But at the end of May , I proved this belief totally wrong. In doing so, I hope that many more women get to experience the highs and learn from the lows that only the Wicklow Round can provide. Fast forward to , I once again felt the need to commit my experiences to paper.
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This time, however, it was for very different reasons. Much has changed in the intervening years. I am now married and the mother of two young children. I no longer do daylong runs in the mountains. Looking after two growing boys means I simply do not have the time to disappear for hours on end just to satisfy my running needs. Instead I compete in shorter adventure races that involve kayaking, road biking, and trail running.
To help provide focus to my training, I have also hired a coach. I needed someone competent to guide me while my body was going through its pre and post-natal phases, which are notoriously injury-prone. Early last year, during a catch-up call with my coach Eamonn, he asked me if I could chat with one of his other athletes. I was surprised by his request. Eamonn never divulges the identities of those he trains, let alone providing me with their names and phone numbers. I figured there must be other women in similar situations, trying to learn how to become a parent while still keeping a semblance of their old identity.
I thought they might benefit from reading what happened to me. The book charts my journey from happy, carefree mountain runner to reluctant, stay-at-home mother of two. This goal helped me maintain my post-natal sanity, while slowly giving me the space to learn how to become a loving, and occasionally functioning, mum. Writing down the trials and triumphs of juggling pregnancy and motherhood with training and racing has helped me immensely.
It has made me confess to, and thankfully forgive myself for, having failed at times in my mothering responsibilities. Writing my experiences has also illustrated to me the times that I have unexpectedly excelled in the parenting role. For example, I did not realise that I could have such depths of patience even when exposed to such torturous levels of sleep deprivation. A couple of fortuitous events facilitated this writing process.
I had barely penned 10, words when I got a publishing offer that requested me to finish the book within three months. Just as the publishing offer came through, my youngest child was taking two-hour afternoon naps. So, as soon as he dropped off, I would turn on RTE junior or Cbeebies to distract my eldest son while I scribbled down my personal daily target of a thousand words. Creating these two memoirs has undoubtedly helped me gain a better understanding and appreciation of myself; my strengths as well as my foibles.
It is also my sincere hope that readers of my books will realise how valuable their own life experiences are, and how equally worthy they are to write down and share. Available from Amazon, Foyles, Easons, and Waterstones. Paperbacks can be purchased here: She is married to Pete and is the proud mother of their two young sons, Aran and Cahal. Bump, Bike and Baby is about this personal journey.
Moire blogs at https: A landscape lain with pure-white driven snow, Beneath the deep-set flakes are snowdrops hid, The air hangs thick with smoke from coals aglow and ice-laced water causes ducks to skid. Fresh spring succumbs to soporific haze of summer eves as waterfowl do fledge. When autumn cool brings leaves that spin and fall in colours bright, the Harvest moon will rise, when chestnuts burst and squirrels hide their haul pale sun will hang low in the frost-clear skies. Many of my friends have recommended Kino with its delicious-looking menu and impressive range of cakes.
The falafel comes with salad, homemade slaw, pitta breads, hummus and tahini sauce. The slaw is nice, though, and the salad, hummus and sauce are great additions. I never used to understand running. Why would you put yourself through sweaty, painful, injury-inducing exercise that was slow and boring? Give me a bicycle any day. But then I signed up for an Ironman triathlon , and was forced to learn to run a marathon of all things — having never run anywhere before!
And to my amazement, I loved it. The mistake I had been making was comparing it to cycling, which it is not. Because running is simply that. You go at a running pace, not a cycling one; your boundaries are redrawn. It opens up new experiences and new ways of looking at life. You run to run. There might be training involved, or a fitness regime, or the undertaking of a massive adventure , but the run is the focus.
I would always advise running outside, rather than on a treadmill: This time two years ago I had never run anywhere ever. Now I have completed an Ironman and am on track for my third marathon. Give it a try. Marianne had raced throughout her time at college, discovering an aptitude for climbing. The women would ride ahead and finish their race around 30 minutes before the men. Huge crowds would be there to cheer them on. Marianne was desperate to ride in the Tour. She had missed out on team selection for the Olympics, but felt that she was just finding her form and would be good enough.
She drove to Colorado to speak to the national cycling coach, Edward Borysewicz, trying to convince him to let her on the team. Six teams of 36 women lined up at the start. Marianne finished the first stage in third place, with two Dutch riders ahead of her. Stage 12 took the riders into the Alps, with two mountain passes.
Marianne knew she could climb and was desperate to earn the polka dot jersey. Early in the stage, she made a breakaway, finding herself alone for the majority of the 45 miles. The team knew their job was now to keep Marianne in yellow. This was the best race in the world and we were winning. The team went into the final stage with a comfortable lead, crossing the finish line to ecstatic cheers from the crowd. Funding and support dwindled in the following years, and there was no race in or Over time the race shrunk, with fewer days, shorter stages, and in some years no race at all.
Then it stopped for good. In it was reintroduced — as a one-day race called La Course. Marianne retired from cycling, taking on two jobs to repay the debts she had incurred while racing and riding in the Tour de France. But she had no regrets. I got to race my bike every day, I was fed and got massages every day.
