Have you ever ridden through so much mud it clogs up your wheel and stops it turning? The wheels roll slower and slower, with mud clinging onto the rims, until they can go no further. This is precisely what happened to me on Saturday. I was riding my bike along the side of a claggy field, on what claimed to be a bridleway. The mud had been ankle deep most of the day, but in this field especially, it was thick and viscous, clay-like, slathering itself on every part of the bike until the bike stopped rolling.
I climbed off my bike, feet sinking into the field immediately, and surveyed the damage to my bike. I couldn’t see my derailleurs under the mud. The chain was splattered. The tyres and the rims were indistinguishable.
I wished, suddenly and passionately, that I had chosen a hobby that didn’t involve this. No mud. No dragging a bike over fences, mud, bogs and floods. Imagine if I’d chosen- I don’t know- knitting or something, and instead of standing shivering in freezing mud in the minus temperatures of a bitter January day, I would be sitting inside in the warm. I’d have a cup of tea. My feet would be dry. I wouldn’t be covered in mud. I would be able to feel, and move, my fingers.
It would be a lie to say this is the first time these words entered my mind. They always appear at the most desperate times of bike rides- inching exhaustedly up days of hills, slithering down rocky descents on a bike not designed for it, crossing floods that are deeper than you first thought, holidays spent sweating and swearing and exhausting myself up mountains instead of sunning on a beach like all my other friends. How many times have I wished fervently that I was not on my bike at all, instead wishing to be on the sofa, safe at home?
On this day in particular, I gritted my teeth, knowing I had no choice but to get my bike moving again. I was much too far from civilisation to give up. I carried my poor bike to the edge of the field, and set about cleaning off some of the mud with a stick, some ivy leaves and the remainder of the water from my bottle. When I’d finished, it was at least moving again, though sounding poorly.
I was completing a loop of the green belt of Bristol, staying close to home as allowed by the pandemic. The route knits together country lanes, bridleways, footpaths and byways, delving deep into the countryside but never really venturing far from the city limits. It is surprisingly rural, and difficult, despite how close to a major city it is.
I had started the day out in great spirits, shooting off through the Avon gorge in sparkling cold sunshine and frost, enjoying the spectacular woods and scenery. Then I had turned north, wiggled through the busy, muddy Blaise castle grounds and out beyond the city limits. It was here the mud began to get truly deep, as I followed tractor footprints north east along the side of fields and into deep countryside. I passed a pair of walkers who gleefully informed me the mud ‘gets worse, then better, then much, much worse.’
They was right too. The terrain started out as slurry, then slimy rock, then the claggy ankle deep mud of the field that had slowed me to a standstill.
I rested on my bike, wiping the mud from my hands onto my trousers in a vague attempt at cleaning them, and eyeing the blue sky, which had begun to streak with fingers of white cloud. I wondered if the snow that was promised would be early.
Then- because I had no choice- I climbed back on my bike and rode on. A few miles later, I came across another few gravel cyclists, as dirty and tired as I was. They were spinning up a muddy hillside. ‘It’s very muddy and wet down there. I screamed most of the way’ one of them informed me with a complicit smile. I smiled grimly back.
She was also right, I slid down the hill and into a section of thick mud and even deeper puddles that turned into full on floods. I slowly cleared these obstacles, glancing down to see that the flood waters and quietly taken most of the mud from my bike. The sight of my pedals gleaming silver and new and clean in the sun gave my spirits a sudden lift. I began to laugh.
What a strange way to spend a day, wading through mud and floods and across bleak winter landscapes, discovering new trails and linking together routes I’d ridden before. If I wasn’t here, smelling the damp mud, feeling the bite of cold and the gentle yellow of winter sun, seeing the first signs of spring in the verges, with the heads of snowdrops appearing in patches in the undergrowth- I’d be missing out completely.
I continued on. A family cheered me on as I mud-planed up a hillside. ‘That’s proper off -roading’, the dad exclaimed. ‘good on you.’ I felt guilty for my earlier wish to be indoors.
The final charge back home closely followed the Avon, along one of my favourite green corridors of Bristol. This towpath rolls through steep wooded hills where nature has grown up around, and broken apart, 18th century factory buildings and pipes, so all that is left are ghostly crumbling walls and ancient rusty metal work, slowly sinking into ivy and beech tree obscurity. The mud down here is almost water, so quite easy to get through really. I splashed happily upstream, dodging runners and sticky-footed families, spinning into the city centre and home.
Weirdly, the reason that keeps me coming back to cycling over and over, even though it’s exhausting and cold and hard, (and sometimes dangerous and lonely and downright dispiriting) is that these low moments always show me that I’m strong enough. And they always meld into the best times afterwards; they show me new fun places to ride, get me outdoors in the open space, sliding in the most ridiculous manner across the local landscapes.
And, to be honest with myself, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than slipping around on the muddy hills surrounding Bristol.
The route is one by Katherine Moore, found here: https://www.komoot.com/collection/1003738/-bristol-green-belt-360
