It's a been a while since I have written here, but I've finally got around to typing up some rambling words.
Check them out on my new website:
http://www.timmulliner.com/?p=343
Swedish Roaming
Monday, 8 June 2015
Monday, 9 February 2015
Skiing - Swedish Style
I actually know Ursvik pretty well. It has a half decent mountainbike track circumnavigating it which I’ve done quite a few times, there are walking and running tracks that we have explored on a regular basis, I’ve participated in one impromptu orienteering event there and I have actually ridden the cross country skiing trails many times in the summer on my cyclocross bike.
Start 'em young in Sweden. |
Ursvik was pleasantly empty. No real surprise for 8’oclock on a Sunday night. There were a few keen bods (who looked like they knew what they were doing) still out and about, but as I locked my bike up, unpacked the skis and got myself ready for departure it looked like I was going to have virtually the whole forest to myself. My ineptitude at what I was about to do would remain largely a secret.
At first the trail went up. I concentrated on my technique and was actually quite surprised that I was going upwards rather effortlessly in a way I thought must look quite elegant. ‘This cross-country skiing lark isn’t as hard as its beat up to be’ I thought. This was going to be fun. The track levelled out and tucking down I pushed my poles behind me and began to pick up some speed. I was really going for it now. The grooves, still largely present at this state glided me around the first couple of corners and then started to head down a small slope. Actually I know for certain that this is a small little slope as I have walked, ran and cycled up and down it many times. But on skis, well, it was enormous. Suddenly my skis took off. I tried to wedge my skis to slow myself, but my skis were two and half metres long, pencil thin and there was no cutting edge (I'm really starting to sound like I know what I'm talking about aye?). Once more, they were stuck in those stupid bloody grooves!
Sking in the dark. Not a bad way to spend the evenings. |
Way too much sun and too warm. Can't believe I'm saying that. |
Monday, 29 December 2014
2014 Over and Out
The first week of November was a busy one for us. On
Wednesday we finally received an offer for our house in New Zealand, on
Thursday we had the first real snow of the season and on Friday we popped into
the city and Loiuse arrived in our life. Sydney, Berlin, Christchurch,
Stockholm. Reads little like a Hard Rock Café t-shirt doesn’t it, not that I’m
a particular fan, however it is in fact a list of birth places for our wee
family.
We handled the lack of light better this year. Whether that was due to the fact that we were better mentally prepared for the greyness (I think the first 3 weeks of November had 5 hours of sunlight recorded in Stockholm), the fact that it wasn’t as cold as last year, it was due to the excitement of the arrival of a new member of the family, or whether it was due to the fact that we were popping drugs (vitamin D for the whole family), I don’t know. It was a probably a combination of all of these things but I was definitely not as miserable as the same time last year.
If you were to have a child in a country where you can’t speak the language – yes my Swedish is flagging at the level of a two year old, Sweden would be the place to have it. An excellent public health system and the widespread ability to speak near native English among the populace, it really wasn’t that much of a drama at all (I know, it’s easy for me to say that). Our biggest worry was who was going to look after Ana when the time arrived? Our neighbours of whom we have never set foot in their house kindly offered to take Ana in as did several other friends who live nearby. But we and most importantly Ana, really didn’t know anyone well enough to really leave our mind at rest. In the end, Karin and Micha helped us out on that department and kindly flew in a week before D-day to spend several weeks with us in what is generally regarded as the most miserable month to visit Stockholm.
BB Sophia is a maternity unit in central Stockholm. Louise was a text book case. Tina called me just as I was going to lunch at work on Friday afternoon. It was the last day in our present office before we moved to new digs. So I returned to the office, finished packing, changed into my cycling wares and rode home. There was time for a relaxed lunch (imagine if I had missed out on that!) before we called the taxi and headed in the city. I’ll spare you the details, oh well OK I won’t. We were served ice-cream smoothies and freshly made sandwiches. After Louise was born, we requested more ice-cream smoothies, fake champagne and given a hotel like room to catch a few hours of rest before taxing home the following day.
