Allegedly searching the Internet means you can find anything. Restrict that search* to all things mountain biking and it won’t take long to locate the existential bullshit re: cycling is a religion and this is my church. It’s lazy, derivative and nowhere near as clever as those self ordained priests of the fat tyre believe it to be.

So obviously I’m co-oping it for this post. Lazy, derivative and pretentious are pretty much watch words for the hedgehog. Also easy to categorise my first proper MTB ride for nearly twelve long weeks as the kind of epiphany so loved by US mega churches** zeroing in on those whose donations accord them special status.

But for the overthinking cohort of the population, that epiphany doesn’t come quite so easily. Exhibit A(l) at 8am this morning was attempting to uncross the streams worrying at the thread of is this still my world? Looking for excuses to drop out, fall into society approved age rated activities, wondering if being scared of something that hasn’t happened, is somehow better than getting out there and placing agency in the driving seat.

Welcome to being 58*** accessorised with a still not healed collar bone. Sidebar:  Let’s pretend this next paragraph is relevant to that discussion.

On the left is Splatterday+6 weeks, the right an update a couple of weeks ago. You don’t need to look too closely as I’ve totally been there. Summary is there’s lots of lovely new bone pulling the break together, but it’s on the light side of hard. “Can I got mountain biking?” I asked the consultant keen to fob me off by offering not much beyond the ‘don’t sue us script‘ – Pause. Push glasses up nose. Refer to notes clearly checking age. “Well I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you ride you absolutely cannot crash”

Arse. Thanks. No streams being uncrossed here. Riding worried is way more bloody dangerous than the care free delusion you’re facing down complex 3D problems with the steely gaze of that grizzled rider you vaguely remember. Whereas stiff and careful is pretty much the crapest way to navigate any trail. Hard on the brakes, soft on the flow. Bouncing off obstacles barely deserving a glance when you’re on it. Catastrophising disaster where fun used to be.

This is bloody annoying. Hold that thought as last weekend I revisited the site of the crash looking for some kind of closure.

Looks like nothing. Was still a bugger to walk down without pitching myself arse over head into the next valley. Working back from where I splattered the collarbone, the evidence suggests – for reasons not even remotely close to obvious – I  decided the bigger drop on the right was an excellent option for a man whos “downhill huck” ability would be charitably marked as “almost no existent but tries hard“. Not hard enough although the sun baked ground took up the slack on that noun.

Closure? Not really. Everything feels open and if I don’t ride now when conditions are perfect then will I ever? So I buried all that pointless angst, pointed the bike at the hills and got on with it. I was never was dragged to church as a child, so not qualified to compare that to rocking up on fantastic trails and riding them at about 50% of pre splatterbone pace. One thing I wondered tho was is this safety first protocol going to plunge me back into that angst.

Because when your prime directive is “I cannot crash” it pretty much ruins riding bikes. Too stiff, too tentative, too nervous and more likely to crash. Well I’m here to tell you that is 100% better than riding on the road. Double that for the turbo. As when you’re riding any trails at any speed,  complexity morphs into single threaded muscle memory.

That’s a wonderful thing but it’s a lot more than that. Friends ahead pacing you because they know for you the whole hill is a no crash zone. A quorum of your riding pals happy to dispense with their favourite trails when their needy one -winged individual is stuck in slow mode. A beer, then another one and just one more lubricating our back catalogue of brilliant days out.

And we’re not done. I’m not done. I have had dark moments these last three months  contemplating a Venn of age-trails-injury, then staring hard at the intersection. Stepping back and wondering if this is where the end starts. Stripping away ego and being honest about what I want to do. And what I want to ride.

Today tho, none of that mattered. The skies were blue, the trails were dusty and all of my favourite idiots were tuned into Radio Al. If there’s a church dedicated to riding then this would be it. But there isn’t, nor should they be. This was brilliantly familiar but there is no liturgy that can come close to how that feels. You can pray to false gods, but that is nothing to the joy of sharing a post ride beer with your friends.

At 8am this morning I worried that maybe I was done with all this. At 2pm, I couldn’t wait to get out again. Because this is what coming home feels like. Or maybe keeping the faith.

