Couldn’t help myself. And nobody else is going to*
Didn’t climb as much as 2023. Three uplift holidays will do that. The activity total and elapsed time are skewed by the 100 days of exercise thing starting in September. Otherwise, pretty much Meh, still alive, still doing stuff a few days a week, still not given in to electrical assistance.
I did update the bike page- Not much happening their either other than My First Yeti taking up space where there is none in the ShedOfDreams(tm). I didn’t update the ‘best articles’ page due to lack of content. Not lack of quality as that’s never stopped me selecting random posts previously.
Next up, I’m going to attempt a “how bike trips work” or don’t work based on an extensive experience of both riding in lots of lovely places and managing anxiety while doing so 😉
Until then, January looks to be a “Shed Roof as a Rain Jacket” type of affair with some – hopefully – frozen trails and big star nightrides in between.
*”Leave me alone. A man’s gotta Nerd, and I am both that man and that nerd”
Seeing out 2024 sees me – through the medium of detailed statistics – stuffing the tragedy into tradition. Or not. I’ve covered about the same ground although ridden a bit less and run a whole lot more. Strava – through it’s black box of dodgy metrics – tells me my fitness is good and even improving. Some days I feel like that, others I just feel my age.
Still as my friend Si is fond of saying “at our age, every day is a gift‘ so we shall enjoy it while we can, and reflect on the qualitative not the quantitative. I certainly enjoyed completing* the “100 days of exercise“, so much so that it’s continued to be my annoying daily partner (ADP) even after limping over the line on Christmas Eve.
Again a delve into the murky statistical world of activity recordings correlates good things going up and bad things going down. However, having set myself a goal of running a10km outside in 57 minutes or less by end March, some kind of training plan accelerating the withered frame to flank speed is the only bulwark against a misplaced confidence that running that distance inside counts for anything.
So that starts tomorrow with the Garmin helming the coaching ADP role. I’ve given it a target date and speed, and it’s spilled out a training plan that appears to be entirely disconnected from 10 years of data that same company holds on what it laughingly calls my “athletic performance“. We shall see. And suffer I expect. Still with dry January barely a day away, 2025 is setting itself up for enjoyment antonyms, so let’s instead pretend none of that is happening and wallow in all that my 2024 picture library can offer.
January
A month of endless filth. Even by the UK standards of winter misery, this felt like at least 100 days of rain, wind, cloud, more rain and storms. That ride was mid month and is a fair and accurate representation of exactly how shit it was.
Still Carol and I did escape to Madeira for a week successfully chasing the sun and its warmth.
February
(c) Steve Trust
A return to Bike Park Wales after a few years away. Steve, Em and I had a fab time even though it was raining all day. Only stopping when temperatures dropped enough for sleet to be our dampness of choice.
Matt and I found about the one dry day to clear a trail lost to forest harvesting. That was hard graft!
March
Winter failed to get the Spring memo. Reluctant to crank the season ratchet, it first froze then snowed. The white stuff covered up the filth for a bit, but it endured and we were all getting properly sick of the mud and the slop.
(c) Steve Trust
So heading off to Spain was the perfect antidote. Four days of partially uplifted dry trails. In my case mostly with just the one brake. Lots more of that and other nonsense here: Malaga YouTube Playlist
April
Returning from Spain, Spring finally kicked off. With a great bluebell season and dry – nay dusty – trails to play on. The hardtail was finally retired from its winter campaign leaving the RipMo and Digger dug out for these pined for conditions.
And we added Roxie “the carpet of chaos” to our family. She’s now the size of a small snub nosed furry elephant, and has massively enriched all our lives. Apart from maybe Lola’s who’s still wondering if she’s ever going home. A post on Bitey-Von-Fluffle and the convoluted way we ended up with a second dog only I wanted shall follow at some point.
May
Oh what’s this? A new bike? Surely not? On yes Shirley, a pre-loved** 2019 Yeti SB130LR. Always wanted one but could never face paying the eye watering RRP. This might be my most favourite bike since my first Ibis Mojo 3. Took it to Porlock to ride with Debs and Martin and was rewarded with blue skies, fantastic trails and good humans to spend a long weekend with. We’ll be doing that again in 2025 I hope.
Martin and Debs were then in town for Annie’s birthday. Matt fired up his outdoor Pizza oven and a fine time was had by all. At least one of which did not have a fine time the following morning 😉
June
This is my favourite time of year to ride in the Forest. It just explodes with growth and every plant is a shade of ‘that must be crap CGI‘ bright green. Here Matt, Cez, me and Johnnie are dropping off a fun little rock. Well three of us are 🙂
Went on hols with the family. First time for all of us since 2018. No familicide was committed so we might try it again 🙂 The Algarve was surprisingly lovely once away from the strip, but a tad warm for ‘blue to angry lobster in 30 minutes’ here. Still it did marginally prepare me for July.
July
Madeira gets three images. Which entirely fail to narrate the experience of 12 riders descending on a tiny island criss-crossed with epic landscapes, superbly built and maintained trails and dust. So much dust. Until the last day when us Muddy Fodders found conditions very similar to winter in our own valley. Other than being about 25 degrees warmer.
One of my favourite idiots, “Leaky” Lewis coming in waaaaaay too hot on the steeps nestling under the Kymin. Such a fun night ending in the Boat at Redbrook before a wobble home on the old railway. Only slightly tinged by the encroaching darkness signalling Summer was over halfway done.
Walked the four waterfalls starting at Aberdare for my birthday with the family. Quite a tough day out that, but we were fortified with ice creams on the way back. Great to have the whole fam there. Even if they did insist I carried ALL the kit!