And I was in France. To me, that was the greatest thing in the world. In Eileen Sheridan rode it in two days, 11 hours and 7 minutes. It was a blustery, overcast day in June when Eileen set out, and the weather only grew worse as she travelled northwards, nearing Scotland in high winds and torrential rain. Fuelled by blackcurrant juice, soup, sugar and chicken legs, she rode day and night, taking few breaks and supported by her team, who supplied her with food and drink and eventually had to feed her when her numb fingers could no longer hold knife and fork.
Touring and club runs were more her thing: Nonetheless, in she entered an informal 10 mile time trial; her approach was so nonchalant that she turned up without the required racing kit and a fellow club member had to lend her his. A year later she formally entered a 25 mile event run by the Birmingham Time Trial Association. Again, she set a club record.
She began taking all the distance records: Nothing would stop her riding, not even the birth of her son: Her diminutive and feminine appearance belied her strength and endeared her to the public; she seemed a regular housewife, not the powerhouse rider one might expect. Time trialling was the dominant sport of British road riding in those days, in contrast to the bunch-style racing favoured on the Continent.
This style of racing suited Sheridan, who was never faster than when she had someone to chase:. I loved the thrill of chasing… I just had to try hard and win. It was only a matter of time before she attracted the attention of sponsors, and in Hercules Cycle Company gave her a three-year contract to promote their business by breaking records. She spent those three years steadily demolishing the existing times. London to York, to Cardiff, to Edinburgh, to Birmingham, to Brighton and back — 25 miles, 50 miles, miles, 12 hours, 24 hours. Her time of three days and 1 hour remained unbeaten for 48 years.
Five of her records still stand. Her final record was in After two attempts, she secured the record, and with that, she retired — there were no records left to break. The multiple-stage race through the mountains and landscapes of Italy had been staged almost every year since its launch in , but a dispute over pay in led to a boycott by many of its top riders. The organisers opened up the field to anyone who wanted to enter and Alfonsin Strada signed up.
Alfonsina was entranced and quickly learned how to ride — she had found a way to break free from the poverty of farm life. However, it was improper for a girl to ride a bike; people teased her, men made unwanted advances and others treated her as if she were insane. Her cycling brought shame upon her family so they forbade her to continue. But Alfonsina was determined not to give up her passion. She would tell her mother she was going to Mass, but instead would ride to the next town to compete in a race. Her first win came when she was just 13, and her prize was a pig.
An invite to race the Grand Prix of St Petersburg followed — highly unusual for a woman — and at the age of 18, she twice raced the Giro Lombardia, the second time finishing ahead of many men. Her mother was desperate for her to marry, become a seamstress and leave all this cycling nonsense behind, so she was thrilled when she found a suitor, Luigi Strada — until it transpired that he was also a cycling enthusiast. They married in and moved to Milan, where Luigi coached her on the velodrome.
The Giro began with a km stage from Milan to Genoa; after stage two — a km ride to Florence — Alfonsina was in 56th place out of 90 entrants, and she had caught the attention of the press. The organisers realised that her inclusion would boost the popularity of the race; the spectators loved her. One newspaper reported that:. By the end of the third stage, one-third of the field had dropped out; Alfonsina had become the race heroine.
Roads turned to mud, their stony surfaces slick with the downpour, and riders made the brutal journey through the Sirente—Velino mountains with descents made treacherous by horizontal wind and rain. The following stage was no easier: A local farm woman came to her rescue, giving her the handle from her broom to use instead. But it was too late: Such was the public support for this remarkable woman that the organisers allowed her to continue, though she could no longer officially be part of the race. Emilio Colombo, the editor of La Gazzetta dello Sport , the magazine which sponsored the race, arranged to pay her continued food, board and massage out of his own pocket.
She finished her next stage 25 minutes past the cut-off time, but the spectators had all stayed, waiting to see this exceptional woman. She was flat-out with exhaustion, hungry and in tears, but the crowd lifted her from her bike and carried her through the air, giving her the reception of a champion. Only 35 riders of the original 90 completed the race.
By reaching Milan, Alfonsina had earned the respect and affection of her fellow competitors and the public. She continued to race, notching up 36 victories in a long career, but she would never ride in the Giro again. The following year, the pay dispute was over and the champions were back.
Her previous benefactors turned their backs; the organisers refused her entry. No female competitors would ever again race in a Grand Tour. Yet Alfonsina had been, and would always be, the woman who rode with the men. It took a remarkable woman to set off to ride a bicycle around the world in s America: Annie Kopchovsky had a husband, three children and responsibilities as a housewife.
It was not just a novelty for a young woman to leave those duties, but to do it in pursuit of a world bicycle tour was unheard of. The wager that set her off on her adventure might have been a myth: Annie took up the bet. Incredibly, she had never ridden a bicycle before accepting the challenge; a couple of lessons were her only preparation.
This she duly did, and her alter ego was born: Mlle Londonderry, daring world-traveller. Riding westwards she soon reached Chicago, where the whole venture nearly came to a premature end. Perhaps it was the exertion of riding as a novice, the heavy bicycle and even heavier skirts, or the looming mountains and plains, and the oncoming winter. It had taken several months to reach that point and the clock was ticking on her month wager. The New York Times reported her decision to abandon the journey, and she turned back, ready to retrace her steps home.
