“Holy Moly! Look at the speed she took that corner at.
The astonishingly low angle of the bike, the drive out of the berm. Phenomenal! She’s coming into the home stretch now, miles ahead of the rest of the field, the acceleration of this rider is incredible….
“Rebecca Lisa Jarman! If I see you riding through my flower bed one more time…”
The 1992 Backyard Biking Under 5’s World Championships are postponed by the Jarman Cycling Confederation Executive (aka. Mum). Riding my first proper bike – a postbox-red Raleigh Splash with training wheels AND doll’s seat. I chase my little brother around our garden for hours on end, riding around in a never ending loop . It’s a daily ritual in the endless English summer evenings.
“Ready, steaaaaaady….GO!”
I pedal my Raleigh Mantis as fast as I can in the 200 metre sprint. The curb at the end of the cul-de-sac today’s finish line. In my peripherals, I can sense my number one competitor, my brother, trying to overtake me, but being the older sibling by 2 years I still have the power advantage to hold onto my lead. I cross the finish line retaining my crown!
“YOU CHEATED!” he shouts as he stops next to me.
“No I didn’t”
“Yes, you did!”
“Didn’t”
“Did”
“Fine, re-match then” I demand. Not really minding as we pedal back to the top of the road to restart.
Unsurprisingly the same scenario seems to replay itself for hours, days, weeks… neither of us remembering who actually won but that we were just happy to be outside riding our bikes.
‘Clack-clunk-clack-clunk’ – the 3 Strongbow tins that I’d stealthily stolen from the cupboard clatter over every rock and root in my backpack. 15-year-old me couldn’t wait to share my precious cargo with my friends. Utilising all 21 gears of my 2002 Giant Boulder, I follow the others, weaving through English Oaks, Birch, and Corsican pine trees deep into the backwoods of Leicester. We get to our hidden spot. Taking a seat on moss-covered fallen logs, we excitedly crack open the smuggled goods, each taking a swig of the warm, and now slightly flat cider. It was glorious.
One of my best friends Nat had convinced her Dad to drive us the hour and a half from Leicester to Cannock Chase in the school holidays. Our first time at the “PROPER” mountain bike trails. Putting our blind faith in Nigel the chauffeur, now turned bike expedition leader of the day’s adventure, we followed him up the climbs and down the rocky single tracks of the forest. At one point our faith was tested as he took us down an unmarked trail, “just a shortcut”, to get our lunch from the car. Speed increasing and unable to stop, one by one we all careen over a blind drop to the fire road below. All of my 63mm of travel used up, I felt my full weight slam down on the aluminium frame, feet dislodged from the pedals, I use my feet to somehow skid to a stop next to Nat and Nigel. The three of us all looked at each other in stunned silence then burst into a heap of laughter wondering how we all managed to stay on our bikes. It was the first memory that came to me when I learned years later of Nigel’s passing in June 2025. The sad news paired with the memory of our shared laughter on the bikes.
It’s a crisp winter’s day in Plymouth, having just rode 25 miles up to Dartmoor and back on my Scott Aspect 45. I head down to the old part of town, the Barbican with its cobbled streets still wet from the morning’s sea spray and seagulls squawking over a discarded plate of chips in front of the pub. Cruising round a corner I see the harbour open up on my left, the winter sun reflects off the blue ocean, The ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s’ are playing on my iPod Nano in my ears. I’m just thinking how lucky I am to have chosen to go to University in this part of the country. The front wheel stops. My body launched in the air. I feel weightless. My legs flip over my head, my back inverting on itself. I land face up. Staring up at the sharp blue of the sky I’m trying to register how I got here. An unknown voice shouts over to me:
“Don’t move, don’t move. An ambulance is on its way”.
I try to push myself up off the cold uneven cobblestones. A delayed wave of pain takes my breath away and I lay back down stunned in silence.
Luckily this time the ambulance and subsequent hospital visit was all precautionary. The bike and myself were a little scratched up but no major damage. The following day I was able to thank the people that had helped me and reclaim my most prized possession.
“Holy Moly! That was so much fun, yeeeeeeeeeeeeow!”
My legs are like jelly, hands numb from death grip on the handlebars, unable to wipe the massive grin off my face. I chat excitedly with other riders, some I’ve met today, others who throughout the 12 months riding my Rocky Mountain Altitude A50 I’ve had the privilege to grow friendships with. All of us united by our love of biking. We share our highlights of the trail, celebrate each other’s achievements and spread the general mountain bike stoke. My first time participating in Enduro racing, something when buying my first dual suspension bike I had never dreamed of doing. I wait in anticipation of the Women’s Open racing results; hearing my name over the PA system:
“Becky Jarman”.
In contrast to the imagination of the 4-year-old racing around her garden this time the announcement is real. I eagerly place my medal around my neck, brimming with pride, excitement and pure joy.
I may not know what moments, challenges and memories lie ahead of me, but I can say for sure that I’ll be chasing them on two wheels just the way I always have.