September
Back to Molini in the Ligurian alps for the third time. It was as fantastic as ever even tho my elbow was not. We rode our favourite trails and explored a few new ones. Mostly in sunshine, once in world ending hail that had us running for the bar in Molini and wondering how we’d escaped drowning.
Arriving home, we met all of Roxie’s family. None of them were that colour by the end of the walk. Took Roxie to the the dog groomers. Based on the state she was in, not sure we’ll ever be allowed back 🙂
October
Steve’s birthday ride. Deep into Autumn. Leaves are browning out and carpeting the trails. Still dry tho and we had a fab day out.
Back into full lights night riding season. Still pretty dry and warm tho. That didn’t last for long!
November
A 3 day trip to North Wales was a huge success. Great accommodation in a tiny village that somehow hosted an amazing deli and a gourmet restaurant! Had a very big day riding the Gwydr trail and some ‘accoutrements‘ totalling 1200m of climbing. So much fun was had, we’ve rebooked for May.
Early snow. Roxie was pretty well camouflaged. Didn’t last long but long enough to remind me why WFH 4 days a week is definitely a good thing!
December
Going out the way we came in. The opening image was from our last 2024 MTB ride. Conditions remarkably good until they weren’t. When skills, grip and tyres are not enough, time to deploy the emergency tripod!
It seems apposite to finish on the people under the helmets (in so many ways this is both funny and true 🙂 ). Here’s Matt and Jimmy working up an appetite for the riders end of year curry. Again a fine evening and a slightly less fine morning after.
So that’s 2024 mostly wrapped. The stats don’t tell the story and I’m not sure the images do either. But they remind me how lucky I am to be healthy and fit to do the things that make me happy, mostly because I do it with a tribe of friends who make the whole thing just so damn life affirming.
I used to write “the joy of riding mountain bikes is 50% where you are riding and 50% who you are riding with”. I’m not sure that ratio is quite right.
The New Year storms are raging outside. Rain and snow in the forecast. They can do their worst, I’m ready for 2025 and all the adventures it will hold.
See you on the other side.
*to be absolutely clear- the enjoyment was finishing not participating.
**only not much based on the condition it turned up in.
Today’s offering very much reheated yesterday’s leftovers. Not posting much and yet posting pretty much the same thing. It’s probably a disappointment but unlikely a surprise. So here’s Al dropping off a very little thing, and yet still making a meal of it. Sod YouTube and TikTok, THIS is the kind of content the Internet was waiting for.
Let’s pretend it’s something else. A celebration of sixteen years of riding in and around the Forest of Dean. Early on, my riding was split between these trails and the rather more pointy versions nestled in the Malvern hills. Those hills are grafted from sponge like geology mostly presenting a few mud free routes all year round**
The Forest isn’t like that. My first ever night ride on a filthy March evening penned a shopping list urgently presented the next day with ‘tyres and lights‘ up front and heavily underlined, closely followed by a litany of ruined transmission components pushed way beyond reasonable use. **
Over 1500 rides split the time between then and now. Rarely do I head north to the Malverns’ nowadays- too many people, but not so many to ride with, most of whom have eBikes, and while the views are pretty epic on the right summit in the right weather, I miss the trees even when they are bare and leafless.
So back to the Forest- specifically the east side poking up both sides of the river at Symonds Yat. I know almost all of the trails here, but not with the kind of familiarity which breeds contempt. If there is any kind of sense of being home then this is it. Ridden these ribbons of singletrack in all conditions, from frozen solid to baked hard with everything in between- that mostly being the gripless slop we like to think of as ‘skills enhancing’ or ‘greasy snot death‘ when not reaching for a positive spin.
Even in winter it looks magnificent. Trails barely discernible indents hidden under a leaf rug. Long trammelled memory and – failing that – divination skills help a bit, but it’s not unusual for a train of riders to start together and exit separately. Sometimes having fallen for the siren call of drying trails before deep leaf litter reintroduces them to the teflon properties of dead vegetation.
And what a bike to be riding them on. Since the Yeti was introduced on the Hedgehog, the ‘spares and repairs‘ build has seen upgrades worthy of a skunkworks project. The latest trinket worshipping at the altar of “the shiny” are a set of forks EXACTLY the same as the ones I bought it with. They are newer tho, and a lot shinier, so you know better. On a scale of 1 to better, let’s give them a solid 8. No, I will not be sharing my working at this time.
In conditions not primarily categorised by winter crapness, this bike is just brilliant. Reminds me of my first ever Ibis- the equally fantastic and as flawed Mojo3. They share that same ‘make me want to go out and ride’ vibe and ‘bike’s got your back, it’s going to be fine. Probably’***’
And because of that, I nearly took it to Molini. Instead I packed the trusty RipMo which cannot be held in any way accountable for some very cautious elbow-worried riding, but there’s a lingering doubt that maybe the Yeti would have been – well – a bit more fun.
Not better, but different. There’s something going on with that bike which bypasses a chunk of my riding neurosis’s. Take this little drop for example which Steve is confidently bossing with narry a worry.
I bottled it for ages. Habitually swerve drops requiring any kind of well-timed front end hoof. I either panic and go early, so perfectly executing a manoeuvre predicated to slam the front wheel directly into ground at a less than ideal angle. Or too late, which has similar consequences yet somehow looks even more stupid.
Room for improvement then. First go, put Newton in the pilots console and just ride off the bugger as fast as I dare. Momentum beats gravity in a rock, roll and crash contest. Thanks Physics, done me a solid there. Second up, slow up, spot the gap between rock and ground, do the chuck the bike away thing there, land safely, call it done so next time it’ll not be a ‘thing’.
