This is the ‘after‘ photo of my friends’ Jason’s mountain bike. I don’t have a ‘before‘ shot, and even so the medium of photography couldn’t begin to convey the horror that wobbled and graunched into Matt’s garage accompanied by a mildly injured Jason. He’d stuck a knife into his foot for reasons far too complicated to explain here, although it just about holds as a metaphor for what he’d previously done to the bike.

It’d hold a whole lot better if he’s accidentallybeaten himself mostly to death with rocks and stumps before immersing his remains in five metres of gritty mud for a year or so. In Jason’s defence his small London flat is missing any kind of space for mechanical maintenance. It does however have a space, or to be more accurate a sort of sunken gimp hole, into which stuff can be carefully lowered and abandoned.

Which is exactly what happened after last years Alps trip. Jas broke himself rather impressively after a single handed attempt to remove an ancient stump with most of hisribs. Some days before – ON HIS FIRST RUN – the poor old Spesh made something between a cry for help and a suicide attempt once a buckled chain ring died tryingto saw through a tired frame. This was fixed with big bolts and the same hammer later applied to a burping tyre and a set of wobbly pivots.

Jason reckons he was entirely responsible for his accident. The rest of us genuinely believe the bike went a bit ‘Christine‘ to get even. I was amazed we didn’t find it on fire. What I’m telling you here is it was fairly knackered on the first day and lamentably fucked by the end of the week. At which point it became a forgottendeposit in the gimp hole- whence it stayed until last week. Do you think it might have somehow ‘fixed itself‘ while being down there? In an environment best thought of a cross between Alec Guiness in the Hotbox and Steve McQueen with his baseball glove.

No is the answer. Well it’s a partial answer. The real answer is somewhat more lengthy and goes something like this; everything that was meant to move, didn’t. Everything that should have been tight was loose. Anything normally filled with wet oil was dry. Almost everything else was sprayedwith the emulsified detritusfrom previously sealed units. It was beyond seized because that noun suggests a long lost time when some venerable and ancient sage remembered it working.

You want specifics? Right then; the cassette was laughably wobbly not because of a lack of tightness, no more a lack of thread in the hub which had been stripped by the elliptical rotation of the wheel. A total of 10 bearings were all removed through the kind of excessive percussion last seen at an Anthrax gig. When Matt fired up the blowtorch, I wasn’t sure if those bearings were getting the heat treatment, or the whole bike was being torched in a Viking Burial type of ceremony.

Three hours and a few beers went by before something emerged we could actually bolt some new bits too. Quite an extensive collection of ‘The Shiney‘ was waiting to go – an entirely pristine 2×10 drivetrain, big brakes with those new fangled working pistons, a right-on trend short stem and wide bar and the enduro-favourite dropper post*. Which proved to be a bit longer than Jason’s leg leaving Matt to scratch his stubble before working outthepossibly optional components to remove.

While all the clever stuff was going on, I stripped the remains of the broken stuff including a bottom bracket that, to absolutely no gasps of amazement, was seized solid, and a set of forks which -against conventional wisdom – had all the lubricating oil on the outside. By about 11:30, we’d scrawled a list of missing parts to be collected from the bike shop come morning, and an even longer list of jobs which – for me – had ‘go home, get another beer in‘ underlined as a priority.

The next morning – having triaged Jason’s bloodied toe – we motored back to Matt’s where he was happily fillingforks where oil had allegedly once been discovered. A quick damage report suggested the rear hub was toast, but everything else could be mostly hammered back into shape. Two further trips to the bike shop and the loan of a spare wheel had us pretty much at the photo up there. Eight hours work turned something totally, completely and entirely fucked into something super plush and bloody good fun to ride.

And here’s a thing; Jason’s bike was manufactured around 2007. It’s a beautifully engineered frame with 160mm of travel both ends, great geometry, decent angles and all the kit you need to go ride in the big mountains. My Mega is not beautifully engineered, but aside from that it’s pretty damn similar to a bike seven years its junior in almost everything including weight. Aside from the weight saving of carbon**boutique-ness, one could reasonably argue that progress hasbeen overstated by the marketing cock-wombles.

And so it proved when we took it for a ride. Everything worked, it climbed absolutely fine and descended with some alacrity. It missed not at all fat head tubes, tapered forks, funny sized wheels and all that other bollocks we’ve been mainlining on a yearly basis. And now it’s ready to go to the Alps in two weeks in the perfect configuration and without worries about things falling off. Except for Jason, but that’s pretty much normal behaviour.

