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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’d do well to remember that.

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

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

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

Long suffering hedgehogger’s are tediously reminded of my mechanical incompetence, faced evenwith seemingly simple tasks. In my simple world-view, the universe is a binary split between those genetically blessed with the ability to bevel and the rest of us. Based firmly in the second camp, every problem is generally hit quite hard with various percussive tools before being declared an electrical issue.

And that’s for stuff clearly already broken. The concept of preventative maintenance is merely a meaningless pantheon of interesting letters without much of a meaning. I assumed it was something to do with birth control and moved swiftly on. So while many may consider my pre-trip regime of kicking the tyres* and counting the brakes lackadaisically inadequate, it’s actually a well honed strategy of not creating a non working component from a working one by the simple application of Mad Spanners’ Al.

On reflection this may have been a mistake. An oversight certainly when you consider Cy’s lovely Rocket is more than a bit of an engineering tour-de-force with significant linkages, bolts and pivots that demand something other than giving them an occasional friendly pat. Jump forward to the end of a first day where dusty bikes were being eulogised through a beery lens, which would have been absolutely fine, were I not suddenly struck with an almost alien-abduction desire to ‘fix something’

That something was an occasionally lumpy pedal stroke impeded by a catchy rasp. Beer in hand, I confidently approached the patient patting it comfortingly on the saddle ‘nothing to worry about, just having a quick look, didn’t even bring a hammer, all shall be fine‘. But it wasn’t. Not at all. The main pivot bolt** had unwound sufficient revolutions to be uncomfortably nestling against the inner chain ring. Which had me rushing round the other side to see what the fuck the bolt at the end of that axle was playing at.

Whatever it was playing at I couldn’t ascertain with it having derelicted its duty and spun off to lie unseen in some handy ditch. Mechanically as we’ve established I’m bloody useless, but put me in front of a head scratching problem and straight away stuff starts to happen. Buying bikes from a friendly bloke in Derbyshire rather than some faceless corporation means I get an answer to my ‘right Cy broken this bit, what’s next‘ call right now, followed by good advice.

This being that a duplicate bolt from the linkage would need to tap into the empty thread leaving me with the job of finding something M14 shaped to complete the ‘can go riding tomorrow‘ jigsaw. Turning what into how is a challenge with nothing but multitools, and the hotel owner proffering a box of spares clearly hoarded since the last war. Problem solver remember? First assemble the team; what we have here is my good mate Martin who can fix anything on 30 ton combine harvesters with spanners than make me feel I’m living in Lilliput. And Augustin the lovely proprietor who had little English but a superb collection of what – on closer examination – appeared to be a collection of bathroom furniture from the 1950s.

Cue ‘A Team‘ music and another beer. Through the shared language of mechanical savagery we removed the cranks dispensing with the not-available special tool inserting instead a screwdriver and hitting it with a rock. Cranks off, bathroom spanner close enough to gain purchase on the donor bolt. That’s out, but now we’re struggling as the lovingly crafted cowled housing hosting the axle bolt means we can get any purchase to tighten the bolt.

Plan B. Jam in a multitool and measure success on exactly how much paint is removed as it graunches through 90 degrees during the tightening process. No matter, it’s on and we’re one standard bolt short of getting it done. On a Spanish Bank Holiday. Out of season. At 6pm. Tomorrow is another day, and one which the one bolt shop on the island might be open. If not it’s one of Lavatrax’s hire Marin’s which are fine and everything but have the meme of the Top Gear Beetle malevolently rumbling behind the talent***

Darran turns up with bolts and spanners of which the latter fits but the former is still maddeningly out of reach. Augustin still feels we’re missing a trick and insists on attempting to affix a shower attachment clearly nicked from the film set of ‘The Graduate‘. We wave him away, load up and head the down the mountain away from awesome riding and towards the city of the grockels where – if I’ve led a righteous life – man with bolt shall be waiting.

His shop certainly was. Open and busy immediately leading to losing Martin into the middle-aged porn of the power tool aisle. Leaving him to check out “Spanish Drillers Monthly”, Darran and I presented ourselves, and most of my bike, at the till making M14 gestures until the nice man tapped furiously into a terminal and disappeared into some vast stock room. He returned triumphant with the MTB equivalent of the Cullinan diamond and a matching washer.

I fell upon this shiny thing with the pathos of a man saved from a terrible future involving bikes mostly associated with map boards, beards and Ron Hill Tracksters. While Darran got busy with his big wrench I handed over the not very substantial sub of .76 cents to the poor assistant who couldn’t quite understand while a repressed English bloke felt the urge to give him a proper manly hug.

Twice in the first kilometre I checked the bolt was present and correct determined to ensure that any future breaks for freedom would be stalled by my keenly observed quality control. And then promptly forgot about it. Which worked well as the bike performed impeccably for the next three days without – or probably because – I did nothing other than brush the dust off it.

Packing it back up I couldn’t help noticing a couple of things. Firstly the once shiny frame now had the appearance of a ground zero event during a fragmentation grenade attack, and secondly the rear tyre was describing an orbit best thought of as a washing machine being pulled into a black hole. The first was due to the extreme rockiness of the terrain, the second to my inability to solve the equation ‘tyre rim requirement – tyre rim > 0‘.