*because otherwise we’ll be here all year. And that will not be time well spent.

**I assume the collective noun is “cult” or “Ponzi Scheme”

***birthday yesterday. Disappointed to find irreconcilable evidence I am not still 35.

“I used to ride bicycles” lamented a wistful octogenarian braced heavily by a walking stick.  She was regarding our modern mountain bikes with a combination of confusion and regret as we pulled them from their parking spots.

With already 30km ridden and 900 metres climbed, neither Steve nor I could pass for “young bucks”*,  as lunch stiffened middle aged hips graunchily articulated over dropped saddles.

The difference though – defined by the age gap – is the size of your world. Shrinking rapidly as physical and mental facilities decline;  many more memory outposts than new places to discover.  Earlier that day we’d congratulated ourselves on sacking off screens on the inside for a vibrant landscape of ripening spring lushness.  There’s a quote about a life being more about decisions you’ve made over the things you’ve achieved, and right then I hoped that old lady didn’t regret any of hers.

We certainly weren’t troubled by any feeling of self doubt. Which was a change after my first new bike ride back in the valley had not been incident free. When a rock strike decapitated a tubeless valve before its trajectory zeroed in on the mech-of-future-financial-peril.

Which spent the remainder of the ride so heavily concussed it was reduced to delivering gear ratios apparently bracketed by the Fibonacci sequence. It took a broken multi tool, a read of the manual and significant occupational therapy, in the safety of Matt’s garage, to return it to working operation. Apparently at least half of the issue could absolutely be placed sulkily at the door of the idiot who originally installed it. A door that shall remain closed and we shall not speak of it again.

Back in my shed, the £100 Invisiframe kit was very much firing the starting gun for an expensive divorce, but Carol is so much better at doing shit she doesn’t want to than, erm, someone else. As ever her work ethic and low tolerance for poor results played the lead role in four hours of my life we’ll never get back. My role was more that of occasional useful idiot. Still with frame protection and mudguard fitted, I no longer felt I was playing outside without any trousers.

Not a moment too soon as rock strikes were a recurring feature of our wildly ambitious plan to ride from deep in the Yat, over a big hill marked “The Kymin” round what is considered a decent all day loop, before climbing back over another big hill in time for tea and medals.

Firstly tho a lovely meander along the Wye riverbank into Monmouth. Apparently it’s rained but the dusty dirt suggests otherwise.  Up over the Kymin which is always the kind of climb that 32-51 gear ratios are made for, before a blast down “Mini Molini” which was steep, crumbly dry and dispatched with nary a dab. An excellent start to the day and already nearly 400m of pointy bits bagged.

Bluebells and garlic are in bloom. Not quite fully awesome yet, but enough to stir the soul and gladden the heart 😉 Really tho, experiencing the visual and olfaction Forest in spring marks the unofficial start of prime riding season. Every year it makes me so bloody glad I don’t live in a city.

Riding the main loop out to Tintern we were confident in our navigational abilities as we’ve both ridden it many times**. Confidence not so much misplaced as properly lost without a phone signal and potentially in need of a helicopter rescue. Reframing our directional confusion as new route finding, we did stumble upon a cracking descent with a view of the Severn provided entirely by the high level of exposure.

Back on track, two descents between us and a late lunch. Winter storms have channelled deep grooves and surfaced loose rock on both. One of which saw me fail to exit behind Steve instead slamming my “good” shoulder into, what can only be described as, a trench. Feel the force Luke. I certainly bloody did with that shoulder adding itself to my list of niggling injuries. Suggest it gets in the queue.

98% man, 2% sandstone. Smiling through the pain. Lunch was calling and were keen to answer its siren call.

Riding out of Tintern is where we came in. Criss crossing our inbound route is only a few kilometres away but plenty of climbing meters. Steve had set a target of 1500m total climbing which is frankly ridiculous. Anything over a thousand*** is considered a good day out, and in the last week I’ve already subjected my bitching legs to a 1225 and a 1300.

