Today I spent an absolutely glorious day out on Salisbury Plain and the Ridgeway, with a particularly nice guy by the name of Martin (who is also a pretty good enduro rider).

We started the day "gently" - his words not mine - to allow us to settle into the bikes. I was on a AJP 200, a skippy little lady weighing in at 105kg. Martin was on a slightly less petite Yamaha WR 250 - about 130kg.

We set out on gravel, and I didn't fall off. We'll come back to this in a bit. Then we went across some very slippery fields, and I still didn't fall off. Then we went down some very steep slopes in the slippery fields and - yep, you got it - I still didn't fall off. Since I obviously wasn't coming off, the gloves did. We went into the trees - the kind with trunks and branches - and started following a course marked out for a mountain bike race tomorrow.

It hadn't been a comparison I had done before today, but I reckon that a mountain bike weighs about a tenth of the bike I was on, and is probably a foot narrower. Needless to day, the course was laid out according to the anticipated width and weight of a mountain bike. We were zig-zagging through trees on muddy paths that were barely 9 inches wide. As you may expect, I was constantly on the lookout for the dreaded ruts.

Now it may be my lack of spelling ability, but I was looking out for the wrong thing. What I should have been looking out for was roots - not ruts. Tree roots, my new nemesis. Slippery horrible nasty little things that protrude above the mud, just waiting for a chance to grab a wheel and chuck me off. They didn't have to wait long either. Back wheel crossed over a fairly small root and splosh - I was off. Martin had got the scalp he was looking for. "Oh, I forgot to tell you about roots - they're nasty little buggers". I then made the fatal mistake of also telling him how scared I was of ruts. Apparently he was scared of them once too, but not any more.

We done some more 'woodwork' as he called it, then back across some rutted dirt tracks. Another off, front wheel washout this time. Then we got to the bottom of a fairly steep and long uphill track. "If you don't like roots", says Martin, "then you will absolutely hate this next bit". I looked up the hill and asked what was a fairly obvious question - "cant we just go that way instead?", pointing down a nice gravel track. The answer was most evidently "no".

The photo doesn't do this hill justice. It was so steep you could barely walk on it. It had been raining, and the surface was as slippery as a well-greased eel. All in all, it was like trying to climb up a cliff made out of butter on a very warm day. This had all the ingredients of carnage waiting to happen. the ruts were two feet deep on either side of the track, and the edges of the track were stuffed full of nettles and brambles. This was the first act of a play in which mayhem and bedlam were to have starring roles.

And they didn't have to wait long for their cue. About halfway up the hill there was a bunch of rocky steps, all covered in slimy mud. Grip and traction had both done a runner and decided to wait for me at the top of the hill. It was like ski-ing. Uphill. With 100kg lead skis. The back wheel slid into one of the ruts and that was game over - the bike (and me) followed suit about two ohnoseconds later.

I picked myself out the nettles, and heard the road of Martin's engine further up the hill, round a bend. All I kept thinking was "endurance" - this is what it means to be an enduro rider - these little mishaps are the meat and drink of enduro riding. What separates the men from the boys is the ability to keep plugging away - to just keep going and going and going no matter what mother nature throws at you.

I dragged the bike out of the rut, and back on to the crown. Righted her, got back on, and had another crack. I got about 2 feet up the hill and went straight for the action replay. Rinse, repeat - six times in all. By now, my lungs are bursting and I am sweating like a polar bear in a sauna. I tell myself - again - that I am absolutely getting up this hill (even though the language was slightly more colourful). I tried standing beside the bike, pushing her up the hill whilst I gunned the throttle - spewing out roost behind me in the same way that a rocket spews out flames. Except I wasnt going quite as fast as a rocket. The bike got some traction and I jumped back on, snaking up the hill and desperately trying to avoid the ruts. I made it about another fifty feet and - yee hah! - the ruts flattened out to about 10 inches deep and the soil was dryer. I never thought I'd be so glad as to see a 10-inch rut but, believe me, I rejoiced.

I rejoiced so much that I stopped the bike for a breather. In my euphoria, I forget that I was on the crown of the track - between the ruts - and the ruts were 10 inches deep. This means that my legs would need to be 10 inches longer to reach the ground. I stopped the bike and put a foot down, but caught fresh air. Bike toppled over, sending me into the nettles. I had short-legged the bike, how embarrassing.

Martin came down the hill to see what the fuss was, to see me - again - pushing the bike up the hill cursing and swearing like a sailor on shore leave. There was a terrible smell of burning oil and metal against metal - not good. Further inspection showed that I had completely melted the clutch, and the chain was glowing red-hot. Martin explained that enduro was also about the bike being able to endure, not just me, but had to concede that he was surprised that the bike gave in before I did. Between the two of us, we nursed her to the top of the hill and had a bit of a breather whilst some repairs were done to the clutch as much as possible.

We got to the top of the hill and got back on the Ridgeway. It was shale and gravel. I was so happy to see gravel again, I could have kissed it. Bear in mind, that same gravel wold have had me shaking in my boots a few weeks ago and here was I happy to see it.

Then it started to rain. Not just rain, it was hailstones. Here's me in a motocross top riding across the top of the Ridgeway going around 50mph on gravel getting hail slamming into my face. Not for the first time that day, I was asking myself why I would want to be doing this when there are so many other, warmer, things that I could be doing. At that moment, being tucked up cuddled with The Missus looked like a very nice hobby to take up.

Ruts make me panic when I see them, and this is the basic problem. I tense up, and this makes me all top-heavy on the bike. When I see ruts, I know how Superman feels when he sees Kryptonite. This is a fear I must conquer. As for roots, they are just nuclear powered kryptonite, but ruts first.

We finished up about 4:30 and I got in the car to drive to Wales, arriving here at around 9pm. I have obviously walked right into the Ewe-rovision song contest - all of the sheep are going mental at eachother and t is really noisy, but it's a nice kind of noise. The Missus and the Wee Yin would love it.

Met a couple of bikers staying here who have just finished the course. Tales of carnage then ensued, followed by the obligatory showing off of bruises and injuries (its a biker thing). I asked about ruts, and if they covered them. Yes, several times apparently. The message from the instructors is 'if you see a rut then just panic. Sit down, paddle like crazy and just find a way through it - everybody hates ruts'.

I have this lovely wee room in a working sheep farm doubling up as a B&B. I have the sheep singing me to sleep, and it really is rather peaceful. I miss the Missus though - this is her journey too and she's kind of missing it. In the bin is an empty box of Nurofen, and a bunch of the peel bits from plasters - probably not a good sign.

Apparently the first thing to do tomorrow morning is to throw the bike on the floor, and then pick it up again to learn how to do it. This is before we learn to ride with the front wheel locked. Which is before we learn how to ride up and down a scree cliff.

I did do very well today. I washed out at all the bits where I was expected to wash out, and I really am getting to grips with gravel. I have a lot of confidence to build up about changing line (especially moving across ruts) and I need to be looking further ahead. But the gravel is a big step forward - two weeks ago I would have been gingerly plodding along it, now I pray for it since it means I can get a bit of a move on.

Tomorrow, BMW. And I take more steps into a bigger wider world.

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