This is the kind of bombastic headline often seen on many ‘how to’ guides for supposedly inclusive initiatives. The trouble is, as many rightly point out, the term ‘inclusive’ is relative. What includes one group of people might alienate another. Certainly, no one can claim their own initiative is inclusive; that remains a verdict of the participants, especially those people who might otherwise feel alienated.
As an educator, this idea of inclusive environments is very well understood and studied. We constantly plan what are called ‘reasonable adjustments’ for students with various needs in the classroom, be it sensory, educational or emotional. So, with this in mind, I felt very intrigued to take a train to Sheffield one Saturday in October, enroute to join members of the MTB Colour Collective on a bikepacking adventure in the Peak District.
My intrigue was twofold. Previously, I had the privilege of joining many other bikepacking adventures around the UK where there was an overwhelming sense of camaraderie and belonging; whether at Brother in the Wild in the Purbeck hills, or in my recent ride around the Lake District with Cold Dark North. These experiences were a pretty high benchmark to judge against - relatively large gatherings, both, where everyone felt welcomed and no-one was left behind.
Crucially, though, until this trip to the Peaks, I had never ridden a mountain bike properly before; around the block on a hardtail once didn’t count. The group I was riding with were all seasoned off-roaders, leaving me with more than some trepidation. Would I be able to keep up? Would I fall? OMG, I would fall, wouldn’t I? What if I looked like a fool?
The people of the Colour Collective allayed more than some of these fears before the trip even started. Formed with the aim of “Celebrating and increasing the participation of people from diverse ethnic backgrounds within Mountain Biking,” these folks clearly had some experience in creating safe spaces for all to participate in sports. As it happened, a few weeks before the trip, not only had I video-chatted to everyone undertaking it, kit swaps had happened, routes were planned and disseminated, and the excellent folks at Cotic Bikes in the Hope Valley had trusted me with a loaned SolarisMax hardtail bike.
Now all I needed was to show up.
The day arrived, a 6:00 am alarm blaring. There was the slightest nip in the air, but this was more than compensated for by almost completely clear skies and a golden sunrise that washed over me as I trudged to the train station, a bikepacking bag in each hand yet sans-bike. This promised to be a glorious weekend and the excitement built to its peak despite cancelled trains and a protracted journey to Sheffield.
What was worth it in the end was finally seeing my bike. Chris, our route planner and facilitator extraordinaire, had clearly pulled some strings at Cotic. This was one beautiful SolarisMax. In that crisp October light, the aptly-named Supernova Orange painted frame glimmered and danced. Even on the very packed train from Sheffield to Hathersage, the start of our adventure, I could scarcely stop staring down at the letters on the headtube - SOLARIS MAX - which, given the glorious weather, seemed like an invocation. The bike felt natural, stable, confidence-inspiring even during a 5-minute test ride from Hathersage station to the local Alpkit store.
By the time I was done faffing at Alpkit and returned to the start with my newly-acquired dangle mug and stove for the weekend, everyone had arrived. It was then that the first answer to the title question of this article came to me like a warm embrace:
I felt immediately, profoundly Welcome.
I had never met any of the others in person before that morning. I had admired Jasmin (aka @jasminrachelpatel) and her radness as a mountain biker. I had marvelled at Waheed (aka @waheed.mbx) and his many rambles through the beautiful Peaks. But both of this had happened on Instagram. I had no idea how any of these people might be like in person and, as a neurodivergent person who struggles socially, this worried me.
I needn’t have bothered. Almost immediately, everyone exuded warmth and familiarity and I found myself doing the same. We praised the weather, exchanged nerves (as it turned out, this adventure was a first in different ways for each of us) and chipped in to help as I struggled to set my bike up.
The warm chatter continued as we queued up by the cafe wall to have a customary ‘Rider and Rig’ picture taken. Shortly after, Chris was briefing us on the route and general expectations, reassuring everyone that the weekend was meant to casual. No one was getting dropped, everyone was getting helped. And it was in that cheerful and companionable vein that we set off out of Hathersage and turned off onto our first dirt climb of the day.
Normally, I like climbing and I set off with gusto up this rutted slop. This time, something felt every so slightly off and I couldn’t help feeling my knees aching more than normal. It was only when I stood up that I noticed that my dropper post lever was stuck fully open; with every seated pedal stroke, the saddle descended further, further and further.
