Saw this. Made me laugh. Clearly my sense of humour is in need bolsterisation*. This is almost entirely due to the volume of – into which which I am currently sinking.
There shall be a change soon tho. Mr Chainsaw says so.
* Don’t even look it up. It’s in there.
Not so much a quandary, more of a life decision. Many times I’ve moodily watched expensive vegetation being drowned or whooshed horizon-wards by tornado winds thinking “I’m good at excuses, this would seem an ideal time to make one”, before bearing down on the sofa waypointing at beer fridge and crisp cupboard. The consequences of such an easy choice are bigger trousers, unreconstructed feelings of guilt and entirely missing the point.
Before moving here, riding rarely ended without beer. Some started that way as well although inevitably finished in a heap of limbs making giggling noises half way up a tree. Only when the shock of failing to recognise your riding buddies in civvies after two years of sharing trails, do you realise how much things have changed. All the good bits are still there; like minded people, gentle piss taking, hidden competitiveness, schadenfreude, pain, suffering, lucky escapes, joy, pain and scars. But post ride is a quick go on the hose pipe* and away to general duties.
This week we invited the Forest crowd over to sample some proper hills not bounded by bar spinning trees. This was – for most of them – a first experience of the geological oddity that are the Malvern Hills. Powered by volcanic activity, they rise from a flat alluvial plane with unrelenting steepness to multiple jaggety peaks. We set off up the North end which is busier, rockier, higher and criss-crossed with plunging trails and bastard climbs.
First up we had hoards of riders to escape giving the poor FoD crew an experience similar to dropping Robinson Crusoe into Central London. To spare them from having to explain where all those extra fingers came from, we dropped into the shadow of the Worcester Beacon and kept it right side and looming on the approach to the last proper Malvern Peak. North Hill brackets the end of the ridge, and offers many secret delights down into the town itself.
First tho a stiff pull*** skywards before a cheeky cut back on moist grass enlivened with tyre stopping rock. Everyone got down but not without some wide eyed stares. The perception seemed to be that the ride would mostly be on soft grass with a few rocks thrown in. This end of the hills is exactly like that only entirely the other way round. Crash in the forest and you’ll be picking teeth out of ancient oak roots, lunch it here on something steep and they’ll be using those teeth for identification.
We skirted the worst of the grassy climbs before summitting high on the ridge end, stopping only to enjoy the popping sound of cooling singlespeeder knees. Yes, Adam was back on a bike lacking 26 out of 27 important mechanical parts, but the bugger did stunningly well to get up everything. Confirms my hypothesis: Alien. Good times tho playing to Al’s first rule of riding “50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of what’s good is where you are, the rest is who you’re with”
And where we were was topside of a rocky horror switching to mad steep dirt abbreviated by vertical granite sleeping policemen keen to make a tyre arrest. Riding it at dusk on the hardtail was reasonably involving, but my mind was distracted by the general carnage in front of me. Nobody died which seem to spur the boys on to tackle a nasty set of steps incongruously located in the middle of bloody nowhere.
I gave them a miss but liked to think earned a few man points with a brisk clearance of a much loved rock step accompanied by a silent “glad I didn’t fuck that up“. Now we’re in Malvern proper and that’s the low point of the ride. Elevation wise we’re a big hill from home, and it’s a 25 minute climb to get there. No point rushing I offered, I’ve tried that in the past and while the hill doesn’t care, you’ll end up spatchcocked over the bars making the kind of gestures un-bowled goldfish are known for.
There’s a cheaty, easy way round the Beacon to crest the final climb. It seemed a shame to share that what with a few of the boys showing such enthusiasm for the steep and unforgiving front face. Those buggers have had it over me enough time in the deep, dark woods and it’s important to restore karma. Not that I was in any way counting. Oh no.
