Once the strapline for a breakfast cereal, now torturously re-appropriated for the bone splattering event following a sequence of events best summarised by “a skills deficiency discovered immediately prior to impact“.
That’s my left half of my collarbone. Or at least what’s left of it. Before we get into the how, it’s worth winding back to a recently much voiced aphorism and a quieter feeling of general unease occasionally veering towards anxiety.
“I’m not prepared to lose a summer” is my go-to maxim when making excuses atop a scary looking obstacle. The inner version of that goes something like “how many of those summers do I have left before riding it was even an option“. That’s one little death just 999 cuts short of giving up on the kind of riding that’s defined good chunks of my life for getting on 30 years.
There’s a cruel dichotomy hidden in plain sight. Amazing bikes and decades of experience opens up technical terrain fissured with lines with the potential to close off that exact type of riding for an extended period. Better to step back from the edge, citing age inspired rationale or retain an adrenaline fuelled appetite for risk? Somewhere in between is where most of us land. Until that landing is hard and consequential.
I’ve written about this before– but this year a combination of lacking confidence and that Damocles sword edging into almost every ride has me actively considering shuffling a little closer to the less risky side of that line. I know myself well enough to accept that choosing the harder path never comes easy. But I mostly keep doing it. For now.
Somewhat annoyingly the ride of bone snappage nearly didn’t happen at all. My friend Olli was due to fly from Germany in less than a week for 4 days of riding – hoping I could repay his hospitality from my trip earlier this year.
That, and having been away the previous weekend in Wales – where again I really wasn’t feeling it; like riding with crash anxiety stuffed in the Camelbak – plus having collected a recovering but very sick dog who’d spent 4 days in the Animal hospital in Bristol – had me questioning if another days riding was the wisest choice.
FOMO overrode vague foreboding though, preceded with a good talking too about – somewhat ironically in hindsight – coming home with my shield or on it. Less thinking, more commitment. Fewer excuses, more stuff ticked off. Remember what I love about this, try and forget what happens if it goes wrong.
Because it doesn’t often go wrong. Two hospitalisations in three decades. Uncountable lucky escapes or minor crashes that could have been so much worse. Many, many things ridden that felt on the edge or beyond my ability. And yet I just couldn’t shake the feeling something was a bit off. This is not back protection, it was surfaced more as apathy than anxiety, what it wasn’t is the excitement that’s always been locked in with the prospect of a great ride in perfect conditions.
So the ride. Got my first crash in early with a tree clipping apex sending me into a rotten stump retaining sufficient solidity to punt me off the side. No damage done- conversely it improved my confidence that crashing was fine especially as I was actually riding a bit better, and had just been caught out by things turning up a bit quicker than expected.
Easy trails up tho this point tho. That was about to change. We climbed up the other side of the valley with Steve suggesting a new trail he’d ridden the week before. Had a qualifier jump that was definitely not rollable, and a slab that “needs commitment“. I took a look at the jump, but not the slab.
Jump went well, definitely starting to feel good on the bike following Matt onto a tricky little rock section close to the edge of something you don’t want to fall into. Instead navigate that with careful positioning to align the bike onto the fall line. This must be the slab Steve’s talking about I thought as Matt accelerated away.
Further thoughts in my head went something like “questionable grip, stay off the brakes, that catch berm looks a bit small, might struggle to get it stopped once I’m off the slab, oh well we’re half way down so… oh fuck there’s a big hole on the slab exit, how am I going to clear that bastard….”
With a simple front wheel lift. Ably demonstrated by Matt and Steve. Not in my core skill set when heading downhill fast and timing is everything. Or in my case nothing which is exactly what I did dropping the front wheel into the hole at which point physics provided a practical demonstration of momentum transfer.
I wasn’t a passenger tho. As I’d already exited the vehicle. The classic collarbone break is the instinctive hand out to protect the head, that hand impacting the ground, transferring that energy up the arm where an unstoppable force meets a very much movable object. That being your clavicle. Now available as a two part unit.
That’s an accident I’ve been involved in**, but it wasn’t this one. Instead a full airborne 180 degree rotation before slamming into the unyielding ground on my back – where my back protector definitely saved further injury – and stopping almost instantly. That’s some blunt force trauma right there and even in my dazed state I knew damage had been done.
What I pretended hadn’t happened tho is what’s obvious on the x-ray. It really didn’t hurt that much (and still doesn’t). I was even able to get my shirt off so Matt could have a prod at the new suspicious lump I’d acquired***. It wasn’t until later the full extent of the injury – and the consequences of that – became fully apparent.