I’d risk the speed is your friend thing on most of my bikes, but doing it properly needs something a bit special. Something I can place exactly where I want with absolute trust that if I’m 50% good, it’s 50% better to close the skills gap. The Yeti is that bike but I have no idea why that is. And this is not the time to find out.
We’re not halfway out of the dark yet tho. So at least three more months of conditions 100% not suited for a bike flush with eye watering expensive parts, beautifully engineered, to munch on gritty detritus flung from the rear tyre. But on every dry-ish day, I know which bike is going out clean and bringing me home big smiled and filthy.
Makes me wonder if I need all the others. A topic for another time. Sure I’ve been there before but at least it’ll stop me posting videos like these 🙂
*”mostly” is doing some heavy lifting here. The steepness and slickness of some of these trails had me throwing shapes, mostly off the bike on many sloppy winter days.
**I expect any warranty claim including “drivetrain” and “Forest of Dean” was autofiled into the “denied” folder.
***No bike is every going to be able to mitigate all my hang ups 🙂
Based on that image, the answer – from right to left – would appear to be “That’ll Go“, “For sure“, “Probably but I’ll watch you first” and “if I hide behind everyone, maybe they’ll forget I’m here”
That’s me rocking the Oasis like definitely maybe vibe because what you can’t see is the bulk of that damp limestone slab plunging at – to my mind at least – a 45 degree incline ending in either an adrenaline or painful crash. Really it’s neither that big or especially clever, but – as anyone engaging in risk based sports will tell you – most of us must navigate a sequence of logic gates before committing*. Or committing to an excellent excuse.
I say most of us, there are others – some represented in that photo – with an apparent disregard for violent forestry assaults on important bones, sinews and organs. Trusting their skills while disregarding risk amplification factors such as dodgy run ins, limited grip and narrowing exists, they confidently about turn, adopt a jaunty carefree expression and just ride the bloody thing.
I am not one of these people. Not on unridden features, and especially ones I’ve chosen not to ride because my cerebral wiring immediately sounds the red alert klaxon** presenting a hyper realistic image of a bent and broken Al front and centre to the minds eye. “Ooh that leg shouldn’t be pointed backwards should it?” and “Is that one of your bloodied teeth lying next to your spleen?”
So there’s a process to wipe that image form my mind. Carefully calibrated from a range of pertinent metrics including skills required to exit the obstacle in the same shape you entered it, trail conditions with a weighting coefficient skewed to wet and greasy, similar features conquered without extensive hospital treatment, and the ever hard to quantify am I the riding GOAT or stoat today?
Let’s start there, it’s stoat isn’t it? But again some days you’re riding near the top of your ability, whilst others you can barely wrestle the bike in a straight line, so are essentially wobbling about looking for somewhere to have an accident. So if you’re not ‘feeling‘ it, it’s a hard no. Push through that and inevitably the hard ground pushes right back.
And while I kid myself all those other metrics matter, really it’s that top 12 inches splitting the difference between do and do not. Confidence, calmness and commitment will mostly see you through, while another C-Clarity of thought is pretty damn helpful as well. I find myself muttering “I want to ride that, I can definitely ride that, I’m going to ride that‘.***
I also like to give the feature a “nod“. A mark of respect declaiming that while I am in no way underplaying its difficulty, I am good enough to ride it. Then it’s back on the bike – often a little shaky legged – at which point the 3Cs take one look at that obstacle and fuck off at high speed right out the back of my head. Leaving me with nothing more than “well I’m here now, no point dying wondering“.
Mostly it’s fine. Because I can ride this stuff, I have brilliant bikes to get me out of trouble if I don’t attempt anything funky, and enough learned skills, percolated through 25 years of doing shit like this, to trigger the safety autopilot, so seconds later it’s all gone a bit “yeah way easier than it looks“. Often this if followed by a “You still made it look quite hard tho Al“****
Then you look at the video and think “Jeez, all that worrying and overthinking for THAT‘. And yeah, while it looks like nothing, it just doesn’t feel like nothing. Breathe out and move onto the next one with a bit more confidence, a bit more commitment but no more calmness, as that’s been booted out in favour of a smug satisfaction punched by dopamine jabs.
Here’s me making another easy thing look quite hard. To be fair it’s a shit entry, was pretty damp and the side wind wasn’t helping but nothing on that face has any of the 3Cs written across it. Unless one was “Stop riding like a C*** and just bloody well get on with it“. So I did and it felt great.
Zooming out a bit, we’ve had so many brilliant rides since I declared the year “mostly done’ after returning from Molini in early September. Normally the onset of the cold and dark season just makes me sad and grumpy. Meaning every ride clearing that low bar feels like a stolen one. And conditions these last six weeks have seen us tick off loads of new features that were originally firmly scheduled for the Spring 2025 calendar.
Sure they aren’t really that hard. Which doesn’t matter at all. What matters is getting them done in a very much I’m alive “worry/fuck it/exhilaration” / what else would I rather be doing vibe. Some of which must be the creeping knowledge that, at some point, riding bikes will not embrace any kind of risk other than possible heart attacks at cream tea stops.
It should feel like that’s getting closer, but right now it doesn’t. Since age appears to be ignoring me, I’ll ignore it right back instead anxiously standing on the top of some stupid obstacle clearly designed as an ‘organic spleen removal’ tool. At which point I’ll tentatively ask “Are we doing that?”
Yeah, of course we bloody are.
*I refuse to use the expression “dropping in” as I am not 12.