Much nudging regarding quality of the view from the top. Not surprising since riding in the Forest is brilliant but visually merely slightly different coloured bark. No time to linger though, with a straight mile of lumpy descent unencumbered by corners but fast enough to promise breakfast through a straw should liberties be taken. Martin (proper guide and reason we didn’t spend the entire night going “er, this way not sorry that way, er anyone got a compass, or a rabbit’s foot?“) is a man who does indeed take liberties on this trail, and raced off with the Forest boys in determined pursuit.
I was sweeping at the back, and nearly had to sweep myself up after a rather vigorous if unwise pace was applied to a part of the trail where the ground drops away and tyres scrabble desperately for grip. I slowed down a bit after that which was fine as I wasn’t catching anyone anyway.
A quick loop back over the top of the wyche so we could finish fast and loose on big steppy rocks and then just big steps found us at 8:45pm having climbed 2,300 feet in a lot less than ten miles – the result was a bit of cheek blowing democracy on what we should next.
We went to the pub. Obviously. And it reminded me what a great natural high dopamine mixed with decent beer will give you. So now Al’s rules of riding runs to three, the one up there, an assertion that “riding is always better than not riding” and now “A proper ride only ends when stumbling tiredness is mixed with conversational bollocks and decent beer“. I reckon there’s a book in here somewhere.
So it’s not beer or bike. It’s beer AND bike.
I know what some of you are thinking. And I know how old you are. You should be ashamed of yourself. Really. Next thing you’ll tell me farting is still funny**
** Okay I accept that.
*** There you go again. Not role models for your children really.
Another cracker from the “80s film random quote generator” much loved by the hedgehog. Until inconveniently corrected by authoritative references, I used to couple it with “Your ass is grass and I’m a lawnmower”, but that is from an entirely different movie. And someone deep in my withery cortex lies the title, the retrieval of which shall make for a happy day sometime in the future.
I’m sure there is a cheating short cut to the answer, and while that would be entirely wrong for something ready to be winkled from analogue memory, it would – had it been available – have been invaluable during, or for preference just before, a crashette on my morning commute.
Car not bike. Five ton tractor ballasted by four mighty hay bales, not a clear road. Narrowing bridge barriered by armco, not forgiving ditch. Too much speed, not enough time. Too fast for the road, too slow when you’re late.
It was a moment of perfect irony as idle wonderment at the almost total lack of traffic on this unlined, twisty backroad morphed into wide eyed terror as my world was filled with high tyred immovable tonnage and not much else. No way I was stopping in time – unless your definition of “in time” includes frontal impacts and mighty airbag action.
A small slither of blacktop looked too narrow an option for the mini-truck to squeeze through, but it was the only option presenting itself before Insurance and Hospitals became involved.
“Hit the brakes and he’ll fly right by” came unbidden to a mind with far more pressing issues to deal with including steering into the tiniest of gaps, bracing for impact and offering a small prayer to the God of Collisions*.
I nearly made it too, missed the tractor wheel by the width of a badger’s todger at the expense of carressing the barrier with the front wheel arch. Inch either side and I was deep in the cacky.**
I had – conveniently – shuddered to a noisy halt at the window of the impossibly sanguine farmer who offered me this from on high “You might want to take it a bit easy lad, third one I has this year and we had to remove the last daft bugger with a fork lift“. He was joking. Probably.
It occurred to me some fifteen shaken miles later that it wasn’t just speed that nearly lunched the X-Trail, more than that this is the route I’ve commuted on about fifty times which is sometimes enlivened playing chicken with wheeled agricultural machinery. Because there is always room for a bike, and if there really isn’t a ditch works almost as well.
So some important consumer advice here; “Cars are wider than bikes“. I expect the armco scrapings will probably polish out, but nothing short of H2S04 steamed through an industrial pressure washer will do the same for my pants.
Proper bottom clenching it was. More on this theme when I’m left alone long enough to tell great lies through the medium of photography and self serving text documenting our mountain trip.
