Issue 145: Making Mountain Bikers

An exercise in learning to mountain bike reminds Hannah how much we take for granted.

Words & Photography Hannah

For some, becoming a mountain biker is a gradual process. A sort of metamorphosis where you start with a bike and gradually end up as a mountain biker. For a variety of reasons, not everyone experiences this incremental development process. Perhaps they don’t learn to ride a bike as a child. Or they do, but stop riding as they get older. 

I grew up with bikes, but only the merest hint of religious ritual in occasional staid church services – the Father Christmas fiction was maintained for many years, if that counts. I’m a divorced mother of two with an enthusiasm for nudist beaches and beer. My youngest child recently described me as being ‘a bit wild’.

So as I joined a gathering of Muslim women in Grizedale Forest for an ‘introduction to mountain biking’ weekend, I wondered just how different our worlds might be. Although I hoped my enthusiasm for mountain biking might rub off on them, I worried that my frame of reference, life experience and attitudes might be too different, my presence intrusive, or worst of all, offensive.

They had come from all over the UK to see whether a couple of days in the Lake District would be enough time to find out what it is that has mountain bikers whooping and hollering their way through the woods. It felt like an honour and a responsibility to be allowed to join them, and I hoped I could add to their experience in a positive way.

Up with the larks

The weekend was a collaboration between Aneela McKenna, mountain bike guide and founder of Mòr Diversity; Charlotte Inman and Rachael Walker, mountain bike guides for Sisters in the Wild; and Amira Patel, founder of The Wanderlust Women. Word of the event had spread through a variety of networks, bringing together a collection of women who shared the goal of trying something new, but whose experiences in the outdoors, and on bikes, varied considerably.

Some had bravely travelled alone, while some had come with friends. A trio of mums, Nosheen and Naida had come under the (ring)leadership of chief mischief-maker Noreen. Others like Madiha and Hamera came as a pair, with each other for support. Some had been to the Lake District before, but for others it was a first trip. 

As we made our way from Windermere station to a bunkhouse outside Coniston, the Lake District was certainly putting on a show: a warm evening, the glow of the sun on the fells, and spectacular waterfalls tumbling down the hillsides. I was just as enthralled as those seeing it with fresh eyes.

As we chatted in the evening, it became apparent that the weekend could be quite a challenge. Very few of the women had recent bike riding experience, and those that had ridden had largely done so in the safety of a local park or bike track. When asked what words they associated with mountain biking, many said ‘hills!’, while others said ‘scary!’ or ‘daring!’.

For some, there would be new challenges before we got to the bikes. Many had never been away with strangers before, and the rustic bunkhouse with communal sleeping bunks and showers that offered very limited privacy was an alien experience even to friends. Noreen was surprised to discover her friend Naida’s hair wasn’t at all how she’d imagined – despite all their adventures together their heads had always remained covered by their hijabs, as is customary in public. The shared rooms also added cause for some coordination: many would be getting up to observe prayers around sunrise. Some preferred to get up earlier, pray, then go back to bed, while others preferred to sleep later but skip the return to bed. The earlier risers grouped themselves into a room, while the even earlier risers took another room. The readiness of all to set their alarms for the middle of the night along with the ability to function the next day should have given me a clue that I was in the company of women who wouldn’t shy away from what I would consider discomfort or difficulty. The guides and I retreated to our vehicles for the comforts of #vanlife, unbroken sleep, and the latest rise possible.

Getting comfortable

In the glorious morning sunshine we headed off to Grizedale Forest to pick up the hire bikes. As well as the usual figuring out of helmets, hair and glasses, the riders also had to work out how to incorporate their head coverings. Some had traditional hijabs, while others had modern ‘active lifestyle’ versions made of technical wicking fabrics. The riders all paired their trousers with long tops which covered the hips – part of the ‘modest dress’ worn by these women. While we wouldn’t be throwing ourselves down any technical trails, the longer tops did present some challenges for novices mounting and dismounting. Perhaps there’s an opportunity here for bike clothing designers to deploy some fabric cutting wizardry and create longer clothing that doesn’t catch on saddles? While they’re at it, perhaps they could incorporate broader sleeves to accommodate loose layers – when I tried to loan out my waterproof jackets, they didn’t fit well over the women’s clothes. 

Saddles presented further challenges, and we did our best to dispel the myth that riding a bike is always uncomfortable to start with. A little tricky on a hire bike where the saddle doesn’t necessarily fit the rider, but a little tilt here and there made things as comfortable as possible. Saddle heights were generally on the low side, since most didn’t yet feel confident enough to pedal without their toes being in easy reach of the ground. With bikes and helmets fitted, it was time to make sure everyone knew how to operate the brakes and gears.