**”Are you sure Sir? We’ll need to change the bulb.” IFKYK 🙂
***Often followed by “I did not ride that”
****Making easy stuff look difficult since 1999 (c) Steve Trust 🙂
Behold the “torture corner” – began life with just a couple of dumbbells before kettlebells, jagged rollers and yoga mats were added by order of the physio. Not satisfied with bending me out of shape with that collection, Big Gym Ball* and his mini-me “bastard little ball” rolled in with a set of exercises clearly designed as an alternative to waterboarding.
And yes, 30 minutes of contorting myself painfully with squashy spheroids would see me happily handing over the contents of my bank accounts if it’d just stop. It hasn’t stopped tho, while cash is leaving my account through consultations with a range of health professionals. All of whom have more faith in rehabilitating various hurty bits of my withered frame than the increasingly grumpy owner of that body.
Let’s back up a bit. A structural component amazingly not currently in need of medical ministrations. Elbow tho, yeah that’s properly broken. As predicted an awesome week of smashing it down Italian mountains failed to fix the underlying issue. Returned home with it cosplaying a thigh such was the swelling**, and immediately locked myself in a routine of ice, ibuprofen and infernal exercises. Took three weeks off riding MTBs after being offered the choice of ‘3 weeks off now or at least 3 months if you’re an idiot’.
I am an idiot. Evidentially there are almost infinite data points to support my lack of impulse control and pathological need to be lazy. Luckily meteorological conditions were such that a sick note represented the best excuse ever: “would love to come and ride in the slop and the cold, but you know need not to be an idiot“. Fair to say this was met with some suspicion by my riding buddies.
This did present me with a problem tho. A problem that’s been gaining traction since the start of the year. A problem that suggests solutions in the form of elasticated trousers and giving up. Six months of easy living, six old school pounds of added weight, mostly hula-hooping around the midriff. This orbit of old beer and new cheeses inexplicably*** got even worse after THREE riding holidays.
Leaning into my outer idiot, I confidently and publicly signed up for the “100 days of exercise” challenge usefully starting two days from my return from that week of Italian gluttony. With proper riding being about the only thing off my personal menu, I pivoted to the turbo only to instantly dismount with all the grace my barely articulated hips could offer.
God it’s so boring. 10,000 kilometres over six years makes the idea of doing any more about as appealing as, I dunno, some of this healthy eating people keep telling me about. Never really got past the noticeable lack of cheese before tuning out. So plan B was another confident sign up- this time to the 8 week Cyclist to 10km running plan.
Started well. Invested in some funky new daps guaranteed to improve my mid stroke while offering state of the art damping****. Lace up those grellow puppas and smash the programme. Short delay while new headphones were shipped replacing those enthusiastically chewed by our real pup.
Amazingly the four runs a week – increasing in intensity – have failed to breach my low boredom threshold. Sure it’s boring, really boring but not when compared to the Turbo, and the Torture Corner giving me the side eye every time it hoves into view. It’s both stamped the first 30 days of the challenge and shifted most of the excess weight. Not all of it and not from where it’s mostly slumped but honestly – along with an elbow that’s mostly now okay for riding – I’ll take these little wins.
The problem with that attitude is it’s way too easy to back slide into old habits. Mostly involving a fridge stacked with goodies that are really quite bad for you. So engaging ‘max idiot‘ I’ve set myself some targets. Nothing with hard numbers that I’m to soft to hit, more – as we data geeks like to say – ideas with tolerances.
Hopes and dreams people. Some of them definitely are. Sub 1hr hilly 10km outside, 5 mins off that on the Dreadmill, 172 lbs with both feet on the scale, 3 classes a week when I hand over yet more money to the local gym, Night ride and long weekend ride whatever the weather, maybe even a turbo session when I’m not being held prisoner by the torture corner.
Good chance of missing those. Some by quite a distance. But the option was to let it slide and, tempting as that was, I’m bloody pleased to have got some kind of exercise structure back in my life.
67 days left to Christmas Eve before the reaper of stats shall cast his eye over my efforts. I don’t expect him to be terribly impressed, but by that time he’ll be talking to the hand while the rest of that arm is celebrating with an elbows deep investigation of some stinky stilton.
Until then, I can do some more dreaming. Of trips like this.
I’ve many things to write about a brilliant week in Molini, and the equally fantastic riding in Madeira back in July. Thinking about that, I did some adding up and totalled 25 trips away from home in the last twenty years. I really want to do a few more. But there’s definitely a price to pay for that.
Come on then bastard-small-ball. Let’s be having you.
*Just pumping that up nearly ended me. I’m sure it took a full day. And yes I do own a compressor. Which merely confirms I am a stubborn idiot.
**Insert your own jokes here.
***Uplifts. Wine. And all that cheese.
****Something like that anyway. It’s like healthy eating, I kind of tuned out. My purchasing criteria are cost and, er, no that’s it 🙂
This is probably the longest gap ever between posts, making you* hopeful of entertaining, humorous and even possibly uplifting content. All killer and no filler as those youthful creators mostly lie about.
And indeed lots has been happening, none of which I intend to spend hardly any time wibbling about. Mostly because wibbling evo is available for your viewing pleasure on my “MoobTube” channel. Feel free to subscribe, you’ll be with at least two other friends victims.
Really though, it’s because I’m keen to return to a couple of old tropes; namely age and injury – often unhappy bedfellows and always unwelcome squatters in my increasingly optimistic landscape where one is just a number and the other can be easily managed.
Before that exciting update, here’s a long weekend of Spanish riding with a few good friends and one less brake than would be deemed the safe minimum. We’re already booked to return next March, and my strategic plan to avoid similar maintenance issues are mostly new bikes shaped. But more on that, somewhen.