More suitably dressed, on a lighter bicycle and certainly physically fitter than when she had departed, she arrived back on the east coast once more dedicated to the task. She boarded a boat from New York to France to continue her adventure. She proved to be an excellent speaker, enthralling audiences with her tales, and an excellent rider, reportedly joining in cycling events and races in the places through which she passed.
Posters and placards covered her and her bicycle, and she was often dressed head to toe in ribbons advertising anything from milk to perfume. But it had been a slow start and Annie had lost much time. In order to be home within the 15 months, she needed to pick up the pace, so after riding south through France, she boarded a boat across the Mediterranean to the Middle East, cycling through Saudi Arabia and Yemen before another boat trip landed her in China. Short cycle trips in Korea and Japan were followed by a Pacific crossing by steamer. From San Francisco to El Paso on the Texan border she pedalled, then journeyed up through the mid states to Chicago by bicycle and train, finally arriving back to Boston days after her departure.
Though more a journey with a bike than a journey on a bike, she won her wager, and proved herself a master of self-promotion and grit. On her return she moved her family to New York and wrote sensational articles for the New York World about her journey, calling herself the New Woman: Her fame soon passed and she died in relative obscurity in ; her round-the-world ride was not even mentioned in the death notice placed by her family.
Bicycles are just as good company as most husbands, and when they get shabby or old a woman can dispose of it and get a new one without shocking the entire community. The advent of the safety bicycle meant that cycling boomed. It was a comfortable, reliable and cheap method of transportation for the working and middle class alike. Men and women could travel under their own steam; exploration increased and the gene pool widened. But the craze sweeping across the western world was deplored by some.
Cycling was seen as unladylike and unchristian; it was cited as causing both sexual satisfaction and infertility. Frances Willard was one of the most well-known Americans of her time. Frances had been a free spirit as a young girl. Raised on a farm, she had spent much of her time in the fields, helping her father and playing — she even made her own plough.
For this was her lot, as this was what society expected of women. Physically restricted by their clothes and financially restricted by their reliance on men, their role in life was as angels of the hearth and managers of the home. Known as the fairer — and certainly weaker — sex, women were never considered to be capable of excelling at anything. It was deemed unfeminine to be learned. Women were discouraged from undertaking physical activity; perceived as timid and frail, they should be protected from danger.
Few women were active, despite the emerging recognition that exercise was fundamental to health. She never forgot the freedom she had felt as a child, the satisfaction of doing things for herself. So in her fifties, she determined to learn to ride a bicycle. The experience was so liberating, exciting and revolutionary that she wrote a book: The bicycle had given her freedom: When she rode a bike, she was autonomous, empowered and equal.
A new world of sensations had been discovered: Once the bicycle was learned and conquered, the New Woman could conquer new worlds. That which made me succeed with the bicycle was precisely what had gained me a measure of success in life — it was the hardihood of spirit that led me to begin, the persistence of will that held me to my task, and the patience that was willing to begin again when the last stroke had failed.
And so I found high moral uses in the bicycle and can commend it as a teacher without pulpit or creed. She who succeeds in gaining the mastery of the bicycle will gain the mastery of life. The famous suffragist Susan B. Tessie Reynolds was one of those women: Miss Reynolds… is but the forerunner of a big movement — the stormy petrel heralding the storm of revolt against the petticoat.
Lacy Hillier in Bicycling News , In September , a young woman from Brighton cycled miles to London and back in a record time of eight hours and 30 minutes.
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Aged just 16, her speed was remarkable. But what caused more of a stir at the time was the fact that she wore trousers. Women in the late nineteenth century were expected to be modest in character and appearance: But such clothing was restrictive. Tessie Reynolds and her sisters had all been active from an early age, encouraged by their father to take up cycling, boxing and fencing. He was the secretary of a local cycling club and member of the National Cycling Union NCU ; her mother ran a boarding house in Brighton that welcomed cyclists.
It had never been in her nature to wear clothing that would restrict her in the activities that she loved. In America, a certain Amelia Bloomer had developed a practical outfit consisting of a skirt worn over a pair of loose-fitting trousers or pantaloons. If they do this many prejudices as to what they may be allowed to wear will melt away. No such compensations were made for women. She was accused of cycling in her knickerbockers. In all likelihood many of the people she passed would not even have noticed that she was a woman. Tessie was taken to be examined afterwards by a doctor.
Unsurprisingly, he found her to have suffered no ill effects from her ride. The female editor wrote:. I congratulate Miss Reynolds on her courage in being an apostle of the movement. Leading cycling expert of the time George Lacy Hillier wrote: I wandered along the shingle for a while, my steps uneven on the shifting ground, noticing just how much litter there was.
Almost all of it was plastic. How ironic, I thought, that these single-use items are made from a material that lasts forever. What happens when an adventure gets in the way of a relationship? Seven years ago I left London and a boyfriend to cycle around the coast of Britain. What might have happened had I not gone? We met four months before I was due to leave, both of us working as mechanics at our local community bike workshop. And we did, those wonderful four months that followed bringing us steadily closer. The day before I left, we sat cross-legged on his living room carpet.
