The Loneliness of The Long Distance Mountain Biker.

One might ask what a supposedly responsible PA in high heels was doing riding a muddy mountain bike around a dingy garage. One might even wonder why she was pulled out of a high level meeting in order to do so. It’s a dark tale of cruelty and despair – or at least it will be come Sunday!

A couple of weeks ago we were, at work, invited (if that is the correct term) to take part in a sponsored cycle. Not wanting to appear uncharitable I feigned interest. This was of course a mistake as this pseudo interest was immediately snatched upon in the manner of a door-to-door seller persuading you to buy something you neither need nor want. I was, in a word, sucked in to taking part in an activity which now fills me with much fear and dread. On Sunday I will be expected to cycle for 26 miles and then “we might catch the train back home or depending how we are feeling we might just cycle back”. Can I just say here and now that when I agreed to this, the exact number of miles was cruelly kept from me. A couple of miles I could have coped with. 26 of them is an entirely different journey of fear. Abject terror would now be an understatement.

Back to the mountain bike. In a futile attempt to get out of this horror, I stated that I didn’t have a bike. In actual fact I do, but it is currently slowly decomposing in my parents’ garage so I would imagine that in its present state it would be somewhat inoperable. It may not even resemble a bike anymore. Sadly this lame attempt at an excuse held little truck with the organisers of the event and an alternative bike was procured. This bike (the aforementioned muddy mountain bike) was ceremoniously rushed to the garage underneath my office. The important meeting I was attending at the time was stopped in order that I could go out and check that the bike and I were compatible.

I tentatively descended to meet my fate in the basement. The bike leaned nonchalantly against the wall and silently laughed at my unsuitability for riding it in full suit and high heels. I swung a rather stiff leg over the bar straining to keep my shoes on my feet and started pedalling. As I wobbled all over the garage I wondered how long ago it was that I had actually ridden a bike. Ten years might be a possible count. You know what they say about never forgetting how to ride a bike – it may have been a lie – especially in my case. Eventually I seemed to be able to make it go and more importantly make it go straight. My high heels rattled about the pedals in a most ungainly way and threatened to either get jammed in the pedals or fall onto the floor. That’s when I bashed my knee against the very low handle bar. “Aha” I thought. A last ditch opportunity for forgoing the bike ride presented itself and was immediately dashed as someone fetched a handy allan key and righted the problem. He tried very hard not to laugh.

The day of doom draws closer and the fear I am feeling is rapidly accelerating in a manner which I am unlikely ever to attain on the bike itself. All the known excuses are gone and no more will be accepted. It’s down to me and the bike and I think I know who will come out on top.