Although it could persuasively argued that gently placing ones wedding vegetables into a desk drawer before slamming it violently for twenty four hours would still push that event firmly into last place. Between these two events were nine months, four bikes and ten weeks of healthy living. The cold and rain were two constants except yesterday this was falling as snow.

Most everything else was different; I genuinely wanted to be there whatever my protestations, the course wasn’t based around a field of mud and despair to be orbited in increasingly misery. No one felt the urge to bellow ‘elite rider coming through‘ and – leaving the most important point to the last – the cake was both free and bloody marvellous.

Handed out as it was by friendly marshalls stamping their feet in the freezing conditions while cheering you on and adding to a chilled (natch) vibe of a really well organised event. Nearest thing to it was the now sadly deceased Clic-24, so there must be something about the organisers being inspired to give up their time for local charities which brings out the best in the riders, and the volunteers manning food stalls, sign on tents, enormous breakfast vats and various frozen points around the course.

And what a course it was. Miles of sweet singletrack enlivened with slick roots, rocky gullys and steep chutes all moistened by a rainy week and a wetter winter. The odd section had that life-sapping mud which rewarded intense and sustained effort with a pace easily beaten by those treating the conditions to a more sensible moderate pushing.

This Mayhem like sickly stickiness was thankfully confined to only a few sections of otherwise brilliant natural trails. Sure there were some grim old fireroad climbs and some tough grunts over endless roots gapped by loamy , greasy ground, but the reward were descents offering a perfect composite of gradient, flow, traction and turns.

Nothing to flatter the flat track bully here. It was a committed ride over four to five hours with little respite and enduring challenges. Once tiredness set it, it was a proper bastard and it’d beast you all the way home. Such tiredness on the climbs would ruin the descents and -most likely- deposit the weary rider in a convenient tree. Thesearboreal halts were most likely on two slick, steep horrors that had the marshalls cautioning dismounts if you weren’t sure. We weren’t sure but still gave it a go, mesuccessfullybut only in a heart-in-the-mouth ARRRGHHH IT’S ALL GOING WRONG manner, my mate Ian via an elegant frontal dismount finishing in a spiky bush.

I was still laughing at his predicament when the fast boys on their full suss monsters motored past with nary a dab of brake. Bastards. Some good riders out of the 400, some fit ones as well. Not always at the same time ,which led to a bit of single-traffic frustration best dealt with via an explosive overtake on a line best thought of ‘a bit cheeky‘.

Fun there but not earlier – the day didn’t start well. It started early and cold. Oh so very cold. Arctic winds had me wrap up in double-socked in winter boots, a-topped by fleecy bib-tights, merino base layer, softshell and rain jacket. A gear selection generally outed during the middle of winter, which March has decided to install rather than the traditional Spring Package.

As ever our first proper sight of the event was a muddy field peopled by a phalanx of middle aged blokes baring their arses in some kind of ritualistic pre-ride ritual involving lycra and swearing. We watched this from the warmth of the car which since it contained a blanket and a flask of tea put me very much in mind of pensioner-sightseeing. I did consider this as a pastime for the day were it not that the view lacked anything compelling to look at.

Go for a ride instead then. Knowing our place, we started at the back and remained there as I regaled Ian with my ‘race strategy‘* involving chunks of chocolate disguised as energy bars, a beeping heart rate monitor and a stash of emergency gels marked ‘open only in an emergency’. Our somewhat low key tempo positioned us perfectly for an early stop, during which I further explained to Ian the bladder pressing issue of a middle aged man having drunk a vat of sweet tasting placebo.

So nearly DFL but considerably less distracted, our experience of the first bit of actual off road was that it was full of people who had possibly never been off the road before. As ever my line choices were of the ‘I’ve no idea what it’s doing to the enemy sir, bit it’s putting the fear of God into me’ kind, weaving dangerously between wheeled innocents before nearly being t-boned by my own team mate who’dassumedno experienced or even vaguely sane rider would randomly cut across his path with a cheery ‘are you using that bit of trail fella?‘

The bite of the wind lessened a little in the thick Welsh forest which was about as good as the weather ever got. Still our minds were fairly concentrated on tricky, stall-happy climbing and proper two wheel sliding descents. Distance is hard earned here with the long route cut off an apparently easily achievable 25k away and some 3 hours to get there.

