Author: Alex

Rock, Paper, Scissors.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Pretentious nonsense4 Comments

Rock: Mid-Trail, nasty misshapen lump, anchored grimly to a steep and loose descent. Requires avoidance or commitment.

Paper: “Fell off Bike“. Scrawled about four times across two hospitals. Appended with “significant abrasions to right side” and “elbow cut, bone in view”

Scissors: “This might sting a bit” says the child-Doctor in her bedside pre-laceration chat.

Post lurgey comes a desperate need to ride. After a week off, the trails are running super fast, so we’re on a speed mission. First descent dispatched in a blur of hip-jumps and mini doubles. Wheels off the ground, bike whooshing through spring-leaved trees, brain some distance behind.

Big grins, bullets dodged. Climb and climb but going well, eight days of not riding fails to spike the fitness balloon of three months solid effort. Feels good to be back in the hills, day fading, bike lights dancing in the twilight, so dry and so fast, going to be an epic.

“You go first“. Ego stroked, I go as hard as I dare, sketchy, it’s loose and my brain is still not calibrated for the speed, think about rock step, dither, engage fuck it gland, fail to get a line or a decent pop.

Bad stuff happens. Tankslapper briefly caught, thoughts of redemption founder on second rock, abandon bike calling “turtle” as over bar exit has me wrapping limbs to the inside. Cacophony of bike and rider smashing down the trail. Goes on far too long, roll, roll, roll, miss tree, momentum done, pain starts.

“Big one that, you okay” / “Grrr…yes…no..fuck dunno fuckfuckfuck that hurts“. Important stuff works, nothing broken, much scarred. Abrasions run to half a side and most of an elbow. An elbow that has the bone poking out. End of ride then, get up, sit down quickly, feel a bit odd. Babble a bit. Hurt a lot.

Push down steep section then back on bike. So slow, where did the confidence go? Back there in the dirt with some of my skin probably. Road home, can’t quite remember which shifter does what. Did I fall on my head? Might have asked the question more than once.

Driven to Ledbury hospital which is big, clean and open but entirely unpopulated by anyone qualified to stitch me up. No amount of pleading saves me from the ball-ache of Hereford A&E. Refuse further chauffeuring and head homewards with a woozy head full of irritation and angst.

I know the drill. Shower now saves pain later. Sticky Grit has adhesive properties of superglue. Some swearing but it gets done. Double Vodka with a Nurofen chaser. Carol – entirely unflappable as ever – takes over the driving. A&E full of drunks, police and heavily pregnant teenagers smoking endless tabs.

Wait, wait, wait. Bored, bored, bored. Sore as well. Relieved to have swapped bloody and sweaty attire for something cleaner and less gritty. Still small on pleasures, long on fuck all happening when phone alarms me that in five hours I need to leave for London.

Midnight comes, nobody else does for some time. Then it’s us, ten minutes of not much drama, no antibiotics, some brave little soldier action while staring anywhere where the needle isn’t.

Home, wine transfusion, three hours sleep, bastard alarm call, get up very slowly. Driving isn’t any fun. Neither is sitting on a train for three hours typing one handed.

Both infinitely preferable to tube buffeting and eight hours of gentle ridicule and more pain that I’m ever going to show. Someone carelessly knocks my elbow and the world goes fuzzy and soft for a few seconds.

More tube, hide in the corner hoping it’ll be over soon. Fall onto train and fall into bar. Grab a beer and a brace of painkillers. Worst is over. Bored of “aren’t you too old to be falling off bikes?” no point crafting a reply because they won’t understand, and I don’t care. But I’ll take occasional A&E thanks for asking.

Summary? Riding ragged and fast. It’s going to happen. Could’ve been a whole lot worse – arm, rib or collarbone. I’ll back off not because I want to, but because survival instinct will cut the speed. For a while. Let’s not hope too long. Going to be another week before I find out when the stitches come out.

But roadbikes are going to be fine. Ride to work Friday? I should bloody well think so, if I can attire myself in cycling clothing without excessive chaffing. Bikes you see, like the Hotel California – you can check out anytime you like but you can never leave.

Roughy the Balsa Slayer

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Capstan "floor fly"

That’s me. A week of unspecified lurgy has kept me off the bike and in the shed. I am getting very twitchy about not riding, especially as March was another (modest) record in terms of distance and saddle time.