You almost have to feel sorry for the bike. I did. On returning home it never even made it out of the bag before being dispatched to Nic @ the bike shop with a list of things I’d broken. It was – and is – utterly fab though, and I just want to ride it every day even when those days are dreary and grey and flooded.

If there’s a point to this, then it is this: every bike I own – and have every owned – seems to malfunction in strange and unheard of ways. I’m starting to think it might be me.

* there’s a story even here. Most tyres fit on most rims. Some don’t. However hard you pretend they actually do.

** for the tiny segment reading this nonsense who are not obsessed by mountain bikes, let me demystify that last statement: it’s the chunk of steel that stops the front and back heading off in different directions. Remember those films where cars are cut in half and the rear overtakes the front? Bit like that, only with less laughs and more hospital.

*** this my TV producing pal tells me is what the presenters are called. I’ve been in touch with the OED on your behalf.

That’s a rubbish picture. But it’s illustrative and may save a 1000 words such a picture paints. So be grateful. We’ll be back to it in a bit. But first I feel the need to talk about plans.

John Lennon said it best “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”*. It wasn’t so long ago stakes were grounded in a heartland of what’s important, and I genuinely subscribed to a short term view that Christmas would be upon us before the world of work impacted on something I’d labelled as recuperation, but felt like sloth.

Lazy I can do. Slobbing about is pretty much a core skill. Tinkering in a fettling manner worries me not a jot. Until the room housed elephant trumpets a noise like guilt. Got to make ends meet, got to prove something, got to give in to the notion that working somehow has more value than everything else. Too many of us have the meme of the breadwinner and it’s a hard habit to shake.

Even so, distanced from the world of work by four hours, many miles and a different culture, our holiday was rooted in a strong desire to concentrate on stuff I’d missed not stuff I might be missing. Which worked well until TurkCell fired up the iPhone SMS feed and an offer of possible work hit the screen. I vacillated a while before replying in a non committal way and expecting – as is the way of these things – any vacancy to be long filled before I arrived back on rainy UK tarmac.

It didn’t. I ended up filling it. Two long interviews, the second conducted in a rather unbalanced Al v a panel of five. So my proposed rest was usurped by something properly interesting, but basically rewarding behaviour I was trying to shake. Next year, I’ll sort that out. Important to keep telling yourself that.

Mitigation of a sort was to run away from all things vocational and see if my new bike works with dust on it. Yes, I did indeed use that very rationale for why a very long weekend to Tenerife was more than required. Known as the ‘land of eternal spring‘ I care not if this is marketing nonsense, as I’m desperately keen to get away from the ‘land of the eternal flood‘

Since arriving back from warm and sunny Turkey, I have been enveloped in weather that could summarily be described as ‘more than a bit shit’. Accepting November is perilously close to real winter, it still seems more than a little unfair that it’s done nothing but piss water onto saturated ground on a daily basis. Surprisingly I’ve ridden loads and more surprisingly I’ve managed to do so without serially nutting local flora an fauna. But it’s been close, especially with the Rocket sporting a tyre selection that has the rear desperate to instigate a conference with the front every time the trail turns sideways.

Superb selection I keep telling myself for dry and dusty rocks come a week Wednesday. There’s a counter argument suggesting I’ll never get there, if the God Of Survivable Slides looks in another direction. Two recent rides provide context; the first was back on the carbon hardtail as it wouldn’t rust after bonkers rain. Shod with mud tyres, it performed superbly in the cheeky woody trails under the Malverns. One descent I was elevated from back to front by sheer dint of beingthe only man left riding. My buddies were in various hedges and ditches having gone with a rubber selection marked certain death. Back on the rocks tho, those fantastic tyres came close to fetching me a face full of wet granite.

Next ride, grab the full-suss and hope for the best. Which hill clamping fog and sideways rain clearly wasn’t. One of those rides where getting to the end without a major blood injury tastes like success. It’s still fun, but Christ I’m bored of slogging through the mud. I was bored of it in August and now it feels as if it’ll never end.

Except it will. On December 5th. When me and my pal Martin will land on an island that’s basically an African archipelago. Four days of sunny and dusty riding await. Along with four days of tall tails told over cold beers, while sitting outside watching the sun go down. That’s what that picture is all about. Riding mountain bikes is absolutely a four season sport, but don’t delude yourself that endless muddy death marches are the only way to get through the crappy ones.

* He may have said it better in the Beatles Back Catalogue. Possibly in Yellow Submarine. But you’d probably have to be amp’d off your head to be sure.

Blokes like lists. We do, it’s just the way we’re wired. Which is exactly why our level of engagement on receipt of ‘the 10 best ways to make something explode‘ is far higher than on being asked ‘so what do you think of this sofa in that shade of lilac?*“. But ask us for a sequence of famous soft furnishes in action movies and we’re your man. As long as we’re allowed to start at one and count no further than the combined sum of our digits.