Anyway after watching those, if your appetite for barely edited, randomly captioned and bang average riding has yet to be sated, then the Madeira edit is for you. If nothing else the scenery is stunning and the trails magnificent. It’s a hell of a place to ride a mountain bike**
I think that’s us all caught up. Other than some bastard sneaking in another birthday that has me pining for the angst of turning 50, and a couple of annoying injuries which leave me less than ideally configured for six days uplifted riding in and on the trails of Molini, starting in less than week.
Yeah that Molini. Third time in two years because it’s the first place I’d want to ride when given the choice. The choice this year was not as clear cut with it being the third time I’ve done my planet-ruining bit by jumping on a plane to go play in fantastic scenery. There’s only so many times leading with the ‘not sure how many of these I have left’ excuse ends with a race for cheap flights at local airports***
Before worrying about the bits of an arm genuinely useful for holding onto the right grip, I was gripped (ahem) by an existential bike quandary. I’ll spare you the details – others have suffered so you don’t have to – other than to conclude the Big Bruiser has been stood down for this one to be replaced by Mighty RipMo. Already done two trips with this bike, and Matt’s given it a good seeing too so any riding issues are going to be 100% rider related.
A rider who is in around 80% – age compensated – average condition. The other 20% represents a shoulder still a long way from right after it all went wrong back in late April and an Tendonitis inflicted elbow begat by….. painting 🙁
Shoulder first. Exiting a trail I’ve ridden only about a 100 times, another of those bastards cited earlier – in this case the inestimably obscure Forestry England**** – dug a great bloody trench between trail end and rock hard fireroad. A fireroad I impacted with all the force induced by being forcibly ejected from a previously speeding mountain bike.
Lost some skin, a bit of mobility most of which has come back. The strange clicks and graunches continue through gritted teeth stretching and what, from a distance and a mighty squint, passes for simple Yoga. Every time I stand in front of a perfectly formed YouTube human casually rotating a toned hip with 30% more articulation that these old bones can manage, I wonder if I came to this about 30 years too late.
The elbow tho. Not so peachy. Keeping the faith with that Holy Trinity of Ice, Ibuprofen and ultrasound. Apparently giving up alcohol would help, but there are limits to my commitment to rehab. Spending two days painting freshly sawn boards with multiple coats of Ducksback left my elbow hot and swollen. Yes, I know this merely confirms my unfitness for any proper work, and the irony that I’ve injured myself protecting the contents of a shed currently unavailable for use is not lost on me.
This was a month ago. So in the best traditions of man-medicine, a therapeutic approach based around smashing that sore joint down dry and dusty trails interspersed with some extreme gardening seemed sensible. Until a ride last week was so painful, I had to accept Plan A was a dud, Plan B to ignore it and hope it’d go away didn’t play well with departure dates, so we skipped immediately to Plan C – invoke the help of a proper medical professional and diligently follow her advice.
Hence the frozen peas multiple times a day. A side benefit is this has definitely upped my vegetable consumption if only by osmosis. Improvements are evidenced by right handed door opening now back on the elbow menu, whether this translates to hours and hours of fab but tricky trail riding is still a concern.
Still this has stopped me incessantly checking the weather, or worrying about other trivialities. I guess we’ll strap it up and send it off with the rest of the withered frame and see how we get on. Last year was one of the best trips we’ve ever done so the bar is set high.
I do like a high bar. Any bar really. As long as it’s not a bar to riding late summer trails to the best of my limited ability. Right, where did I leave those peas?
*not regular readers, obviously.
**and visit. Lovely in Feb as Carol and I discovered taking a break from what felt like a very long and wet UK winter.
***There is little intersection in the Venn of Cheap, Local and Not the middle of the sodding night when attempting to travel by air. Hence Luton at about 3am next week.
****performing seemingly random and pointless destruction on innocent forests since 1919
Top Gun* is a trove of oft mined bastardized lines; for example “I feel the need, the need the cheese” being deployed on an almost weekly basis. And whenever a car park is offering up exactly zero spaces, the negative ghostwriter reference is instinctively grumbled out**
Recently though the ShedofDreams(tm) has been similarly hash tagged. Short of digging down Bat-cave style, we’re pretty much at maximum capacity. At least some of this isn’t my fault, what with Carols’ and the offsprings bikes squatting on three prime spaces.
I suppose there’s room for an argument that the shed isn’t merely a repository for my increasingly unhinged bike buying strategy*** and five for me versus three for the entire quorum of other family members is not an unreasonable split. Slippery slope that, best quickly deflect by foregrounding the latest frame crowbarred through its revolving doors.
Firstly nothing has left. Hence the head scratching problem of additive bicycles. Secondly no desperate new niche is being funded here- no, what we’re looking at is a 2019 frame visually distanced from anything I own, but virtually similar travel and angles as the mighty RipMo. Yes, you know the bike triggering so much angst when selling it, I happily bought another one last year.
Before moving on, probably worth a quick recap of the current shed inventory. Cotic Hardtail brutally slopped through the endless winter, Nukeproof gravel bike that is both fab and mostly ignored, the aforementioned mighty RipMo proudly sporting dust from a long weekend Spanish Raid (we’ll defo be back to that) and the Big Dog Nukeproof Giga ready to save my wibbling arse from all sorts of undesirable outcomes come trips to scary places.
Oh and the electric Vibe. But that doesn’t really count. Not in my world anyway. Even so, I can see there is no canonical model where ramming a new bike into a non existent space makes any sense. Like that’s ever stopped me. The Yeti SB130 “Lunch Ride” is nothing more than a want, and nothing less than a perfect storm of selling a frame, idly browsing Pinkbike classifieds and a lowball offer I fully expected to be ghosted.
