Speakers Corner: Trail Fatigue

We are in an age that expects immediacy. We have ultimate connectivity. We can Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat and text our mates while we are on the trails. We download the latest and greatest in apps. We use our disposable income to purchase shiny new things (including bikes – I’m the first to admit to my own fetishisation of cycling merch! It sure does act as a welcome distraction from the daily grind). We can break a derailleur on the trail, and while waiting for our mate to come and bail us out we can have one ordered and ready to be shipped to the comfort of our own home. This is 2017’s reality.

I live near some cool trails and for that I am thankful. Some are hilly and dry. Others are undulating and dry, and another network is nearly flat and dry (I live in Queensland, after all). I have epic fire road loops I can ride on a whim, hour long gravel grinds up in the iconic Australian bushland. I have skills parks and dirt jumps and pump tracks littered all around where I live, nothing is too far to ride. I can titrate my riding requirements (steep hill? less steep hill? Good descending? Fast flow singletrack? I can get ‘em all!) to my ride location with ease.

So why was I getting a sense of trail fatigue recently? I would head out for a ride, do some jumps, get a little loose but then come up totally underwhelmed. Don’t I know how lucky I am?

Knowing how fortunate I am did not help the situation. 

I would race out at 4.30am for a quick 80 minute trail session, get home, go to work, come home 12, 13, 14 hours later, cook dinner, go to bed and do it all again. In the 80 mins of trails I would be mentally ticking off all that I had to do in the day. My phone in my pocket would ping and purr with connectivity. The ambient trail noise of birds chirping, waking up for the day, was punctuated with my phone’s telltale soundbites; a crafty ploy companies have devised to keep us all addicted. Hearing it would set me off on another tangental trail of thought. “Have I paid that bill? Have I done the invoices?” The list continued.

Coming home I would feel the opposite of how I would expect after a hit out in the saddle; instead of being invigorated but relaxed, I found myself stressed and irritable. I was trying to remain cognisant of all the to-do lists I had made mentally and tick them off as I faced the real world. The trails themselves quickly became a distant memory as I dove straight into the bump and grind of everyday life.

Holidays came, a welcome relief from at least some of my work. Two days in the car with a nearly five-year-old and an equally stressed husband meant that when we arrived we were just about ready to all punch-on. Then something amazing happened.

I went for a ride.

I found trails that were narrow and steep. Trails that were tight and technical. Grand 10km flow trails that, let’s face it, aren’t my favourite but are undeniably fun in small doses. I listened to the wind whirring through the sparse alpine forest, noticed brilliant green grass shoots poking through the frosty wet ground, heard new and interesting bird calls and came face to face with a mighty towering Eastern Grey (who also may have wanted to punch on; I trod lightly on his territory).

My phone still made those noises, but they were somehow magically lost within my awe of the natural environment. Right there it was all about riding trails; not about suffering along segments, harping on about my heart-rate or worrying about watts. Even riding the road I felt lighter, unburdened, basking in the sleepy afternoon rays of sunlight flickering through the trees and warming my face; feeling totally alive.

Coming back to where we were staying, I would welcome cooking meals. Even tidying the holiday house and doing the washing weren’t chores as they are usually known.

We left the magical southern trails 10 days or so later, driving back in the car and ending up travel weary, but without the energy to threaten punching-on again. 

The next day I went for a trail ride on my local loop. 

The heat was blistering, leaves curling up as if they were sheltering from the Brisbane inferno. The rain birds whooped, the sky changed from cloudless and blue to ominous and grey. I heard the leaves crunch under my tyres as the ‘ping’ on my phone went off. I kept riding, turned the next corner and forgot about my phone.