It’s all gone to poo tho. Cough, Bunged up head, snot everywhere and a throat that feels like it’s been sanded. It’s a possibility since everything else from the dog upwards has been given a good lashing of balsa dust this weekend.

Well enough to play with toy gliders, not well enough to mow the lawn. That’s my self-certified medical diagnosis. That glider is a Slingsby Capstan. My dad had a share in a full size one when I was no’but a nipper, and I had many vertigo-challenged hours in the co-plilot’s seat looking down at the ground and wondering when we were going to hit it.

We built the model as well. Must be – FLIPPING HELL – thirty years ago. Shit, there’s no way of saying that without instantly appending “you old fcker” is there? We didn’t really know what we were doing so the poor thing was beaten to death by Yorkshire stone. I don’t think we ever had the courage to chuck it off the edge, instead darting it into rocky scenery and innocent bystanders.

The company that made them went out of business years ago, but some enterprising young turks bought the plans and moulds and for£70 dealt out wingy nostalgia for those of a certain age. Carol bought me one for my birthday last year, but only now have I had the time to get jiggy with the sanding block.

The original seemed to take about a year to build. And about a 10th of that to destroy. My skills in both those areas are still about the same – so although it looks mostly glider shaped, it’s not been all plane sanding. Luckily Carol is on hand to help me with the difficult bits, and talk me out of apply powertools to any problem that takes more than 10 seconds to rectify.

I’m sort of embarrassed to admit that rebuilding my youth has been mostly good fun. Sure I’ve ingested around a kilo of second hand balsa, and invested time really that could have been spent doing almost anything more useful, but it’s therapy of a sort.

Man has cold. Man has shed. Man has mug of tea. Man has all sorts of tools, some of which he knows the purpose of. Man has things to build and instructions to ignore. Man has decent enough time while wondering if sympathy of family might extend to some fortifying cake.

Better be better next week. Once I’ve finished this, Carol will probably feel I’ve learned skills useful for general repair work and specific bevelling.

Probably be a good time to start riding again.

Surrey Hills

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

I’ve a bit of a problem with that title. First up: Surrey “ twinned with Audi, BMW and Cockage. A problematic combination of manicured county seats, and the fat arsed driving 4x4s who own them. Then: Hills “ there aren’t any. Not proper ones anyway. Put them up against a Herefordshire Alp, and they’d be left crying onto its’ brutal shoulders.

I tried “ oh God I really did “ to balance my chippy shoulder with an evidential pursuit of the actual, rather than cheap shots at the stereotypes. But dodging only shots of trail side expresso and terribly expensive non moving Mountain Bikes, this proved on the can’t-be-arsed side of difficult.

The centre of Surrey’s self reverence appears to be Peaslake. A chocolate box village serving high teas to the mostly porky, and uncouth mugs of tea at£2 a go. Lots of non riding seemed to be the new all-mountain, with 5k bikes sprawled artfully in what passed as an outdoor photo shoot for Leisure Activities for IT executives

So tick that pre-conception and let’s move onto the riding. Which I remembered as being woody fun slowed by the buy-first-ride-second tribe. Not hard, not terribly demanding, kind of trail centre-y with more expensive cakes. A nice day out, but not really proper riding is it?

It is. Oh and then some. 40k later, my legs were dribbly blomonge, my throat coated with dust, my arms wibbly wobbly appendages barely able to clasp a hero’s beer, and everything brainside frazzled to the point of exhaustion.

We rode three hills, first up was a quick hour up and over Peaslake which 5 minutes in had the kind of steep roll in easily obstacle enough to end your day there and then. 5 minutes later, I was abrading my left elbow having failed to conquer a set of steep, loose switchbacks.

Ten minutes after that, my bike separation anxiety continued with a head-first punt over a log. No excuses other than over-exuberance, chasing local and all round hardtail-fast-man Nig, and the ever widening gap between confidence and ability.

Of the forested-four, only I was fully suspended with the familiarity of the ST4 over-riding any reason to pull the Cove from hibernation. 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the time this was the right decision with trails shot through by roots and dips, the other 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} I wished for a shorter wheelbase and tighter geometry “ a base for carving turns and instant line changes.

