fatgirlonabicycle

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Stop retconning your cycle tour into HASHTAG BIKEPACKING.

If you had panniers and were on a road... it’s just fake news.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Love these lines from a new article by Lael Wilcox - long distance cycling super star - on Bicycling.com. 

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Hunting a post that seems to have been eaten by tumblr, found this in my drafts. Long hair and riding fixed... a life time ago! 

[fatgirlonabicycle]

A few weeks ago Evans Cycles kindly invited me on a trip to the highlands to help celebrate ten years of their in-house bike brand, Pinnacle.  As you can see we pedalled, pushed and carried our fleet of limited edition Pinnacle Arkose bicycles across some gorgeous countryside. The weather gods were kind and working with a professional mountain bike guide removed the usual stresses of route finding. Yes it was incredibly tough going at times, but easy shifting electronic gears, hydraulic disc brakes and comfy 45 mm tubeless tyres made up the parts when we could cycle a total joy. After three months riding my beloved - but totally overloaded, heavy and knackered - Surly Straggler, the Arkose was a breath of fresh air. There’s more info about the 10th Year Limited Edition bicycles over on the Evans website. 

The other “guests” on this adventure were Katherine Moore, who writes wonderful stuff about women's cycling on her website katherinebikes.com, and Stuart Wright of Bearbone Bikepacking. I suspect the trip wasn’t quite miserable enough for him, madman. Emma from West Coast Biking was our guide. 

Thanks to James, James and everyone else at Evans Cycles for inviting me. I think its cool that a big cycling brand would invite a fat women to help promote their product, demonstrating that adventures on two wheels are not just for the skinny boys. 

P.S. Kinda proud that I got one of my favourite card games, Love Letters, and my shirt from Thunderhawk Brewery (San Diego) in the video. 

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Lots of this episode of This American Life resonates with me. 

The part when Elna Baker discusses with her husband whether he would be with her if she was still fat made me cry. But then again I’ve just got my period and everything makes me cry. 

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Dogs of the world, fuck off!

1 March 2017. I’m about 40 miles out of Las Cruces, feeling strong and happy, looking forward to lunch in the next town, when the dogs attack.

First I hear them, then I see them. With relief I note the dogs are still in a farm yard about 100 yards ahead of me... then I realised that the gate isn’t shut.

Cycling in the US for almost a month now, this instant check to see if dogs are contained the moment I hear barking has become habit, like glancing over my shoulder before making a turn.

Despite the fact the damn hounds are in front of me, I start pedalling frantically forward, swearing and - as suggested by my Warm Showers hosts in El Paso - grab a bidon in order to squirt the attacking dogs.

In a moment they are all around me. Four or five big bastards. Barking and snarling, snapping and jumping. I swerve across the road, trying to find a way through the pack. It’s both a blessing and a curse that there are no passing vehicles. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck off!

Maybe the dogs don’t understand my British accent?

I squirt water in the nearest dog’s face. It looks positively delighted, snapping the stream of water out of the air. Is there a drought in New Mexico? The rear of my bike is jostled from the right and I look around, still pedalling and trying to keep upright. I look forward just in time to see the bloody great Great Dane gnaw at my left hand, the hand still gripping the handlebars.

Fuck you!

The dog is so big it doesn’t even need to reach up. My hand is at eye level - well, jowl level - like a bloody pink snack, delightfully presented in a ASSOS track mitt.

As if by some awful magic, with a awful jerk, my forward motion stops. Has my foul mouth finally incited the wrath of the touring gods? My bike is no longer rolling forward. I’m stuck. I brace myself to get mauled, continuing to shout at the dogs. I will not go quietly into that New Mexican afternoon.

But with the end of motion, after a final few snarls and barks, the dogs lose interest and head back to their yard.

They have torn off a rear pannier, snapping the hooks which held it to rack, twisting it into the rear wheel. The bag is firmly rammed between the inside of the rack and wheel. While the dogs continue to bark at me from the farmyard, I scream at the top of my lungs, scream at the dogs, scream at the farm house where there is no sign of anyone. 

It does... nothing. 

Then, not knowing what else to do and just wanting to get away, I pick up my bike and haul it along the road until I am no longer opposite the property. 

All the screaming and swearing has done literally nothing. A car approaches and passes, ignoring my attempt to flag them down.

What the fuck am I doing? What should I do?

I get on with things. Totally alone (for the moment at least). I extract the bag from where it's wedged, find my first aid kit and clean out the dog bite in my hand. It’s pretty minor. My rear wheel is damaged, but still fairly round. As well as damaged hooks, have obvious teeth marks in both my rear panniers. 

