Are we doing that?

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

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 🙂

A weighty problem

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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 🙂

Give Peas a chance

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

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

Negative Ghostrider the pattern is full

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

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.

**** just not very often

Tired is for tomorrow

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

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 🙂

The GrimWagon(tm)

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment
Post ride, every ride right now.

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.

**oh I wish. Feels like at least six.

Running machine

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment
It is. I am not.

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”

****Valentines day date night right there.

 

Treading water

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

As of last week this blog is officially old enough to drink. And if it could, I’m 100% sure it’d be methodically traversing the spirits shelf, after downing eight quick pints in the local. Sadly the best it can hope for is the sweet release of an electronic death, an unplugging from the matrix, a fading ghost in the machine.

No such luck. Even at £4/Month to host, it represents excellent value for the – increasingly – occasional article, poorly edited moob-tube video and the odd decent picture. Often stolen from somebody else.

A fridge full of misery

I’m sharing it’s non drinking misery this month. And playing to my idiot strength, I idly enquired ‘How could Dry January be any more miserable?” which is how we came to borrow a treadmill. Having bodged a hooky connection to Zwift, two facets of running inside have immediately presented themselves.

Fridge loves misery

Firstly it’s even more boring than the Turbo. Until last week, I’d have scoffed that anything – and I mean anything up to and including being locked in a dark room with nothing other than a 24 hour recording of Lisa Tarbuck thinking she’s amusing – could be more soul crushingly wretched than going nowhere slowly. Treadmill running is, by some, er, distance. Distances that are shorter than virtual bike rides but this lessons their tedium not a jot.

Even when multiple bikes ride through your anatomically deceitful avatar*, there’s no fun to be had. Mostly because no ‘fuck you bloody cyclists‘ gesture is available from the keyboard you’re sweating important bodily fluids over**. Massive development oversight right there.

Secondly, it’s still better than running outside. Especially at this time of year. Which is odd, as flipping back a planetary cycle, I was enthusiastically advocating the joys of middle aged fresh air jogging. Well yes but changing my mind/forgetting what happened even 5 minutes ago/generally making stuff up is SOP here on the Hedgy. And most of that landscape is currently underwater.

Type 2 fun – not to be mistaken with misery

And outside, I’m pretty sure my buns aren’t as tight as that lying avatar disturbingly wiggles on the big screen. They’re certainly drier and warmer and I’ll take that. Especially after another GAP ride that had all the right elements if not in the right order. Wind, rain, rain, brief sunshine, rain, frozen rain and – as we were flooding the car park emptying our riding gear – glorious sunshine merging into a spectacular sunset. Upside- not quite as damp as last year.

See – almost dry!

It was fab tho in the way than indoor activity really isn’t. We’ll be back outside tomorrow risking full mud immersions and frequent lying down.  It won’t be great, but it’ll still be great fun. Afterwards. In the pub. When I’ll be nursing a lime and soda while silently hating all those sane, happy drinking customers.

Still a month of sobriety*** may trigger an urge to write more stuff. I’m not short of content, but after all these years most of it isn’t even interesting to me anymore 😉 We shall see. If nothing else, I’ll fall into February a bit lighter, as fit as I can be arsed to get, not totally decrepit and mostly counting the many blessings I can’t find anything to whinge about.

Oh and if this blog is 18, and I was 38 when I first committed brain fart to electronic medium, that makes me… wise and experienced. Yes that’s it. It’s what almost everybody says. On that cheerful note, a happy new year to anyone so starved of content they keep finding themsleves back here.

*Unlike many in the virtual realm, my vital statistics are enduringly accurate. Zwift mostly ignores these, instead presenting you as shining figure of health and vitality. There are no fatties in Wattopia. Must be because all the Cafe’s are closed.

**Treadmills are WAY more dangerous than static bikes. Decent prospect of face planting on the roller before being bounced out the back with a better than evens chance of blunt force trauma metered out by stout furniture.

***Well until 29th Jan when Carol and I are winter sun bound. Fully expect I’ll be partaking in the “Weatherspoons Liquid Breakfast” at Bristol Airport 🙂

Lost in place

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment
All rideable you said?

We knew where we were. Had absolute confidence on our destination. How to get there? Not a scooby’s. Welcome to part 2 of ‘when it all goes wrong, let’s call it an adventure’ where we abandon riding our bikes for carrying them awkwardly down a trail cosplaying a cliff.

Our arrival at this point wasn’t without incident. After faffery of the critical kind, we  saddled up in the pre-dawn gloom to discover a 100m hill hidden in shadow. Pretty sure we didn’t ride down that last night- whatever on arrival at what Si promised was the start of an awesome trail, he headed off in an entirely different direction*

Dark O’clock

Chris took that as a positive sign and was immediately rewarded with an over the bars dismount triggered by a hidden stump. Who knew it would be even darker under the trees? Not me suffering from fuck all sleep, terrible coffee and apparently 100% memory loss of how bicycles work.

Fetching Chris the right way up, adrenalin caffeine jolted me into riding mode and what skills I have were fully deployed on a trail throwing out shady challenges as the light crept up to manageable levels**. The air hadn’t got the memo tho and i was glad of full body clothing coverage as deep breaths condensed in the visible spectrum.