Still run what you’ve brung, and even with the squish out back and the slack head angle up front, much fun was to be had blatting lush singletrack, pumping vaguely remembered trails, wheels pawing for grip and “ in seemingly many places “ the ground as the terrain dipped and swerved between endless trees.

Cake stop “ HOW MUCH? “ spot of bleeding, not much sympathy, epic planned under sunny skies. Two further hills to summit; Leith and Holmbury “ neither of which would seem to offer the mountainous terrain most of the still parked bikes were configured for, but challenging nevertheless.

Much as I can already hear the knashing of teeth Gloucester way, the steepness and length of some trails are greater than those in “our” Forest. Or certainly the trails I’ve ridden on. From the top of the tower at Leith hill down to the road is 20 minutes of grinning lunacy. It’s pedally in the middle and at the bottom, narrow (narrower than my 710mm bull bars a few times) and tight in places, but opening out to become sweepy and fast. Summer Lightening is an awesome trail especially covered in nothing but dust and “ latterly “ sweat.

As we headed back, Nig had that hollowed out look I’ve oft been associated with. He saved a bit of energy tho for a final giggle-fest of Barries showing us all a clean set of wheels. The trail fairies have breathed on this already fine track, and it’s now a mass of berms, jumps and flat out jedi-speeder waggling between the trees.

It was warm enough to sit outside the pub, but far too hard to sit back on the bikes pedaling to the car park. I was happily knackered and somewhat humbled by just what a fantastic area for riding this is. Amusingly we didn’t really see many riders away from the car parks, other than a flange of ten or so sat waiting at the entrance to the final trail.

So yes I’ll admit there’s a raft of decent riding down in Surrey, especially if you have dry conditions and a knowledgable guide. I was pondering this as a tosser in an blacked out X5 cut me up for the express purpose of cementing his total cock status.

It seems I was only half wrong.

Not Again.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Enjoying one road ride is probably acceptable, enjoying two is tantamount to MTB treason. Before my skinny tired bike is behead-tubed*, let me at least present a case for the defence.

Firstly it wasn’t a long ride. The plan for a metric century was curtailed by a lack of time. Further scaling back became necessary once a small mechanical oversight popped up in the first 200 metres.

Not so much popped up, more popped out, with a cranked chain spinning uselessly over un-indexable cogs. Look with that many little sprockets and associated spacers, anyone could have inadvertently misaligned the two.

It was me of course. And as such, I was deemed unfit to effect a repair which saw Jezz seemingly chase the wheel around the workshop using his biggest hammer. An opportune time perhaps for a quick spanner twirl elsewhere on the innocent frame.

First time out on Mr. Plastic Fantastic in 2011, all a-bling with new wheels (cassette not fitted properly, tyres under-inflated), new saddle (testicle splitting angle due to poor fitment) and new carbon post (unfitted due to it being entirely the wrong size).

Eventually, after some embarrassment and more excuses, the good ship Malvern-Route set sail under fair conditions with little wind and temperatures close to double digits.

Riding the Boardman after Woger Wibble was something of a revelation. Best described as being gifted a proper cyclist’s set of legs, and an extra lung. Crikey it’s light “ at least six pounds under the honest toiler of my winter bike “ and *ahem* stiff. Having campaigned the thick end of 600k this winter on Wog sets a telling precedent on what a proper race bike feels like.

Feels fast for a start. Emboldened by climatic conditions, super light bike, dry road and an inability to clip out (new road shoes, new road pedals, stopping and starting involved lampposts and increasingly agitated foot waggling) my pace was both brisk and entirely inappropriate.

The latter I would only discover some two hours later when that little wind could be more accurately described as a bastard headwind seeking to reduce me to a little cry. Still having a trick bike is a great leveller.

Jezz was riding a oversized Wibble that puts one in mind of a farm gate cleverly accessorised with a wheel at either end. Not only tall, it has sufficient length to factory-fit a claxon and speaking tube for turns: All Ahead Flank Engine Room can often be heard bouncing off random Malvern hills.

So my bike is light and fast which is an almost perfect juxtaposition to the rider. Whereas Jezz “ an Etape veteran and unapologetic semi-roadie – can normally rip my little stumps off at will. At this point, I can share with you that it is entirely about the bike.

For two hours, we jested and jousted up and over hilly terrain. I still lost more than I won but derived some pleasure from the look on Jezz’s fizog a couple of times. One I recognised as Just give me a minute, once the black spots have faded, we’ll be on our way.