That’s for another time. Short version is I’ve definitely lost the summer and maybe quite a lot more. There’s decisions to be made, but not in haste. I spent the first two days in pointless “what if” and “why didn’t I” wish fulfilment. Since then I’ve made my peace with it. Ride the stuff we do for long enough and you’re going to catch a big one. It’s absolutely worth it, even when the only bike I’m riding for quite a long time is tethered to my turbo trainer.
I am SO BORED tho. I need to find a one handed hobby. No not that one, but thank you for your recommendations 😉
*this is a whole other post. Along with a minor house flood that came along about the same time. Maybe I should have seen the signs 😉
**in the x-ray you can see a bit of bone floating about from when that happened.
***Apart from offering dodgy medical advice (“that’ll be fine“), Steve and Matt were proper mates- Steve pushing my bike up the hill and buying me a pint while Matt fetched the “Vanbulance” to take me to A&E.
Bike Packing. Something I wanted to like and do more of. Neither of those things has come to pass. Reasons for which may soon become apparent. Read on for the thrilling narrative of why it’s not me, it’s the bike.
However, I’m making probably dangerous assumptions about the level of interest that whinging interspersed with facile route observations* can sustain, but hey if nothing else there are plenty of pictures.
Because as soon as Guy “Beeeeaaauuutiful” Kestevan uploaded his YT tour of this route, I was in.Even tho my only previous bike packing experience was the Lon Las Cymru back in July 2019.
I do look quite a lot younger there. And a bit thinner 🙂
Having sacked off the King Alfreds Way about three times due to illness, injury and inclement weather, the planets finally aligned for this trip. Sadly my LLC buddy Adam could only make one day, but happily first reserve Nige stepped up. He doesn’t have a gravel bike so ‘adapted‘ his Santa Cruz Hightower by adding a bit of air in the shock, some slightly less sticky tyres and the brilliant Tailfn rack.
I was on my 2022 NukeProof Digger- stock except for some wider Richey bars and an 11 speed mech that went up to 51. At no point was “camping” on anyones agenda**, so it was three excellent Hotel/Pubs on route, a kit list pared back to the encouraging forecast and absolutely no idea how things would go. Both Nige and I are pretty fit, do quite a lot of long rides but are more winter than spring chickens 😉
Also the longest ride I’d ever done on the digger was about 50km.
Yeah that’s a bit longer than 50km.
Still no point dying wondering eh?
Day 1: Knighton to Montgomery : 70km/1150m climbing.
I am clearly attempting to look fit and ready. But instead I just appear to be constipated 🙂
The route starts in Shrewsbury town centre. We didn’t because Knighton is way closer to home and I had a sneaking suspicion that this would be a ride of two halves. Or two hards as it turned out.
End April can be – and regularly is – banked gray cloud, 12 degrees, grim headwinds frequently punctuated with savage rainstorms. Not today, wall to wall blue skies and summer temps. A good way to start a route that is both brilliantly planned and brutally sadistic. Often at the same time. Let me furnish an example- first proper climb after 10km meandering up the valley on quiet lanes.
Doesn’t look like much, but loose gravel at 14% grade on loaded bikes is no gimmee. Definitely had to pause for thought half way up. Once up there though, there’s an ancient long ridge (“Kerry Ridgeway”) – somehow still puddle filled after weeks of dry weather – but easy mlles after I’d been forced to stab the front tyre with an anchovy. Not a great start for the “Road+” Senderos, but the repair held and amazingly this was the only mechanical we had the whole trip. Other than my knees and I don’t think they count.
Two tumps, many hills
There’s a lot of gravel on this part of the route. Most of it is perfect for the digger, but some was more rock than gravel with a few steepish descents. My 160mm rotors – previously fine – seemed to be struggling to slow me down as much as I’d have liked. Views were amazing tho.. this is at the ‘two tumps’ viewpoint.
Along with the views were many and varied steep climbs. I regularly saw 15% on the Garmin and up to 25% at one point! 40-51 loaded up is still a struggle up there – for me anyway. There’s also not a great deal of resupply on the route. We had a quick bar/bottle fill at Clun after the 2 mile descent off the ridge. After that not much until Newtown. We experienced Newtown as any experienced tourist would- straight through without stopping and onto the canal path 🙂
Leaving us just the joy of a steep road climb to Montgomery. Sure there’s the valley road but it’s fast and open and no fun on a bike. This is the joy/pain of the route, you absolutely attack every major town in some kind of hilltop pincer movement. Often finding yourself meandering up some random hill in apparently the wrong location. Pretty sure there are at least four Church Stretton’s in Shropshire for example.