We made it with 20 minutes to spare by maintaining an even pace but not stopping much. This approach works for me with bugger allanaerobic threshold and an asthmatuned physiology which is always steady and mostly slow. Not so much for Ian whose third cold in as many weeks had drained away both fitness and endurance. So wheeling into a hastily build pit stop of goodies, we stopped for awesome cake and a much needed hot cuppa to take stock.

Trooper that he is, there was never a doubt the full 50k was our mission. So let’s get it done, firstly from this high point gained on a stupidly steep road gradient, swishing down sinuous singletrack throwing surprises around every curve – rock steps, narrow ridges drops into deep gullies, rocks to pop off and perfect turns to be carved with more than a nod and a braking finger to the slippy conditions.

That was great. The next few climbs less so for Ian who was really struggling now but he kept at with super little rewards of trail pleasure including a rocky section highlighting how good these new-fangled29er bikes are even with 100mm of single sprung travel and Mr Useless on board. Who was having a ball up and down with winter honed reflexes,hard earned fitness, a methodological eating plan and an eye on my HRM. Normally by this time it’s all hate for the course designer, spite for those breezing past, excuses being formed and resolutions to never be in this situation again forging undercruciblesteely skies.

Not today. Ian clearly felt some of this but mostly frustration at his body letting him down. That’s so different to me, most of the time it’s really the other way around. At the last checkpoint, he insisted I bugger off and leave him to suffer alone. I wasn’t keen, but he wasn’t having it so, as is my somewhat chequered history in this area, I abandoned him to his dark place, popped the emergency gel and pushed hard pedal strokes to see exactly what I had left.

Quite a lot as it transpired. I passed a lot of tired and walking riders on the last few climbs, all of which were the kind of muddy/rocky bitches that you really don’t want to see after the best part of four hours and 1400 metres of climbing. On the rather shallow grounds of having ridden everything so far, it seemed churlish not to at least attempt a bit of bloody effort to complete the course on bike both up and downhill.

Up proved surprisingly easy with my reeling in of more tired riders reminding me of how easy the first couple of hours had been. So either that’s a plan for the future or final proof that laziness pays off in the end. The final descent was signalled by the every happy hi-viz outfitted marshalls now back lit by falling snow and it was almost a disappointment.

Probably for the best though, as after a couple more dodgy overtakes withered-body(tm) began to request heated cars and a long sit down by the simple mechanism of a bit of arm pump and a smidge of leg cramp. The road home was exactly that after a final slither on a descent where 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} bravery felt about 40{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} too much and I wasn’t sad to see the tarmac. With the finish in sight, it seemed a sprint might be in order for which I’d like to apologise to rider 263 who was gasping up the final climb as I flashed past flat out and out of gears.

It’s just that kind of showing off which used to really piss me off when it happened to me. Which was, of course, every other event I’d ever entered. And it’s not like my final time was anything to shout about. Whisper it quietly at best, four and a bit hours on the GPS, five hours elapsed. The field of nightmares was half full at best by now with all the fast boys and girls long gone.

Ian wasn’t far behind and we were soon motoring home in the blissful warmth of my ice-cream van with the heater turned up to ‘I NEED TO FEEL MY TOES’. Ian was disappointed, I was pretty elated but tried not to show it. Might have failed, sorry mate bit bloody inconsiderate.

So what was learned here; important stuff first – great event for great causes, superbly organised, signed and marshalled. Ace course which was tough, fun and committing. Great people to ride with all of which seemed to have exactly the right attitude to a non-race race. Might have been a bit pointy-elbows at the front, but I had absolutely no first hand experience of that. Nor is it likely i ever will.

But I mightachievesome mid pack obscurity at the HONC assuming my ride lots/eat less lifestyle survives a trip to the alps in a week or so where I expect beer shall be for lunch, dinner and breakfast but not for winners. After that I’m definitely quitting. Apart from that 100k road ride I’ve already signed up for. And maybe the 24/12. Sleepless is something I’ve never done but feel I should. Hmm. But not Mayhem. I don’t care where it is this year; might as well be on the moon for all the chance there is of me getting within 100,000 miles of it.

I may have learned this – I really don’t like Mayhem but I quite like racing if I’m somewhere close to as good as I can be. Which – we’ve repeatedly established – isn’t very good at all, but that’s somewhat missing the point. I’ve yet to understand what that point is but it might have ‘entry form‘ written all over it.