Fast forward a week or so, and an amicable pickup quickly turned into a stripdown and assessment of a maintenance sparse five year ownership. It’s had a life this frame, but still looks fine sporting its new invisiframe jacket if the viewer is – say – 10 feet away and squinting. More importantly the ‘watched the video concluded its elven magic‘ switch link was recently replaced. Knowing its propensity for self destruction, not quite sure why I’ve bought yet another bike entirely useless in the ‘wet clods of dust‘ conditions characterising nine months of our riding year.
Matt spannered in – replacing all the bearings some of which were on the just about okay side of fine, others crying for the sweet release of death, strapped on some new wheels and my entire box of new spares to complete the ‘budget build‘. The shock was quite ill as well but a swift swapage – see having all those bikes make good sense sometimes**** – saw me soon navigating well known Yat trails on an unknown bike.
Firstly, it’s not very RipMo whatever the geometry comparison sites tell you. It’s a little sharper, a bit more focussed, a bit more you need to be on your game. End of ride one had me summarising the experience as 3Ps – Planted, Plush and Pointy. I’ve ridden some brilliant climbing bikes, but that switch link is sorcery. The Yeti stays taught and high in its’ travel, but is somehow super compliant, same over stutter bumps, downhill no idea but fun was being had with an alliterated F. Sure it’s a maintenance bomb waiting to financially explode, but what a thing.
It was dry enough to ride some of the harder trails and other than wanting a higher front end, the whole Yeti experience felt well worth paying the faff tax. It feels a bit special, a bit ‘oh hello been riding bikes for ever but there’s some special sauce here‘ However, in a departure to previous reviews, I’ve actually ridden it a whole lot more before declaring it ‘a keeper’.
Firstly we returned to Porlock for the first time in seven years which was, frankly, epic. One photo and two vids don’t come close to doing it justice.
Came home and rode it in the slop. Got a bit irritated how hard it is to clean. Looked at it afterwards and decided that was absolutely fine.
I need to start riding my Giga as we’re off to Mediera in a few weeks and other than refitting the serviced shock and pedaling up the lane, it’s been a shed queen for the best part of a year since the RipMo took my riding eye.
Mmm bit of an elephant in the shed there. While the SB130 and the RipMo really do ride differently, they fight for supremacy in the overlapping ‘what bike shall I ride all day on fantastic trails when the sun is out’ segment, where a single set of legs dictates a choice.
I’ll keep both whatever. Jury’s out on which one will get the nod most often. Tomorrow though, it’s Yeti time. Again.
At least I can’t fit anything else in the shed. Really, look straight, look up, look sideways, bikes everywhere. All close together. I’m sure I can hear the RipMo whispering “You can be my wingman anytime” and being rebutted with “Bullshit.. you can be mine”
These are problems I’m not desperate to solve 🙂
*the original. I mean the new one is fine and all that, but the original went full cheese and I love it for that.
**Mostly followed by “Butts, I want some butts” which you really need to watch the film to understand the narrative adjacency.
*** charitable use of the word. Wish fulfillment and craven shiny new thing syndrome closer to what’s actually happening.
This, dispatched lightly, from my good friend Matt, landed with more of a thud than expected. Equally unexpected was the thud as first my shoulder, rapidly followed by the remainder of my tumbling torso, smashed into a fire-road baked hard by a capricious sun long driven from the sky by endless rain.
Ironic that* I pontificated mightily a second before, as what proxied for an out of body experience was – in fact – a precursor to a full body slam experience. The rapidly shrinking distance from air to ground triggered some desperate dendrite-synapse action mostly focussed on a less than balletic twist to protect the drinking arm from the inevitable blunt force trauma,
How did we get here? Short answer, riding bikes in the sunshine in what felt like the first time for about ever**. Longer answer is our spring-lamb keenness to be released into the fields triggered an early start and a few extra trails before a gathering of those matriculated in the study of ‘bluebell day‘. The forest looked mighty fine; swathes of flowering garlic and bluebells slashed by petrichor drying dirt.
“Dryer than last week” was my pointless assertion to those who I share almost every ride with. Nods affirmed Spring – while not in the ascendancy – was striding through the trees, extracting moisture from our favourite trails and repurposing it to trunk tributaries. So a mostly green canopy shielded us from above and grip pulled hard at clean tyres from below.
Oh God we’ve waited so long for this. Sure there’s a skill and a dopamine hit of pitching the bike in on sodden trail and managing the slide, but dry trails hit different. Slam the front end in, know the back is following in an exact arc, smash an off camber root stack knowing you’re going nowhere but fast. It’s such a thrill and I’ve missed it. Even tho I didn’t feel I could fully trust it, as lying in wait were shaded puddles and sweating rock.
We were nearly late because fun beats promises 100% of the time. Finally fetching up with the rest of the crew, route faffage was at a minimum as we knew exactly where we were going. Bluebell day has many destinations but the first is the ‘main line’ when riding is secondary to experiencing.
Had to get there first. Up the notorious ‘middle climb‘ – a 150 metre pull from the river I’ve done 100s of times and it never gets easier. Making the ridge, we extended our out lap through a secret garlic trail presenting at its absolute best. Not massively exciting to ride, but what a thing to look at. But still not the main event.
To get there, we diverted just a bit to ride a couple of favourite trails at speeds not realistic even a couple of weeks ago. So enthused by the conditions, Matt and I abandoned the agreed route and pedalled hard back to the top for another full run. Great concept, terrible execution.
