“I used to ride bicycles” lamented a wistful octogenarian braced heavily by a walking stick. She was regarding our modern mountain bikes with a combination of confusion and regret as we pulled them from their parking spots.
With already 30km ridden and 900 metres climbed, neither Steve nor I could pass for “young bucks”*, as lunch stiffened middle aged hips graunchily articulated over dropped saddles.
The difference though – defined by the age gap – is the size of your world. Shrinking rapidly as physical and mental facilities decline; many more memory outposts than new places to discover. Earlier that day we’d congratulated ourselves on sacking off screens on the inside for a vibrant landscape of ripening spring lushness. There’s a quote about a life being more about decisions you’ve made over the things you’ve achieved, and right then I hoped that old lady didn’t regret any of hers.
We certainly weren’t troubled by any feeling of self doubt. Which was a change after my first new bike ride back in the valley had not been incident free. When a rock strike decapitated a tubeless valve before its trajectory zeroed in on the mech-of-future-financial-peril.
Which spent the remainder of the ride so heavily concussed it was reduced to delivering gear ratios apparently bracketed by the Fibonacci sequence. It took a broken multi tool, a read of the manual and significant occupational therapy, in the safety of Matt’s garage, to return it to working operation. Apparently at least half of the issue could absolutely be placed sulkily at the door of the idiot who originally installed it. A door that shall remain closed and we shall not speak of it again.
Back in my shed, the £100 Invisiframe kit was very much firing the starting gun for an expensive divorce, but Carol is so much better at doing shit she doesn’t want to than, erm, someone else. As ever her work ethic and low tolerance for poor results played the lead role in four hours of my life we’ll never get back. My role was more that of occasional useful idiot. Still with frame protection and mudguard fitted, I no longer felt I was playing outside without any trousers.
Not a moment too soon as rock strikes were a recurring feature of our wildly ambitious plan to ride from deep in the Yat, over a big hill marked “The Kymin” round what is considered a decent all day loop, before climbing back over another big hill in time for tea and medals.
Firstly tho a lovely meander along the Wye riverbank into Monmouth. Apparently it’s rained but the dusty dirt suggests otherwise. Up over the Kymin which is always the kind of climb that 32-51 gear ratios are made for, before a blast down “Mini Molini” which was steep, crumbly dry and dispatched with nary a dab. An excellent start to the day and already nearly 400m of pointy bits bagged.
Bluebells and garlic are in bloom. Not quite fully awesome yet, but enough to stir the soul and gladden the heart 😉 Really tho, experiencing the visual and olfaction Forest in spring marks the unofficial start of prime riding season. Every year it makes me so bloody glad I don’t live in a city.
Riding the main loop out to Tintern we were confident in our navigational abilities as we’ve both ridden it many times**. Confidence not so much misplaced as properly lost without a phone signal and potentially in need of a helicopter rescue. Reframing our directional confusion as new route finding, we did stumble upon a cracking descent with a view of the Severn provided entirely by the high level of exposure.

Back on track, two descents between us and a late lunch. Winter storms have channelled deep grooves and surfaced loose rock on both. One of which saw me fail to exit behind Steve instead slamming my “good” shoulder into, what can only be described as, a trench. Feel the force Luke. I certainly bloody did with that shoulder adding itself to my list of niggling injuries. Suggest it gets in the queue.
98% man, 2% sandstone. Smiling through the pain. Lunch was calling and were keen to answer its siren call.
Riding out of Tintern is where we came in. Criss crossing our inbound route is only a few kilometres away but plenty of climbing meters. Steve had set a target of 1500m total climbing which is frankly ridiculous. Anything over a thousand*** is considered a good day out, and in the last week I’ve already subjected my bitching legs to a 1225 and a 1300.
Hence the big hill on the way back. Up to our favourite Staunton haunts where a plethora of fantastic trails drop you back into the valley bottom. Need to get there first which involves a cheeky run down the Cleddon falls footpath. Late in the day and we meet no-one- it’s noticeably quiet a day before the Easter holidays so we easily secure a table at The Boat for a Recovery Pint.
Much needed as my legs are ready to walk off*** in disgust of potential further abuse. Other body parts aren’t far behind but 30 minutes of a non saddle sit, vitamin D and aforementioned complex carbs in liquid form and we’re good, well maybe average, to go.
It wasn’t that bad. I mean it wasn’t good and I’d been dreading the climb as it’s way too familiar. But thirty minutes later we ran out of hill with around 1350 climbed metres on the clock. Gruntingly gained, easily spent with a flat out run to the river which with a Beer-on-Board and happy new bike vibes being nothing short of fantastic.
Back over the bridge and in sight of rides end, a final dithering over much watched metrics had us winching up the steepest sodding climb on this side of the valley. 1500m was a climb too far, but we were only 50 short and that’s in my top 15 since doing the Strava thing back in 2013. Life in the old dog yet.
Upside of all that up was it opened up the last pitch of a favourite steep descent. You can probably see how relieved I was not to spin the body parts/ground roulette so close to the end of the ride.
58km, 1450m of climbing, mild abrasions and a stiff shoulder. These are the things we can measure. All the other stuff – the important stuff – we cannot and should not. That short lunchtime conversation has stayed with me. The regret of not being able to do something you love. Pretty much felt like the luckiest fella alive after that.
Oh and the first pic. Still got it, I tell myself. Even if I can’t remember where I put it most of the time 🙂
*old fucks? A far more accurate description 🙂
**and, in my case, forgotten almost everything about it.
***Known as a “Clang”. As in “we have Clanged, can we now please go to the pub?”
****quite slowly, and probably not very far.