Worth getting up early for
Worth getting up early for

We needed to keep moving. If only to keep warm. More so in that we had a train to catch. 10:20 at Olette. Some 20 minute drive from where Si’s car was parked and quite a lot further from the Van still abandoned some 1000m above Vernet. The Yellow Train is a fantastic thing but what it isn’t is frequent. Miss our booked slot and we’re three lost hours and shit load of broken logistics from reaching Les Anges sometime before midnight.

Clearly what such a machine-tool honed plan needed was a navigational conference confidently sending us out over an unridable ridge. Which is we came in. We emerged some thirty minutes later, properly late and a bit worried with the sun  dialling in time we didn’t have.

We rendezvoused with Si and he sent us down ten minutes of awesome trail that made me forget our day was going to poo. A high speed blast through the forest punctuated by moments of ‘well I hope that corner doesn’t tighten up‘ and ‘if Trusty disappears over that rock step, it’s bigger than I planned for and things may go badly‘. Way too much fun over far too soon, hence we were buzzing and still just about on schedule rolling into town.

Matt headed back up the mountain courtesy of  Caty’s van, while we jumped into Si’s barely street legal race-car with plans to reconvene at the train station. Except Si’s car wouldn’t start. Steve and I applied ‘Top Gear rules‘ and headed into the main square for a proper coffee while Si ran a full diagnostic check on his engine***

Trusty showing his proper upbringing 🙂

Coffee fuelled we managed to bump start the cursed Clio and Si was off to retrieve his helmet, while we clock-watched for Matt to wind back down the mountain. Finally arriving with zero fuel adding more minutes we didn’t have. No surprise then to roll into Olette just in time to wave the train goodbye from the car park.

Fuck.  What now?  No good options until our examination of the timetable cracked out a glimmer of hope. We might be able to race the train up the valley and be waiting for it at the next station. Exciting times as Matt’s spirited driving fully tested the ‘chassis dynamics‘ of our parcel van, while the ‘unbelted three‘ deperately hung on to groaning trim and, sometimes, each other.

Arriving both shaken and stirred, bikes were unloaded with a haste suggesting we may be stealing them, before running across the tracks to a platform where the trains should be. Had we made it? Had we ever, we beat our train and the one that was due in 10 minutes before. Si never shut up about how this was somehow a win for him 😉

Load ’em up on the Yellow Train
Proper uplift vehicle 🙂
Heck of an engineering marvel!

Bikes loaded, we took a victory lap of the open coach installing ourselves between some slightly shocked looking tourists. 30 mins up the track on this engineering masterpiece/money pit, we arrived most of the way up the mountain and declared ourselves ready for a second breakfast.

Trusty, do you have the GoPro (not for long!)

This was the perfect opportunity for Steve to abandon one of the GoPros. A discovery we made some two hours later having climbed another 500+m through first a forest and then an abandoned artillery range. With tanks! So you know we had to mug about there for a bit.  Proper boys toys stuff.

T(w)ankers 🙂

This proved a welcome distraction from the climb which I felt was going on a bit. Might have mentioned it. Finally topping out at just under 2500m, we donned knee and elbow pads. Well everyone except me who’d thoughtfully left his to protect the inside of the van.

No matter, we were off on a wild trail that had everything other than obvious lines or evidence of previous tyre tracks. Which didn’t stop us having a properly good time letting the bikes run on grippy compacted dirt. Dirt that was clearly haunted by a root graveyard with questing polished white bones popping up at the most inappropriate moments.

Steep ‘n’ Deep!

The odd rock appearing as well. This signalled the transition to a full on bolderfest which rocketed straight into one of ‘my favourite five trails ever’. It’s very apparent on the GoPro how the terrain changes as we break out of the forest and onto the edge of that endless ridge. What is less obvious is how bloody great this was to ride.

Absolutely full on, stalks for eyeballs, surfing the line – fast enough for rock rollover, slow enough to set up for the next challenge. Committed, steep, switch-backy, technical and bloody long. At one time we appeared to be riding in a rocky trench walled with sand. Proper ‘feel the force Luke‘ stuff and whatever I was feeling right then should be bottled and drunk on dark winter nights like right now.

Fist pumps and other inappropriate middle aged emoting marked the end of more than ten minutes of  the whole ‘this is why’ thing.  Amazing trails, jaw dropping landscapes, a train of your best friends synthesising joy from dust. Putting it all on the line, even the bad lines on bikes that are so much fun they surely can’t be entirely legal.

We weren’t done. Still a few hundred metres of elevation to cash in albeit on lesser gradients. Dialled in as we were, this soon became a no braking challenge folowed quickly by some emergency anchor hauling when bravado out paced skill. In our defence reining it in felt impossible – sun was out, bikes felt great, trails were mint and the bar was waiting.

Rolling back into Olette we ran the numbers. 650 metres climbed, 2620m descended. That’s a shuttle day right there with the train doing much of the heavy lifting. It was also one of the best days I’ve had on a bike, and I’ve had many brilliant trips over the years. But this just had everything.

Bikes resting, riders drinking
Love the Yellow Train 🙂

Including me not riding like a dick, so you know there’s that. Pushing back on the whole getting too old for this shit schtick. Thumbed that the finger as I sank a well earned beer. Tomorrow we’re heading out to the ‘Devil’s toilet’ which has a fairly brutal hike-a-bike price of entry.

Another adventure then? Count me in.

*still sans helmet, not even Si is stupid enough to ride full on trails mostly in the dark without some form of brain protection.

**if you watch the GoPro you’ll see how bloody dark it was!

***Open bonnet. Look confused. Close bonnet.