Somewhere in between such hyper-competitivety, I realised with horror this was really quite enjoyable. Even a jaunt through Malvern traffic didn’t disappoint as my London Commuter Elbows have lost nothing in their vigorousness over the last few years.

And then the headwind. With all the climbing done, I was ready for an easy 25k spin home along the valley bottom. The only match to that idyllic description was the distance. Not flat, slight climb all the way home, arrow straight roads horizon long, and into the teeth of a headwind that sought out my tiring limbs and made them tireder still.

I swallowed a little water, slightly more pride and hid behind Jezz for a while until we mercifully turned the relentless blast into a crosswind. That couldn’t hide the fact I’d shot my bolt though and “ light bike or not “ the last few climbs were properly hurty.

Lesson learned? Probably not, ego not generally gapped my ambition. 70k, 890m of climbing, similar average speed to last time out but on a route made far tougher by elevation. Riding in this morning was a fairly sedate affair, but not for a minute did I consider driving.

Actually I was looking forward to getting back on the (heavy) bike. That’s a worrying development.

* Been reading lots of Tudor history. After considering disease, poverty, hangman’s noose and executioner’s blade, hard to believe the population of England during that time could be more than about 7.

You’re going home in a Gloucester ambulance.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

This ride was many things. First time at night in the Forest this year, anniversary of the muddy induction ride when I fell in with this mucky crew, a potential redeemer for the new not really light emitting diodes and the chance to make merriment and new swear words with old friends.

It was all of that, and a little more. The route was mostly new, sometimes muddy, often heroically slippy, occasionally hard and fast and marked frequently with prostrate mountain bikers. So one of those rides which gradually whittled down the men from the boys, starting with double figures but falling to six and then just falling off.

Even by my ever lowering standards, I was entirely rubbish. Mostly because I’d forgotten how to dodge trees while travelling sideways on a sea of something that might once have been dirt. Not now though, it was a heady chemical amalgam of viscous and slop dishing out the odd soupçon of grip to keep you interested, before dispensing brown justice in the form of a handy tree.

Many of the regular Forresters were sporting mud tyres and smug expressions. My all conditions rubber were instantly converted to slicks at which point I fell off. This seemed to go on for quite a long time. Until it became a bit boring – especially for the poor sods behind who were stalled by my repeated sweaty apologies – although having stayed upright for about three minutes on one descent, I’d have paid good money to be lying again in that nice comforting mud.

That was proper scary. I have now experienced personal continental drift. From the tyres upwards, stopping briefly at the bowels and carrying on into a head wondering what happened to my “Chiltern reactions“. One crash did give rise to the concept of the “testicle fairy” where one could demand payment for a love spud, separated from its’ bag-mate through the simple un-anaesthetised application of a saddle rail.

I’ll never dare put my arm under the pillow again. And I’m also mentally drawn to exactly what the Testicle Fairy might look like. It’s not going to be Tinkerbell is it?

Entertaining as this was, as a displacement tactic it fell flat when the trail didn’t, with the not terribly magnificent six winching skywards into plummeting temperatures to access a trail I’d ridden bits of, but never in the dark. This climb seemed to go on for a while, longer for me I noticed as the mud-shod regulars wobbled upwards bathing most of the forest in a million lumens. UFO sighting must have gone up a million percent since MTB lighting went nova.

To access this fantastic trail, we first had some bone dry singletrack to climb which was both tiring and rewarding. The top of which opened out to a bank – with a entry only out-dodgied by the exit – for us to play on. A few of us played nicely with appropriate respect shown to lobbing oneself off into a dark abyss. A few others didn’t – Steve especially was having it medium, occasionally large.

We left him to it, shivering on the road side. What came out of the dark wasn’t a grinning Stevo, no what came out was that horrible sound of rider hitting ground, bike hitting ground, bike hitting rider, rider making groaning noises. It goes something like “ARGGH-BUMP-BANG-ARGGHH“.

Siren call that it is, we all rushed over to find Steve adopting a position somewhere between foetal and hibernating tortoise. He wasn’t moving much. Which considering he’d unclipped at the apex of the parabola before ragdolling down the slope and then being seriously inconvenienced by spiky bicycle wasn’t much of a surprise.