This continued again and again, leading to me having to get off every 100 metres and stop, readjust the seatpost and carry on. I was angry, hot, upset and worried that, if this carried on all weekend, I’d be totally isolated from the group. This was when I realised the second answer to the title question:
I was made to feel Part of the group.
Did they all ride away from me? Only till the top of the climb. There I found the group waiting, sympathising and getting tools out and ready to help. Within moments, Chris had a tool roll out and he and Arun were adjusting my dropper lever to give the cable some slack.
Problem fixed, and we were off…
…only for us to start descending down a muddy, rutted and scarily steep slope. Everyone else flowed down it like second nature. I did not. I tried it once, slipped, nearly went OTB and got off and walked (rather, slid) down the slope.
Yet, they were there for me at the next gate, patiently waiting and exchanging stories of their first time trying to descend one of those hills. This happened again, and again, and again. I was ever so slightly slower and more cautious than anyone else, but was never, ever left behind. They waited, congratulated and then cheered me on as I steadily gained confidence in navigating the slop of the Peak District, steadily growing used to riding this strange bike with massive handlebars and chunky tires.
This progression, hill after hill, track after track over the weekend led me to the final answer to my title question:
I felt increasingly Able.
I started the weekend as a complete newb to the world of mountain biking. I had ridden several trails off-road on my Stayer before, but nothing more technical than a drop bar bike could handle and certainly nothing as steep or muddy as the trails we attempted in the Peaks. Throughout the week, my companions, all capable and experienced mountain bikers, supplied me generously with advice and feedback on how to ride the Cotic. I was schooled patiently on dropper post use. I was reminded to shift down and spin up climbs. I hung back and followed the lines of those ahead of me (and, just sometimes, ignored them and chose a better line).
Most importantly, though, the route was planned diligently with enough challenge to keep all of us happy with our wide variety of experience and skill, yet never too hairy or death-defying.
Chris later said that, as a ride leader, he was trained to make routes rideable ‘at walking pace’ by everybody. It’s an interesting principle that resulted in a route that, while sketchy-feeling at first, was perfectly traversable by someone who had never ridden an MTB in his life before. I might even go so far as to say that, by Sunday morning, with a whole day’s worth of riding behind me, I was even finding it fun.
What did also help was the scenery. I found it staggering how a 55km out-and-back loop could include so much incredible scenery and so many notable landmarks. My companions, all Northerners, swiftly got used to me oohing and aahing at every clearing, cresting every mountain and as we rode up or past Mam Tor, Winnats Pass (kinda), the Hope Valley, Ladybower Reservoir, each impossibly scenic and sweeping
The weekend passed in a flash. We camped out in Edale on Saturday night after wolfing down pizzas at The Old Nag's Head inn (which was frighteningly full of hikers, presumably making the most of the weather). Sunday was my birthday; Waheed, who seemed to have a Mary Poppins-equivalent bikepacking bag set up, had bought a cake earlier which he unearthed and we stuck candles in. I blew them out and celebrated, all by the light of our headtorches at night. Between the surreal, sublime, uplifting and the exhausting, we made our way back to Hathersage and snap! Just like that, I had parted with my gorgeous loaned bike and was back on the train home.
As the train chugged along, I thought of what barriers this weekend had seemingly helped overcome. In me, it had accommodated a socially-challenged person, a seasoned bikepacker but novice mountain biker. Others, like Arun, had either never camped out as an adult, or like Jasmin, never bikepacked before. Apart from Chris and Giles, we were all an underrepresented body of Asian-origin people enjoying the outdoors - something Colour Collective aim towards. We all had the unique experience of bikepacking together in a VERY mixed-ability group of riders.
I think of events looking for inclusion and still having a predominantly White demographic. I see races where novices shy away for fear of coming last. I see ultra races where the top 10 finishers are, still, mostly middle-aged white men. In this universe of cycling as a sport dominated by pain, suffering, challenge and yet seemingly enjoyed by a depressingly small group of people, this weekend in the Peak District was a rare diamond. It had challenge, adventure and camaraderie in an atmosphere that enabled and accommodated.
In the universe of cycling, this was a tiny event, but it deserves to be celebrated.
Comments