Hosptial Food in Sweden. Mmmm.... no wonder the taxes are so high |
We were both a little nervous to how Ana would react to the
competition in her life, or even if she really understood what ‘we are going to
bring home a baby’ meant. We had already had one false alarm earlier in the
week and returning from kindergarten she quickly scoped the house and asked us “Where
is the baby?”, obviously disappointed that it had decided to not come out.
Well, we didn’t disappoint this time and her reaction, caught on film, was over
and above our expectations and could really only leave you with a warm fuzzy
feeling inside.
The two sisters |
So then were two. It’s quite different to have one isn’t it?
But fun and rewarding and insanely hectic and busy as well. Kind of like it was
when there was only one, or when there were none if truth be known. I guess you
are either busy people of not busy people and busyness is really just a
relative term. However, there is definitely more washing to do!
Is this a sign? |
Parental Benefits are pretty sweet in Sweden. Out comes one
baby and wham, there you go, 480 days paid holiday… thank you very much. Well,
OK, perhaps it isn’t all one long holiday. Apparently there is a Swedish
television commercial where the father to be is busy conjuring up plans for his
parental leave. It exists of fishing expeditions, long days at the pub and
other likely manly activities – I have actually never seen it as we don’t have
a television, but you get the picture. Then it fast forwards to the man
battling a screaming baby, overflowing laundry, a sink full of dishes, dirty nappies
and his dreams quashed. Well, being our second, I wasn’t blind to the actually
practicalities of looking after a tribe of young children (is two a tribe?) But
I hope to at least spend part of that leave enjoying it out in the forest, on
short bike trips or other such pleasurable activities. There is definitely a
hum-dinger of a summer holiday planned for next year! One thing that made us laugh
a little is that men actually get more leave than women. What? Well, on top of
the 480 days which is shared any way you want (although 150 days are reserved
for each and cannot be used by the other and also includes any time the expectant
mother takes off work leading up to the birth of the bundle of joy - I know outrageously ungenerous), the father
gets an additional two weeks to take off immediately following the birth to catch
up on sleep help out at home, paid of course. And yes we have two children
so yes that amounts to 960 days of paid leave. Yes I know, Ana wasn’t even born
in Sweden, but I don’t make the rules.
Off on an adventure... |
Due to imminent journey to Germany for Christmas and the
finalisation of our house sale, a one week old baby couldn’t prevent us from traipsing
around the city in what is generally the gloomiest month in Sweden to visit
various lawyers and embassies to get all the paperwork in order.
Christmassy stuff |
At the lawyers we had to get a whole heap of documents
witnessed to finalise the sale of our house, however the Lawyer refused to sign
a statement saying we appeared of a ‘sane mind’ … apparently lawyers aren’t
allowed to make such judgements in Sweden, well that’s what they told at us
least. With one day to spare, I luckily found someone at work who did actually
think we of sound mind and the four year battle with our insurance company,
tenants and a million bits of paper was over and our earthquake damaged house
was no longer our problem. I know we are incredibly lucky to sort it out so
fast… yes depressingly enough I think we both consider four years fast. We both
still know way too many people in Christchurch that are a still way off and I
can’t help but feel a tinge of guilt.
Budget airlines have really gone no-frills in Scandanavia |
November merged into December and… I actually don’t really
have any recollections of December apart from doing loads of washing, before we
jetted off to Germany for Christmas. Did you know that with certain car rental
companies, if you are five minutes late to pick up your pre-ordered and
pre-paid car, they will rent it to someone else and then put you on a lucky dip
waiting list for the next available car. I won’t mention any names but it’s
needless to say we won’t be using THRIFTY ever again. Opps, damn, it just
slipped out. Just what you need after a 4.30 am start with a tired and hungry 3
year old, a six week old, a lot of luggage, a tired and grumpy mum and dad and
a reasonably long drive of Germany’s Autobahns ahead. At least I had the option
to drive at 500 km/h if I so wished.
Germany, as last year was light. That was despite it pouring down with rain the day of our arrival and extensive cloud cover. I don’t think too many German’s would agree with us… they didn’t, but we are Swede’s now you know. Well, kind of, not really actually.