There’s that thing about ‘not dying in a ditch‘ over something. Never thought it had a literal quality, but as kinetic energy was converted to an airborne vector, that certainty took a bit of a hit. As did the bike falling into a recently dug trench someone inadvisably positioned at the end of a fast trail. The bike and I piled in. Only I came out. Mostly in a parody of a working human with flapping limbs akimbo.
“Impressive” was the comment from behind as I groaned my way through a full system reset. There was some bleeding, later there would be some bruising, later still my shoulder still isn’t quite right but considering the smash bang thud denoting things had gone a bit wrong, I’m taking that as a win.
Patched up***, we finally converged on the prime forest bluebells. Fifteen years of riding this trail when they’re at that absolute finest has in no way diminished the experience. It was as sensory-overload-y as ever and just remembering to do bike things is mashed into a tiny corner of your brain, while the rest attempts to catalogue those wide angled images for future retention.
No chance. it’s a confluence of people/place and time. It’s why we slog through winter. It’s why we lament the changing of the seasons. It’s why we watch the ground cover grumpily emerge from the slop. It’s why we celebrate the first flower. It’s just why we ride.
And then ride some more. Ended up with nearly 1400m of climbing on a 60k day. Those are big numbers even for us. Most I’ve done for a while. Life in the old bruised dog yet. That feels better than good. Excuses are easy, doing it is hard but I love that feeling of being totally finished, washed out, done in.
So that extra climb, that little bit more, that little nod when asked ‘shall we just ride one more trail as it’s so bloody great today?“, that ‘shut up legs’, that first taste of a cold beer, that talking shit with fellow travellers, that next 24 hours when stairs are a problem, that wishing it could happen again right now.
That. More of that.
Tired is for tomorrow.
*90s hit Alanis Morissette ‘isn’t it ironic’ is lyrically distanced from irony in a way that’s really bloody annoying. Just me then? Right, as you were.
**last week, was Neil’s “10 feature” birthday ride – made about 9 of them stuck somewhere between committed and Newtonian inevitability. Dry it was not.
***My friend Em lent me a plaster to stem the bleeding from an elbow. She didn’t want it back 🙂
This is a post ride image familiar to any cycling enthusiast/insufficiently medicated masochist* marching on through a winter campaign of dark, cold misery. Those identifying primarily in the secondary characteristic claim not only that sliding through three** months of endless filth is a riding hack for upgraded summer skills, but further it is just damn good dirty fun.
Grudgingly I’ll partially accept the skills thing, although – for me – those skills are primarily mental; acceptance of tyre sliding anxiety, bloody mindedness on wheel sucking climbs, acknowledgement that ‘still alive’ is an excellent outcome on a favourite descent, and a stiffish upper lip enduring endless slogs finishing in twilight or starting in the dark.
As a list, it’s hardly compelling. Alternatives include fitness hibernating in winter and only being dragged painfully from the dark as evenings lighten, exchanging real landscapes for virtual worlds, or refusing to interact with the elements until that fabled bluebird day or frozen ground. None of these in isolation replace the type 2 fun of arsing around in the mud. And while I still enjoy it, as I get older so it does too.
This year, the seasons have basically disappeared. Started raining in December with no sign of it ever stopping. Spring may be emerging slowly from sodden ground, but everything trail related is still very much in winter mode. Okay the water might be a bit warmer as it floods over your ankles, but even that is overselling the joy of slop redux represented in the long term forecasts.
Here’s further evidence of the mudmageddon aftermath of a night right. Trousers may be mocked by a few of my riding buddies, but these water repellant bastions of leg wear save my arse and points south from high pressure trail enemas.
Why do you wear trousers?
The state of the kit tho? Ready the bucket of doom because the washing machine is off limits! By February I’m really done with it, but persevere because Spring is just around the corner.
There was a brief respite in January when winter bit back with proper minus temperatures, freezing the ground hard and our faces with it. But for a couple of snatched rides, it was summer from the axles down and we returned from rides not obviously auditioning for the part of Wye Valley Swamp Monster.
The rain returned and I didn’t. Lots of reasons but hardly rode for a few weeks (I like to blame the treadmill but honestly if we didn’t have that, I’d have found another excuse) and other than assuaging guilt didn’t feel the slightest inclination to drag myself through a few hours of mud.
None of which we found on our stolen weekends riding in Malaga (back to that next time). T-shirts, dust, beers on the beach. Oh yes this is why I love mountain biking. Returning to – you guessed it – torrential rain, the four Spanish Exiles were still motivated enough to head back out for a tour of the forest over the Easter weekend.
Central to my winter riding is the GrimWagon. Steely in purpose and shorn of all but a few bearings, it’s the perfect foil for real mud and imagined glory. Fat, chunky 2.6inch tyres running low pressures provide the grip while a gert 160mm fork up front offers the bounce. In between are consumable components aging quickly, but unlikely to be upgraded until the mythical dry line returns.
Riding a full suspension bike in conditions like we’ve had suggests an edge of lunacy far distanced from the general stupidity of riding when you’re the owner of a nice, warm house. You’re not getting much benefit of all that extra travel when the tyres are rim deep in soul sucking mud. And after the ride, the already tedious clean up routine would be augmented by the counting of collapsed bearings and a checking of available funds to replace.
Not so the GrimWagon. Ride ends, gets chucked in the shed. Sometime before the next ride, gets taken outside, beaten lightly with a brush to remove the worst of ‘dust clods’ and freshened up with some chain lube. Occasionally I’ll spray some WD40 into the mech, but really only out of a sense I should probably be taking maintenance a bit more seriously.