He held out his hand, then opened the clasped fingers, revealing a small orange tube. It was the kind he used daily, his lips always tasting vaguely of the menthol contained in it. So now each time I used it, it would be as if I were being kissed by him. In his other hand was a small green bag, containing a pair of delicate earrings. They remained firmly in the bag; the lip-salve had been perfect, and gift enough. Later, I stood in the shower, my tears mingling with the hot water that doused my face.
I had wandered aimlessly around the flat, all my belongings packed neatly into the three bags that would serve me for the next 10 weeks. Why was I doing this? If I stayed, we could continue as we were, slowly falling in love. He called the next morning, suddenly wanting to wave me off from Tower Bridge. I would not let my sadness linger. Two days later, it was me who did the calling. It was one of the hardest phone calls I ever had to make. My adventure was only 48 hours old — no time at all, yet I already felt so far removed from normal life.
I had to break it off. We hung up, and I fell back on the bed, head in my hands. I felt wretched, my chest caving in with emotion. Yet there was nothing I could do. It had to be this way. We spoke briefly a week later, the night of the London riots.
From the safety of my Bridlington guest house it was hard to imagine what was going on back home. Then a text message as I was cycling around the peninsula at North Berwick two weeks later: I was just riding the canal path and it made me think nice thoughts of you. We swapped banal stories and I suddenly found myself unable to talk through my tears. We both wept a little. I felt better after that. He had said that when I reached Aberdovey, he might join me for a few days.
I struggled as I made my way down the coast of Wales then, unable to clear my mind of the feeling that he should have been there. I tried to blame my melancholy on the hills and the headwind — both had been relentless since crossing the border. Or on the physical discomfort caused by an acute strain in my heel and wrist. That evening I made my excuses, citing exhaustion from the cycling as the reason for an early night.
I slowly climbed the stairs to my lofty bedroom, then sat down on the bed and cried. We texted occasionally, and it was no longer accompanied by the gut-wrenching feeling. He had a boat on the south coast, and this time, our planned rendezvous worked. Cycling away from Weymouth the day we were due to meet, I was overcome with nerves, unable to think about anything else as I rode the 50 miles to Lymington. I arrived early and sat on the harbour wall, listening to the halyards as they banged against the masts on the rows and rows of boats that sat in the marina.
Then there he was, striding towards me from across the quay, and I jumped up and smiled nervously, waiting as he approached, holding his cheeks in my hands as I kissed him, just so it was out of the way. Then a nine-week hug. Sorry about the boat. He was laughing as he opened our bedroom door, amused that the only room available had a four-poster bed. The building was old, the floor creaking as we acquainted ourselves with the room and with each other.
Later we went to the pub to eat dinner. His familiar face was no longer familiar. There were miles between us. He was astonished by my appetite as we sat snugly below deck on the still water of the marina the next evening, eating fish and chips straight out of their paper. The gentle rocking of the boat hastened sleep, and I woke the next morning to say goodbye once more. It was the final day when he met me a couple of miles shy of Tower Bridge, more proud of me than I was of myself.
I alone knew what that had really meant, what strength and courage it had taken, but also how simple it had really been. What would have happened had I not gone away? I will never know. My bicycle is my most trusted possession; she is my passport to adventure, my free ticket to work, my trusty pack horse and my faithful steed.
And you will ignore your bike at your peril. A happy bike is a quiet bike: If your bike is talking, listen. I admit to being guilty of not listening. Every time I reached for the gear lever it creaked in protest. I have the tools and the knowledge. What if I have to buy a new chain and gears? So I continued to ride, and the bike continued to complain. Eventually, so tired was she of my procrastination, she played a cruel but much-deserved trick: My hand was forced. It took a mere 15 minutes to change the cable, and she now rides like a new bike.
At once, I have re-fallen in love with my bicycle. Bicycle maintenance is empowering, very useful and easy to learn. These are available cheaply from your local bike shop. Depending on the bike you have, you might need to open the gear shifter to access the cable. A good place to snip the cable is at the derailleur end, near the bolt, then push the cable through and the top should easily come out. As mine had snapped, I needed to root around with needle-nose pliers in the shifter to grab it.
Your metal cable runs inside the plastic cable outer, which is lined with metal. These can both rust and corrode, leading to sticky gears. If replacing, snip the new cable to the length of the old one. If servicing, give a good spray down the cable housing with a lubricant spray. This can be messy, so make sure you have an old cloth to hand.
This is where the cable is most slack, so must be installed in this gear in order for them to index properly. Next, route the cable, from the shifter, through the cable outer this usually has a butt on the frame to hold it , likely in a groove at the bottom of the frame underneath the bottom bracket , through more cable outer, through the barrel adjuster at this point, make sure your barrel adjuster is fully screwed in and into the clamp.
There are many different types of clamp, but usually there is a groove where the cable sits. I tend to hold the cable to tension with the pliers while tightening the bolt. Change through the gears either in a stand or by riding the bike ; the cable will probably be too slack at this point and will need pulling through more.
