Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

Crikey o'reilly, I am bloody knackered. Every muscle in my body is aching after an epic mountain-bike ride the day before yesterday.

The day started innocuously enough. The sun was out even though the temperature was freezing, so it was a archetypal crisp and bright winter's day.

'Goddamit, we don't get much sun in this third world country,' I thought to myself, 'so I am bally well going to make the most of it!' So with steely determination, my chum and I set off for Otmoor Nature Reserve which was three villages (and 3 miles) hence from Forest Hill.

We arrived at Otmoor and all was peaceful except for some duck things quacking and a pigeon thing squawking. Even better, the sun was still shining, so we decided to keep going and going....... each remote mile taking us further from civilisation. After a while, I noticed some big banging noises that were getting louder and louder. Given that not many animals make banging sounds in the countryside, I decided we needed to investigate.



I stopped and turned to my chum, "do you know where we are?" I asked.

"Of course I do," he replied, rooting around in his rucksack, "I've got an Ordnance Survey map."

He unfurled it and studied it carefully.

"It's upside down," I said helpfully.

"I know," he said, immediately looking flustered and turning it the right way up; "We are here," he said pointing to a spot situated amidst mile upon mile sprawling mile of godforsaken fields.

"I don't think we are supposed to be here," I replied.

"What are you on about you daft moose?" he frowned.

I pointed to a sign in a hedgerow behind him that he hadn't spotted.


"We appear to be in the middle of a Ministry of Defence firing range," I answered, and at exactly that moment, another loud bang (quite deafening this time) sliced through the silence of the countryside. 

"Shit!" shouted chum, blanching, "we need to get out of here and quickly. How the bloody hell am I going to explain to my mum that I've been blown up by a mortar bomb.... in Oxfordshire of all places?"

"Good point, let's go," I agreed.

And so we cycled;  we cycled for all our lives were worth. Through bogs, fields, streams, forests and lanes until eventually we arrived back in civilisation, well back in Forest Hill anyway. 



"Hey we're not dead, that's a Brucey bonus isn't it?" I said.

"Yeh, no thanks to you and your hair-brained mountain biking routes," he replied.

"Anyway, do you want to hear statistics about our route today?" I asked (I have got a cool App for my iPhone that uses the GPS to tell you how far you cycled and how quickly you did it).

"Go on then," he replied.

And so my dear reader, I will tell you what I told him: In the end, we covered 16 miles in three hard, off-road hours. Every muscle in my body was throbbing and I was scared that my thighs were going to burst through my trousers like the Incredible Hulk. It's not a good look for a girl. 

And I will tell you something else as well. Secret squirrel locations like MOD firing ranges don't appear on any maps, which is probably sensible given that if they did, the Taliban would be rubbing their hands together. And let's face it, we don't want that sort in Oxfordshire.

So, have you every encountered any 'scenarios' whilst undertaking your favourite sport? Pray do tell!