A few minutes later, a kind Hispanic women stops to see if I’m OK, prays for me, then sorts me a lift into the next town. 

My worst nightmare has literally just happened. But I’m OK. And that's the moral of this story.

Well, the moral of the story is shut your fucking gate or I’ll sic animal control on you.

Here’s what I suggest you do when aggressive seeming un-contained dogs run at you and you don’t have the option to sprint away:

Stop. Put the bike between you and the animals. Grab a weapon, mini-D lock was my weapon of choice. Shout loudly and firmly.  Hope for some owner intervention. Luckily i didn’t have to go further than these steps for the rest of my tour. 

There is plenty of advice about how to deal with dog attacks when cycle touring. And if you remember it the first time you are attacked by a pack of dogs I’ll buy you a pint.

This post is dedicated to all the not dickhead dogs, and their not dickhead owners, who I met in the US: Chief and Mesa, the crazy good natured desert dogs of Terlingua, Helen and Bjorn, Penny, Solace, and a few more whose names I don’t remember.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Five of my favourite American campsites

One of the happiest experiences of my North American cycle tour was camping in national, state and county parks. Costing between $4 and $24 a night, I was happy to pay for a place to pitch my tent. Yeah. Yeah. I know I could of wild camped, but I chose not to. Deal with it. Take your escalating machismo elsewhere.

My five favourite campsites, in the order I visited them were:

Pederndales Falls State Park, Texas | This is the first place I camped on this trip, and my first experience of camping somewhere really remote on my own. You follow a green and rolling gravel track for several miles, wetting your wheels in burbling streams with names like Bumblebee Creek, to get to the primitive camping area. Before bed, I backtracked to one of these creeks to bath my first-day-sunburn.

Seminole Canyon State Park, Texas | This amazing desert campsite has stunning views across to Mexico, great phone signal (you really appreciate this when travelling alone) and Paleo-Indian cave paintings. I liked it so much it was the first place I stayed for two nights. The quiet was occasionally interrupted by US Border Patrol helicopters, reminding you how close to Mexico you really are. The landscape, like the Rio Grande river in Big Bend, demonstrates how brutal and badly thought out the fantasy of “THE WALL” is.

Umpqua Lighthouse State Park, Oregon | The South Oregon Coast is magic. A rollercoaster of climbs and descents, with rugged scenery to distract you from challenging riding, and ocean winds to help, hinder and cool. After a brutal climb away from the coast, past the Lighthouse itself, you will be lulled to sleep at this verdant campsite by the eerie howl the lighthouse makes as its reflector rotates.

Humbug Mountain Park, Oregon | Reached via more stunning coastal scenery, the cheapo hiker-biker sites are beautifully organised (each flat with a picnic bench and fire ring, hedged in making them private) and within each shot of a waterfall. The only downside of this en-suite-waterfall is that, however dry and sunny the weather, you inevitably wake with a condensation drenched tent.

Agua Calliente County Park, California | I am in love with this desert park. I swear I’m going back in winter, as it was almost unbearably hot in mid-April. As the name suggests, a natural hot spring is at the heart of this campsite. With three bathing pools of different temperatures, free mineral showers, road runners and bunnies keeping you company and views of big horn sheep in the beautiful hills that surround it… The downsides of this campsite, besides the desert heat, is that it’s a tough ride or tougher cross country hike-a-bike (there’s a blog post in the works here) to reach and there is no phone signal for literal miles.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Campsites of Texas, Oregon and California.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Road Magic

I’ve been in the USA for about a month now and have just under two months left before I head back to the UK.

There have been some wonderful bits, some difficult bits, and some disconcerting through to downright terrifying moments. Overall, I have met many interested, kind and thoughtful people who have really helped me get through and made this trip much less lonely.

In no particular order, here are some of the many instances of kindness that I’ve encountered in the last few weeks:

John, fellow Brit who was on the same flight to Austin and staying at the same hostel, who walked to an Amazon Locker with me to collect my maps and then had a few beers with, making my first evening in the USA more successful and convivial that I could have hoped.

Fanny, the excitable French taxi driver who got me from the airport to the hostel while telling me all the truck drivers secrets.

Everyone at Bicycle Sports Shop Austin who dealt with me delivering them a mechanical curve ball with absolute grace and whose hard work meant that I headed off on my tour on schedule with a fully functioning bicycle.

