Almost without noticing, the summer of 2011 has become the official ‘summer of learning’. Earlier this year, I took the decision to learn how to lead climb; the worst summer weather since 1993 has conspired against me, so that practice hasn’t been as frequent as I might like, but then again I’ve also realised that learning to lead climb is going to be a lifelong process. As I tried to step up my fitness, I found myself signing up for a ‘crash course’ in swimming, and within a few days I was able to swim a length of the pool with front crawl. It was like getting the keys to a new kingdom, and although I’m still practising the swimming, I really enjoy the feeling of improvement. So, to top it all off, I decided to learn to ride a bike. Now, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve had microadventures on my bike; I’ve followed national cycle routes. I can definitely ride a bike. But put me on a bike with fat tyres and wide handlebars, when the trail gets bumpy or steep, then I’m not really a happy bunny. Perhaps seeing the bike I’ve been ‘borrowing’ for the past few months will demonstrate why:
Makro’s finest mountain bike, of about 10 years ago. Loving those colours, too. But we’re heading back to the continent of North America, which includes a stop in Whistler for Dave to try and injure himself in an entertaining and non-permanent way. Would I hike? Sip caramel cappachillo all day? Or would I try and ride down a mountain (on the easy trails)? To decide, and to help me prepare, I headed to mid-Wales for a course with Forest Freeride. Day one started with me getting fitted with a borrowed bike. Ooh, proper front suspension! Disc brakes! And it’s purple! (Sadly by midway through day two, the bike had succumbed to my uncanny ability to fly headfirst over the handlebars, and it was replaced by an altogether less sparkly grey number).
Before I had chance to demur, we biked up into the forest which clads the hills around. Body position was discussed, and I finally learnt why Dave kept suggesting that I stand up while I ride. Then it was on to the brakes, climbing a short way up a track before pelting down again, learning to trust that the brakes would stop me swiftly and safely (and probably more quickly than the brakes on my car, these days). That day, and the next, passed quickly in a flurry of principles of movement, basic physics, and battling my subconscious desire to jam the brakes on at all times. I learnt to look ahead, rather than directly down at whatever obstacle – tree root, rock or log staircase – I was actually travelling over. I learnt to adjust my feet and lean when going around banked, sweeping corners, whilst keeping speed low and turning my shoulders when encountering a slower corner. I can now lift the front of a bike with a pedal stroke (though I haven’t mastered the famed ‘shopping trolley’ manoeuvre yet, which would allow me to land with both wheels at the same time.) I’ve also learnt that I’ll have a go at something scary, even when my initial instinct – and that of my companions – is to feel the fear and refuse. And I’ve learnt that falling off hurts a little bit, shakes you up for a while, but that it isn’t the end of the world. At the end of the weekend, as I started back towards phone reception, traffic congestion and the flatlands of the Midlands, I was exhausted (mentally, more than physically) and exhilarated. I felt much as I do when I’m on the ski slope; I might not be going quickly, and I might not be stylish, but I feel like I could, at the very least, have a go at getting down a lot of the routes I might encounter. So I'd be having a go on the trails of Whistler. The question would still be, would the course be enough to prepare me for life on a bike in British Columbia?
"EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" went the noise outside my window. I tapped away at my computer keys; it barely registered.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" it continued. Now it penetrated my consciousness. What is that noise? It sounds like a squeaky toy, or a balloon being let down very slowly.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!". Nothing makes that noise. Nothing happy, anyway. I could hear the jingling of the bells on the collars of next door's cats. Slowly, the cogs turned in my mind. Cats don't play with squeaky toys. I leapt up and dashed downstairs, running to the back of the BBC van parked on our drive. The cats were there, staring at an unmoving frog. I chased them off; the frog remained, silent and unmoving. Oh dear, I thought, they've killed another one - Dave had already spotted them batting one around a few days before. Now he joined me outside, wondering what the commotion was. I was just contemplating how best to transport the unfortunate frog to the bin when Dave stopped me, pointing out it was still breathing. With no obvious injuries, it was hard to tell whether it was wounded or just traumatised. We decided to give it a chance to recover, and as Dave put an inch of water into a bucket, I scooped the frog up and into the dark, damp bucket. It shuffled about and resumed a more frog-like form. The bucket was moved to the kitchen to allow the frog to recuperate.
With no obvious water sources near by (and no hint about where the frog had come from), the question was, where should the frog go? The stream running through Highfields Park seemed an obvious spot - a nice shallow stream, with plenty of woodland and even other frogs. Plans were made for a release into the wild.
During our discussions, the frog had made a remarkable recovery. So remarkable, in fact, that it was now lurking in the corner of the kitchen, having leapt out of the bucket. I was suddenly very glad I'd put the bucket on the floor, not the table. However, this made its chances of a successful life in the park more likely, so with the frog loose in the kitchen, it suddenly became an urgent task to take it somewhere more hospitable. I lunged towards the frog, almost grabbing it, before it leapt from my grasp. It bounced off the patio doors, trying to escape. Every time I got near it, it sprang away, until finally! Success. It was back in the bucket. Sadly, I hadn't really considered the fact that the frog was palpably capable of escaping the bucket, which it promptly did. Back to square one.
By this time, Dave had stopped laughing long enough to pick up his camera. Help? Dave? Why would he do that when he could film the whole rescue? He asked me to name my unwilling rescue-ee. Mr Frog was settled on. ( The film's here, if you've got 90 seconds spare). I spotted the kitchen compost caddy, and realised that, deeper than the bucket, and with a lid, it would make a perfect frog-carrying receptable. Its contents were hastily dumped in the bin, and with trepidation I approached Mr Frog. I expected resistance, but Mr Frog, perhaps understanding my altruism, graciously accepted being picked up. Only when I got him over the bucket did he try to escape, leading to a more forceful descent into the bucket than I'd anticipated. The lid was on! We were on our way!
Living near Highfields Park, I know its streams and paths fairly well: I've walked Mavis the dog there; I've run round the lake; flown a kite on the field; and walked to and from various jobs or courses on campus over the past few years. Soon enough, I was crouching by a small footbridge over the trickling stream, trying to encourage the frog from his comfortable compost bin home.
After a slow start, he made it onto the mud, and then into the stream. I left him submerged in the water, his eyes and nose protruding, as he enjoyed the water flowing gently past, and contemplated the insect life he might feast on later.
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