Remember to leave the shifter in the highest gear before adjusting the cable each time. You are looking for one gear change per click of the shifter. Once the two highest gears are shifting correctly, the rest should follow suit — check through the gears to make sure, and make small changes to the barrel adjuster if necessary. Unwinding the barrel adjuster tightens the cable by increasing the length of the housing, science fans.
Snip the cable an inch beyond the bolt, and add the cable end. This needs to be clamped onto the cable — the cutters might have a clamp feature, or use the pliers. If you neglect to do this, the cable will fray and will need replacing again! Companies are queueing up to reduce plastic packaging and broadcast their plastic-free credentials. But just how easy is it to go plastic free? Heck, most of my readers are British. But now teabags are in the no-plastic headlines. Who knew there was even plastic in a tea bag?
But to make an effective seal, polypropylene is used. Other problems with tea bags include using bleach to whiten the bags so they have a more attractive appearance — who cares? The only thing is, once I get my newly-purchased caffeine-free organic Tick-Tock tea home and open the cardboard box, there is a plastic bag inside. Of course there is, otherwise the leaves would go everywhere although I reckon I could cope.
I am struggling to convince myself that I am using less plastic here: I prefer tea bags anyway — they are easier sorry — lazy. Please, PG Tips, will you lead the way? Usually this might mean a bottle of juice I refuse to buy bottled water, not just because of the plastic waste, but because of the principle of paying for something that you can get for free , a cup of tea, a flapjack, a sandwich or a packet of crisps.
Instead, I make a flask of tea at home and pack a lunch in a reusable tupperware pot. Arriving at the venue I am offered water or a hot drink, but there are only plastic cups or those controversial paper cups provided, so I fill my now-empty flask with water in my rush to leave home, I had forgotten to pack either a water bottle or my reusable tea cup. Stepping out on stage, Stanfords hands each speaker a tin water flask as a gift. Fantastic — no excuse not to carry water in my handbag from now on.
No flapjacks or crisps today — they all come in plastic packaging or metalised plastic in the case of crisps. Dinner is a burrito from the takeaway at Paddington station, packaged in tin foil and paper. No salad or green leafy veg either — all of these come in a bag. It was a bit of luck that there were a handful of loose sprouts left. It depends what your motivations are, but I think plastic edges ahead as the greater of the evils, especially as it is so unnecessary — as proven by the basket!
Though frustratingly, with the exception of mushrooms, the bags Waitrose provides for loose veg are plastic. I brought my own paper ones. All bread products were off the menu. I usually buy crisps or snacks, but even oat cakes, which are in a cardboard box, have plastic wrappers inside. Lentils were also forbidden, as were nuts. Candles were also on my shopping list, but the ones I usually buy Waitrose essentials dinner candles have a plastic wrapper around the cardboard. It makes it easier for the shopper to see the product they are purchasing I suppose. It also means I am supporting the little man which I believe in, and when I got home the candles fit far better in the bottles I use as holders.
I am very fortunate to live somewhere where refills are readily available. In central Bath Walcot Street, opposite the Hilton there is Harvest Natural Foods which has a large selection of dried beans, pulses, legumes, grains and fruit as well as the standard cleaning products. They even do herb refills 20p per pot — great value! Harvest caters to my washing up liquid, lentils and rice needs. Looks as though I will just have to go without pasta, wraps and crumpets this month.
I head to a bakery to buy a loaf for my morning toast: The Bertinet Kitchen , where I buy a granary loaf wrapped in paper. When I get home I put it in a reused plastic bag to keep it fresh. To ease my conscience, at least the bag it comes in is recyclable. It is so tempting to eat a sandwich at your desk and crack on through with that endless list of emails I know, I have done it , but instead, could you use this time for adventure? Obviously, within the time constraints of an office lunch break, we are not talking adventure on a grand scale. But adventure can mean anything: In our busy, must-get-this-done society, it is easy to overlook the value of taking a break.
But that huge pile of admin will still be there when you get back, and taking a step away from the task in hand can work wonders in terms of productivity, enthusiasm and efficiency. Our brains are simple things; they were not made to focus on a computer screen for hours on end. They need variety, stimulation and interest in order to function effectively.
And mostly, they need fresh air. Finish your sentence, send that email, and get out there. Whether you work in a city, town or in the countryside, there will be something of interest nearby. A gallery or museum; a tea rooms or a library. Wherever you are, pick a point that is a twenty minute walk away, and go.
Twenty minutes to get there, twenty minutes to eat your lunch, and twenty minutes to get back to your desk. Offer someone a helping hand. Variety enriches us and feeds our brains. Fresh air clears away the hangups of the morning. Even if it is your most stressful day at work and you can barely afford the time, getting outside and away from it all for one hour will make the rest of the day run more smoothly.
You can return to your desk refreshed, revitalised, stress-free and ready to put in some good hours for the rest of the day. At this time of year especially, your lunch hour might be the only time you are able to experience daylight; while the days are still fairly short, commutes to and from work are often done in the dark. A good umbrella or rain jacket, and maybe a change of shoes, is all you need. Mostly, the act of getting up and getting outside, of throwing something new into your routine, is how adventure will creep into your life.
