…mountain biking obviously.  An axiom orignally coined by Harold Wilson referencing politics and who, were he were being quoted today, would likely reframe it as “World has gone to shit, gets worse every minute“.

Cheery stuff. Matched my mood last week where the intersection of mind and body Venn’d to “when did I forget how to ride?” or, if space were at a premium, then “fuck” pretty much covers it.  There were mitigating circumstances but there always are when excuses are looking for a citation.

It had rained. Not much but for no.1 grumpy bastard who had missed a perfect summer, this felt both personal and biblical as angry dark clouds lashed barren straw hillsides. That summer was rapidly disappearing in a storm washed rear window leaving slick roots and muddy gullies.

I was sick. From what I’d confidently tagged as a bastard hangover after an enthusiastically beery pub quiz night.  But that was nearly two days ago and the spin cycle stomach wasn’t powering anything in the leg department.  I was also worried. 13 weeks post “splatterday” and a mere 24 hours before Hereford’s finest radiographers did the big reveal on my Autumnal riding plans.

None of this excuses the spectacle of me failing to see much further than a front wheel. It would have been quicker to dump the bike, fell a handy tree and portage the bike around whatever corner was retarding my already almost stationary progress. Riding any stiffer would have any qualified medical professional sadly calling for the embalmers.

I didn’t feel like a mountain biker anymore. I felt like a fraud. Two weeks before I’d convinced myself all was good in my world of dirt- albeit it with massive caution and no clear path to riding wth some level of manageable fear. Today was a beautiful day, the riding crew were fully stocked and while it was good to feel part of that, I felt apart. Fell apart really. Called it at lunchtime to struggle home with nothing in the legs and far too much going on in the head.

24 hours later and  in a state of some mental discombobulation, my expectations of good outcomes at the fracture clinic were somewhere between zero and preparing for disappointment. Next thing I know, I’m ushered into the consultants room with me ignoring his “hello I am Mr so and so and we have your x-ray just here” because angled curious eyeballs had desperately craned around his sturdy frame to check out the old bag of bones.

I’ve learned a lot about those bones in the last few months. They have their own language, physiology and potential outcomes.  So a single sneaked glance showed ossified bone growth cementing a previously open break. I then spent 2 minutes asking all the wrong questions “Can I ride*? ” and  “What about the Gym?” before sufficient calm paused me long enough to ascertain “Is there anything  I can’t do?

Apparently not. But build up gently he advised. And with a shoulder that gets sore 60 minutes into any ride, this is good advice. Which I ignored. Well not completely, because hidden in the core of all that self-pity was a nub of self preservation that had worked pretty damn hard to postpone easy wins instead posting hours of rehab on my Garmin where riding used to be plotted.

Eventually Saturday rolled around and I rolled out somewhere between nervous and excited. Take away the immediate consequences of crashing and everything becomes simpler. Familiar, like a favourite film but playing at half speed.  And then a little more speed when I shoved my brain behind muscle memory- which is bloody good at piloting my awesome trail bike on awesome trails in awesome conditions.

One of my favourite quotes citing the value of higher education is “You’re not here to fill a bucket, you’re here to light a fire“** and riding mountain bikes should be like that. We are not completist, there should be no cataloguing of peaks or counting off trails.  If it is anything then it is a combination of geography, physics, shared endeavour, athletic skills and some clarity of thought. It is sweeping between the trees, index fingers lightly touching but not feathering the brakes, the shift of an arm, the flick of a hip, the bend of a knee.

It is all of that and none of that.  It’s lighting that fire and living in the moment. You don’t need a week, you just need a second. And for all that pretentious rambling, 90 minutes later I was making short work of a crumbly pasty having dispatched a classic steep, rocky trail that’d been off my riding radar for far too long.

I’d love to say my new found confidence had me crushing the gnadgery no-flow top section flowing effortlessly behind Matt and Steve. Sadly not, I was way off the pace and at one point off the trail entirely. Dusted myself down, had a stern word with the fear gland and stayed just about within visual distance the rest of the way down.

And I felt part of it.  Definitely felt the fire. Although might have been heartburn to be fair. This time tho, no quitting- back up the other side of the valley to pick and tick off some of my favourite trails. I’m miles away from where I was three months ago, but I’m a damn sight closer than last week.

I’ll take that. And the beers by the river. And this all feeling normal again. With a side order of just a little bit of “thank fuck for that, I can still do this“.

That first pic is a view denied to me all summer. It’s from Steve’s phone as I didn’t have the legs to climb the rock stack to get it. It was only 30 feet from where I was attempting to re-inflate my lungs. Last week it felt pretty much unattainable.

Right that’s me done. Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk on “Stop bloody overthinking things“. Normal service shall be resumed next post. There has been sufficient “action” in the ShedofDreams(tm) I am suspecting burglary 🙂

*crash. Ride is a given. Retrieving yourself from some off trail shrubbery without a bone poking out of your shoulder is the bar we need to clear here.

**If you get a pub quiz question about this, the answer is not “WB Yeats” whatever the internet tells you 😉