The member of staff at the Dairy Queen in Johnson City who gave me a massive ice cream for free. Literal manna from heaven on a hot and difficult second day of cycling.

The friendly old boy I met at the municipal campsite in Fredericksburg who told me it was headwind all the way West. I resented the information… but he was kinda right.

The friendly old boy I met riding into Brackettville who told me that it wasn’t headwind all the way West. I appreciated the information… but he was kinda wrong.

Antonio for buying me a beer in the Camp Wood biker bar. 

The snowbirds of Fort Clark, Brackettville, for inviting me to their Valentine's Day chili cook off. A halfway proper dinner was most appreciated.

Jeanie and Coco, who I met in Seminole Canyon, introduced a different pace to my tour and reminded me that I don’t just have to slog long my planned route day after day. We enjoyed some excellent fireside meals and conversations, and they gave me a lift into Big Bend. If it wasn’t for Jeanie I wouldn’t have visited Big Bend, nor hiked to the Hot Springs and paddled in the Rio Grande. I hope to catch up with them in California before I head back to the UK.

Brandy and Ray who saw me riding into Sanderson after a tough 80 mile day and greeted me with a cold beer and a good chat.

Mike O’Connor, the rancher who insisted on giving me a lift to the next town when he saw me struggling up hill into the driving wind and rain between Sanderson and Marathon.

Maria, my Polish RV mum. She insisted on giving me breakfast on the morning I left Seminole Canyon, gave me a hug and told me “You need a hug everyday.” Bumping into her (twice!) in Big Bend, she came through on her declaration and gave me much needed hugs.

Freddy, a young guy who lives in his car, who used the hostel in Austin once a week to cook a good dinner and have a proper wash and sleep. He kindly invited me to eat a great meal with him and pointed out that the American coins I had brought with me were actually Euros.

Joe Pat Hennon, who I met standing round the fire in the Marathon Motel, and insisted on giving me one of his CDs. (Nevermind I’m on a cycle tour and didn’t know when I’d next be near a CD player. We ended up listening to it in Alpine.)

Lisa, the beautiful Park Ranger at Big Bend National Park, who told me *exactly* where the hills were in the next 30 miles out towards Terlingua and recommended La Kiva for a beer and burger.

The folk at La Kiva, Terlingua,  - especially Dena and Deniro who adopted me and showed me round the ghost town, as well as how to handle the packs of desert dogs - for letting me camp out the back of the bar. I really liked Terlingua, though it's goat head thorns have killed my sleeping mat.

The classic Texan gentleman, complete with cowboy hat, who, remembering me from a previous campground and meeting me again at La Kiva, insisted on buying me a beer.

Chelsea and Sara who let me hitch a lift to Alpine from Terlingua, saving me a gruelling 80 miles of windy desert riding. Who would have thought strapping a bike to a car roof would be such a hilarious challenge.

Betsy in Alpine, as well as Shea and Lyndsey, who let me not only stay with them for a restful long weekend, but let me be part of their cool girl gang. Especially Lyndsey who drove us to the amazing Balmorhea spring - after getting over my trepidation at the overly friendly fish, this is the best swim I’ve had in the US - and for getting me to El Paso the next day.

Kirsty and Erin in El Paso for a good night’s sleep. I’m looking forward to coming back to see them in a few days.

Lisa in Las Cruces who has helped me so much I’m not sure where to begin. Lisa is an amazingly generous and chilled out host, if you are riding the Souther Tier you must send her a message via Warm Showers.

Pilar, who I have decided may actually be a saint. On Wednesday I was attacked by a bunch of farm dogs just outside Hatch. Pilar was the first person to stop and she quickly figured out what to do (call her boss to take me into town in his truck) and prayed for me. And of course her boss, Zane, who turned up so quickly and was the picture of practical concern and helpfulness.

Bill, the retired motorcycle mechanic I met at Percha Dam Campground, who took the time to true my wheel which was wildly out of tension. When the dogs attacked me, they managed to somehow rip a rear pannier from its rack, wedging it between the wheel and rear triangle. I rode to the campground, desperate to continue the tour, but quickly realised my wheel was borked beyond my capability to fix. My first plan was to see if anyone was going to a town with a bike shop, and Bill was the first person I asked.

Eric - another cycle tourist who is staying with Lisa - who borrowed a car and came to get me when I realised I was more shaken and upset by the dog attack that I first wanted to admit, and got me back to Las Cruces.