Sadly when we return, it’ll be another long spell in the gimp hole. I have a feeling forcing it back down there might be similar to coaxing pit ponies into a sun-less coal mine after their two week holiday outside in the fields 😉

* Jason only bought this because of my intense lobbying. One ride in he couldn’t work out how he’d ridden so long without one. They really are the bollocks of the dog.

** I cannot ever think of the word ‘carbon‘ without thinking of the words ‘shards‘. I’ll stick to metal thanks.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper crash. Which considering the asymmetry of the stuff we ride against the skill of the rider, that’s quite a surprise. Examples abound – from avoiding gap jumps due to the apparent need for wires and rocket boosters to getting them done in the dark*, and lobbing myself off increasingly uppity rock steps at a dusty Afan last week. I became aware of quite how big the last one was after my good mate Ian behind me explained ‘I decided to give it a miss after you disappeared from view‘.

So much of this is riding lots on fantastically accomplished mountain bikes with bloody good riders on increasingly risk/reward trails. But this isn’t progression, it’s the confidence/ability circle. And if your riding skills are basically a bit shit then eventually you’ll breach the stack radius. Been close a few times lately, deluded myself that honed bike handling skills were saving me, before truth drove itself into my skull through the simple method of beating it with slimy dirt.

Ironically it wasn’t even a big jump. Historically that’s not a surprise, I’ve been throwing myself dangerouslyoff stuff for many years, and yet persist in thinking eventually I might get good at it. Stiffening muscles and burgeoning bruises suggest otherwise. In fact it was such a tiny obstaclethe puny height suggested it was candidate for some of that mild front wheel tweakage the bigger boys are good at. Tweak I did, untweak before landing I did not.

Onto dirt that had until this point been pleasantly surprising in its non horridness after much rain. The patch I landed on however had morphed into something best thought of as moistglass liberally sprayed with silicon. An ideal place then to plant a slightly skwiff front wheel, which immediately displaced its unhappiness to the rest of the frame in the manner of a bucking bronco. For half or second or so, I stayed with it before being unceremoniously unhorsed out front.

The bike wasn’t done with me yet. Further displeasure could be measured at impact points of elbow, hand and – as always seems to happen – groin where various spiky components took their opportunity to exact revenge. External contributions to bruised body parts came in the form of various bits of dirt viewed in a sky-ground-sky-ground kind of way and an exposed root which thankfully impacted my knee pads rather than the delicate and important limb underneath.

I lay there for a bit. Damage report called in without anything critical although my bollocks were keen to express pain at a level last felt when a vicious free kick on a wet football field was bravely stopped by the left back’s unsuspecting testicles**. Friends being friends immediately dispensed all their pallative care on the bike while treating my injuries with laughter and piss taking. Since no sympathy was being shown to the pilot, I hauled myself upright at which point it became clear I’d hurt the bike a bit more.

The left hand side of the bar had hit the ground hard, and then attempted to pivot a 30lb bike and a rather heavier 165lb rider up the nearest tree. It failed but not before failing itself via a rather natty bend and crease. Matt’s professional opinion was ‘it’d probably be fine…. but don’t do any more jumps’. No danger of that sunshine for twosimple reasons 1) attempting to execute such a skill has just left me with a Viz Comic Buster Gonad Parody and 2) landing a jump thenhoisting a shattered handlebar end in some kind of suggestion of surrender before smacking myself into an unyielding part of the forest wasn’t terribly fucking appealing.

But thanks. That’s the kind of advice much needed at times like this. I soldiered on, uncomplaining*** riding around all the jumps and generally riding in the manner of a blind man recently introduced to the pastime of leisure bicycling. It’s unlikely anyone else really noticed but – here’s the thing – I did and in a good way. Not barrelling into corners at high speed before bottling it, grabbing a handful of Shimano and blowing the apex**** was mildly cathartic and slightly interesting. You can be smooth and fast, but not the reverse. There might be something in this if I could be arsed to practice proper braking, body position, that kind of thing.

Sounds like hard work tho so I think we’ll continue with the ‘clench‘ technique starting with brain, passing down to every limb before finishing with arse. Strangely in our interconnected world there’s no instructive videos on this technique – I know mysaved search on ‘crouching hamster, hidden terror‘ hasyet to receive a hit. Other than the trail. That hit quite hard in case I haven’t mentioned it.