Anyway got that done, I was feeling pretty good. Nige had it harder on the MTB on the road climbs, but he absolutely smashed the next two days, in the same way they smashed me up. We even had time for a mooch round Montgomery castle. Our first one of the tour. Very impressive it was too.
Once we’d run out of things to point phones at, it was down into the one horse town that Montgomery is (and the horse appears to have left!) and into the bar for a well earned beer.
Quite a tough day. It was blooming hot and there wasn’t much shade or cover. Would have been approx 100 times worse if it was wet as it had been only a few weeks ago when a friend rode it. Still we’d enjoyed the variety of the route across a good balance of trail types.
Tomorrow though was our hardest day, I’d always planned this to get the three biggies from here to far side of Church Stretton over the Stiperstones and Long Mynd done in one hit.
On reflection, possibly a bit ambitious.
Day 2: Montgomery to Upton Magna: 81km, 1815m of climbing
After an excellent stay in the Dragon Hotel, Thursday dawned hot and it was only going to get hotter. 25 degrees, maybe more. Couple of salient points here- firstly there is bog all cover on the hardest three climbs, which you spend longer on than expected because RideWithGPS uses spot heights and the Garmin uses, well, GPS (that’s my guess about RWGPS). So what I thought was a 1600m climbing day was over 10% more than that. And 1600m is hardly an easy day!
The three big climbs- Stiperstones, Mynd, Stretton were all properly steep in places, lots of grass, gravel and rock. Some tarmac but I’d have been happy with more 😉 1100m of climbing in less than 30km. I was nearly 100% on the hoods climbing up and on the drops going down. My lack of proper gravel riding was probably the reason by the end of the day my palms were blistering. The digger is quite short as well, it’s a fun bike but maybe not ideal for this type or route. Or I’m a wuss. That’s certainly a possibility;)
Nig on proper bars and proper gears!Are we.. no we’re not there yet
Photos never show the gradient! Tough climb, but amazing views and I live in the Wye valley so I’m used to big skies and rolling hills. This though was something else. Really hard to take your eyes off it, which when descending at my level of gravel bike skill came very close to consequential a few times!
Still not there. We’re somewhere but not at the top. And this is the first big climb of 3
Climb to the Stiperstones done- didn’t bother to go actually climb the stones, done that before, so instead dropped down in the next valley which I’ve ridden up on a MTB. It’s a pretty good surface and blooming fast off the brakes. Not sure my heart rate came down much after the climb.
Yes we’re definitely there at at last!Stiperstones in the distance.
That’s Nige pointing back with a “I’m bloody glad that’s over” expression. Sadly this was merely the aperitif. On that note time for a spot of lunch.
Stopped at The Bridges for an ice cold Lime and Soda and a generously filled bap. Too soon after we’re were back climbing, this time over the Long Mynd, a mere 375m above the pub.
Making use of the 32inch gear 🙂
First time pushing. That was a steep and loose climb and I really couldn’t be arsed. Nig got up it I think but Ads and I engaged the 32inch gear 🙂
The descent into Carding Mill Valley/Church Stretton was pretty full on. Pretty sure I’ve ridden it on a MTB and Nige dispatched the tech sections with aplomb. Ads and I walked down and there’s no shame in that- odd tho the only 1km section on the route needing either proper skills or a walk. Seemed very out of character with the other 99+%. Still did get to ride some lovely singletrack on the digger and it’s more than capable. I still kind of wanted my MTB at this point. In fact that was my feeling across the whole day.
It may not look much but it was bloody terrifying on drop bars!Not lost 🙂
Full fat Coke and double espresso in Church Stretton represented my desperate approach to refuelling. Ads – suffering from a painful neck injury from a previous ride – left us to find his way back to his van. That’s a whole other post in itself- fair to say it wasn’t straightforward! Nige and I had *only *450* metres to climb according to my route plan. But somehow spread across 50km. That didn’t seem right but neither was I at this point. Hot, bothered and a bit knackered.
Terminator Nige powered by cake headed up the absolute shit of a climb from Church Stretton which appeared to hump us up 150m only to drop us back on the flat road out of town. I was a bit grumpy at this point. About the only time when the dial cranked from Fun to Type-2 fun. If the weather was rubbish, it would have smashed against the “no fun at all” stop.
We’d mostly swapped gravel for dirt which would normally be absolutely fine. But hanging on for grim death had every bone from ankle to shoulder queuing up to write a strong letter of complaint about their treatment.