There wern't too many peple eating icecream outside in Freiburg... but that wasn't going to stop us! |
It wasn’t a white Christmas, but it nearly was which is close
enough for me.
It felt like Autumn in Germany |
And then it decided to be winter. |
Happy Christmas and Happy New Year.
Tim, Tina, Ana, Louise.
Thursday, 2 October 2014
Three Peaks Cyclocross Shenanigans
During summer of last year I had figured I may as well make
the most of living in Europe and in close vicinity to so many great and
historic cycling events, and actually do some of them. I’ve never been a big
fan of travelling long distances to participate in a day event, the time
involved travelling to and from can usually be better spent doing something
else, like actually riding the bike, not to mention the financial outlay
usually involved. However if there was one event that I didn’t mind putting
this personal prejudice aside for, it was the Three Peaks Cyclocross Race in
Yorkshire, England. There may be another event like it somewhere, but I don’t
know about it.
The race bills itself as the world’s hardest cyclocross
race. Personally I have not, or are unlikely to, participate in every
cyclocross event in the world so it would be hard for me to ratify this
statement. However the race had caught my attention some years back when I
first started riding cyclocross and I was eager to experience the pains for
myself.
The Three Peaks Cyclocross Race - the hardest in the world? Maybe |
The first Three Peaks Cyclocross Race was held in 1959 and
took in the three highest peaks of the Craven Dales – Ingleborough, Whernside
and Pen-Y-Ghent. Over the years the course leading to and from each peak has been
tweaked, however the three peaks have become a permanent fixture in the British
cycling calendar and an event that any self-respecting cyclocross addict
aspires to first compete, secondly finish and for a very select few, actually
win. I set my sights realistically on the first two and dreamed of the third.
First things first though. As I sometimes forget, this is
not New Zealand, where you can put off your entry to the week, or even the day
before. In Europe events fill up fast. So my plans were set back a little when
I went on to the race website last summer to find that entries had been
massively oversubscribed (as they are every year) and that no further entries
were being accepted. I didn’t make the mistake this year.
By June I had received news that I had made the final cut
and that I had three months to put in some decent training. Well the training
was a bit hit and miss but I did manage a fit in a few decent blocks and as
September neared its end it was too late anyway, I chucked the bike in its bike
bag and off to Manchester I went.
From Manchester I navigated my way north to the countryside to
the house of friends Hugh and Pauline. Tina and I had met them both in
Patagonia while cycle touring, they had since visited us in Christchurch and
were now spending some rare time at home in between cycle touring in the
world’s most imaginative places.
We followed up a heavy steak which was eaten at my usual
bedtime with pancakes and lashes of bacon the next morning for breakfast before
I drove to Helwith Bridge for a course reccie with an old cycling buddy Wayne.
For such a famous event, the starting location was particularly low key and
consisted of a very small pub and a small row of terraced houses.
The most important consideration for the endurance competitior = calories |
There wasn’t a lot of the course we were actually legally
allowed to ride, however it was nice to loosen the legs, gaze at the towering
triple peaks and at least ride part way up the Pen-y-Ghent, the last of the
three peaks to be negotiated. It prepared me mentally for the what would be
store the following day and after a lunch of pie’n’spud and a pint of shandy at
the Helwith Bridge Inn it was time to head back to Hugh and Paulines for some
last minute preparations, stock up my stomach up with more calories and yarn
away the night about the joys of travelling on the old humble bicycle with two
fellow converts. Finally I got a very good night’s sleep.
Wayne and I reccie the descent of the Pen-Y-Ghent |
Race day saw me rise early and back at the start at Helwith
Bridge as the flotilla of cars that inevitably and ironically congregate on
mass around cycle races begun to clog up the narrow roads surrounding the area.
The 500 odd fellow participants were a slim fit looking bunch and I would
hazard a guess that the body mass index was probably the lowest in Britain at
Helwith Bridge on that particular morning.