And in case you’re still struggling to identify the film “Screw this up and you’ll be flying rubber dogshit out of Hong Kong“. I find such missives comforting at times like this.
* “C’mon cut me some slack here. You KNOW how many times I’ve rammed trees on a mountain bike. I’m bloody well in credit”
** We’ve all been there lads. Easy mistake to make in the dark.
Not me. These rather nattily animated cartoons. Brilliant. And clever too, all done through text to speech which is a shed load harder that it sounds.
Only slightly less amusing was the extremely young Doctor apparently looking up my symptoms on Google this morning. Honestly, get the old fella and you’ll be up to you earlobes in leeches but be nicely ignored by the Young ‘uns and it’s two clicks away from terminal cancer. I wasn’t sure whether to be aghast or hysterical when she openly admitted not being able to pronounce the name of a drug she was on the point of subscribing.
This all for a swollen finger that has has the lumpy misshapenness normally associated with a hammer blow. I’d ignore it as long as I could but once my gloves didn’t fit felt it was time to get the might of the medical profession involved. Not sure I should have bothered now.
Anyone know a good source of leeches? Or should I just hack the bloody thing off?
Learned a few. Probably not enough. Best get back there then.
After ten years of perceived progression – be that in bike technology, fitness, riding ability*, people and places – it appears this is nothing but barely adequate preparation for proper Mountain Biking. Capital Letters Fully Deserved.
There will be more of course; more pictures, more stories, many more words, some lies, some things left untold but until my world has settled a little this will have to do.
First damage report; apart from an arse that feels it may have spent a number of long nights in prison, a twitchy abductor muscle, pock-marked knees, skinned ankles and the odd bit of random missing skin, all is good. I’m properly shagged in many varied and interesting ways except for the one pertaining to my bum cheeks. Pretty sure that was the saddle, but honestly it’s all a bit of a blur.
Bike? That’s properly broken. It’s always been a bit fragile, and exposure to high peaks has finished it off. It survived long enough to limp me home but now it’s off to the great Warranty Repair Centre in the sky and shall – hopefully – be replaced with a slightly less high maintenance example. Still lasted nearly eight months, which in terms of “Al Ownership” is a bloody lifetime.
So physically mostly fine, mentally fairly confused. Found out all sorts of things about how far into dark places you can reach when their are no crowd pleasing choices left. Discovered some traits previously hidden under a veneer of civility; some good, some less so. Realised how important your friends are, and how much richer shared experiences are than anything in your head.
It’s not some kind of spiritual surf-shit I’m pedalling here. It is how you feel when layers of stuff you thought might be important are stripped away. We got away with more than we really should have – mountains are harsh and brutal environments that will test and inspire, switchback despair and joy, first caress then bully, but after all that leave you with a sense of peace that only truly high places can truly deliver.
We never got close to finishing what we started. But that’s fine, because I’ll be going back.
* Coming from a low base obviously.
That’s not a phrase you’ll want to utter as you finally finish the packing task started a number of days ago. But all my careful planning, spreadsheeted lists and epic dithering were brought low by a leaking end to my much loved hose.
Thankfully it was just the Camelbak suffering a last minute dose of incontinence. I dunno tho, it’s suspicious timing and I cannot help thinking that maybe the entire pack is currently shitting itself. Certainly the humper is caught between being really quite excited and not entirely unterrified.
The bike bag weighs 20ks and the Camelbak 8. This is almost a complete turnaround from where we came in, but now I’m fingernail bitingly concerned I may have stripped back the pack a bit too far. At one point I clearly remember wondering “is one arm warmer nearly as useful as two?”
Too late now, everything is in the car ready for a 3:30am start tomorrow. Except me who shall be spending between now and then wide awake worrying that the dog may have eaten my passport/the bloke on plane maintenance has left his thermos is a vital engine bay and the nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something really important isn’t just pre-game nerves – I really bloody have. Honestly sorting my kit out has burned more hours that I’ll every spend riding with it.