Misery not shown
Looks fab eh? And it was mostly except the roots, big dips and tractor ruts not shown. The final climb flipped tarmac for another – for me – impossible off road singletrack climb. Not so much a sting in the tail, more a hoof in the slats. Still having met a quite elderly gentleman riding the route on a 60lb fat bike festooned with sufficient kit to sustain him for, I dunno, maybe a nuclear winter, I felt significantly less heroic, so gave myself a talking to and just got on with it.
A navigational triumph had us route south of Shrewsbury, ignoring the official directions, instead loping 10km off an already long day heading fast into a weather front that had extreme wet and misery written all over it. Arriving at the very welcoming Haughmond Inn in Upper Magna, the lovely staff were keen to show us to our room. I countermanded that with a polite but firm priority involving their bar, their beer and my immediate requirements.
I even got to mutter my favourite pre-first-sup axiom “if I told you how much I needed this, I wouldn’t have time to drink it“. Thanks Zaphod.
Another tough day, properly tough. We regularly ride 60km/1200m+ on a summer MTB ride. But this felt so much harder. On the upside brilliant weather, great company, lots of laughs, stunning scenery that just keeps on rolling out amazing views and a post shower feed ensconced in a snug bar while the rain rattled the windows outside.
Pleased to have done it. Probably wouldn’t rush to do it again without a change of bike. Or knees.
Day 3: Upper Magna to Neeton. 60km, 1180m climbing.
A bridge too far?
Back in Jan when the route planning was mostly in my head, the idea was go hard first two days, then easy the second two. That’s exactly the opposite of the official route where you roll out of Shrewsbury on road and easy gravel, climbing easier gradients all while making good progress. I kind of get it as chucking people at the second half first up might be a bit dispiriting, but I’d still back my route over theirs.
It is a route of two halves. Now we were into more rolling countryside- switching between Wales, Shropshire and Herefordshire was barely noticeable other than road signs and speed limits. But this felt more like “home” to me.
Riding into a Turner painting 🙂
There was a lot of this kind of thing. Early on we met the fella prepping for the end of the world. He’d been caught high up in the rainstorm and had had quite the night setting up his tent in a storm. Still fairly sure he’d dispatched some local wildlife with whatever hidden weapons were in one of his many packs.
This was a day less of ancient landscapes lightly touched by humans to very obvious industrial heritage. Nowhere more obvious that Ironbridge where we marvelled for a while at 300 year old engineering, gave it a respectful nod and then headed off to eat some cake.
That cake lay heavy on the next climb. And the one after that.
The route now flicked between grass-up-the-middle tiny roads, old railroad tracks and rock hard dirt bridleways. Garlic and bluebells signposted the way and everything was pretty good in the world. Until we hit a bumpy field when all my yesterdays became very much todays problem. Still nice place to stop to take in the view while various body parts grudgingly shuffled back into recognisable human biomechanics order.
This definitely reminded me of the Wye Valley. It’s such a good way to cover distance – keeping the speed up but not road’y-ing on tarmac. Good fun on the gravel bike as well as it’s so quick to change direction and easy to loft over roots with a bit of speed. Sun was out, everyone we met seemed to be having a good day, no trail conflict, no grumpiness just the joy of riding your bike with no real purpose other than than a pint a bit later on.
Wild garlic and a pint a few hours away. Hard to beat that.
The last climb was a chewy 200m but I was wise to the elevation vagaries of the route now. It wasn’t especially steep so dispatched with a gear or so to spare. The rock hard descents were still taking names, mostly of my crumbling spine but still a bit of a rush with line choices treading the line between “brave” and “catastrophic”
Never go “full gravel” 🙂Last climb of the day is DONE!Very late lunch of champions 🙂
We arrived at our final night’s accommodation with 3 minutes to spare before it closed until 6pm. Our impeccable timing was rewarded with a room key and a couple of beers to enjoy the garden with. Beer, Shower, PowerNap, back in the bar for 6pm ready to order most things on the menu. Sometimes twice. We didn’t really do lunch, but by jove we certainly did dinner 🙂
One day to go and it was a bit of a cop out. For which there are reasons. Some of them possibly valid.
Coffee and Cake. With our reputation? 🙂
Day 4: Neeton to Wigpole. 37km, 715m climbing.
Somewhat belated but still relevant – there is so much history lightly buried on this route. Often not buried at all, remnants of castles, fortification and long lost towns act as crumbling waypoints and signifiers of long forgotten battles. It’s a rich and violent history with the Marcher Lords brutally suppressing anyone who defied them, or whom the King wasn’t very fond of. So mostly the Welsh.