Who knows what serendipity might befall us when we just open ourselves to the possibility? Sometimes it will rain. But a couple of times a week, try something new: As always, tweet me , email me or leave a comment below to tell me what adventures came along as a result of getting outside in your lunch hour.
Ducks like grapes seedless, cut in half , cooked rice, birdseed, peas, corn, oats and chopped lettuce. That could be walking to work, or taking a stroll during your lunch hour, or going for a Sunday ramble to the pub. It could be finding the footpaths that go through unexplored parts of your local area, it could be heading out on a multi-mile trek, and it could even be getting started on the mile challenge — to walk miles over the course of a year.
Walking is a wonderful way to access the Great Outdoors. Walking is an accessible, low-impact form of exercise and is great for reducing stress and lifting the mood. It is good for the hips, knees, feet, legs, heart and brain. If every day of you were to walk just 2. Why walk miles? For health, for happiness, for adventure, for charity or for fun.
The Walk miles website has a huge number of inspirational stories about what walking can do for you. Please do tweet me , email me or leave a comment below to share your walking stories. Fresh air is a wonderful thing. Spending time outdoors makes us happier, healthier and gives us time to enjoy the miracle of nature; something that is all too easily overlooked in the hectic routine of modern life.
In January I spent two days enjoying some fresh air in the New Forest, having been chosen to represent Ordnance Survey in their GetOutside initiative for the next two years. A long-established mapping company, Ordnance Survey launched GetOutside a few years ago to promote how beneficial time spent in the outdoors can be; in a time of increasingly sedentary lifestyles, problems with mental health, pollution from transport, and a growing burden on the NHS, fresh air is the wonder drug that seldom gets prescribed apart from by this company that sells it — the mind boggles.
This is where you come in, dear reader. Write a comment, send a tweet, email me a photo. Gender-specific activities, it seems, will never be without controversy. I once took part in an overnight bike ride organised by the Fridays, from Hyde Park in London to Felpham on the south coast. On arrival, I instantly felt out of place: Nevertheless, I started chatting to a few riders as we spun away through the midnight hours, and had a few pleasant exchanges. My indignation ran deep.
I know how to use my gears, and I certainly know how to climb hills. Your advice, Mr Lycra Man, is unnecessary, unwanted and frankly, insulting. This exchange was enough to make me not go on another of these rides. There was nothing wrong per se with a little friendly helpful hint, but at the same time, it was trapped beneath the weight of its wrongness. This is the reason Breeze rides exist: For many women, this is the only situation in which they feel comfortable, and that should be applauded, not criticised.
If you are the kind of cyclist who is able to just get on a bike and go for a ride, then good for you. Not all people are like that. Of course, these rides do not tell the whole story. Neither does it illustrate the female who is more than happy heading off on her bicycle by herself, whether that be long distance exploration or weekly shop. But statistically, fewer women than men cycle, whether that be commuting, leisure or club rides, which is why there is a focus on group rides for women. Anything that gets people riding is a good thing: And that is something to be celebrated.
The sun has not yet risen as I pedal away from my boat, ahead miles of riding over the next two days. Pale blue and grey is reflected in the canal as the horizon begins to lighten; the moon still holds its night time magnificence and hangs like a lamp in the sky. The owls are quietened by the promise of day. The night brought a freeze, and the morning wind holds my face in its teeth.
Puddles across the towpath crunch beneath tyres, and on the hills, trees stand bare like chimney brushes. At the foot of the valley the river surges with winter rain, though here, the canal sits calm, feathered with ice. Other cyclists share the path, as do early Sunday runners; like me they are wrapped within a cocoon of buffs and scarves.
A woodpecker vibrates against a tree. The miles pass slowly as tyres stutter over stones and mud sucks at progress. I rumble ever eastward as the canal steadily rises through the locks into Wiltshire. Here, with mudguards clogged, I leave the river to its meandering course and seek out the predictability of tarmac. At the height of the day the sky shines like glass, the winter sun slowly arcing close to the earth, white and crisp.
Coal tits and finches flash across the road as though fired from one hedgerow to the next. A red kite fans its tail above my head and starlings rise in one cacophonous cloud. The glint of an aeroplane tears at the blue like scissors to paper. The freeze has lingered, puddles lying solid in the shade of the bushes. The lanes are a delight, unfolding through farmland and climbing up tree-lined avenues where leafless branches bristle in the cold. The quiet of the road is interrupted as motor vehicles pass, their lights glaring on the tarmac. I had hoped to be there by now, but the slow drag along the towpath, the zig-zag country lanes, a constant headwind and my heavy panniers have elongated the ride.
Not that I mind; the steady spin of the bicycle is how I choose to travel, and to see the day pass through every stage has been a privilege. London is within touching distance: Tomorrow I will reach the Thames which will draw me into the glorious madness of the capital. It already feels like another world, the gentle canal and the endless plains of the morning.
The plod continues towards my overnight stop, the land steadily morphing beneath my wheels, and though tired, cold and hungry, there is a smile on my face. The prosecco can wait. This is the time to see the world. A proposed 25p tax on coffee cups has been all over the news today, and in my inbox appeared an email from 38 Degrees asking me to share the petition supporting the tax.
