A few had tried to get me into mountain biking but I’d refused. I didn’t do mud, I didn’t want to spend hours cleaning bikes, especially really dirty mountain bikes, and I was truly appalled at how much it all seemed to cost every time they’d ridden at Cannock Chase.
Also, secretly, I was terrified I’d hurt myself. I’d had a really bad car crash in 2005 where I’d blacked out and gone into a tree at 50mph and broken my back. It took the fire service over half an hour to cut me free of the wreckage and in the hospital they told me they expected to see paralysis in 70% of people with injuries like mine. I’d probably walk, but there’d be no running (my main hobby) and no riding a bike again. I’d bought my very first road bike 6 months previously and had just conquered the heady heights of riding 50 miles in one go.
MAYHEM ‘07
I agreed to go to Mountain Mayhem 2007 to support and cheer on the riders. I had no idea what to expect but that weekend changed everything. The atmosphere was electrifying - the campsite, the supporters, the cheering and heckling, the determination of the riders, the terrible weather over Saturday night. I’d got a bit of sleep and was back up at 2am Saturday morning and the view across the campsite made my hair stand on end with excitement. Dancing lights from the riders could be seen stretching over the far fields as they weaved their way back to camp. Tales of narrow escapes from trauma, crash rescues from various sections, and mechanical gremlins in the dark streamed back in. This was pure magic…
I asked someone what the little sticker on some riders’ number plates was. I was told that this meant they were riding solo. I was stunned. ‘WHAT! They ride round for 24hrs???!’. I was almost as amazed to learn that the organiser – someone called Pat Adams, shook the hands of EVERY SINGLE RIDER when they crossed the line after 2pm on Sunday when the race ended.
MAYHEM ‘08
Roll on to 2008 and I’ve had a mountain bike for 9 months. Due to a bit of a bet and a large quantity of red wine one night, I find myself setting up in the solo pits with husband Dan, also a soloist. We are unsupported, save for each other. I look round at the other soloists and spot some of the pros I’ve heard about and seen in magazines. What the hell am I doing here?
Preparation has been a little, erm, haphazard as due to other commitments I’ve not ridden my mountain bike properly for about three months, the longest ride being 2 hours, apart from a week spent in Whistler a week previously which I pretended to myself would help me prepare for Mayhem. It nearly puts paid to my Mayhem plans as a nasty crash on the slick rock means my left knee is still swollen and has heat in it the Wednesday before my solo attempt.
Luckily, having ridden the course on the Friday afternoon I realise with some relief that I can ride pretty much all of it. I’m just caught out by some of the off-camber stuff on the first half. It doesn’t stop me feeling sick at the start though. The Le Mans start is something of an experience. I set off really slowly, mainly because I want to be near the back and also because I’ve just realised I can’t run in my cycling shoes!
LAPS
Lap 1 is a lot of queuing but plenty of laughs and time for a good chat with the riders round me. We don’t really get going properly until we’re well out of the off camber and heading up the climb to the rollers. The atmosphere coming back in is amazing – I can’t believe the number of people shouting ‘go lady solo’. Club mates in the main camping area (the noisy pirates with the cannon and crocodile!) cheer like mad.
Lap 2 and there seems to be a lot more space all of a sudden. The only awful moment is when another lady faceplants just in front of me in a sort of bombhole just after the steps down and steep right-handed switchback. I stop and help clean her up then go up the hill to the top and have a bit of a ‘sit down and compose yourself’ chat for 10 minutes or so before she decides to continue.
The reality of what I’ve taken on hits hard on lap 3. For some reason, I’ve got excruciating cramps in my legs, mainly my quads. I’ve never known pain like it. At one point I’m just lying on the double track trying not to scream while 3 blokes (bless you all) try and scrape me and my bike out of the way and make me more comfortable. I feel like quitting NOW. Every time I put any effort in on the tiniest of climbs my legs seize again and I’m either lying on the floor or pushing my bike. The Kenda climb is agony.
As I roll back into the solo pits I realise that this will be the end of my first 24hr unless I do something about it. I shove down salt & vinegar crisps and a banana for the cramps, followed by Ciff Blocks and then stick a Nuun tab into my PSP ready for the next lap. As luck would have it Dan rolls in off his lap 4 about the same time and races off to our gazebo to fetch the first aid kit with the free sample of Ozone warming oil. I just lie on my back in the pits and try desperately to rub the knots out and wish that the girl who does my sports massage could magically materialise and sort me out (no such luck – she’s out there riding in a team somewhere – Go Nicky)! Then it’s apple cake, a Clif bar, 2 chocolate mini rolls and some orange and cranberry juice. I walk out with the bike carefully and set off once more. No idea which of the above it was (or maybe a combination of everything) but it does the trick and I don’t know it yet but that will be the last of the cramps.