Nowhere is this better rooted in the modern day than Ludlow with a good chunk of its castle still dominating the high ground. We had to get there first with a couple of minor obstacles in the shape of pointy hills blocking the way. Leaving the Pheasant pub (another recommendation, have the pie or the fish, or the cheese, or in our case all three!) we spent 10 minutes on a busy B road to reacquire the route. It was the kind of crap experience that puts sane people off cycling. It also highlighted how well the CtC route is planned, so we were grateful for that gravelling our way though some massive estate apparently all belonging to a single person. Maybe some history hangs around.
To complete the loop we needed to feed our legs into the hilly grinder of another 60km and 1200m of climbing, Was never going to happen. I’d planned the pick up as close to home as possible, and – having been at it for three days – didn’t feel the need to be a completist in terms of hills and kilometres. Even when my legs still felt pretty good and my back was given the day off as much of the route was road. Not sure if this was part of easing people in who started from Shrewsbury, or just a lack of bridleways.
We rolled into Ludlow after a couple of hours and paused for caffeine and a marvel at how busy everything was. Anyone would have thought it was a bank holiday weekend. Having seen almost no one for three days, it was quite the shock! As was the weather, which while still sunny, realised it was not high summer and reverted to late Spring with a chilly northerly cutting through not enough layers.
I signalled the retrieval vehicle promising a slap up lunch just in time for Nige and I to send those weary legs up one final sharp pull from Ludlow through Mortimer forest. I know there are loads of official and non official off road routes through here but the GPS resolutely pointed to the road and I was absolutely fine with that.
The climbing really never stops!We’re done. All downhill to the pub from here!Loads of great trails that way. But not for the gravel bike!
There are some great MTB trails up there***
All that was left was a fast road descent, where I properly scared myself with a butt clenching speed wobble and a final meander through windy country lanes to Wigmore when the day was called, and beer and medals were awarded.
Well done bicycles. You continue to be amazing.Worthy? Oh yes 🙂
So yeah a bit of a cop out. And I’m fine with that.
Scores on the doors: 3 1/2 days, 252km. 5025m of climbing. That’s the same climbing as my previous tour but in HALF the distance. Oof, it’s a hilly bugger all right.
Life behind bars
So would I recommend the route. Absolutely. Variety, views and vast amounts of elevation. Would I ride it again? Yep, now I know what’s coming I might have one less beer on day one 🙂 Same bike? Nope, I think I’m done with long gravel bike rides.****
A perfect bike for me for this route would be a lightweight steel hardtail – something like the Cotic Solaris – spec’d with a 120mm SID, dropper post, light wheels, XC type 2.2ish tyres. That would be way more fun down and better – for me – on the off road climbs.
It’d be less good on the road but a good trade off for me. Nige and I reckoned two days were better on the MTB, two on the gravel bike in terms of terrain. Even so, hardtail for me. Might need to go shopping 🙂
Kit wise, used everything except my rain jacket. Took way too much stuff last time out.
Next trip? Two day “Lightening” tours I think. Maybe a couple of train stations to make it more than an out of back. Pack super light, wait for good weather and just go. Camping tho? Absolutely not. Like I say, I’m not that kind of idiot.
Great experience tho. Packed with a whole load of fantastic memories.
*we climbed a hill. then another hill. Then another ****** hill.
**because while I accept I am an idiot, I’m not that type of idiot.
***We rode them last week. And yep, fantastic fun on the right bike.
****This has come to pass. Another blameless bike punted out of the ShedOfDreams. A post shall follow with what passes for a reason but more importantly how I intend to balance N from the current N-1 🙂
“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.
This isn’t it. But a pic of the bike at the top of Beacon Hill is the law when riding the TIntern Loop 🙂
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?”
I know, those pedals. An absolute travesty suggesting punishment for such aesthetic criminality would involve a locked room plastered in Pantone colours with a terse sign explaining “there are colours and there are shades, learn the difference”.
Learning lessons is not one of my core strengths. As identified early in my academic career, a kind appraisal of ability was summarised thus: “slow but sure” as in slow to learn and sure to forget. This failing continues to manifest in ever more perplexing ways. Take for example the ShedOfDreams as of 11th April.
That snapshot of insanity has TWO bikes out of shot. One being another trail bike very similar to the all-types-of-green-machine in the foreground*. Had I forgotten, that in the thicket of bicycles, were a couple very much aligned in terms of geometry, suspension travel and intended use?
I had not. Nor can I blame increasingly cerebral confusion** for this stacking of expensive trinkets in an increasingly crowded space. I can however revert to type and blame someone else. That person is my old friend Olli who was part of a fantastic bunch of humans designing and building Gillette’s global wide area network back in the late 1990s. Pre-internet when plug and play was more incompatible junk and command line hacking. Good times and good friends who’ve stayed so long after the project was done.