It stated that the levy could seriously tackle plastic pollution and save the environment. Obviously, I agree with a tax on throwaway plastics; the fact that we manufacture single-use items from a material that, to all intents and purposes, lasts forever, is an irony not lost on me. The thing is, I am not convinced that adding 25p to the price of my coffee will have the same effect. The choice is made at the checkout. Options a and b are impossible.
Keep Cups do not fold neatly into a handbag. That and better waste management — the percentage of single-use cups that are recycled is appallingly low. Definitely tax throwaway plastics straws, water bottles etc. They were either outdated, irrelevant or simply badly written. Some of the blogs were about things I still wanted to share, so I re-wrote them; one such entry was about my trip to the Lake District which kick-started the process of turning my round-Britain blog into a round-Britain book. Partway through rewriting my Lake District post, I dragged the original out of the trash.
Once I was of the mind that writers should only publish work of which they were proud; it should always be their best. And that is true, to a point. But how can I always write my best work? I am constantly developing, so does that mean that with each new article I should delete all the old ones?
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The original Lake District post is truly awful, though. But I have published it regardless, here. It lists the places I went to without giving any detail of them. One thing in its favour is that it focuses on a memorable part of my trip, the mountain biking, and describes that in detail, which is a good literary technique.
What made it stunning? Why was it fantastic? I relied on the reader to do most of the work: Attempts at humour worked, to a point. My mistake was trying to write something that would please everybody, and which ended up pleasing no one, not least myself. Because, yes, I write for others, but it must come from me: And it has to be personal, otherwise no one will connect. The re-written version is here , and this is a piece that I actually think is good. But I am also proud to present them side by side; it is better to be open than to hide my past writing as if in shame. Of course, not everything I write is good not even I think so but I am satisfied with most of my work.
Some posts I think particularly deserve to be read include these:. West of Wales to East of England. In search of Thames Head. Why am I running away? I am proud to put my name to the BAM bamboo clothing brand: Not that it takes much work: There are plenty of reasons why bamboo is such a terrific material for clothing: An all-round performance fabric that is as good for lounging as it is for sports. But the thing that sells me the most about bamboo is its environmental credentials. We live in a world where constantly shifting fashion means cheap, synthetic clothing proliferates the market, more often than not ending up in landfill.
Bamboo is a wonderful alternative to cotton: So shop with a clear conscience, knowing you are helping the planet as well as yourself. I prefer tops that cover my lower hips, so this is perfect. Racer Back Sports Vest: I have the trainer socks which feel padded and snug when I head out for my run. Bamboo is truly a miracle material.
Working in the transport sector I would witness first-hand how problematic private motorised transport could be, from congested roads to poisoned air, from unhealthy inactive lifestyles to dangerous and unwelcoming towns and cities. The car ban began. Come rain or shine I would cycle to work; with panniers bulging I would struggle home from the shops. Early on I discovered that most of the difficulty of placing restrictions on yourself was explaining it to others. People raised their eyebrows, and I felt embarrassed explaining my motivations, like I was some kind of eco-warrior eccentric.
I sometimes felt as if I were just doing it for the sake of it. I have driven a car for the past 24 years so this has been a massive step and buses are a bit scarce where I live. Day to day I found the challenge easy, but there were a few notable exceptions.
- Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers Series 2, Volume 14 - Enhanced Version (Early Church Fathers)?
- Shop by category!
- Offshore: Tax Havens and the Rule of Global Crime;
- Account Options.
- TV Rewind: Twin Peaks.
- Die Aktivierung des Konsumenten – Aktuelle Erkenntnisse der Werbewirkungsforschung (German Edition).
My job at the time was organising training courses and providing catering, so I would usually buy the food the day before and take it to the venue by taxi. With this no longer an option, I scouted around for another way to transport lunch ingredients for forty people and ended up borrowing a bicycle trailer from a friend. Even so, it was a revelation: I was sold, and to this day I have my very own trailer. More of a challenge was moving house. Even the most minimalist of people cannot fit all their belongings into a bicycle trailer.
Using a combination of bike and bus, over the course of six cumbersome journeys I succeeded in shuttling my belongings from one house to the next. The bags were heavy and there was enough of a walk from the bus stop to make me stop and curse several times. The wheely suitcase broke. This was taking hours. Losing the will to live. A brief blog about my challenge appeared on the Sustrans website: To read more about car-free go here: An ex-colleague of mine set up the fantastic website car free walks: Alighting on a branch he gleams In stark contrast to cold-stripped beams, An orange breast, sharp line of beak: A fire within the winter bleak.
A sudden movement makes him rise Into the dull and sullen skies, His regal coat with glitter shone Flits up, and drops, and then is gone. She is an omnivore so this is a real challenge. I woke up at around 4: That was a tough realisation. I did have another tough realisation though, while preparing breakfast. Nor would I have a milky cup of tea to accompany it.
It even melted a bit! Plus, earl grey tea with lemon is brilliant. It makes it look nice though. This is a meal I would normally eat. We avoid the vegan cheese this evening, giving our pasta an extra dollop of delicious olive oil. This is already a tough challenge. At least I can drink wine. However, it just so happened that she had been planning soup and one of the soups in the fridge was indeed vegan. Around the World by Bicycle Around the World Duker, Peter - Sting in the tail: ISBN 1 92 2 Australian publication; search for it here: Summer of '79 USA ISBN 1 9.