Today – for example – I nearly bought a nice new camera for the trip – agonising for 30 minutes while Carol didn’t buy a fridge before weepingly handing it back under the eye of the fiscal oracle. Quite right too, because that time could have been better spent not forgetting to pack a head torch. There’s even some space left in the bag which had me muttering darkly until I realised it was, if course, reserved for 70 degree proof race fuel.
I’ve rambled enough. Some* would say too much. Unless I find that 4am and navigating to Brum airport is beyond my tired and elderly little brain, I shall be back with stories of heroism, and photographic lies to back those stories up middle of next week. Until then I shall be entirely unplugged from the world which sounds rather brilliant, except can someone please text me the cricket score every few hours 😉
* okay all
Fresh in on the wibbly bush telegraph from our guide and host Si:
“I just did a test run with the pack at about 14kg to Tor de Baterre, that’s our first stop for lunch about a 800m climb did it in 2hrs 18mins including stopping for 2 punctures and quite a few breathers!
The descent was fucking interesting, having a heavy pack really affected balance and braking ability, I completely lunched it twice, but no permanent damage, apart from my rear cage now puts the chain over into the spokes – nice!”
Well that’s really selling it Si!
This, ladies and gentlemen, is less than half of the climbing for the first day. It’ll be a bloody miracle if there are any survivors by Day 3, and their chances of making it back alive will be severely reduced by having various body parts of their riding pals strapped to an already overweight pack.
Radical re-packing plan to be implemented. I’m going to sneak all my heavy stuff into someone else’s larger rucksack, leaving me to carry only my hip flash and mobile triage unit.
Probably be alright. Possibly. Maybe I’ll not start any long books eh?
Well me, obviously. I was out testing new tyres on old trails with Tim “the Bling” H when feelings of intense confidence were replaced by feelings of significant pain.
Worth stating early on, that the tyres are entirely blameless here. Slow and Fat they may be* but my unplanned dismount was entirely the result of rider incompetence, wide bars and narrow trails. Specifically a sapling with on a whiplash kick. Pinged it with the bar, and it pinged me right back converting forward motion into kinetic energy and seated rider into unflinching tree.
“Stay there and catch your breath” Tim advised. Sage advice since neither knee was keen to bear the weight of it’s groaning body. Still reconstructive surgery is a wonderful thing, because the rooty smack down impacted right on the stitch line of the doc’s finest work and it took it like a man. The rest of me was a bit more wobbly and lip trembly, but all was well once a damage report confirmed nothing but soreness to follow – so leaving holiday plans intact.
Dignity, however, that’s long gone.
43 then. If I may be allowed a “fuck me, how old?” that’d be welcome. At 25 I never expected to make 40. At 40 I wasn’t bustingly sure about it either. I notice that most of the government appear to be my age or younger, and they are allegedly running the entire country. How can this be? I know absolutely nothing and feel they may be the same only with better speechwriters. And since ageism is now running the rule over selection policy, it seems neither Beckham or I will be picked on the wing for England.
So more than half my life over, a skeleton scarred by injuries mapping all the stupid stuff I’ve tried and often failed. A litany of aches, pains and general malaise that makes some kind of crane almost mandatory for getting out of bed in the morning. All of which has absolutely no bearing on how I shall continue to behave- essentially about 25 with a bit of a hangover. Age is merely a way of keeping score as your friends start dying before you. I reckon I’ve a few more years before hearts stop and that starts.
And those are years which are full of plans, stuff that has to be done now, things to define a little about what you did with those precious years. No regrets, no wondering how it might have been, no thinking big ideas but doing fuck all about it. I’ve changed my mind about age being a way of keeping score, it’s way more than that – it’s about the best motivational kick up the arse you’ll ever get.
Bring it on 🙂
* Maybe it’s like pets. Riders start to resemble their tyres?