People like to share horror stories and make fateful predictions. In the same bar that I was bought a beer by Antonio (a young guy of Mexican descent), a woman told me that I was likely to be kidnapped by Mexicans and sold into sex slavery for daring to go so close to the border alone. I’ve been told to get a gun or a man or a whole new plan. There are cartels and rattlesnakes to fear.

The dog attack was terrifying and upsetting, and has caused me to change my plans for the next few weeks. But what I will remember is that when the thing that I’ve openly said I was most fearful about did happen, both strangers and new friends stepped up to help.

There is much I still need to beware of and be careful of on this cycle tour. Being alone in a different country is not a time to be naive. But I honestly believe - half through airy fairy hopefulness and half through actual experience - that people are good and if you need it, they will help you.

This is something Steve, former self confessed hobo and seriously canny cycle tourist I met staying in Las Cruces, calls Road Magic.

I’m removing a few hundred miles of New Mexico and Arizona from my itinerary. Tomorrow I’m heading back to El Paso and then on to the West Coast via train. My plans have changed so much in the last month that I’m uncertain what the next two will hold.But I’m confident that I will encounter enough kindness and Road Magic to outweigh the challenges and difficulties.

The best place to keep up with where I am and what I am up to is Twitter and Instagram.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

I haven’t ridden a bicycle for over two weeks.

Not even to work. Or the shops. Or even to the pub!

But I’ve got a good excuse, I promise.

So Ella, what happened?

Riding home from work on a Friday evening, a hastily opened car door clipped my handlebars. After a strangely elongated moment where I thought I’d successfully swerved the door, I went over the handlebars and hit the deck.

At first I was convinced I was ok. Distracted by getting out of the road, by checking my bicycle and my madly shaking legs, it took a minute or two to realise how badly injured I was. I stood in the rain, looking at my arm and wondering where all the black motor oil had come from. It was only when I rolled up my sleeve and saw the blood spurting from a deep wound did I really comprehend what had happened to me. The edge of the door had torn into the flesh of my upper left arm, right down to muscle, tendon and bone.

Long story short: The police and ambulance came. The driver stuck around like a decent responsible person. I was told to wear a helmet a bunch of times, though my head and neck were completely unaffected. The NHS have cleaned me up and sewn me back together. I had my first ever proper operation. DO NOT GOOLE DEBRIDEMENT. The stitches come out this week.  Thanks NHS. Thanks friends who rallied round while I’ve been injured, sad, pissed off and generally wonky.

I’m lucky as hell... for someone who has a painful ugly scar in a visible place. Right now it seems like the muscle, bone, tendons and nerves are all ok. Only severed one vein. It even looks like the plastic surgeon has managed to line up the tattoo the cut runs through. Lucky me.

Back on the bicycle yesterday, just a short jaunt around my neighbourhood, and I’m sad to say that the roads have become a scary place. That mix of confidence, faith and foolishness that makes anyone able to cycle in busy traffic has been seriously dented. My nerve has been shaken. I found myself almost pre-emptively shrinking away from parked cars. I’ve considered more lights and even wearing a helmet - though only a full set of mountain biking armour would have prevented this injury - but I’ll probably just carry on as I have been for the last few years. You see, the driver saw me coming and still opened the door, and at the end of the day there is only so much you can do to account for, and mitigate the effects of, others poor judgement. It’s the risks we are forced to accept.

More importantly, two weeks of trams and taxis have convinced me that cycling is still my preferred method of travel.

I hope the unpredictable organised chaos which is our roads will be kind for a while, just while I find my confidence again. Because I’ll be needing it, since I’ve spent the enforced downtime planning and booking the first part of my American cycle tour. Wish me luck.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

I quit my job to ride my bike.

The great thing about having a “proper grown up job” is that a rash decision takes three months to come to fruition. 

I quit my job, y’al! 

Well, to be precise, I handed in my notice the other week. 

Next year, I'm going on a very long cycle tour in North America. And then, pending the upcoming apocalypse, probably some bike tramping about in Europe. The exact size and shape of this adventure is still coalescing. 

All I know is I want to ride across the desert, eat chicken fried steak and try to convince as many American’s as possible that I’m a famous Grime MC. 

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Depression and the bike

Hey Ella, what’s going on? What cycling adventures have you been up to?

Hey, thanks for asking. I’ve spent the last few months mired in an exhausting depression.

I watched the summer skies and crisp autumnal days pass. And I just couldn't summon the spark that would get me out on the roads and trails. Now the cold and wet is sneaking in. And I am rebuking myself for missing out.