After a while – and to our shame some merciless ribbing – he declared other than an extremely sore arse, he was good to go. As long as the going was slow and easy. Then he asked where we were. A minute later he asked again. At that point he felt it probably was a good time to explain he couldn’t remember anything about the last two hours. Arse on the floor, head in the moon, concussion kicking in, time for some proper decisions.

Matt’s much maligned “capacious bag of doom” had already saved me with emergency sustenance, and now birthed a virgin space blanket we ripped open to wrap an every more confused Steve into. Ian has proper first-aid experience and Nic has much experience of just monging himself, so we left those two with the patient. The rest of us turned away from the dirt and lost our height on the fastest tarmac route to the cars.

The plan was to fetch Steve and his bike, place one safely in a garage and the other safely in Ross Hospital. Matt was designated “responsible adult unlikely to mix the two“, but before he could carry out Plan A, Plan B was triggered by a now entirely spaced Steve wondering what his name was. A quick 999 call brought flashing lights and a dash to Gloucester to get his head examined. Riding at night with this lot makes me wonder if I should too 😉

Happy endings all round tho. Steve was fetched by his partner late that night and, other than being “bloody sore“, is recovering fast. We didn’t forget his bike, and I made it to the chip shop before closing time. Well a man’s got to eat!

Closing thoughts; night riding is just the silliest thing in the world, and I never want to stop doing it. Hurting yourself is part of the game, an entry fee if you will, rewards are never earned without risk. You can mitigate it, back off a tad, ride to the conditions, cap your bravado and squash your competitive spirit. But if you ride long enough and hard enough, you are going to end up in Hospital.

Oh and people that take the piss mercilessly are also your best mates when shit happens. I’d be happy to have any of those buggers get me off a hill when I inevitably lunch myself into a tree again.

If nothing else it’d give us something to talk about instead of the testicle fairy. It’d almost be worth it for that.

Marvel at my Massive Erection.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography7 Comments

The Big Tent

All Carol’s work of course 🙂 You have to admit it’s everything a monster from the enormous exterior footprint, to the capacious inner space separated into handy compartments; important people, small people, wine, food and dog.

Or possibly not dog. Our first family camping experiment was experienced in a retro-bell tent much loved for it’s height and space, but falling down on single living space and – nearly – due to rubbish pegging and a strong wind.

Murf was even more bionic back then; on waking at around 5:30am he’d meet the morn with a moist sniff of all pack members, finishing off with a sloppy lick roughly translated as “C’mon it’s MORNING, Let’s GO“.

To be startled from sleep by that hot breath, at the business end of a large black two holed snout, put me in mind of being woken by Darth Vader. There is also the small matter of my not so small 4×4 being squeezed seam-full of family, camping stuff, tent, emergency medical supplies* and squashed Labrador.

This – I think – gives me absolute carte blanche to go and buy a trailer. If nothing else it’ll make the trip out to our campsite a bit quieter. assuming the tarp keeps the kids inside. So£50 well spent I am sure on this pre-loved mostly mobile house. No idea how long it took to build, but next time it’ll probably be less than half a day, especially if the children aren’t involved in “helping” at all apparently.

An inaugural outing is loosely planned over Easter way out west on the “Welsh Riviera“. Where there are fabulous beaches, lots of fun hidden coves, great little eateries and an entire lack of anyone from London.

Apparently crumbly cliffs rear over these beaches, flat topped with soft meadows providing an idyllic spot for family picnics. By a strange co-incidence, these jutted butresses are also one of the very best sites to chuck toy gliders into a setting sun. Really, how lucky is that?

Got tent. Booked Holiday. Planned for dog abandonment. Just Spring left to turn up and we’re good to go.

* Comes in bottles. Normally Red. Always more than one.

That’s not a forecast..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

.. that’s somewhere between a wild guess and an electronic shrug. Obsessed by the weather as I am, three sites lurk in my favourites offering – generally – biblical visions of the prevailing conditions come home time

1) between -3 and 8 degrees

2) Between -6 and 1 degree

3) Between -2 and 4 degrees.

The final one is the venerable beeb, the first two are clearly programmed by some stoner quiche-eater stroking a hamster. I mean really, potential statisical inacurracy of 11 degrees bounded by a total of about 30.

I could do better leaning out of the window and declaring “h’mm chilly, potentially parky later“. In fact I just have. I think the workers from the building opposite were crowded round thinking it was a suicide attempt.