Pretty impressive huh? Certainly is close up and shakingly personal. My preference – when reviewing my travel options – goes bike, foot, car, train, boat, “fuck I’m not leaving the surly bounds of earth thank you very much“, bar then plane. After a first helicopter trip, I’d insert the whirlybird somewhere between bike and car, if someone were kind enough to pop one into my garden after installing heli-pads at my places of work. An ambitious plan doomed to failure, and that’s a recurring theme in this post.
There’s a common misconception amongst my friends and family that I have a fear of flying. This is nothing more than a symptom of fabrication shadowing the cowardly cause which – while complex – can be distilled into a perfectly rationale terror of plunging to a fiery death, caught between screaming passengers and PA advocating calm and the brace position. And when some smug arsewipe trots out some hoary statistic proving that crossing the road is somehow more dangerous than an high velocity, high altitude airtight capsule built by the lowest cost bidder, it seems a good time to explain “I HAVE BEEN RUN OVER THREE TIMES YOU KNOW!“*
I feel people like that need to put in a little more research time if they’re trying to reassure the bag of nerves that I was, when stepping under the scything blades of something that clearly cannot fly. Even with a basic knowledge of aerodynamics, no one can look at a a few rotating carbon sticks without thinking “plummet-yes, fly, no”.
And yet it was surprisingly un-scary. Some of which is reduced brain function brought on by noise pollution, some more is a low speed/low altitude combo which gives much time for gawping at scenery and a conceit that – come the inevitable failure of gravity fooling – jumping out is a definite option.
The rest of the week was fairly standard, burned like a self-harmer given a flame thrower for Christmas on the only proper hot day, damp for longer periods, generally squiffy in the evenings, mostly relaxed, relatively sanguine. Then back to work, where it took almost 30 minutes befire laissez-faire holiday mode flipped to “fire up the chainsaw, there’s a staff morale issue to deal with”.
Clearly I need a holiday. And come next Friday, I’ll be embarking on a 3 day pass storming epic of the Pyrenees. This unsupported yomp up and over two high passes will see five hardy souls ascend 5000 feet of rocky mountain on two consecutive days, before a payback of an approximately infinite descent on a track where many people have died. Well possibly, or that could be more of a prediction.
Our days will be book-ended with mountain huts where our carefully chosen race fuel shall be carefully measured out before the slamming begins. Having never done anything like this before, obviously I’ve decided to throw some money at the problem – specifically in the area of kit where it seems my legion of backpacks fail to match up to a difficult requirement of hauling a sleeping bag, spare socks, comedy hat and vat of alcohol over a couple of cheeky peaks. I’ve been eyeing all sorts of stuff – much of which the purpose is entirely lost on a man of my navigational incompetence – but have so far only purchased a Spork and earplugs.
More stuff in the bag, less room for schnapps, that’s pretty much my expedition policy. The trip coincides with yet another birthday, where we’d easily lose the whole morning if my request for a minutes silence to mark each passing year were approved, so it seems pretty damn clear I’d better get on with all this shit I promised myself at 30 while I’m still on the pedalling side of only mildly decrepit. Although a serious professional carrying out a risk assessment of our quest would simply summarise “They’re all going to die falling off a mountain, ensure dental records are up to date“.
I’m mitigating any possible risk by taking a bike with two air shocks, some shed-based tubeless tyre system, a new set of brakes and knobbly new boots. All tested by rigourously riding up and down the road. Ambitious but doomed to failure? Maybe, but got to go out and do this stuff, experience things now while I still can, tweak the nose of terror before it’s too late.
“Late”. H’mm maybe I could have chosen a better word.
* Once by a bike. To be fair he was trying to avoid running over mine and apparently I was easier** to bunnyhop.
** Not easy enough tho
Last night, on wonderful summer trails, I rode my blisteringly quick titanium hardtail in a harmonic partnership of a singletrack machine and a bag of spanners. In fact, it wasn’t so much a ride rather an orienteering exercise hunting for the scene of a crash. Finding one early in no way dimmed my enthusiasm to keep on looking.