I see cycling friends and they ask what I’ve been up to. “Oh, nothing much.” Spring audaxes and summer touring feels a lifetime away. I feel as though I’ve barely turned a pedal since I hauled myself over the mountains of mid-Wales for Bearstock.

Just as no one knows more about weight loss than a fat girl, years of living with the background hum of  low self esteem and high self loathing means I am fully cognisant of what I should of been doing.

We all know that a ride would have, and will do, my head good. Endorphins and that. Blah, blah, blah.  

But hey, guess what? That’s not how depression works. Think about that too much and you’ve got a delicious cocktail of mental illness mixed with the guilt of being a “bad” depressed person. If you are going to be the fatty eating crisps on the obesity epidemic news report, at least enjoy the fucking crisps. And if lethargy means that a world of duvets and cat cuddles keeps winning out over spin classes and country lanes, pass me the Dreamies and so fucking be it.

I may not be ruling the Kingdom of Bicycles like I once did. But while I’ve been recuperating in my feather stuffed lair, I have been dreaming and scheming. My loyal subjects, your Queen promises to return.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Picked up a new #Carradice saddlebag at the bike jumble today. Luckily cost exactly what I made.

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Six reasons why I’m not riding the National 400

Back in January, on a cold and clear day, I completed my fastest ever 200km audax. Thanks to a brutal Crossfit WOD the day before, which featured a lot of overhead lunges, my glutes literally screamed every time I got out of the saddle to climb. But I finished tantalisingly near that 10 hour mark, and felt good. I was upbeat, taking energy from the encouraging, and now familiar, faces of local audax organisers. With three 400km completed over the last few years, and starting the year with a respectable 200 time, riding the National 400 was entirely feasible. 

Now it’s less than a week away. And I've know for over a month that t I wasn't going to attempt it. Here’s why: 

I’m just not fit enough. Even with two tough cycle tours I don’t have enough miles in my legs. Now loads of people are able to juggle complex lives with a competitive training schedule. I’m just not one of them. This year - working full time, managing life responsibilities, having a social and romantic life, looking after my physical and mental health - I haven’t been able to train like I did last year. It’s great to know that I can go from little more than daily commuting and a bit of Crossfit nonsense to riding over 120 miles at a respectable clip. But despite what the nice chaps on YACF will tell you, 400km (for me at least) is a different undertaking. 

Linked to the last point, it’s not going to be much fun. All long rides have a dark period in them… but the stronger you are the more likely the dark times will be a rewarding challenge you overcome, rather than a long period of suffering and misery. 

Riding bicycles is my hobby. I’m sure it’s not exclusive to fat girls, but exercise can become tangled with a form of toxic morality. Something you HAVE to do, to prove your worth. As Bethany Rutter (better known as @ArchedEyebrowBR on that twitter) wrote: “For me, exercise is similar to reading. Two things which are fundamentally hobbies, which are meant to be fun, but which have somehow become weaponised as a moral standard.” See previous point, hobbies should at least be somewhat fun. (Even if that “fun” isn’t immediately recognisable to someone else.) 

I don’t know about other people, but the sustained physical effort and loss of sleep involved in riding 400km takes a chunk of time to recover from. More than the day I can take off work. After a 400km I can ride at a gentle pace to get where I need to go, but a Crossfit workout is probably out of the question for a week or more. TMI warning: Sex can be pretty unappealing for a few days too. 

 And this recovery is not just physical, it’s emotional too. Despite having just completed impressive physical feat, I always feel pretty low after a massive ride. It’s similar to hangover blues, but seems to last for a longer period. With the extra fun of not really getting why you feel sad. Mmmmm, self gaslighting fun times! 

You and your priorities change… and that’s OK. Challenging myself to accept myself, my perceived failings and foibles, is important. It’s more important that proving myself by breaking myself. Accepting that what I wanted at the beginning year is not what I want right now is important.

This isn't the end of me and bicycles... and indeed the end of me, bicycles and fairly long distances. I just intend to take a slightly more relaxed approach, more focused on enjoyment and adventure. 

Good luck to everyone riding and supporting the National 400 next weekend. 

A photo posted by steve makin (@steveshairylegs) on Jul 4, 2016 at 1:44am PDT

[fatgirlonabicycle]

#hottestdayoftheyear = time to get mudguards for Stragella #surlystraggler #surlybikes

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View from my tent. Camping on a campsite, in a proper tent, next to @steveshairylegs in a tarpy-bivvy makes me feel hella decadent. (at Llandegla)

[fatgirlonabicycle]

Fond memories of some of the fine dining I did in Scandinavia. #haribo