* It’s not a race he said. And your strategy appears to be muttering ‘I SHALL NOT LEAVE MY WINGMAN‘ every time a rider comes past.

We’ve all heard that rather vapid homely that one should only regrets things done rather than things avoided. Clearly written by an innocent never having travelled on the tube, Voted Conservative or been introduced to Tequilain a mexican bar while playing poker for proper money*

If you’re still feeling in need of advice, there’s a rich multi-media seam to me mined from Yoda’s ‘do or no do, there is no try’ which is still brilliant through to imposible is nothing which really isn’t. If we throw in a bit of edith piathwhose biggest regret has to be being marooned on autoplay on every French radio station since 1983, we’ll finally arrive at the point.

I do feel a tad vexed having avoiding getting properly fit before withered-carcass(tm) was already way over the hill, and accelerating in a wobbly way to brittle-boned destruction. There’s a tinge of retrospective angst around being a bit too round for many years where beer and pies were staples of existence. But mostly I regret two things; not buying a 29er earlier and entering a stupid event to race it in.

The Solaris has been a bit of a revelation. We’ve established it ‘rides like a bike’ but what’s become apparent is it’s quite a fast one. Stat Geek Stravary tells me how many seconds quicker all over the place, but that’s better represented by a big grin on my fizog when the top and bottom of lumpy bits arrive more quickly. Hauling a stone and half less over dry and dusty trails is a happy meeting point of fun bikes and new found fitness.

The race however was a bit of a horror. Located in the Welsh equivalent of Deliverance, it’s defined by a series of plunging river valleys divided by extremely lumpy geography festooned with enough trees to ensure you hit at least one. Distance wise, it’s a mere 50k which sounds relatively unchallenging before an elevation profile reading 1600m is factored in. Even that on what has been seasonally unexpected dry trails has the feeling of a good, hard day out for a ego fuelled man who is somewhere close to decent shape.

The weather tho is – as ever in our storm lashed country – a bit of an issue. Rain between now and Saturday turning trails into the kind of endless misery I foreswore to never cross my tyres again after Mayhem. The weather on race day itself has moved on from raining – oh yes now it’s forecast to snow. Is it possible to regret the weather? No? Fine, I’ll have to settle for being bloody angry then.

And before anyone tries rationale and logic, talk to the hand – I’m not interested. I am fully aware we’re still in Winter and climatic conditions as described are not unusual, and – yes – mountain biking is a four season sport, and – yes again you bloody swot – it was indeed me who put in the entry. Since which, I’ve had a not entirely miserable time getting somewhere close to being able to actually complete it without medical assistance, or throwing the bike at a tree and demanding to be airlifted to a decent claret.

And now it’s going to snow on me, my new bike and what remains of my will to live. Obviously being inside warming by the fire while happily quaffing a nice pint while the rugby is on may be a regretful activity when compared to exposure, frostbite and slithering head first into trees. But I reckon I could handle it – it’s like guilt, ignore it long enough and it goes away.

Sod that. If the not-at- all- 4WD ice cream van can get me there, I’ll have a buggering bloody go. Don’t expect me to enjoy it tho.

Version one of this post was a Strava rant, but having found myself writing groupdynamicwithout a hint of irony, I felt you deserved better. Having just re- read version two, I’m not sure you got it.

* Although in the ‘for‘ column, finding the ‘miscellaneousdeduct able column while submitting the subsequently eye watering expenses should be mentioned for balance.

Reduced to stealing Movie titles, basic politeness dictates a cursory summary of the franchise; first one amusing and clever, second one tired and rubbish, third one somewhere in between. Although Doc naming his kids Jules and Vern was a stroke of genius. I do recall struggling to separate Marty’s girlfriend from the patio she was standing on* in terms of acting prowess. On reflection, you’d have to conclude the deck was slightly less wooden.

Still talking titles, my last two posts could’ve been better named ‘navel‘ and ‘gazing‘ or conjoined to declare ‘you’ve suffered enough‘, so this week we’re back to the Hedgehog Heartland of bikes and bollocks. The first being campaigned through a tranche of proper winter, with the second merely being frozen.

Tuesday is ride night. No excuses. No neshing out. No complaining of tiredness or rain or darkness or it just not being summer. The Flipperati** ride out astride their mighty steeds in haughty defiance of inclement weather and endless grim’n’slop which best define the joy of a four-season outdoor sport. Well two of us do, with the third musketeer – Portos, Ambros and Deadloss, I don’t like to ask which one I am – still crocked from launching himself onto a fist sized pointy rock back in Tenerife.

