as I liked and nobody cared, least of all me. I was a fifty year old woman doing her first Enduro. I could do what the hell I wanted and it would still be heroic. Was I feeling some flow or having an attack of fuck it?

Then there was another humiliating ‘I can’t ride that’ dismount. This time it was more confusion induced than fear. The marshals kept saying things as I passed. I was so focused on trying to stay on my bike that I hadn’t a clue what they were trying to tell me. I’m almost at the bottom of stage 2, and for once I’m upright with both feet on the pedals. There’s a woman stood in front of me in a high-vis vest, and she’s yabbering on earnestly about something. Then I realise she’s trying to be helpful and give me pointers on how to negotiate the next bit. It’s a distraction I can do without, it ruined the tiny little scintilla of flow I’d just managed to find. Then next thing I know I walking my bike without even trying, DOH!

I ride out of the stage and have a drink. When I suck on the mouthpiece nothing comes out. I check I haven’t closed the nozzle and try again, there’s definitely nothing there. I’ve sipped my way through two litres of water in less than two hours. Then it dawns on me why I’ve been feeling so rough, dehydration. How could I have been so stupid to let myself get so dehydrated? Lesson learnt, don’t do it again Lulu. The problem is I’m already feeling and I’ve got three more stages to go.

I’m back together with Liz for the transfer to Stage 3. I want to stay with her, I want to give her some support and keep her company on route, but more likely it was the other was around. It was good to talk to her, I got a useful insight into the world of Enduro racing. The cross country scene is very friendly, and there’s a distinct camaraderie. There’s so few of us that we have to stick together. At this point Enduro didn’t feel the same. I felt like an outsider, an interloper, but it was probably just because I was new and unknown, The XC Racer. Perhaps people were worried about the new competition. They shouldn’t have been, I knew I was going to come last. And of course I am conveniently forgetting the antisocial storm cloud of doom that had been hanging over my head!

Stage 3 was about the only one that didn’t have me quaking in my boots. I thought it would be straight forward. There was only one section I had to remember to take the right line, and I did. I made it from top to bottom with out any major incidents. But as with the previous stages, the moment I went into the woods the ground turned to slime and I was tiptoeing down the hill like an idiot. I came out of the bottom with one foot out of the pedals and my leg held high in some strange cycling yoga pose.

After the trudge back up the hill it was time for Stage 4. All the Ladies aged 35 and older rode up as a group, along with a few of the younger riders. I tried to stick with Liz but I ended up chatting with another rider. News about me had got around and I had to make that shameful admission again, “Yes I Race XC.” While I was at it I added, “And I prefer riding up the hills.” At least I did that day. More importantly, I was begging to feel included.

Stage 4 didn’t bother me. There was just that steep section to negotiate, and I knew l could ride it. Everything went as expected, to begin with. The start was straightforward, then when you went into the trees it turned to slime. Where I could I rode off line, on the grass either side, but I couldn’t get all the way down like that, there were the inevitable sections of slithering about.

Then came the steep bit, and it began to go wrong before I got to it. Perhaps I was trying to hard, because when I rounded the left at the top the slide had begun. From then on things only got worse. I got very out of shape and went down hard on my right side. Adrenaline kicked in and I didn’t think about it. I picked my bike up and carried on. It wasn’t until I was out of the stage that reality began to set in. There was blood seeping down my shin, but it didn’t look bad. It hurt, but it wasn’t an event stopper. So I started the trudge up the hill for the final time.

While I waited to be called for the last descent I had a better look at my leg. The cut looked nasty, boarder line A&E, but sitting at the start of the last stage what could I do about it? Yeah, it’s oozing blood, it’s full of dirt and mud, but I’ve got to get off the hill somehow. Stage 5 is probably the quickest way down, so…

I went into a little more cautiously than I did in practice, but it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. A couple of corners in and I’m lying on the floor. I picked myself up and carried on, only to come straight back off. Then about halfway down the hill I leave the course and I go over the bars. Once again I end up lying in the undergrowth unable to get up, pinned under my bike.

When I finally make it down the hill, there’s a gaggle of ladies gathered around a screen at the bottom, but it’s displaying the junior men’s results. I want to talk to Liz but I can’t see her, so I head back to my car.

Once I’ve cleaned myself up and put on some dry clothes I headed up to the first aid tent to get my leg looked at. They confirmed my initial assessment and advised that a trip to A&E would be a good idea. Bugger! It was the last thing I wanted to do. I was on route to my folks for my Dad’s Birthday and a few hours in A&E would ruin everybody’s plans. I watched the guy clean the wound and dress it. He did a really good job. Did I really need to go to A&E?

From the First Aid tent I moved next door into the administrative HQ to return my timing transponder. When I handed it back I also had the misfortune of getting my results, I’d finished 7th of 7, slowest on every stage. Oh God, how bad can it get!

I was cold, tired, hungry and very thirsty. The fiasco was over and I just wanted to get out of there and drink good coffee. So I did. I never did catch up with Liz before I left.

Bad Foot The Weekend Warrior

I didn’t take the medics advice, I listen to my Dad, he’s good with this sort of stuff. He’s patched me up with masking tape and pine shavings too many times to mention. But I did spend the next three weeks worrying about my leg. It wasn’t the cut that was bothering me, it was my ankle. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but later I realised it was badly swollen and bruised. I nearly went to A&E with it, but the day in question turned into one of those where spare time is a very illusive commodity. As I’m sitting here typing this, the event was over a month ago, my ankle still isn’t right and my legs are still covered in the remnants scabs from the scrapes and scratches.

Will I do it again?  Of course, the next one can’t be as bad!