Released from a vein throbbing vocational space full of other people’s problems masquerading as my own, my focus was more inside that out. So a certain internalising of “grrrrr” propelled an angry Al on the first downhill at the speed of stupid. Or stupid squared, because my little talent requires constant compensation by awesomely clever bike parts, of which a fully functioning fork ican be thought of as key.
A fork I had locked out for the bastard steep climb immediately before Mr Kamikaze was placed firmly in the drivers seat. The trail feedback suggested all was not well, but any inkling that fully rigid and full speed may not be compatible for a man wishing to retain all his teeth, was sidelined by every upstairs neuron desperately searching for solutions to a high speed off track diversion bringing an extremely difficult looking tree into my immediate future.
Not having any feet on the pedals by this time wasn’t helping my internal or external balance. and really that tree was getting mighty close. Fuck it, foot down, wrench the bars, register pain shooting upwards from the heelbrake(tm) and a further sharp ow from my knee. Miss tree, regain control of bucking bicycle, further register howls of derision and giggling from behind. A quick call to damage control suggested nothing broken, although many parts significantly shaken and a good armful of blood from a knee/bar interface.
What I actually cut my flesh on was the lockout lever for the fork. Oh the irony.
The remainder of the ride retained a similar level of excitement coupled with raw, naked fear. First a 30mph drop from a grassy hilltop collected a gulley full of super-loose shale about half way down. It nearly collected me as well, and if I’d even looked at the brake lever, the sky would have become ground and the ground sky. Survived that, somehow made the corner, plunged into the dark woods barely registering the important difference between brown dirt and brown tree.
Back on the hardtail is ace. It’s properly direct, steers just on the right side of flighty, rewards every pedal stroke with a surge forward but is still beautifully poised on a long fork and clever materials over the rough stuff. But after riding the ST4 for seven months, you not only realise how damn good a sorted hardtail is, you’re also pretty much in awe how fucking amazing a full suspension bike is as well. Nice to have the choice because you can never have too many toys. Unless you 11 and 9 and you’re asking your dad for some new ones. That’s different. Obviously.
Last descent and it’s proper dark. I’ve yet to manage anything smooth and fast. I’m sat on the rear wheel of someone quick and I’m hanging in there but it’s ragged, constantly locking the rear brake and sliding on trail marbles. There’s a myth that the reason Full-Suss bikes are quick is because they soak up the bumps – there is a bit of that but the real USP is grip and especially when it’s at a premium under braking. I’ve lost the finesse of finding it through modulation of the lever and my progress is fast-slow-fast.
I am hanging in there tho, letting the bike have its’ head and trying to keep up with the blur of scenery when I do. Case a 2 foot drop that I’ve nailed forever on the ST4, curse, get back on it, smash through a bush on a bad line, be brave through three bends to bridge the gap before we’re in the trees where steep, rooty and off-camber come together in a three dimensional problem solved every second by shifting weight, feathering the brakes, picking desperate lines searching for the flow, finding something else – call it fun, reasons to live, drugs for free, outdoor therapy rolled into a line of dirt and a wheel to chase.
We all get it. It’s all “fucking hell” and “did you see…” and “how bloody good…” and there’s another three months of this before we’re back to slop and grime. The night before a good old friend and I navigated randomly in the Forest, me on the ST4, him on his hardtail and we had pretty much the same conversation. Whatever you may have been told, it’s not about the bike. But it’s damn good fun finding that out.
Right, that’s me done for a week. We’re off on holiday to enjoy the great British Summer. Which has been great until about a month ago, but never mind I find the beaches less crowded when it’s 12 degrees and hailing. One day we’ll be in a Helicopter which is going to properly test my fear of height/exposure. Expect wibbling come this time next week.