So off we set and I’d rather wished we hadn’t. Riding parameters defined in the first ten seconds. To your left sloppy mud piled on road margins, to your right trees devoid of foliage but still holding a depressing volume of wet. And in the middle cracking ice – gunshot loud as fat tyres crept by. Nights like this force a re-evaluation of Gym misery amongst the grim sweatiness of fading resolutions. But not for long as warmth – gestated by elven-magic’d technical clothing – spreads from your core to unfeeling fingers.

I’d chosen a raffish seasonal outlook sporting ancient ski knee socks plus-fouring a set of roadie bib tights themselves accesorised by a pair of baggy shorts of indeterminate age and fit. Up top it was the buff carefully arranged for the folically challenged, with everything in the middle being expensive and ready to repel wind, cold, sleet and – if required – borders.

Soon we were climbing into the hills at the slightly uncomfortable pace of a man winching 30lbs of fantastic trail bike all the time attempting to coat-tail a younger and somewhat fitter rider sprinting away. 30 minutes later we’d abandoned any thoughts of dropping back under trees branch lined with the mental scars of last weeks two hour mud slide. No, wiser and significantly less splattered we headed high onto the frozen Tundra of the lower Worcestershire Alps marvelling at the world’s first planetarium exhibited above, and tucked up houses steaming welcoming smoke in the valley.

First time down brought with it the inevitable descent into carnage. And, if Jez’s shout of ‘fuuuuuuccck’ hadn’t synapsed some lethargic nerve endings, possibly Australia such was the bottomless black hole I barely wrenched around. ‘Where the hell did that come from’ predictably whined I ‘it wasn’t there the last time we were up here‘. That’d be about a few months ago, before the Malverns were twinned withSodom and Gomorrah . Fair point well made.

Points still to be made, we dropped into an organic halfpipe crafted by ancient Britons and now ridden sketchily by us. Ice is funny stuff especially on grass ***, feeling cold but sounding fiery as wheels crackled in zero degree pyromania, while those on top cackled with uncomplicated mirth at the silliness of it all. Laughter cut short after a natural table top ended abruptly in a puddle. Except it was -4 by this time, so that puddle was ice and I was all tank-slappery for more moments that a man of my age should be subjected too.

Creeping down a steep fireroad, brakes modulated to the max and feeling for grip that’s on-off-off-off-off-ohshityes-on, the valley floor said hello and pointed us back ever upwards. We slavishly followed contours on now white grass until the trails turned back to brown and, for the first time in approximately ever, rock hard. Released from months of slogging, we let rip abandoning the very safety margins much needed when tree covered tracks threw winter right back at us.

Weird conditions. One minute, summer hard from the axles down, the next a sloppy mess swishing rear wheels in thirty degree arcs. Fast then slow with a transition best labelled fairly terrifying. Good dirty fun, proper life stuff, sensation overload on feet, hands, legs and arms. The tiredness and ‘is it worth all the ball-ache’ of an hour ago now completely banished. Let me bottle this and mainline a hit once a day to get through a shitty week.

A fast rocky blast off the top had me loving the pain of hauling big bikes up steep climbs. A little later I was doubly glad of all that talent compensation as the GPS recorded well over 50kph during a somewhat unplanned plummet – lights bouncing and fingers twitching for the brakes – from a not oft descended hill. There’s talk of close calls and the over-use of the phrase ‘fuck me, that was a bit lively‘ as we wearily traversed a final summit opening up the chance to chase the North Star home. Line astern, summer fast, wheels locking up, apex’s going one way and line choice the other.

I read this and it sounds like nonsense. There’s nothing here I can hammer out as a word-searching wordsmith to make any kind of sense. Instead let me try and explain something far more important; when we ride mountain bikes with star-y skies above and frozen trails below, it is not some kind of leisure activity. It is instead an absolute privilege.

We’d do well to remember that.

* Read on, read on, it’s not what you might be thinking you filthy rapscallions.

** Similar to the Twitterati but more douche bags than hash tags. And, in a departure from many mountain bikers, actually undertaking the activity outside rather than being awesome behind a keyboard

*** If you have a particularly perverted sense of humour.