It may well be if forecast 2) is correct. I appear to have contracted “frost-willy” after a sub zero ride in earlier.

I spent ages dithering this morning trying to find stuff. I failed to uncover my motivation which has been lost for the last week. Apparently it was last seen holding Spring hostage.

Large reward for its’ return.

Marginal Madness. Added dog.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding2 Comments

VCA 2010 RACE RUN from changoman on Vimeo.

This appears to be a man riding extremely fast on the absolute cusp of painful stackery, all while wearing a suit. Probably just the sort of thing most of us would have a crack on during an otherwise boring lunchtime.

He’s got a mate as well who is slightly less sketchy, but still has to somehow not fall down a 100 steps at a million miles an hour, with two thirds of bugger all clearance on both sides.

Then, he too is attacked by a dog that is either deaf or rabid. Probably both.

This was very similar to my ride last night. Except for the terrain, sun, warmth, absence of darkness and skills on display. The “nearly crashing” part was all there. As was the ice and freezing cold winds. If this is some kind of cosmic weather joke, I’d just like to say IT’S NOT FUNNY ANY MORE.

Right back to work. Too much of it currently.

Lights out

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

There is a time for quiet contemplation, trading sanguinary* for calm reflection and playing the long game. Apparently. So I’ve been told. Comes with age and wisdom allegedly. Still time then even for humans of such antiquity as me. But not today. Let me take a deep virtual breath and scream:

“I AM BORED OF WINTER NOW. SICK OF MUD, DARK AND COLD. I WANT DUST AND SUNSHINE. I’VE BLOODY WELL EARNED IT”

Last night I’d have happily settled for just a bit of light. My recent expensive purchase delivered fantastic illumination for ten road pounding minutes, before switching off, shutting down and engaging in a permanent state of electronic sulk. This happens to me far too often during working hours, so my initial diagnosis was the now cooling appliance could only be running a form of Windows software.

Sustained hopeful prodding and poking about** for five more minutes achieved only frustration amidst continued benightment. As is the way of such disasters, my helmet light was uncharged and the repaired Hope Vision was resting some fifteen miles away. Luckily a spare was harvested from Jezz’s toolbox, leaving us with the repeat joy of a soggy road climb we’d only recently dispatched.

Good thing about the road tho was its’ wetness merely irritated rather than injured – a flipped condition come a switch to dirt. Tyres properly aslither, bloke on top wobbling about and bracing for bark impact, and any braking was just crashing by another name.

So we were late, partially lighted, muddy and – in the case of my riding buddy – extremely knackered from the bastard work week from hell. Obviously being a good mate, I took full advantage by suggesting ridiculous epics deep into the hills none of which I had any intention of actually riding. This is entirely opposite to what normally happens, except we end up actually doing them.

My Yang to his Ying was feeling pretty damn good probably as we weren’t going far nor ‘lung-out-of-the-arse‘ fast. This was an entirely unexpected state of affairs as, less than two days before, I’d not so much fallen off the alcohol-free week wagon as set fire to it – before toasting it with multiple double brandies,.

And it was still a proper laugh fighting tank slappers, transferring mud from trail to face via sliding tyre, then sloshing about in dank puddles. But really, we’ve suffered enough and it is starting to take a toll.

My ST4 has a set of rumbly hub bearings that’ll not survive another month. Already the winter has eaten through a shock bushing, broken that shock, destroyed four pairs of brake pads and turned my not-long-since shiny bike into something rather less showroom.

It’s not done that much for me either. Sure I’ve managed to get/stay reasonably fit. I’ve maintained motivation through the hardest month, and plans are afoot to cash in on the coming Spring. But it doesn’t feel we’re there yet.

Dark commutes stretch out a further six weeks, gawd only knows where I’ll dare venture back into the Forest, even the road bike almost seems like a good idea. I’m not sure I can hang on for much longer!

One thing I do know tho, is if we’d turned back, given up, called it a day as sense/tiredness/mechanical catastrophe strongly suggested we should, it’d have been a quick win but a long disappointment. Riding is always better than not riding. It’s also a shit load better when the outside environment plays nice.

Got to Keep The Faith for a few more weeks.

* My “word of the week“. Beats f*ck I suppose.

** Pretty much describes most boys sexual awakening.