At 9.15 a race briefing was held of which I didn’t hear a
word of over the nervous chatter of my fellow participants. I would guess it
was along the lines of ‘Be careful, help others if they need it and try not to
give yourself a major injury’. I had been advised to get to the start line
early so as not to start at the back and then have to negotiate my way around
half of the field on the first big climb of the day, however as the star riders
were herded to the front, us mere mortals tried in vain to hold our place near
the front and I was inevitably relegated backwards in the confines of the middle
of the bunch.
Eventually we were off and using my bunch riding skills from
yesteryear I weaved in and out and passed a large number of those that were in
front of me while the bunch cruised along at a neutralised 40 km/h on the first
road section. I stuck to the middle for safety as much as possible and was
relieved that a large tangled mess of carbon and bodies that crashed heavily to
the tarmac beside me didn’t actually include myself. Through the small village
of Hoton we wiggled and not long after a farm track veered left and up towards
the first climb of the day - the Ingleborough,
we went.
After a short sealed section the route negotiated some farm
buildings before being thrown out onto a bumpy field. By the end of the road
section I had managed to fight my way up into the top 100. There was a bit of
hussle and tussle for lines and position once the going got rough, but to be
honest, with the soaring heights of Ingleborough looming above I didn’t mind
dropping a position or two as I had avoided the worst of the bottle neck on the
climb and there was an awful long way to go.
After what seemed an incredibly short time since the start –
I would guess 20 minutes, the Ingleborough bent upwards, the bikes were
dismounted and shouldered, and off up the hill we ran… well I think I took a
full bountiful strides and then thought stuff that and started to walk. And up
it kept going. It just didn’t stop. Twice I looked down behind me to see not
the view but the awesome sight of 500 plus cyclists, with bikes shouldered,
heads lowered, heaving themselves up the impossibly steep climb, two abreast
for as far as the eye could see like a giant cyclocrosser’s conga line. This
‘cycle’ race was ridiculous and although I knew I was going to hate every
minute of it, I was enjoying myself – I’m not expecting everyone to understand
that!
The climb didn’t relent particularly quickly and at times
the wall of hill in front of me was so steep, even shouldering the bike was no
good as the front wheel bounced off the ground in front of my eyes. The only
solution was to sling the bike even further back so that the frame lay parallel
to my back, push my face into the grass and pull myself with the aid of tufts
of grass or the fenceline which served as a sort of guide to the heavens.
After about ten to fifteen minutes the gradient eased somewhat
and the next twenty odd minutes were spent part riding, part carrying to the
top. Our electronic dibbers were dibbed at a check point at the summit and mine
was dibbed at just under an hour. I had done a paltry 12 kilometres.
The descent was not particularly
straightforward. From the summit it headed south east over a boggy / rocky plateau
before dropping off so steeply, the bikes had to be dismounted and dragged down
the slope while we slid down on our backside. Then a mine field of jagged rocks
greeted us and with 70 psi in the tyres, my eyes shook in their sockets in such
a chaotic fashion I actually couldn’t focus on anything up ahead… something I
have never experienced before.
As the path began to level out and the rocks gave way to
some hard packed grass a crowd up ahead signalled the second road section and I
cornered off the last few bumps to hit to the glorious stuff, immediately
taking my hands of the handlebars and treating my wary body to a very good
stretch. Then some sod sprinted past me at about 50 kilomteres an hour, I
stuffed half a bar into my mouth, forced myself back down onto the drops and
off I went in pursuit.
From Cold Coats to Chapel-Le-Dale the race sped along like a
rocket. I caught the guy in front and soon we were five. One of the five was
intent on setting the world ten kilometre cyclocross speed record and that suited
the rest of us just fine, as we largely sat in his slipstream taking only the
most cursory turn at the front and readying ourselves physiologically for the
climb up Whernside, the highest of the three peaks.
The road was over too soon and the bumps quickly returned. The
climb up Whernside was marginally more rideable than the Ingleborough, but only
by the smallest margin. It’s the climb I have the least memories from although
I do distinctly remember a lot of very steep rock steps. Near the summit I made
the most of every riding opportunity, more to give my calves a rest that for
any other reason. I spotted Hugh and Pauline who cheered me on, Hugh ran up
beside me asking me if I needed anything. Ironically Hugh was a triple winner of
the three peaks running race, he was probably wandering what the point was of
carrying the bike when you could run without it much faster.