It just soldiers on tho. First 1000m of climbing for a while and much of that hard earned on tracks barely recognisable from their summer forms. Downhill wasn’t much easier, sliding around, trying to be brave in the corners- often with ‘enduro leg’ flailing about in a parody of balance.
Occasionally tho due to very local sandy topology and a fair wind, a dry trail emerged from the slop. And very welcome it was too. Then the GrimWagon reveals its other side, a proper sorted ‘hardcore‘ hardtail that’s slack and carve-y while being supple and somehow precise at the same time.
Is that a dry trail I see before me?
Sunshine was as welcome, if not more so. It’s hard to be annoyed that more bloody rain is coming when the big yellow orb is in full joy delivery mode.
I know it’s a rare privilege to get to ride bikes mostly whenever I like with friends who make any such ride a giggle, even when the grim has fully descended. I also know I shouldn’t moan about it, because one day I won’t be able to ride whatever is happening on the ground and in the skies.
I know all that and I’m still going to moan. But only for a few more weeks hopefully. We may not have escaped winters grasping muddy clutches, but Spring is on its way. I can feel it, I just can’t see it right now.
*delete as applicable. Or not. Both states can exist simultaneously. Schrödinger’s mountain biker.
What you are looking at there is a pool table. Appreciate it lacks some of the standard features of a traditional setup. Even considering such innovations as pocketless pocketing and 10 kph break offs, it’s aesthetically a tough sell. And there’s the rub*, you need to be thinking more in the abstract.
You see it should be a pool table. Same location, similar cost, slightly smaller. Ever since we had this room mostly rebuilt before the terrifying consequences of the original construction landed on our heads, the plan was to install a pool table because, well, I’ve always wanted one.
Justification wise it’s a solid business case; two player game, fun experience even for the shorter attention span, something for friends to have a crack at, and likely to be reasonably amusing when mixed with alcohol. But like my bike buying strategy, stick your hands through the glossy facade, and the emperor is having a major wardrobe malfunction.
Firstly neither Carol or I are massive fans of pool. She’s hardly played and I can hardly play. About 20 years ago – in front of an amazed apres-ski bar audience – I nonchalantly dispatched the last seven stripes before thin kissing the black into the middle bag. In ski boots and with a couple of beers on board. Winner stays on. Stayed on for one more and didn’t win another game all week. Or many since.
The last of which must be a few years ago. The only bloke I could consistently beat was my ex-marine mate who explained his lack of prowess was largely due to spending most of his adult life on a boat. So while we kind of liked the idea of a pool table, it was clear once the novelty wore off, repurposing as a clothes horse or unusually shaped table would best define its long term use.
Instead we bought the dreaded treadmill. Dreadmill if you will, and we did before parting with our own cash by borrowing one from a friend. Retrieved from under a sofa it clearly hadn’t had a hard life. I did my best to change that and – based on the horrible weather outside and my increasing hatred of the turbo – decided it could be the missing link between my increasingly round middle aged beer repository and the trim and honed athlete I was sure might be hiding in there.
Let’s face it, no single piece of equipment is closing that gap. However there is some evidence** that running and cycling are reasonable bedfellows. Certainly I’ve ached in all sorts of interesting new places, and my knees are delighted with yet more blunt force trauma from my wonky running action.
Running action fails to describe my thrashing limbs attempting to kick my own arse. I run like Han Solo about a minute after they defrosted him. Any stiffer and I’d probably take root. While the legs flail about on the dangerous margins of the deck, my upper body demonstrates an ugly fusion of man boobs and simple harmonic motion. Can almost kick myself in the arse AND punch myself in the face.
Still this didn’t deter me from some rigorous research*** ending with a two man lift flatpack, and some head-scratching while interpreting instructions translated from Chinese to English by a person familiar with neither. Eventually Carol sent me away and sorted it out, while I eeked out a bit more from my Zwift subscription by bluetooth tethering the new machine to the spare TV.
Then I had a plan. Well Zwift had a plan: “Cycling to Running 10k” . 10 kilometres in 10 weeks. My initial disappointment that this didn’t translate to 1k a week was assuaged by ignoring week two entirely instead running by the sea under sunny skies. Sadly week 3 was back in the UK and the plan has morphed into ‘well that was a bit of a hurty bastard’
Going to finish it tho. I mean at the moment the cost per mile for that treadmill would easily run a Chieftain tank. And I’m sort of enjoying it mostly because it removes any feelings of non turbo use guilt. Turbo should be twice a week but God I am so fucking bored of it after five winters. I probably should sign up for some races, but that’s brought us full circle back to my pool win ratio.
Moe worryingly not ridden outside for three weeks. If challenged my defence is simply ‘you’ve looked outside have you? Into that endless morale slicing rain? If I want a night riding experience, probably easier to lie face down in the field and get Carol to throw buckets of freezing water over me”****”
I’ll be back out tomorrow though. I’m even looking forward to it. Last time out I had a proper lie down and quite a few near misses. And conditions were way better. I expect nearly a month off will have both improved my fitness and sharpened my skills.
And if not, well at least dry January is over so we can go to the pub. Oh and this blog was mean to be day 3 of our Pyrenees tour from last year. But the photos of sun kissed bikes and dusty trails made me so depressed, I couldn’t face writing it. Don’t worry once the sun comes out, I shall introduce you to the delights of the “Devils Toilet”.
*of the green. No? Here all week. Try the fish.
**It’s the Internet, confirmation bias is always a few clicks away. Still I have lost about 2kg. I hope that’s not giving up the beer. I can’t face the idea that somehow beer is not good for you.
***Mostly “how frigging much? I want a treadmill not the whole bloody Gym”
