falling off bikes since 1975

Intervals

I’ve started doing intervals again.

It’s been over a year since I last went through the ritual of setting up the turbo trainer and checking the slick on the back of the relevant bike is at 100psi.

I’d also forgotten how much it hurts.

I’ve decided that in order to try and quickly increase my maximum aerobic effort for endurance racing I’d try a high intensity intermittent training program as cited by Christian Finn. This type of short burst level 4 effort usually comes in later in the year. Normally about this time I’m doing level 3, trying to average 20mph on the trainer.

While the horses are still in DIY livery it’s also easier to fit this short burst, and shorter session training, into my schedule than a set of four 10 minute intervals.

So, warmed up and feeling good I gave it my all for 20 seconds. Then I had 10 seconds rest. Then I gave it my all for 20 seconds. This self-inflicted torture continued for four minutes.

It hurt.

Lots.

And, not unsurprisingly, I’m about 3mph down on my previous level 4 efforts from the end of 2004.

I’ve broken the 2005 duck though.

Pop Socks

Back in 2004, when I was a little trimmer than I am now, I bought myself a pair of nice box leather riding boots. I spent a fair amount on these, and consequently I have no plans to replace them until they’re good and worn out. Last year with the weight I put on I outgrew them. I did wear them once, for five minutes, before I had to be helped, screaming, out of them.

Yesterday there was some ‘clear round’ jumping on at a local equestrian centre, and I fancied a go. Clear round is like hiring your local proper downhill course instead of paying to race. You get to ride a proper course, there’s someone on the ground to put the fences back up when you, inevitably, knock some of them down, and it’s all very relaxed.

Turn up. Pay your money. Go jumping.

I should also point out, in the interests of factual accuracy and modesty, that such fences are a lot smaller than in a ‘proper’ contest, in our case last night a mere 65 cm. Think about that. A horses belly is near enough 75 cm off the ground so it can actually get over the ‘jumps’ just by picking it’s feet up.

Because clear round is a bit of fun and not a contest you don’t have to wear the full on jacket and tie that is normally required of you.

However I did want to look the part. Going show-jumping of any kind demands breeches and boots at the very least.

So mid afternoon I painfully eased my way into my boots. They went on. Rather snugly. I could feel every pulse in my calf muscles. (At this time of year my calves look like the kind of think you could crate up and ship to France). After five minutes of walking round the front room I decided that they would be fine for the evening.

My wife suggested I should try pop-socks to help them on.

Fast forward three hours and one packet of pop-socks. We’ve arrived at the venue, the horse is suited and booted and it is my turn to get ready. Casting male pride to the winds I rolled a pop sock over each shapely lower leg and pulled on my boots. It was easier. Hot Dog.

I walked over to the horse and mounted up.

Now it started to hurt. Because the boots are still relatively new they have not yet ‘dropped’, and still sit high on my leg. The tops of the boots were now digging into the backs of my knee. Within 30 seconds my calves started to feel like I was at the end of a session of intervals.

Except I knew I had no break coming up.

I spent the next 15 minutes in exquisite agony as I took Pukkeenegak round the course. Oh, she loved it, snorting and puffing away. I on the other hand was always moments away from leaping off and asking first-aid to amputate my lower legs.

Without my legs I had no steering either. The uninitiated might think that you steer a horse by pulling the reins this way and that. The truth is that you use your hands only to stop the horse from pissing off sideways, you actually turn them by applying pressure with your legs. The horse, if it has manners or is willing to co-operate, should turn around your inside leg. Which by now I literally couldn’t feel.

Twice each round we had to turn around fence 1 in order to reach fences 5 and 8 repectively. First off I had to stop Puk, “snort snort, let me at it”, from tackling fence 1 again. Once I’d drummed it into her horsey skull that this time we were turning wide I would have to point her at either fence 5 (nice and wide), or fence 8. Lots of steering. Absolutely no feeling.

Ah, fence 8. Now, while Puk might love jumping she also thinks that it is hilarious to jink sideways at the last minute and dump me unceremoniously on the floor (see video on the right, Crow Wood 2005, Charity Farm 2004, etc etc, I could go on, but it’s a long list). Anyway, the only way to stop this jink, according to the professionals is to gently squeeze both sides equally, like a tube of toothpaste, to keep her straight. No flipping chance.

By the time we were done I wasn’t sure that my left leg wouldn’t collapse when I dismounted. And I’m sure Kirsty took much longer than she needed to to untack Puk.

When I finally removed my boots the pins and needles were exquisite agony.

Those intervals will seem a whole lot easier now.