But mostly virtually. So when Olli pinged me over Christmas wondering if I fancied catching up in the real world for a ride, I was all over that like a cheap suit hatching plans for four days of epic UK riding once the seasons ratcheted from cold and wet to warm and dusty.
As with all plans I’m involved with, things escalated quickly. Ending with a reciprocal ride visiting Olli and his family. Further escalation saw Carol and I embarking on a 1000 mile roadtrip across three countries.***
Meeting up at Olli’s place, we were introduced to his lovely family, and a box marked “Propain” that had the makings of a trail bike I’d been lusting after for many years. Brexit made that pretty much unaffordable, so I pivoted to a strategy best described as “some light smuggling“. Again time to move on.
Building the bike I was initially confused by the elven sorcery that is electronic shifting. Honestly, I fully expected a pointy eared survivor of Helms Deep to pop out of the box incanting appropriate spells. No such materialisation occurred- instead I was left with the thick wad of materials accompanying the bike. Obviously I ignored those and instead called in 2nd line support. Carol did an excellent job unfucking my ham fisted assembly attempts, and gently walked me away from the hammer. We were good to go.
Olli’s local trails are right behind his house. Sadly he lives shadow deep in the valley so it was a 300 metre climb to get us started. It didn’t stop me marvelling how light the new bike was, and how much fun was to be had randomly pressing non haptic pads and all sorts of mechanical stuff happening a metre away at the rear mech without a cable being involved.
First trail, cautious was the watchword. Rubbish would be another one. Way too much going on with new bike, new trails and Olli disappearing at quite the rapid rate. Regrouping at the fireroad, I had just enough breath left to wonder if this “blue” trail might be light red. Based on my ability to understand colour, probably not.
The trail network here is impressive. Superbly built and fantastically maintained by a community of like minded MTBers. We rode blues, red and blacks and I loved them all. Mostly tho not because of riding a new bike, more riding with an old mate under sunny skies. That never gets old.
There is even a restaurant at the top of the hill. Rammed at the weekends apparently, but mercifully quiet on a skive-y Wednesday. We headed back down the valley. on another superbly involving trail, where my confidence in the new bike outstripped my ability and it was touch and go whether I’d impact and stop, but somehow we wrestled things back under control. Lesson learned? Probably not.
Heading back up the other side of the valley we crested the 1000m of climbing and kept going. Absolutely worth it for another banging trail before heading home for beer, medals and a burger about the size of my head.
Next day the clouds clamped chilly conditions to ground level. We headed out 30 mins to another ride location that – after some funky chicken warming up on exiting the van – had adrenaline shots lined up on every feature. My legs weren’t keen but once we had gravity weighing in the backpacks, multi kilometre trails were hosting entirely inappropriate middle aged whooping.
That’s me rocking my standard “Hidden Badger, Naked Terror” stance. Bike was great tho. Different enough to the other ones to make me consider thinning out the herd some time this summer. There’s probably another 1000 words extolling the positives and ignoring the negatives of adding a copy of something I already have, but you’ve read that crap before. And it’s still the same bullshit.
Instead let’s talk about the value of friendships. The taking of chances. The grasping the nettle, the shunning of the ordinary. Sure riding bikes is always good, but renewing bonds stretched a little after 20 years was so much better. I only hope we can give Olli the same experience when he’s here in a couple of months.
That’s on us then. We have the trails, now making sacrifices to the weather gods.
Until then we’ll have good time memories. And a new bike. Not sure it gets much better than that.
*Can we move on from the pedals. It was a needs must situation which I very much regret especially after showcasing the new bike to the local ride crew. No quarter was given 🙂
**Really. Standing in front of things wondering what I’m doing there is now a daily occurrence.
***We had a whole bunch of fun. Shall be doing that again.
History- often said to repeat if unobserved. Mmm, a tired old trope, I prefer “If history and science have taught us anything, it is that passion and desire are not the same as truth.” – hold that thought while we mine the repetition meme that Karl Marx pretty much nailed with “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.”
Five kilometres in sees me desperately swinging between the way the world is versus how I’d like it to be. Ian – proper runner – has my back, and more importantly my front declaring all is well while tapping his wrist based chronometer.