Hence the big hill on the way back. Up to our favourite Staunton haunts where a plethora of fantastic trails drop you back into the valley bottom. Need to get there first which involves a cheeky run down the Cleddon falls footpath. Late in the day and we meet no-one- it’s noticeably quiet a day before the Easter holidays so we easily secure a table at The Boat for a Recovery Pint.

Much needed as my legs are ready to walk off*** in disgust of potential further abuse. Other body parts aren’t far behind but 30 minutes of a non saddle sit, vitamin D and aforementioned complex carbs in liquid form and we’re good, well maybe average, to go.

It wasn’t that bad. I mean it wasn’t good and I’d been dreading the climb as it’s way too familiar. But thirty minutes later we ran out of hill with around 1350 climbed metres on the clock. Gruntingly gained, easily spent with a flat out run to the river which with a Beer-on-Board and happy new bike vibes being nothing short of fantastic.

Back over the bridge and in sight of rides end, a final dithering over much watched metrics had us winching up the steepest sodding climb on this side of the valley. 1500m was a climb too far, but we were only 50 short and that’s in my top 15 since doing the Strava thing back in 2013. Life in the old dog yet.

Upside of all that up was it opened up the last pitch of a favourite steep descent. You can probably see how relieved I was not to spin the body parts/ground roulette so close to the end of the ride.

58km, 1450m of climbing, mild abrasions and a stiff shoulder. These are the things we can measure. All the other stuff – the important stuff – we cannot and should not. That short lunchtime conversation has stayed with me. The regret of not being able to do something you love.  Pretty much felt like the luckiest fella alive after that.

Oh and the first pic. Still got it, I tell myself. Even if I can’t remember where I put it most of the time 🙂

*old fucks? A far more accurate description 🙂

**and, in my case, forgotten almost everything about it.

***Known as a “Clang”. As in “we have Clanged, can we now please go to the pub?”

****quite slowly, and probably not very far.

I know, those pedals. An absolute travesty suggesting punishment for such aesthetic criminality would involve a locked room plastered in Pantone colours with a terse sign explaining “there are colours and there are shades, learn the difference”.

Learning lessons is not one of my core strengths. As identified early in my academic career, a kind appraisal of ability was summarised thus: “slow but sure” as in slow to learn and sure to forget. This failing continues to manifest in ever more perplexing ways. Take for example the ShedOfDreams as of 11th April.

That snapshot of insanity has TWO bikes out of shot. One being another trail bike very similar to the all-types-of-green-machine in the foreground*. Had I forgotten, that in the thicket of bicycles, were a couple very much aligned in terms of geometry, suspension travel and intended use?

I had not. Nor can I  blame increasingly cerebral confusion** for this stacking of expensive trinkets in an increasingly crowded space.  I can however revert to type and blame someone else. That person is my old friend Olli who was part of a fantastic bunch of humans designing and building Gillette’s global wide area network back in the late 1990s. Pre-internet when plug and play was more incompatible junk and command line hacking.  Good times and good friends who’ve stayed so long after the project was done.

But mostly virtually. So when Olli pinged me over Christmas wondering if I fancied catching up in the real world for a ride, I was all over that like a cheap suit hatching plans for four days of epic UK riding once the seasons ratcheted from cold and wet to warm and dusty.

As with all plans I’m involved with, things escalated quickly. Ending with a reciprocal ride visiting Olli and his family.  Further escalation saw Carol and I embarking on a 1000 mile roadtrip across three countries.***

Meeting up at Olli’s place, we were introduced to his lovely family, and a box marked “Propain” that had the makings of a trail bike I’d been lusting after for many years. Brexit made that pretty much unaffordable, so I pivoted to a strategy best described as “some light smuggling“.  Again time to move on.

Building the bike I was initially confused by the elven sorcery that is electronic shifting. Honestly, I fully expected a pointy eared survivor of Helms Deep to pop out of the box incanting appropriate spells.  No such materialisation occurred- instead I was left with the thick wad of materials accompanying the bike. Obviously I ignored those and instead called in 2nd line support. Carol did an excellent job unfucking my ham fisted assembly attempts, and gently walked me away from the hammer. We were good to go.