The more frustrating thing was mincing around these jumps and drops while really wanting to chuck myself off them even based on very recent historical experience. There’s still much that scares me on mountain bike trails, but this stuff isn’t any of them. Yet a few years ago, that’s EXACTLY how I used to ride. Had I no idea what the hell I’d been missing? Clearly not but I missed it now which made this whole episode a bit of ‘crash and learn’

Crashing I can do. Learning I’m less accomplished at. Except for this; even as middle age suggests brittle bones, long recovery times, sport ending injuries and all that grown up shit, I just want to ride my bike better than I did last week. Even if I’m just kidding myself. But there has to be a point at which you stop starting. When the risks heavily outweigh the rewards. It might be death by a thousand cuts – backing off more and more until you’re so filled with self-loathing you can’t face being undeniably shit on trails which previously raised you to adrenaline Valhalla.

That day will come. It wasn’t today. And it doesn’t feel close. It’s almost worth stacking to find that out.

* One tiny helmet light. Following someone with a better one. A manoeuvre clearly perched right on the line between bravery and stupidity.

** Must be twenty years ago. Still remember it like yesterday. Rather wish I didn’t.

*** Ish. For me anyway. I only mentioned it every 30 seconds or so.

**** Perfectly legal as long as no minors are watching.

Or more specifically, out. Which, again if we’re striving for any kind of semantic accuracy, was a right bastard. And a left bastard. Bastards all round really. Odd really since the Pyga has clearly been carefully designed to continueworking after the purchase transaction is completed*. There’s clever little design touches tucked away all over the frame – from neatcable routing solutions to delightfully thought out pivots and bearings. The covers of which are stencilled with the recommended torque setting – sadly merely code for the mechanical savages amongst us to lean on a long lever until muscles start to shake.

The main pivot bearings though must have skipped all of that design process nonsense – so while proper engineers rotated 3D FEA models searching for perfection, some lowly oik wieldedthe ‘bearing nuancing tool’** and twitted the bloody things into place. Which was absolutely fine until the frame was campaigned through a British Winter short of snow but long on rain, wet, damp, mud, rain, crud, rain, downpours and – if I’ve failed to get my point across, endless fucking rain. The bike didn’t requirea sealed bearing cover, it was much more in need of a twin and an arc.

All of which took a disastrous toll on a bearing pair located at mud-shit ground zero, and further abused by endless post ride hosing best thought of as ‘I know there’s a bike under there somewhere’. I probably left it too long because a) preventative maintenance is boring b) it looked hard to fix and c) how bad could it possibly be? Because of a) and b) c) was unsurprisingly ‘quite bad indeed‘ as discovered after removing the shock and finding the swing arm didn’t move much. And when it did, the noise and grittiness would – were it a human – suggest booking an emergency limb replacement.

It still looked hard to fix, so I handed it over to a proper engineer in the form of Matt and his ‘garage of ArchaeologicalSignificance‘*** My contribution was to buy some replacement bearings and remove bits of the bike in a Russian-Doll manner until the problem could be reached by a decent sized hammer. Which Matt wielded with much skill attempting to chase about a millionth of an millimetre’s worth of bearing race out of an entirely seized housing. Steel rusts fast in Aluminium and at one point, when we’d run the full gamut of tool selection, I wasconsidering explosives.

Eventually through careful but repeated twatting of fragile unobtaium, what was once a bearing flopped apologetically on the floor where it was immediately lost to the sawdust and oil monster. I cast about with no thought of personal danger as Matt explained we’d need to somehow reuse some of the remains. While he did stuff with files and vices way above my pay grade, I spent a happy half an hour whipping off bearing covers and filling them with what was allegedly some space age grease, but to the uninitiated had a far closer affinity to strawberry jam.

Some kind of home-brew bearing press was, er, pressed into action to carefully insert the strawberry spheroids which didn’t work at all. So instead Matt selected a hammer from his extensive range and careful swung from a great height to ensure a ‘tight interference fit’. My only job was to reassemble the bike from various parts now flung to all points in the workshop, and ensure important bolts were nipped up.

And then go ride. Which was placebo fantastic as I gushed to my riding buddy how stiff and buttery smooth the bike now felt. A phrase I came to reflect on with some chagrin later that evening on realising one of the shock bolts was held by a single thread and habit. Easy mistake to make I’m sure you’ll agree.

