It was running through my head on the sixth faux-downhill I came to last week in the Betws-y-Coed woods: "I hate cycling, I hate cycling, I hate cycling."
I’ve long-since abandoned the Christmas guilt-trip, and allowed myself to fully embrace the copious amounts of roasted spuds, cheese and chocolate goodies on offer over the festive period. For the last week in December, permission was well and truly granted to kick back, relax and complete my book of Sudoku.
So when the inevitable post-Christmas ride call up came, I was unprepared. The plan was to head out to Betws-y-Coed, an hour and a half drive north through the borders and into the Welsh hills. The woodland just across the river is ribboned with bike trails, and we found ourselves on the cross-country loop around two forested mountains.
I’m not a cyclist who loves riding uphill. Discovering that, for many cyclists, the pursuit of the uphill is not only enjoyable, but something actively sought out, has boggled my mind. I still don’t get it, though I am secretly green with envy.
Don’t get me wrong, looking back down a steep hill after getting to the top is unbelievably satisfying, but its a process I dread. So when we arrived at a trailhead only to ease into some downhill before being rudely interrupted by a rock-strewn technical uphill, I was furious. And the entire trail seemed to follow this ruthless pattern.
My friends plied me with rice crispy bars and dates - even the mince pies I’d made the night before couldn’t pull me out of my slump. Everything felt hard. Even going downhill was tricky on my trembling thighs. I felt like I’d lost my spark - the sport I loved was…hard, and - more worryingly of all - not fun. I was counting down the kilometres till home.
“I hate cycling!”
In Buddhist theory, the monkey mind is the whirlwind of thoughts that can drag us away from presence and calm. To tackle the monkey mind is to observe thoughts as they arise and to let them go. But this is harder than it sounds. Observe the monkey mind, and it is the unruly, noisy part of your brain - it's flinging muck around, shouting, saying the things most dangerous for you to hear. Mid bike ride, being furious and exhausted is a pretty rubbish combination.
And this all comes from someone who prides themselves on being “chill”. If doing something isn’t essential, if the consequences of my non-completion are low, I tend to let myself off the hook. This perspective is, I think, a good one - I’m genuinely happier for allowing myself to move slower, but when it comes to sports, my progress hits a wall.
And that voice in my head incessantly chanting, “I hate cycling, I hate cycling, I hate cycling,” was short-cutting my way back to abandonment. It was saying, “stop now! It will be easier, and pain-free to leave now - we will forget all about this.”
But another voice was telling me to push on, to push past that negative voice and to trick myself into: “I love cycling! I love cycling! I love cycling!” The burn in my legs was progress, not impediment, my loosey-goosey downhill riding forgiven for the fact that I was outside - cold fingers, warm body - with my friends, doing something that was good for my mind and my body.
The rest of the ride was bearable, if not enjoyable, until the trail rewarded us with some flowy singletrack.
Maybe one day I will learn to love the uphill, but the internal trials and tribulations across five hours of riding in the Betws woodlands told me two things: it’s ok to feel like riding is hard (it really, really can be), but pushing on and battling that internal monologue is genuinely game-changing - and that I will never - even if it was remotely possible - become a cross-country athlete.