Olli’s local trails are right behind his house. Sadly he lives shadow deep in the valley so it was a 300 metre climb to get us started. It didn’t stop me marvelling how light the new bike was, and how much fun was to be had randomly pressing non haptic pads and all sorts of mechanical stuff happening a metre away at the rear mech without a cable being involved.

First trail, cautious was the watchword. Rubbish would be another one. Way too much going on with new bike, new trails and Olli disappearing at quite the rapid rate. Regrouping at the fireroad, I had just enough breath left to wonder if this “blue” trail might be light red. Based on my ability to understand colour, probably not.

The trail network here is impressive. Superbly built and fantastically maintained by a community of like minded MTBers. We rode blues, red and blacks and I loved them all. Mostly tho not because of riding a new bike, more riding with an old mate under sunny skies. That never gets old.

There is even a restaurant at the top of the hill. Rammed at the weekends apparently, but mercifully quiet on a skive-y Wednesday. We headed back down the valley. on another superbly involving  trail, where my confidence in the new bike outstripped my ability and it was touch and go whether I’d  impact and stop, but somehow we wrestled things back under control.  Lesson learned? Probably not.

Heading back up the other side of the valley we crested the 1000m of climbing and kept going. Absolutely worth it for another banging trail before heading home for beer, medals and a burger about the size of my head.

Next day the clouds clamped chilly conditions to ground level. We headed out 30 mins to another ride location that – after some funky chicken warming up on exiting the van – had adrenaline shots lined up on every feature.  My legs weren’t keen but once we had gravity weighing in the backpacks, multi kilometre trails were hosting entirely inappropriate middle aged whooping.

That’s me rocking my standard “Hidden Badger, Naked Terror” stance. Bike was great tho. Different enough to the other ones to make me consider thinning out the herd some time this summer. There’s probably another 1000 words extolling the positives and ignoring the negatives of adding a copy of something I already have, but you’ve read that crap before. And it’s still the same bullshit.

Instead let’s talk about the value of friendships. The taking of chances. The grasping the nettle, the shunning of the ordinary. Sure riding bikes is always good, but renewing bonds stretched a little after 20 years was so much better. I only hope we can give Olli the same experience when he’s here in a couple of months.

That’s on us then. We have the trails, now making sacrifices to the weather gods.

Until then we’ll have good time memories. And a new bike. Not sure it gets much better than that.

*Can we move on from the pedals. It was a needs must situation which I very much regret especially after showcasing the new bike to the local ride crew. No quarter was given 🙂

**Really. Standing in front of things wondering what I’m doing there is now a daily occurrence.

***We had a whole bunch of fun. Shall be doing that again.

History- often said to repeat if unobserved. Mmm, a tired old trope, I prefer “If history and science have taught us anything, it is that passion and desire are not the same as truth.” – hold that thought while we mine the repetition meme that Karl Marx pretty much nailed with “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.”

Five kilometres in sees me desperately swinging between the way the world is versus how I’d like it to be. Ian – proper runner – has my back, and more importantly my front declaring all is well while tapping his wrist based chronometer.

I’m not so sure. But before we can move forward*, we must first navigate hinterlands’ misty fog.  This “race”** first hit my calendar back in 2018. I made some desultory readiness efforts as a proxy for being properly prepared. The same Ian dragged me round various hateful loops – my abiding memory is his tiny dog out pacing me on every trail – before my natural athletic ability smashed up against head-torch difficult geography resulting in an ankle about the size of my head and a “Do Not Start”

Which nearly finished me. Six weeks of grumpy sloth left me with a hard to shift belly medicated heavily on beer, and a strong supposition that running was for other people. This wasn’t just an ankle-jerk reaction to injury, more a recognition that riding a bike intersects the Venn of “things i want to do” and “things I don’t totally suck at” while running feels pretty much a skill learned only to outrun an angry bear.

We don’t get many of those in Ross. Unless the Ursus genome includes hedgehogs. Even I could out pace one of those given a decent start. Anyway here we are on the cusp of my first ever “official” 10km run. Not sure what the second Venn of “nervous” and “crap” is but I’m 100% inhabiting it. But at least history hasn’t repeated itself, I’ve made the start line but will I get to the end?