Watching everyone practice these skills, it really hit home how much of what we do on a bike has become instinctive – so much so that if we’re faced with a new set of gears, or brakes set up continental-style, it’s very difficult for us to retrain our brains.

Prayer break

Gears, brakes, pedalling, balancing, steering, standing, plus the advanced skill of high fives while riding… it was a lot to take in all at once, and although we’d still not left the tarmac, the intense focus required left everyone tired and hungry. Just as on many a mountain bike ride, picnics were unpacked and sandwiches devoured, Haribo shared, and aches and pains compared. But this lunch break was extended not because someone faffed with their brakes, but instead for prayers. Travel prayer mats were produced from backpacks, and prayers were given in appreciation of the surroundings, for the challenges ahead, for the successes already achieved. As it would be explained to me during the course of the weekend, the women believe that Allah created the world, so to appreciate his work and pray in the outdoors helps create a closeness to Him and adds extra spirituality to the experience of prayer.

The women’s commitment to appreciating the world Allah created seemed to give them the impetus to do things that many of us wouldn’t. As well as getting up to pray around dawn, some of the women had taken the opportunity to add in a sunrise hike up the Old Man of Coniston. Some used the early morning time to prepare packed lunches for the group, and cook delicious breakfasts. And then there was learning to mountain bike, whatever the obstacles and challenges might be. Their beliefs seemed to me to give them a drive, courage, and motivation that’s compatible with much ‘live your best life’ rhetoric, but is perhaps a step removed from traditional sports – or mountain bike – marketing, with its focus on winning, or speed, or body image. For me it was an eye-opening experience to see religious practice as an enriching experience, rather than a restricting one. Perhaps the dusty church trips of my childhood had clouded my perspective?

Learning your lines

Fortified by food and prayers, it was time to head off-road. Within moments one rider had crashed at a gravelly corner, but bounced back up immediately. A short discussion on traction followed as we faced the first climb – another thing that experienced riders take for granted. Don’t ride the loose middle, or the edges, follow the firm sections of the doubletrack. Just as we might wonder how a pro-rider naturally spots a line between the roots and rocks of a downhill course, so these new riders had to give careful and deliberate thought to which bits of trail would be safest to ride. The guides talked them through the process of climbing, of sitting and spinning for traction. Each took the climb as a challenge, riding as far as they could, cheering each other on.

I rode on ahead hoping to find scenic spots to capture the determined, but nervous faces of the riders. As I watched them approach a cattle grid at the end of a short descent, I suddenly realised this might present a significant obstacle. I confess, they still give me pause for thought. However, it seemed that Aneela distracted the first group with chat about gears, and everyone was so busy clicking their way up (or down?) through gears for the next climb that they didn’t think to worry about the cattle grid. I let out a breath of relief, only for the second group to hit the cattle grid and have something of a mass pile-up. One rider hugged a fence, while two hit the deck. Others skidded and swerved around those on the ground, and I feared this could be the end of our adventure. Surely there would be blood and tears?

Incredibly, the only real casualty was a rear mech, which was solved by a swift return to the hire centre and a catch up with the group thanks to an e-bike. All the women just dusted themselves off and got back on their bikes. No blood or tears, just sweat as they pushed themselves on up the hill. Impressive. A spontaneous outbreak of holding bikes above their heads celebrated the conquering of the first climb, only for everyone to discover that we had an awful lot more climb still to come.

If you’re learning to ride a mountain bike, Grizedale seems like a particularly cruel place to do it. It’s basically one long climb up the fire road, with very little respite in the form of flat or downhill sections. But the women weren’t deterred, breaking the climb up into sections, stopping for breaks, or pushing when their legs were too tired to pedal. Along the way, saddle heights were adjusted, and those who braved feeling higher off the ground felt the benefit of the shift in effort from knees to the bigger muscle groups further up the legs. There were further wobbles and falls as tyres caught loose gravel or brakes were grabbed in moments of lost concentration. In many respects it was like riding with your kids – lots of breaks, lots of reminders to look here, or steer there, or change gear – no, the other ‘up’. But unlike rides with kids, there were no tantrums. The women cheered and encouraged each other on, paused and fortified themselves when things got tough, but never stropped or asked ‘are we there yet?’.