On lap 4 it’s getting dark and lap 5 it’s pitch black and throwing it down. I’ve only ridden out at night 5 times and the off-camber stuff is terrifying to me. Treacherous slopes pitch down towards unseen gremlins, sharp stones and gnarly roots lurking in the shadows. It’s so muddy I can hardly push the bike never mind ride it and it’s some comfort at least to see that most of the other riders are in a similar position. At last a familiar voice pipes up ‘OK Lou?’ from behind. ‘Is that you Ian?’. Poor Ian, fellow Grimey Lymie is in a team of 10 and this is his first lap. I try to convince him that it really was rideable yesterday and actually quite nice but spend most of the time shouting to him to ‘keep left’ or ‘just roll down it’ on the bits I remember from previous laps. We are both really glad to get to the finish. Another lap and I’m ready to give in. Just as I’m coming in off the last descent in to camp my lights start flashing – the batteries are about to pack. The weather is getting even worse, I’m actually quite cold and my tummy is rumbling. My back is killing me and my left knee sounds and feels like it’s got gravel in it and is really hot. I take the bike to the Muc-Off jetwash and clean off the worst of it.
MERRY XMAS EVERYONE!
Quick text to Dan – ‘hot food?’. I get one back ‘OK – see you in gazebo soon’. I then join the queue for the showers. I don’t know if you were in the shower queue in the solo / quiet area of the campsite just before 2am but if you were thank you to all of you for the good humoured banter that kept us all going. I had a little bear bell on my bag which jingled a bit when I moved and as we all stood round in a semi-circle someone piped up ‘it’s just like Christmas – lets sing some carols’ so when the next shower door opened up we started singing ‘we wish you a Merry Xmas’ poor bloke looked baffled…
Dan and I have rice and spicy pumpkin sauce (yum) and while he goes out again I decide to go to bed as I can’t face pushing my bike for about 6 miles anymore. The alarm is set for 5am at which point I’ll decide if I’m going out again. When I get up there is no sign of Dan so I text ‘roll in for breakfast off next lap?’ I get an immediate response ‘in solo pits’. I wander over, still in pyjamas. Dan is sitting on a plastic chair next to our table of stuff, head in hands. He has managed one lap while I slept. He does not look good. The conversation goes something like this:
me: are you OK?
Dan: uuurgh
me: shall I get you some hot food?
Dan: I don't know
me: OK. Do you want to go back out instead?
Dan: I don't know
me: Right - I'll take your bike to the jet wash and clean it so you can decide later
Dan: no - it's too far
me: no its not, I've been there with mine, I'll take it for you and clean it.
Dan: NO!!! LEAVE IT ALONE!!! I'm not getting back on that b*stard bike I've had enough
me: OK. Lets get you in the shower and get some nice warm clothes on and you can have a little rest for an hour and see how you feel.
Dan: OK. I might go back out soon though...
me: yes, but your bike is too muddy to ride and it needs cleaning
Dan: Oh! I won't bother then - I'll have a rest for a bit. Can I have some bacon???
Unfortunately, all thoughts of bacon evaporate when we round the corner and see our gazebo, most of the metal stays collapsing, doing its best to impale itself into next doors van. We spend the next 2.5 hours trying to anchor it, including 35 minutes of me hanging onto it while Dan runs round trying to find more ropes and pegs. Next doors van is safe but I’m an emotional and physical wreck at this point and when we’ve finished, just collapse back into the tent in despair.
9am and it’s a completely different story. I sit bolt upright and announce ‘I’m going back out. I’m going back out and I’m going to do 3 laps before the finish’. Don’t ask me where the inspiration and enthusiasm came from but it was like a bolt of lightning. I put on the next set of cycling clothes, shove cereal down, mix another bottle of PSP and nuun tablet, grab a snack bar, pick up the bike, remember the chip and attach it and dash off out onto the course at 9:40. It’s drying so fast out there, the first lap is almost rideable even on the off-camber. The only really dangerous section to me seems to be the steps and steep switchback which have got really eroded so I walk down them. No prizes for bravado here now!
Next lap round, the course is even drier, the sun is shining and I’m grinning like an idiot. There is a huge void where the main Grimey Lymies camp has been. I will find out later what happened to them. I roll through the solo pits at 1300hrs. Just one more lap…
Unbelievably, my final lap is my fastest over the whole 24 hours. Towards the end just after the drop down onto the farm track after Spooky Wood, I’m caught up by Dan and we decide to ride in together. Last dismount to walk over the timing mat – remount and start looking for Pat to shake his hand - the remaining Grimey Lymies who haven’t packed in and gone home are cheering some 10 metres from the finish. I raise my left hand to give a little wave of thanks in return for all their support through the darkest hours.
BANG! The next thing I know I’m on the floor. Where the hell did that come from?! Baffled and completely knackered now I just get up, pick up the bike, get back on again and roll over the finish. Someone puts a medal round my neck and all the Grimey Lymies crowd round ‘Lou – your face, for God’s sake let’s get you to the medical tent’. I’ve no idea what they are talking about but, dazed and confused, I’m led away.
Analysis of the photo evidence shows that the culprit was my right hand grip which slipped off and since all the weight was on that hand at the time, deposited me over the bars. It didn’t help that my right pedal didn’t release.
The damage? A bit of whiplash, steri-strips over the cut above my right eye, a lot of bruising and a fair bit of skin missing off my right forearm. No serious injury.
Will I be back next year? You bet!