Enfield, Edward - Downhill all the way France Enfield, Edward - Freewheeling Through Ireland: Travels with My Bicycle Ireland Fairweather, Nicholas - Coasting around Scotland Farmer, Daryl - Bicycling beyond the Divide: Faulkner, Dominic - The Longest Climb: Fenimore, David - Bicycling Across America: Ferguson, Marion - Mid-Life Cycles: Memoir of year-old mother of four who cycled through 48 states and 8 provinces.
By bicycle across the Sahara Now available to read online.
Das Verhaltnis Von Colley Cibbers Lustspiel the Non Juror Zu Molieres Tartuffe (1903)
Edward Lunn and F. Along the Silk Road. ISBN 0 6. Bernie Friend - Cycling Back to Happiness: ISBN 0 3 4. Gidmark, David - Journey across a Continent Canada Gill, Dominic - Take a Seat: Across the USA by bike; following in their parents ride of 40 years before Graft, Jeff - Ride: A 4,mile cross-country ride from Seattle to Savannah to raise money for trout stream preservation. Indiana to San Francisco. Guise, Richard - From the Mull to the Cape: ISBN 1 5. Hall, Brian - Stealing from a deep place Eastern Europe.
A vegetarian, Seventh Day Adventist Grandmother at that. Harding, Georgina - In Another Europe. Hennessey, Brian - Balancing Act Africa Herstedt, Daniel - days on a bicycle Vietnam and China Self published, available printed and as a PDF download. Hullfish, Bill - The U. A transcontinental bicycling adventure Jenkins, John W - Catching a Dream: Jenkins, Mark - Off the map Siberia. ISBN 0 06 6. A funny classic, apparently. First published Johnson, Mary Barbara - Pilgrim on a Bicycle: Krieg, Martin - Awake Again Two bike rides across America after two months in a coma, right side paralysis and clinical death.
Kropp, Goran - Ultimate High: My Everest Odyssey Sweden to Everest base camp by bike, summit on foot then back home by bike. Kurmaskie, Joe - Metal Cowboy: Kurmaskie, Joe - Riding Outside the Lines: Kurmanskie, Joe - Mud, Sweat, and Gears: Lamb, David - Over the Hills: Lee, Mona - Humbler Than Dust: Leeming, Kate - Out there and back 25,km in the Australian outback ISBN Australian publication. Lind, Robin - Pedaling Northwards: Llewellyn, Mark - Riders to the midnight sun Sevastapol to Murmansk.
Being the true Journal of Mr. Written , printed Lord, Stephen - Adventure Cycling Handbook: Lovett, Richard - Free-Wheelin': Maka, Gwen - South of the Border: Malusa, Jim - Into Thick Air: South African publication - try Jonathan Ball Publishers. Mason, Sandra - Grandmas Across America: Also available as a download from Lulu.
Available from the Greenspeed trike manufacturers website. An interesting account of the history of the road and people met along the way. Yes, the author is aware that the Hume, Australia's major highway is not the best place for a tour. But McGirr is an entertaining writer. Odd, disjointed, very old fashioned travelogue with many tired historical discourses on sun worship.
Moore, David - The Accidental Pilgrim: ISBN 0 09 6. Murphy, Dervla - Full tilt England to India in the early '60s. ISBN 0 09 X. ISBN 0 00 4. ISBN 0 09 3. ISBN 0 00 X. Murphy, Dervla - Through the embers of chaos Balkan journeys ISBN 1 2. Mustoe, Anne - Lone traveller Round the World. ISBN 0 X. ISBN 0 8. However it isn't a cycling travelogue despite the subtitle "By bicycle and train through South America" and the Anne Mustoe logo - the author and bike in silhouette - on the front cover.
What a pity, I only bought the book because I so enjoy the authors other tales from the saddle. A cyclists adventures on Five Continents. Newby, Eric - Round Ireland in low gear The only cycling travelogue I've not managed to read to its end. Just too bogged down in low gear and dull historical fact. ISBN 0 1. Newman, Bernard - Ride to Rome Europe Nichols, Alan Hammond - Journey: Ozeki, Yasuyuki - Against the Wind.
Pedalling for a pint from Japan to Ireland Perkowitz, Robert - Lisbon to Moscow: Peat Neville - Detours: Around the World on Two Wheels Around the world ISBN 0 00 6. Portway, Christopher - Pedal for Your Life: By Bicycle from the Baltic to the Black Sea Short run printed version of this travelogue at crazyguyonabike. Retallick, Martha - Ride over the mountain: Reflections on a two wheeled journey around America Retallick, Martha - Discovering America: Bicycle Adventures in all 50 States.
Riddel, Charles - Spoked Dreams: An Odyssey by Bicycle and Mind. A historical account of the development of modern France as discovered from the saddle by the historian author. So not so much about the ride as the countryside ridden through. A 10, mile ride to raise funds for the Make-a-Wish Foundation in the early s.