I’m not so sure. But before we can move forward*, we must first navigate hinterlands’ misty fog. This “race”** first hit my calendar back in 2018. I made some desultory readiness efforts as a proxy for being properly prepared. The same Ian dragged me round various hateful loops – my abiding memory is his tiny dog out pacing me on every trail – before my natural athletic ability smashed up against head-torch difficult geography resulting in an ankle about the size of my head and a “Do Not Start”
Which nearly finished me. Six weeks of grumpy sloth left me with a hard to shift belly medicated heavily on beer, and a strong supposition that running was for other people. This wasn’t just an ankle-jerk reaction to injury, more a recognition that riding a bike intersects the Venn of “things i want to do” and “things I don’t totally suck at” while running feels pretty much a skill learned only to outrun an angry bear.
We don’t get many of those in Ross. Unless the Ursus genome includes hedgehogs. Even I could out pace one of those given a decent start. Anyway here we are on the cusp of my first ever “official” 10km run. Not sure what the second Venn of “nervous” and “crap” is but I’m 100% inhabiting it. But at least history hasn’t repeated itself, I’ve made the start line but will I get to the end?
Ian is talking me down. A man who can run 10km in less than 45 minutes has every reason to be relaxed. Me, not so much searching the field for fat blokes, old women, crafty fag chancers or limping desperadoes. Sadly wish fulfilment is not on the agenda today, and it’s all 4D stretching and barely concealed bravado.
Left of me are hundreds of proper runners ready to do battle with the course. Right well fuck that let’s grab a an ankle, pretend that’s a proper stretch and pen ourselves in the sub hour tribe disappointingly peppered with a few wannabes failing to observe rule 1: don’t be a dick.
Klaxon trills. We’re off navigating a thousand runners, most of whom are setting off way too fast. That’d be me except Ian is mainlining his inner Yoda and advising a slower pace properly couched in a “plan your race, race your plan” mantra. I want to go a bit harder, as runners stream pass, but we’re barely half a kilometre into the race, and I know I’ll suffer later***
Early doors- Plan your race and race your plan- do not chase!
Want to know how I suffer? Let me share that with you. But first, while the event was brilliantly organised, I was disappointed with the lack of fancy dress. Sure being passed by a eight foot Rubik’s’ Cube at 9km is a proper dent to your self esteem, but I’ve always loved watching those nutters livestreamed on the London Marathon.
Some of that is because I could definitely rock a chicken suit, Anyway watching me run in fancy dress would surely comment “wow, he’s gone full poultry there, got the gait and everything” – this is not a drill, it is how I run, Seeing Ian and I mirrored in shop windows, he looks like a proper runner whereas I appear to be not quite falling over with a gaze suggesting an opportune worm is within my purview.
Ian looks a lot more relaxed than me!
So we’re at 5km and I’m briefly uplifted by the hard left signifying easy street for the non half marathon runners. It still feels way too hard tho and for the first time Ian is chivvying me along, not pushing me back. I’m starting to tire, but in my defence conditions are perfect 😉 Blue skies pierced by a warm sun making those wearing multi layers to regret their choices,
I’m also regretting my choices even as Ian tells me we’re right on pace, and up front is the 55 min pace setter who started three minutes up the road. I want to chase and pass, but pace is pace and we’re not going to blow it up now. We fly by with a km to go, and still the pavements are full of volunteers/spouses/those with nothing better to do clapping us on. And those who burnt all their matches and are now walking. Yeah Smug mode on.
Cutting ever corner 🙂
But I’m properly hurting now. I’ve trained pretty well for this event, since the start of the year, but the last 2km represent a mental battle I’m keen to avoid. Ian keeps me honest tho with the finish line black-holing me into a rubbish sprint to get it done. And I’m done. Properly, hands on knees, most body parts shut down, sucking in all the available oxygen.
Knackered!
Fist pump feels so wrong, so I give Ian a sweaty hug instead. He looks delighted 😉 He’s done a fantastic job pacing me to a 52min, 35 sec. My goal was under an hour so I’ll not only take this, I’ll forge it in iron and bury it for future generations. I’m not a runner so this feels like something I should be proud of.
Ian and I pick up our medals and freebies and head back to the car. 1030am and we’re done. I was properly nervous at 830am assuming I’d spectacularly fuck this up, but no apparently if you put in the work, you’ll get the results. I think I’ll do another one, maybe a bit further, maybe not.
The lesson, if there is one, must be just get out there and do stuff you’ve never done before. Even if it’s not your “thing“. Create good memories. Now let’s go and make some more.
*quite slowly in the case of some desperate middle aged jogging.
**I just can’t. Racing suggests speed. I’ll grudgingly accept “event”. But race is happening to other people.
There’s a myth around built trails. It goes like this: No Dig, No Ride. Forged on sun kissed dirt where sculpted jumps and perfect landings black-holed a tribe of riders steeped in a culture matching individual need to shared endeavour.
