My first encounter with stomach illness however put my participation in doubt. It was only late the night before that I was no longer bound to the toilet. Having not had much food the last few days, I contemplated pulling out. But I wanted to try it at least once, so I soldiered on. Gearóid, in the same boat as me, did the same.
I'll say this first – if I knew what was involved beforehand, there's not a hope in hell I would have gotten out of bed at six that morning. It all started casually enough, meeting our group, consisting of us, an Iranian and and Englishman, as well as the Frenchman who owned the biking company and his Nepalese biking student. I really enjoyed the slow paced cycle to the foot of the mountain we were going to use. I didn't expect to have to cycle up the mountain though. I was sure there would be a jeep, even a tractor involved, but no such luck.
And so the suffering began. 10 minutes into the 45 minute uphill climb and I started to feel very very sick. Doing a steep climb in 25 degree heat with little nourishment in the past couple of days pushed my body over the edge. I was close to throwing up. After struggling for another 10 minutes I took a break in some shade and waited for Gearóid to catch up. 10 minutes later he emerged with the French instructor, looking very pale in the baking sun. He had left his breakfast further down the trail. It wasn't going well.
Gearóid and myself decided on the advice of our instructor and our stomachs to walk the bikes up the mountain, which only took 10 minutes longer than cycling anyway (that's how steep it was). In our sick states, even the walk was tough.
After we finally reached the top, the group took a break for some much needed liquids. My stomach still wasn't right, although Gearóid felt a bit better after emptying his.
On the long slog up, I assumed that we'd be coming down the same rocky road. How wrong I was. Once everyone at the top was ready to go, the French instructor led the way. Just not the way I was thinking. He sped down a narrow path at roughly a 45 degree inclination at a serious speed, dodging rocks along the way. The rest followed, bar Gearóid and myself. My thoughts were along the lines of “That's what this is?”. Gearóid in a moment of bravery/stupidity just went for it. About 5 metres down he tumbled, lucky not to injure himself.
I crashed myself on a rocky stretch of the road soon after, except I cut up my knee badly and gained a nasty gash on my back. With no rear suspension (unlike all the others), I found it impossible to keep balance when speeding over rough terrain. Sick, battered and bruised, Gearóid and I decided to play it safe and take our time down the main dirt road. I was dreaming of getting back to my bed at this stage.
Communication Breakdown
The journey back to Lakeside wasn't without incident however. The proper downhill tracks intersected with the less steep dirt road Gearóid and I were following. John, not holding back as usual, managed to halt the show three times, bursting both tyres on his bike and damaging the gears, which had to be fixed on the spot. And on the way home my ailing body could take no more, my legs seizing up twice on the hour long journey back to the bike place.
As it turned out, there was miscommunication between the French instructor and John, who had booked it the day before whilst we were suffering in bed. The instructor was shocked when Gearóid and I said we had never done downhill biking before. He normally only takes proper enthusiasts out, and even the route he chose wasn't appropriate for beginners. John had a great time though.
Lol! Was it the same knee as always that you cut?
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