I was still in the Pyrenees. Specifically above 2000m underneath the Les Angles bike/ski park. More specifically still, in a bar watching hail and slashing rain install drinking instead of riding in our afternoon’s itinerary.

A few uplifts would have been nice, if only for the novelty value of not riding/pushing/carrying the bike over endless peaks. But with a front brake that had all the form but none of the function of a working one, an arse which showed the scars of some recent prison activity and a level of motivation sufficient only to order more wine, it didn’t feel like a disaster.

What a trip though. Not so much mountain biking, more “Adventuring By Bicycle”. Finally conquering Canigou on the third attempt is up there with the best days on a bike ever. Or with a bike anyway as I shall explain later.

It was a hell of an experience; we were badly lost in worse weather, we had a few scary mechanicals, less crossed words and a gin fuelled bender that ended in me being really quite ill. Last year felt a little life changing, this year even more so. Pretentious as that may sound.

Maybe perspective changing is more accurate. Pushing yourself mentally and physically for five solid days, ensuing the easy options, being in places with a bike that no one else is, sharing experiences and limiting your horizons to big skies, pedalling, pushing and being occasionally brave. It’s a long, slow rush if that makes any sense. It does to me.

And the ST4 survived. Although it was immediately ambulanced into Nic’s Repair Emporium on arrival back in Ol’ Blighty. So far the list of replacement parts reads like a bearing catalogue. New movable spherics all round, new DU bush*, three chain rings, one rear tyre, cassette, chain, headset bearings and possibly rear wheel bearings.

That’s a whole load of expense. As is adventuring at 1 Euro to the quid. But it is beyond money well spent. If anyone asks me for a definition of value, I shall merely point them to my flickr stream.

More soon. Preparing myself for the horror of another Birthday comes Tuesday. Lucky to be alive frankly. A week ago, I felt very lucky indeed.

* This is half of what holds the shock to the frame. Nothing ruder. I was rather pleased the other half had survived. Until Nic reminded me we changed that one two months ago.

I’d consider that packed. There is a chance that Airport Security may not agree with me.

Last year, two nights, three days riding spawned a bag weighing just under 10 kilograms. This time around honing, paring back and cramming has an AUW of about the same. And that includes strapping the “action sandals” onto the side. No point owning such outstandingly fashionable footwear* and not proudly displaying it to bemused passers by.

The weight loss wasn’t a credit card punt at unobtainably and/or financially ruiness lightweight gear. No, I just took a litre of water out of the Camelbak bladder and assumed the persona of “Mr. Stinky” for a week. Sure it’s nice to have crisp, fresh shorts, tops and socks every day but it’s pretty bloody nasty carting an entire wardrobe over lumpy geography.

Instead I’ve opted for 100ml of liquid washing powder and less kit. Assuming I don’t just marinate myself in beer and lie out in the sunshine to dry off.

Bike’s in the bag. Looks less like an explosion in a pipe lagging factory that previous years. A high risk strategy that ensures the bag remains luggable, with the possible downside of the contents being reduced to swarf by those nice, careful men who dump your luggage from hold to tarmac.

Forecast is for 28 degrees and sun, sun, sun. Apart from the thunderstorms and lightening. I shall be sticking Si “lightening conductor” James up on a telescopic pole if the weather turns scary. He’s almost a native now so can negotiate with the un-earthed electricity in French. Important to understand the strength and weaknesses of the team and play to them I’ve always thought.

I’ll miss my family terribly as I always do, but – honestly – now I just want to go. Get through the crapolla of UK Airport PLC without getting lost on the way to Bristol, and just survive sticky/sicky charter kids for two hours.

Then go ride for a week in high places. No phones, no watches, no pressure, no email, no decisions other than “what shall we have for lunch?” and “another beer?“**, good friends, big skies and bikes every day. I’m like a kid the night before Christmas.

Except he probably didn’t have to go and mow the lawn before being allowed to leave 😉 Back in a week before the relative luxury of camping with the family. I expect to spend most of that holiday sleeping and boring Carol with tales of daring do. When I get properly back, I’ll share that out with everyone else!

* especially if accessorised with the “long sock”

** A tautologic couplet I’d suggest.

No, not ready at all. Last year, with an entire week to go, I was done with pontificating, faffing, cogitating and – finally – selecting stuff for the Pyrenees trip. A procedure that became less about how important an item was, and more about it’s size/weight/squashability. We ended up here:

And that collateral served me well. Right up until the bike committed suicide through a mixture of bad design and Ostrich Mechanics*. Which scored zero on a scale of one to lamentation on the reasonable grounds that carrying a spare frame up a mountain is somewhere beyond paranoia and deep into a mental illness.

With three day s to go, my concessions to creating a carryable support infrastructure for a longer and more arduous trip has been to buy some sandals. I give you – and I am quoting directly from the marketing blurb here – “the power sandal. An all-terrain light shoe experience for the adventurous traveller”

For me it has sufficient beige to signify the true age of the sandal wearer, augmented with sporty orange to dull the embarrassment. They shall be strapped proudly to my camelbak ready – at a moments notice – to be unleashed once Si’s map reading has us again portaging bikes on exposed cliff edges.

And – as a bonus – come supping time, I shall be sporting these fab footy fixtures in any and every Pyreaneen drinking establishment. Such is my confidence in their playful attractiveness, I am considering employing a handy Frenchman** to “demand manage” the screaming ladies desperate for some Sandal Action.

Other areas of pre-holiday preparation are fairing similarly. The bike seems to work in non creaky fashion. Careful use of the word “seems” with a single 1 hour ride in two weeks unrepresentative of serious testing. This was followed by 90 minutes in the pub, which is what endurance athletes such as myself term “tapering”.

And as for the part of my life which fills the days and pays the bills, the less said about that the better. Is there some twisted phenomenon ensuring the greatest volume of work is directed at the individual with the least amount of time? Come Friday night, whatever isn’t done shall remain in that state for two further weeks.

Three times already, the following conversation has taken place “When are you on Holiday?” / “Friday” / “Will you have your phone with you” /”No” / “Oh” / “Because I’ll be half way up a mountain and BECAUSE I’M ON HOLIDAY. GO LOOK IT UP IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS“. So far, I’ve only said the last bit in my head. But next person asking shall be in unhappy receipt of the unexpurgated version. At some volume.

Ready? No. Keen? Yes.

* The art of understanding that something really, really bad is happening to your bike and attempting to drink enough to forget about it.

** That’s not a couplet you’re likely to hear twice in your lifetime. Unless you’re read a lot of those specialist publications.