Ian is talking me down. A man who can run 10km in less than 45 minutes has every reason to be relaxed. Me, not so much searching the field for fat blokes, old women, crafty fag chancers or limping desperadoes.  Sadly wish fulfilment is not on the agenda today, and it’s all 4D stretching and barely concealed bravado.

Left of me are hundreds of proper runners ready to do battle with the course. Right well fuck that let’s grab a an ankle, pretend that’s a proper stretch and pen ourselves in the sub hour tribe disappointingly peppered with a few wannabes failing to observe rule 1: don’t be a dick.

Klaxon trills. We’re off navigating a thousand runners, most of whom are setting off way too fast. That’d be me except Ian is mainlining his inner Yoda and advising a slower pace properly couched in a “plan your race, race your plan” mantra. I want to go a bit harder, as runners stream pass, but we’re barely half a kilometre into the race, and I know I’ll suffer later***

Want to know how I suffer? Let me share that with you. But first, while the event was brilliantly organised,  I was disappointed with the lack of fancy dress. Sure being passed by a eight foot Rubik’s’ Cube at 9km is a proper dent to your self esteem, but I’ve always loved watching those nutters livestreamed on the London Marathon.

Some of that is because I could definitely rock a chicken suit,  Anyway watching me run in fancy dress would surely comment “wow, he’s gone full poultry there, got the gait and everything” – this is not a drill, it is how I run, Seeing Ian and I mirrored in shop windows, he looks like a proper runner whereas I appear to be not quite falling over with a gaze suggesting an opportune worm is within my purview.

So we’re at 5km and I’m briefly uplifted by the hard left signifying easy street for the non half marathon runners. It still feels way too hard tho and for the first time Ian is chivvying me along, not pushing me back. I’m starting to tire, but in my defence conditions are perfect 😉 Blue skies pierced by a warm sun making those wearing multi layers to regret their choices,

I’m also regretting my choices even as Ian tells me we’re right on pace, and up front is the 55 min pace setter who started three minutes up the road. I want to chase and pass, but pace is pace and we’re not going to blow it up now. We fly by with a km to go, and still the pavements are full of volunteers/spouses/those with nothing better to do clapping us on. And those who burnt all their matches and are now walking. Yeah Smug mode on.

But I’m properly hurting now. I’ve trained pretty well for this event, since the start of the year, but the last 2km represent a mental battle I’m keen to avoid. Ian keeps me honest tho with the finish line black-holing me into a rubbish sprint to get it done. And I’m done. Properly, hands on knees, most body parts shut down, sucking in all the available oxygen.

Fist pump feels so wrong, so I give Ian a sweaty hug instead. He looks delighted 😉 He’s done a fantastic job pacing me to a 52min, 35 sec.  My goal was under an hour so I’ll not only take this, I’ll forge it in iron and bury it for future generations.  I’m not  a runner so this feels like something I should be proud of.

Ian and I pick up our medals and freebies and head back to the car. 1030am and we’re done. I was properly nervous at 830am assuming I’d spectacularly  fuck this up, but no apparently if you put in the work, you’ll get the results.  I think I’ll do another one, maybe a bit further, maybe not.

The lesson, if there is one, must be just get out there and do stuff you’ve never done before. Even if it’s not your “thing“. Create good memories. Now let’s go and make some more.

*quite slowly in the case of some desperate middle aged jogging.

**I just can’t. Racing suggests speed. I’ll grudgingly accept “event”. But race is happening to other people.

***this absolutely came to pass.

There’s a myth around built trails. It goes like this: No Dig, No Ride. Forged on sun kissed dirt where sculpted jumps and perfect landings black-holed a tribe of riders steeped in a culture matching individual need to shared endeavour.

Good stuff. Right on, even. But it’s not an axiom that holds for trails cut into contested woodland. Barely a proxy for any vague feelings of guilt that you may be riding on the shoulders of giants.

I should know. I do this all the time. The trail network in the Forest of Dean is maybe 20% sanctioned trails with 80% sinewy singletrack carving fuck-you signatures into Forestry Commission machine tooled straight edges, and private land where it’s fine to shoot fat birds for the few, but off limits for anyone with a progressive view of the trespass law.