So that’s one bike fixed. Leaving only two cars with internet-diagnosed issues that I’vepretty much given up on before starting, leaving me to concentrate on the minor damage inflicted on the Mega when some funky cable routing appears to have eaten the swing arm. That one I’m good with – covered it with a sticker and pretended it hadn’t happened. The alternative is me attempting to fix it which would only make the situation catastrophically worse.

I’m going to have a beer instead.

* Contrary to intuition, this doesn’t represent best practice in Mountain Biking. Offset, bevelled bearings anyone? They should sell such bikes with a complementarysix week therapy course. And a special hammer.

** Hammer. Again.

** I keep expecting Time Team to turn up and find stuff long buried under where – in a normal garage – the floor might be.

Which wise old sage once foretold ‘before you can truly appreciate Spring, you must first suffer heroically through the bleak winter’? That wise old sage was me, and I proclaimed it yesterday while basking under the sun’s rays and burning my thin bits. Not that wise then. But quite old before you feel the need to chip in and remind me of that.

We’ve suffered alright. As have the bikes. Heroically might be a stretch unless shivering by a pub fire, pint in hand whilst bleating about the misery of endless cold and rain counts. Which in Al’s book of winter fables, it bloody well does. So it is most welcome that signs of spring are everywhere – increasing ground cover, decreasing mud, flashes of leafy trees, endless birdsong and the blissful silence of Matt’s new drive train.

Somehow he’s eeked out vaguely cog shaped swarf through the grit’n’shit of winter, before the inevitable collapse of key components forced fitment of bright and shiny new stuff. So no longer are we accompanied by the discordant cacophony of slipping chains, grinding cogs* and associated whines, groans and hisses of disintegrating transmission. There may be many meteorological and horticultural markers to herald the arrival of Spring, but for the Forest Of Dean Mountain Biking Community, it’s when Matt fits a new chainring AND replaces his bald rear tyre.

So three hardy perennials sprouted short sleeve tops and dark sunglasses at a rather un-springlike 9am, where a cold wind was more than a match for a peeping sun. And anticipation of spring conditions were tempered by a night ride some three days back where the trails were winter-wet, from which me and the bike returned much in homage to a dirty protest. I don’t mind that kind of thing in Jan, but it’s getting pretty old come BST and April.

12km on road on off road tyres at 25 PSI** warbles on a bit as a 2.5 inch contact patch attempts to rip up the tarmac. But riding out means an extra pub stop on the way home ,and that’s worth a 20km return trip to the drinking hardcore of our little group. Such were the solar powered high spirits, my navigational numptiness was ignored as I promised some fantastic trails ‘on the other side of the river‘. Where there may be monsters – probably a better chance of meeting those than me finding a track I’d ridden once, a month ago, in the company of many others.

No monsters were harmed in the making of this post; no instead after the tiniest location error – okay I missed the trail completely – we found not one but two perfectly loamy trails – dark earth shouldered by emerging bluebells and twisting perfectly through a green screen of burgeoning fauna that is almost as good to look at as to ride. Almost, but not quite.

Mountain Bikers categorise the dirt under their tyres into sub groups and niches; grip, sloppiness, colour, slippiness, smell, likelihood to punt you into a waiting tree, that kind of thing. And while summer dirt is a light, dusty brown with a crumbly surface marbled by cracks, that’s brilliant only if you like dust motes over grip, but dirt aficionados search for Spring Loam where the ground has a bit more give, a lot more grip, the ability to hold a tyre at almost any angle and – if you are righteous – harvest mini clods to flick at the bloke behind.

It’s perfect dirt. It’s the dirt you see in Mountain bike videos. It was the dirt we rode on Sunday. And we rode an awful lot of it pretty damn briskly. Seven ups, seven downs divided – as ever – for me between ‘before‘ and ‘after‘ the infamous ‘double drop‘ which is a moderately vertical drop onto a concrete fire road. On a bike with oodles of travel, it should be nothing more than a point, relax, close eyes, brake when it flattens out – but having nearly claimed me a while back, I’m bloody glad to get it done. Without having to send anyone back up the trail to locate missing teeth.