The top was a relief until the decent started. Sharp jaggered
rocks with no natural riding line through them littered the landscape and it
wasn’t long until I jumped off my bike once more, shouldered it and started
running down – it was way faster.
I took the rest of the descent cautiously in order to avoid
the inevitable pinch flat and/or broken bone. I was surprised to come across a
lot of walkers going up the rocky trail. We had been warned that the track wasn’t
closed but I wondered at the folly of some people walking up a mountain with 500
near uncontrollable cyclocross bikes coming down towards them.
The decent of Whernside - enough to make a cyclocross rider turn in their sleep |
Near probably the most famous landmark of the race – the railway
viaduct at Ribblehead, I picked up speed on the first actual graded track of
the race thus far and weaved my way through the crowds holding spare bikes,
wheels and nutrition and once again hit the glorious tarmac.
The Ribblehead viaduct with Whernside towering in the background |
There wasn’t too much relief this time though as a head wind
coming up the valley put an end to any easy ride and for the first time in the
race I found myself fairly isolated. I was also quite knackered and I still had
one final behemoth to get over. I shoved some food into the mouth and reasonably
sedately made my way down the valley.
The nine kilometres of road was nearly over when I reached
Horton for the second time in the race. The same guy who had attempted the
world record on the last road section overtook me furiously once more and it
kicked started me into action. I nailed it to get onto his wheel and a few
twists and turns later, the road veered left and off up the Pen-Y-Ghent we
went.
The Pen-Y-Ghent was a different beast compared to the
others. Where the approach to both the Ingleborough and the Whernside were
largely on rough farm tracks, the ascent up Pen-Y-Ghent was on a formed
gravelled track. Not that that made it any easier mind you. The day before when
Wayne and I had done our reccie, it was up the lower reaches of Pen-Y-Ghent and
it was a stony mess. I had childly sprinted up one horrendous section to see
what it was like, however I was now under no illusions that this would be even
remotely possible with 50 very hard kilometres in my legs and nearly 3 hours
in. I did manage to ride the lower reaches though…just.
I wasn’t actually that far into the slog when calls up ahead
of ‘rider’ alerted me to fact that if things weren’t hard enough, another peculiarity
of the final climb was that you came down exactly the same way that you went
up. Rob Jebb, winner of the past 10 editions then whisked by me, skimming over
the rocks like he was on a full suspension mountain bike, and on his way to his
11th straight win. I was a little stunned that I was only just on
the final climb and soon the pointy end of the race would be sitting in the pub
drinking a pint!
From the top I plummeted down into the oncoming rider’s
fast, bunny hopping anything that looked like it wanted to sink its jaws into
my tyres and attempting to keep the cramp at my calves, which had been
threatening me since the first climb but was now getting tighter and tighter,
at bay.
I swung back onto the road at the bottom with relief. Riders
were still heading up for their final douse of pain but I just had to survive
three more kilometres and the torture would all be over. A rider flew past me
but I couldn’t summon the strength within me to try and catch up. Then a car up
ahead held him up and together with someone else we hunted him down. As a trio
we raced towards the finish.
As we took in the final few bends my legs were cramping all
over and I resigned myself to simply rolling in after them, but a bad piece of
cornering by one of them saw me squeeze in between both of them for the final
twenty metre grassy section to the finish line.
I had finished. A print out at the finish gave my time as
3:46:16 and 95th place. I was pretty happy with that, I don’t think I could
have gone faster on the day, I was spent.
The race summary gives a total distance of 61 kms, of which
6-8 kms are unrideable and 33 kms are unsurfaced. The climbing, at only 1524 m
doesn’t seem to fairly reflect the severity of the event but I would hazard a
guess that the gradient in parts is well over 50 %. Keen? I thoroughly
recommend that you sign up if you ever find yourselves in that neck of the
woods.
Race HQ - Helwith Bridge |
Plenty of photos and videos on the race website:
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