Good stuff. Right on, even. But it’s not an axiom that holds for trails cut into contested woodland. Barely a proxy for any vague feelings of guilt that you may be riding on the shoulders of giants.
I should know. I do this all the time. The trail network in the Forest of Dean is maybe 20% sanctioned trails with 80% sinewy singletrack carving fuck-you signatures into Forestry Commission machine tooled straight edges, and private land where it’s fine to shoot fat birds for the few, but off limits for anyone with a progressive view of the trespass law.
That’s as far as I’m going with the legality of built trails. There are solid arguments on both sides. Rarely meeting in the middle. It is, at best, firing arrows at the heart of the periphery and none of us have a winning dart. So swerving the finger pointing of those to whom shared access for the many continues to be an anathema, let’s instead talk trail maintenance.
Not the building of new trails. We leave that to the masters of the dirt. The Bermateers, the sandstone sculptures, those with the skilled eyes for the perfect apex, the completers of ideas, the Gods of the shovel. You know who you are. Mostly called Gary where we ride 🙂
Every visionary needs an army of grunts. A grunt of the unseen. An appropriate collective noun to encompass Matt. Haydn and I as we forsake our normal transportation- swapping pedals for stout boots and awesome bikes, for tooling previously employed in the pointless pursuit of manicured flower beds.
Sporting these icons of the middle aged, three middle aged blokes set about restoring the main climb to something rideable. Autumn annually deposits sufficient leaf mulch to turn 30 seconds of effort into a wheel spinning, pedal steamer, max heart rate frustration of failure.
Unless you’re on an eBike in which case would you mind turning Turbo right fucking off right now? Again, a topic for another day possibly when I’m significantly more mediated.
Moving on, Matt moved to clearing the top of the gulley festooned with three months of rain and misery. Under which is some solid bedrock a few hours from seeing the light. We’re not so much putting things back, more taking stuff out. Mostly punting it up and over shoulder height. This is not crafting new trails, it’s is not the work of the trail auteur, master of all they survey.
Nope, while their efforts have been magnificent in creating a trail network calling to those firstly with ‘something of the night about them‘ and latterly to groups hailing from hundred of miles away* They don’t come for this climb but they will lap it multiple times to access the best trails.
Putting the Matt into Mattock. Matt scrapes down to the Bedrock while H and I drag mulch from lower down attempting to turn a fetid rut into a two bike wide trail. There’s so much more we want to do, we see the need to bench cut the start of the climb and go full rake on the upper sections, but there’s both a physical and mental limit to poke entropy with a rake.
So we focus on priorities. This is filthy, if we left it be unridable until about April at which point it’d be a narrow single sun baked line sandwiched between desiccated leaves and encroaching borders. So we punt everything dead over the bank then rake the remains into the trail, to be corralled, collected and carted off to a final destination building on the day of the dead of previous years.
This is where you end up, Mostly leaning on knackered gardening equipment, surveying the fruits of our efforts while mumbling “That’ll do pig” before retiring to a pint of Creme de Menthe and an emergency physio appointment. Four hours is around twelve hours too little to fully clean this climb. And that’s before we consider the priority of clearing the landing of a gap jump best considered as a shortcut to Accident and Emergency.
Not today tho. We weary trail warriors hoist tools shoulder high and head back to civilisation***. We have most definitely given something back and taken something out. Three days later we’re back in the dark, powerful lights illuminating the now perfect climb sirening winter mountain bikers to their doom. Or the pub. Which is often the same thing.
It always feels good doing this stuff. Not the next day when any movement requires a good deal of thought, and possibly a manual. But every time this winter we head up this climb, there’s just that little damp spark igniting a sense of community. Doing the right thing thing even if no-one notices.
On that, as we wearily headed to Matt’s van, a belligerent rambler demanded to know what we’d been up to. He’d clearly pre-loaded vitriol targeting those tyred of tradition, and middle fingered to authority. Strangely when we explained all our our previous four hours were cleaning the footpath***, he lost a whole lot of rigjhtousness.
Because I’m an idiot, I came VERY close to adding we’d built an amazing jump configured to skewer innocent dog walkers. I restrained myself tho because shared trails are pretty much the definition of Rule 1: Don’t be a dick. Very much a proponent of that.
Have rake. Will dig.
*on the day we were on the shovel, a cheery bunch of double digit Welsh eBikers transited our best work. I did my best to reciprocate. Not my best efforts to be honest.
**As close to Ross gets anyway.
***Yes, I am fully aware of the irony. Don’t blame me, it’s a bloody stupid land access law.
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 🙂