That’s as far as I’m going with the legality of built trails. There are solid arguments on both sides. Rarely meeting in the middle.  It is, at best, firing arrows at the heart of the periphery and none of us have a winning dart. So swerving the finger pointing of  those to whom shared access for the many continues to be an anathema, let’s instead talk trail maintenance.

Not the building of new trails. We leave that to the masters of the dirt. The Bermateers, the sandstone sculptures, those with the skilled eyes for the perfect apex, the completers of ideas, the Gods of the shovel. You know who you are. Mostly called Gary where we ride 🙂

Every visionary needs an army of grunts. A grunt of the unseen. An appropriate  collective noun to encompass Matt. Haydn and I as we forsake our normal transportation-  swapping pedals for stout boots and awesome bikes, for tooling previously employed in the pointless pursuit of manicured flower beds.

Sporting these icons of the middle aged, three middle aged blokes set about restoring the main climb to something rideable. Autumn annually deposits sufficient leaf mulch to turn 30 seconds of effort into a wheel spinning, pedal steamer, max heart rate frustration of failure.

Unless you’re on an eBike in which case would you mind turning Turbo right fucking off right now? Again, a topic for another day possibly when I’m significantly more mediated.

Moving on, Matt moved  to clearing the top of the gulley festooned with three months of rain and misery. Under which is some solid bedrock a few hours from seeing the light. We’re not so much putting things back, more taking stuff out. Mostly punting it up and over shoulder height. This is not crafting new trails, it’s is not the work of the trail auteur, master of all they survey.

Nope, while their efforts have been magnificent in creating a trail network calling to those firstly with ‘something of the night about them‘ and latterly to groups hailing from hundred of miles away*  They don’t come for this climb but they will lap it multiple times to access the best trails.

Putting the Matt into Mattock. Matt scrapes down to the Bedrock while H and I drag mulch from lower down attempting to turn a fetid rut into a two bike wide trail. There’s so much more we want to do, we see the need to bench cut the start of the climb and go full rake on the upper sections, but there’s both a physical and mental limit to poke entropy with a rake.

So we focus on priorities. This is filthy, if we left it be unridable until about April at which point it’d be a narrow single sun baked line sandwiched between desiccated leaves and encroaching borders. So we punt everything dead over the bank then rake the remains into the trail, to be corralled, collected and carted off to a final destination building on the day of the dead of previous years.

This is where you end up, Mostly leaning on  knackered gardening equipment, surveying the fruits of our efforts while mumbling “That’ll do pig” before retiring to a pint of Creme de Menthe and an emergency physio appointment.  Four hours is around twelve hours too little to fully clean this climb. And that’s before we consider the priority of clearing the landing of a gap jump best considered as a shortcut to Accident and Emergency.

Not today tho. We weary trail warriors hoist tools shoulder high and head back to civilisation***. We have most definitely given something back and taken something out.  Three days later we’re back in the dark, powerful lights illuminating the now perfect climb sirening winter mountain bikers to their doom. Or the pub. Which is often the same thing.

It always feels good doing this stuff. Not the next day when any movement requires a good deal of thought, and possibly a manual. But every time this winter we head up this climb, there’s just that little damp spark igniting a sense of community. Doing the right thing thing even if no-one notices.

On that, as we wearily headed to Matt’s van, a belligerent rambler demanded to know what we’d been up to. He’d clearly pre-loaded vitriol targeting those tyred of tradition, and middle fingered to authority. Strangely when we explained all our our previous four hours were cleaning the footpath***, he lost a whole lot of rigjhtousness.

Because I’m an idiot, I came VERY close to adding we’d built an amazing jump configured to skewer innocent dog walkers. I restrained myself tho because shared trails are pretty much the definition of Rule 1: Don’t be a dick. Very much a proponent of that.

Have rake. Will dig.

*on the day we were on the shovel, a cheery bunch of double digit Welsh eBikers transited our best work. I did my best to reciprocate. Not my best efforts to be honest.

**As close to Ross gets anyway.

***Yes, I am fully aware of the irony. Don’t blame me, it’s a bloody stupid land access law.