After that, pretty much floor-to-sky bliss. Mainly because there’s so much more speed without the associated risk of the front end washing out. Swinging bikes left-right-left between trees on this perfect dirt is as close to the Jedi Speeder chase you can get to without CGI and Cary Fisher. And having dragged out the Purple Minion, the bag of excuses for not riding all the jumps and drops (within reason, there’s some stuff I’d need a crane and a trampoline to even attempt) was pretty much empty. And that’s fine, because they disappeared under wheel before I could even form my normal whimper.

And then Matt fell off on the easiest trail of the day. Which was funny enough to displace the thought of tired legs with ‘Ice Cold in Alex’ type Beer Hallucination. Thankfully we only had to cross a couple of kilometres of family-walker-slalom before attaining the rather splendid locale of the Saracens Head. Beer was drunk, bullshit was legion, fish type trail reconstructions were made, sunglasses were worn, smiles were baked.

Arriving home some 8 hours after sneaking out, my thoughts sadly turned to a day in the office. A day spent wistfully gazing out of the window wondering when I can go outside and play on my bike with my friends. I appreciate this presents a mental age of about 12.

I’m good with that.

* No not that kind of grinding cog. I’ll get round to the Penis Museum very soon. Until then we’re on a Fnar moratorium.

** Except for H who cheekily pumped his up to 50PSI for the ride into the Forest. That’s fine, we let him take the wind as punishment.

There are days when vigorously slapping myself is the only rationale response to some lament regarding life, and how difficult it is. Only this sting of self flagellation reminds me how incredibly lucky I am compared to those poor buggers who didn’t get the breaks afforded to me. For a start, I’m a northerner and that’s already starts you ahead in any race prefixed with ‘Human‘*

For the last three weeks, we’ve been riding bikes in conditions best whispered as summer. Ironically the turning of the seasonal ratchet to Spring has brought with it somewhat more wintry conditions and the return of the rain, but it’s still about a zillion times better than it was at the start of March.

When researching trenchfoot remedies held more interest than going outside. Everything creaked – bearing, chains, brakes and knees. Two events around this time hove into view and while my winter fitness suggested I’d easily finish them, I found it far simpler not even to get started. Which is a bit rubbish when you’ve signed up with friends who put in outstanding efforts – while I was more interested in riding what was in front of me, rather than something inked in when the dark and cold was endless, and motivation needed a firm prod.

So there’s a bit of guilt but a whole lot of joy. That’s the only word that gets close to flying on trails that a month ago afforded nothing but mud sucking slog which saps your power and your will to ride in about equal amounts. Now riding is less about damage limitation and more about revelling in the efficacy of legs and lungs campaigned through a grim winter. And giggling. And pointing at dust. And drinking cold beer in the sunshine.

Until today, my last five rides have been a rediscovery of why the PYGA is such a damn fine bicycle. Once in the Malverns, the rest of the time in the Forest including a night ride which had me wondering if these were entirely different trails. I’m sure at night there must be more trees. And less obvious lines. I responded magnificently by ignoring any faint trace of a trail, instead bouncing first lights and then body parts off innocent timber. Still nothing got broken and we had beer later so honours even I think.

After weather more appropriate for this time of year, I swept the sleet of the Purple Minion and explained to anyone who was interested that a 32lb bike of extreme stoutness adorned with a tacky 2.5in front tyre would be absolutely ideal for road riding. 10km of that in cold air, and under threatening skies had us rendezvous with the hardcore trail pixies who apparently enjoy lobbing themselves into space with no thoughts of the potentially bruising effects of gravity.

I took photos while they did their stuff. My bike is perfect for that kind of thing, and I am so clearly not. This kind of difficult juxtaposition worries me not a jot nowadays. Instead I revelled in the next trail far more suitable to my pay grade – winding between trees and without any obvious 20 foot gaps where I’d expect the trail to be. We enjoyed it so much, they found us another one which dropped into a gully full of baby head rocks lightly polished with damp moss. The mega is, er, mega here. It is so composed, so suited to this terrain, so effortlessly competent regardless or rider input, I cannot wait to ride this stuff all day in the Alps.

That starts three months from today. Between now and then will hopefully be filled with much more riding like this. But for the next 10 days, it’ll take a back seat to actually reminding myself there are other things more significant than mountain bikes in my life. The most important of all shall be sat next to me on a plans heading to extremely foreign places where we’ll spend the first few hours wondering where the kids are.

At home 🙂

* this may not be a universally shared view. But I’m from Yorkshire and we not terribly interested in what those birthed in lesser counties might think.