Getting there

And then we were there. A ‘there’ dictated by our available time and the contours of the land – any further and we’d have been adding in climbs for the return leg. We took in the view, celebrated everyone’s achievement in climbing so high, and encouraged everyone to refuel. Selfies taken with new friends, high fives exchanged, scenery taken in. Thanks were given for words of encouragement and advice provided along the way, and I felt glad to have been a small part of the group’s achievements.

The next challenge would be the descent. While legs and lungs had been tested on the way up, rolling back down the hill would require balance, control, and a dose of daring and confidence. Primed with a pep talk on line choice, and feathered braking, the women rolled off down the hill, and were soon whooping with delight. It seems you don’t need to teach whooping: it’s instinctive.

I suspect my nerves were more shredded than the riders’ as they whizzed past me, some now managing to stand on the pedals looking every bit the experienced rider, others sitting and gripping the bikes tightly. While some had crashed and got back up again, no one had yet come off at speed, and I winced a little at the idea of a moment of hard braking or loose gravel undoing all the confidence the day had brought. Luckily there were no mishaps, only smiles, high fives, and more photos. In the grand scheme of mountain bike rides, we’d been on the tiniest of pedals, but for riders who had started the day barely knowing how to operate the bike, it may as well have been an epic tour of the Alps.

Further adventures

Although the riding was done for the day, the adventure wasn’t. These women were here not just to ride bikes, but to take every opportunity that came their way. Toes were dipped in Coniston Water, hills were hiked, and wobbly stepping stones over rivers crossed. There was even some wild swimming in the pools by the bunk house. Halima led the way, fully equipped with a burkini – coming from a family of outdoor lovers, she’d done this sort of thing before. Buoyed by the adventurous atmosphere of the day, Sarah joined her – she explained that she’d seen people wild swimming and thought it looked amazing, but had never plucked up the courage – though she too had come equipped with a burkini, just in case. Together, they made it look positively warm and comfortable, so I found myself being lured into the waters, gasping at the cold. Farahnaz looked longingly at the scene, wanting to join in but struggling to take the plunge. Eventually she too couldn’t resist the sirens in the water, and making room for her seemed like a great excuse for me to get out and warm up. Naida too was lured in.

As we took a walk in the golden glow of the last rays of the day, we were on more familiar territory for many of the women. Walking has proven an accessible means to explore the countryside, and some had heard of this mountain biking weekend via their hiking networks. Some are even leading their own walks where they live, exploring the world around them and discovering the tranquillity to be found in the countryside. As we walked, we talked of a shared love of the countryside, the downtime and peace it offers, the wonders to be enjoyed there in the puffs of bog cotton or sound of a babbling stream.

Mountain biking offers further access to this environment, but brings with it the thrill of riding, the feeling – as so many of them put it when they reached the bottom of the final descent – of flying. With the other mums in the group, I shared the feeling of trying to balance family responsibilities with a sense of self. We talked at some length about how the pursuit of a little happiness for ourselves can keep us young, and perhaps equips us better to look after our children than simply being there to do everything for them might do. Despite the differences in our backgrounds, our motivations for riding bikes were very similar and the worries I’d had about joining them for the weekend melted away.

Putting it all together

The following day everyone was raring to go for a second day of riding, where we completed a loop around another corner of Grizedale. Confidence boosted from the day before, but legs a little tired, the group followed the same pattern of trying, pushing, resting, and trying again, but with the added anticipation of the descents. Knowing the thrill of picking up speed, and delighting in their newfound skills, there was less concentration on faces and more grins. Silliness and playfulness came to the fore, as everyone relaxed into the ride and played around for the camera.

Like me, I expect many of you ride with one eye on taking on your next big feature, or searching for the trail that’s going to challenge your skills and bike to the max. It’s only when we’re faced with a big drop or a really steep switchback that we give much conscious thought to what we’re doing with the bike. Often, the challenge of clearing a feature is as much in our heads as it is in our knowledge and ability.

These women had come to the weekend already having made the mental leap: they were going to learn to ride mountain bikes, whatever that might involve. Over the course of the weekend, they learnt the basics of riding a bike – things that many of us learnt so long ago we can’t remember ever not knowing how to do them.

Among the many things I learnt from them, I was reminded that as we chase the lure of ever more challenging trails, we should also sit back and remember that what we do, and where bikes take us, is amazing. Being alive and able to get out into the incredible natural wonders that exist on this small rock circling the sun is a privilege worth appreciating. Whether you believe in a higher power or not, that’s something worth pausing to give thanks for.

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