I bloody hate travelling.

There was a time when being at an airport meant you were on an adventure. You were going somewhere cool - or hot - for a break or to ride the latest super high-powered motorcycle or, more recently to immerse yourself in a bath of new and exciting outdoor gear.

Okay, so it's not all bad news. This is 'work' in the Austrian Tirol.

I liked airplane food for the same reasons. The neat, miniaturised portions set out on meticulously designed plates brought with them a little frisson of excitement. A sense of movement and change and adventure.

Stuff that. Somewhere over the past few years travelling has become a chore. It is almost always a work thing. A chance to spend time with people you haven't chosen to be with. And because work things are always compressed into the smallest possible space, they are exhausting...

Fly - usually first thing in the morning - arrive, snack, work, eat/drink, sleep, wake, work. Fly, usually first thing in the morning. Battle wth transfers. Arrive home 14 hours later. Estonia to Manchester, 14 hours really? Yes really.

And you limp home knackered and dehydrated. Probably with a free cold virus. And you've had no chance to run or bike or do anything except work, drink, talk about work, eat, sleep, be hungover and exhausted.

What's to like?

And yes, occasionally you get an amazing trip. Hut-to-hutting in the Austrian Tyrol for example. But even then you come home trashed and with a big hole where the last few days' worth of work would have been.

And sometimes of course, it's still a holiday. And that's different. But in an odd full circle way, airports now mean being processed like an inanimate object and they reek of work trips. Work has ruined travel.

Woof!

It's been a while...

Long enough to be living in a slightly different town with pubs and restaurants that aren't as good as up and coming - yes really - Glossop, but with trails that mostly are because they're pretty much the same trails.

And to be living in a different house, obviously. And even to have a bike, just one, with different size wheels - 650b+ to be precise, a nice mix of roll and float.

This month's entertainment is sponsored by the Strava Giro climbing challenge. So far... 14,996m climbed out of the 21,000m total with 12 days to go, which right now makes me 374th overall, though yesterday I was 252 or something.

It's amusingly pointless. But hey, if you work from home, live in the Peak and point your bike repeatedly up the steep and pointy bits, it's all very doable.

Today however is a rest day, all that climbing has made my legs a little tired. I really must get out more.

Strava!!!!!

Strava made me do it... Cut Gate in mild absurd conditions during the Festive 500.

How did this happen? How did I go from being someone who quietly loathed Strava to having two Festive 500 woven badges sat in my bespoke ceramic olive dish. How is it that I am now almost incapable of leaving the front door without hitting the little red button on the holy iPhone?

Back then, before Strava, I conceived of something called Stravanfreude, the vicarious delight in someone else's Strava misfortune: the KOM lost to a savage tailwind? Stravanfreude. Forgetting to switch your GPS on before setting off? Stravanfreude. Snapping your cranks on the Grindleford Goat? Actually that's something different again, let's call it Campagnogo...

But the thing is, I was wrong about Strava. Actually I was part wrong. I still think people who target particular segments rather than just riding are a little sad. And don't get me started on riding road bikes off road in search of KOMs. And letting a segment ruin a perfectly good ride just seems slightly tragic.

The Bonette - faithfully logged and shared.

But there are great things about it too: being able to watch what distant mates are doing in the benighted south for example. Or trailing around Aberdeen. Or, and this is how it started, where your girlfriend is riding as she meanders around the Alps in a camper van. Those things are brilliant.

As are some of the totally artificial challenges. Not because they are always particularly challenging - if you live in the Peak, for example, the climbing ones tend to be a little meh - but because on those special grim northern winter days, they're sometimes the tiny weight that tips the balance.

Which means, sometimes, unexpectedly brilliant or just plain daft rides, like a Festive 500 inspired crossing of Cut Gate in fresh snow last December, which had nothing much to do with riding, but everything to do with just being outside.

Strava weaponry - cross bikes are quick as off road. Which just underlines the nonsense of the whole thing...

And oddly I like the kudos thing. Real kudos that is, not the knee-jerk stuff. It's just kind of sweet when one of your mates notices you've done something half decent. It's like a little wave from a distant hill. Not essential, but sort of entertaining.

I'm not that fussed about KOMs, but when I do get the occasional top ten place, usually by mistake, it does make me smile.

Ahem that'd be the end of Flow Field Switch Bitch on a quasi-commute then.

Ultimately, Strava I suppose, like a lot of things, is moulded by the user. It's what you want it to be. A training tool. A social thing. A personal challenge. A spur to getting out there. Or maybe just a source of gentle curiosity.

So there you go. Not under my own name though. Either of them.

Improving Life For Local People

I was amused to see that Derbyshire County Council's latest corporate vehicle slogan reads 'Improving life for local people'.

As a 'local person' that gives me a nice warm feeling inside, except that DCC's idea of improving my life appears to include flattening some of my favourite local trails and covering them with gravel. At my expense as a tax payer, obviously. Aren't county councils brilliant.

Mudguard Details

Ragsadaisical.

A sort of 2014 take on the Ragley Ti...