Primacy in my ‘the worse time to ride a new bike‘ was firmly inked in under ‘the day before a family holiday‘ as explained in a previous post. Which partially** explains a first-up riding performance imbued with sufficient mincing to properly offend a vegetarian. But this entry at the top of the chart was summarily ejected by a ride prefixed by ten days of solid eating and one night of three hours sleep. Conditions didn’t help either. Unless helping has it’s own list where 1: dark 2: wet 3: frictionless and 4:muddy as fuck are universally accepted as ‘things most likely to help a very tired man on an unfamiliar bike‘

They didn’t. Not this one anyway. Riding mountain bikes when every glistening polished root promises violence and every corner is merely a pointer to a nice tree to crash into requires many things. Tell you what let’s lets get our list making skills out; 1: familiarity of the trail, 2: familiarity of the bike 3: familiarity of the tyres 4: confidence that 3: and 2: will overcome the obstacles of 1:, 5: balls of if not steel then some kind of ferrous metal.

I knew the trails but noting else. Couldn’t work out what the hell was going on under the tyres or on the pedals. Everything felt new and awkward. Nothing worked, gentle pushes on the bar or full blooded attempt to take the trail by the tail. I knew exactly where we were but I was lost. No reference points, no feel for the trail, no tactical solutions. No idea at all. It wasn’t a happy ride other than the bit where it finished without a bark splattered Al.

This wasn’t the bike I demo’d. It wasn’t anything fun at all. Clearly the problem couldn’t be with me, so a list of possible fixes filled my head as two days later the bike was unloaded on a blissfully quiet FoD***. First climb, horrid. Bouncy, thrutchy, too much rebound, it was the lilac sofa on wheels. Just nasty. Pack off, shock pump out, few quick inflations justified by the worryingly svelte-not of Al. Better, but still not right. The bike felt heavy and dead, and it just didn’t want to go.

First descent. Nearly planted myself into a tree. I realise there is a common theme here. Lists again; most likely place to have an accident 1: tree 2: tree 3: tree 4:tree …. 10:rock 11: rock in front of a tree, etc. Even in the Malverns where there aren’t many trees, I’ve still hit most of them. It’s a skill. So even less svelte than was my post holiday delusion. Fuck it, get pumping like a porn star and wind out the unwanted bronco. Rode the section again, lots better but still not right. Repeat until the magic settings coalesced into some proper carving turns, a pop off a jump and a big grin.

Close enough. Rode the rest of the trail without a pause. Took it easy on the last descent because mud and new bikes are not speedy bedfellows. Took 15 seconds off my best time. It’s absolutely all about the bike. Even factoring in purchase anxiety, this is a truly phenomenal bit of kit. A frankly ridiculous six inches of travel but not a wallowy uphill mess. Endless traction but still plush climbing over rocks. Mad poppy fun off jumps but still running through the travel. Stiff as a teenage boy with his first copy of the Internet, but low slung and playful in the bends.

I shall need to up my game by some distance to get anywhere near what this bike can do. Designer Cy suggest the simple technique of death-gripping the bars and focussing on some distant dot on the horizon. I’ve been trying this lately with some mildly astounding results. Including keeping up with my Orange-5 shod riding pal who previously gapped me on every descent. But I’m absolutely aware that the bike can only take me so far, and I’m probably not brave enough to meet it even half way.

Still I’m going to have a lot of fun trying. I wasn’t sure what I lost by selling the ST4. And I’m not sure exactly what I’ve found with the Rocket. It’s not a sit down skills compensator. It doesn’t take a trail and sanitise the difficulty so sir can get on with admiring the view. It demands you come to the party and leave your list of excuses at home.

There very little here not to like.

* Illustrative point here. Northern carriers of the Y chromosome have no concept of lilac. The more cultured may believe it is some form of plant. It is never a colour.

** But not totally. For that look in the book of excuses marked ‘lack of bravery’.

*** This was when I could still ride on a weekday. Before a job turned up and demanded my attention. It’s playing bloody hell with my Strava performance.

There are times when there is absolutely no justification for shouting stuff from the rooftops at all. Other than what my mum would describedisdainfullyas ‘making a scene‘. This is my scene and I’ve put a bike in the middle of it.

This is not merely the latest pointless addition in Al’s rambling pantheon of bike shaped objects. Nor is it some finely honed strategy explaining exactly why the five lovely BSO’s I already own fail to meet a requirement that has suddenly become extremely important. It certainly isn’t an impulse purchase, nor will it immediately punt a previously* loved shed based item into the shivering eBay wasteland.

No this is Al buying Al a present. After every major project, there’s at least one person in the Leigh household who strongly believes – to the point of much whinging – that he is due a reward. Depending on exactly how bat-shit crazy the previous months have been, this may besomethingfinanciallytrivial or an item potentially leading to the Children eating their own shoes.

If you’ve read anything I’ve written in the last six months, or had the misfortune to be the Organic B end of my spittle-fleckedvitriol, you’ll be unsurprised to hear we’re deep into the Clark’s Book of School ShoeRecipes.

If there is ANYONE in the world who can be as focussed and profligate as me in terms of splashing an almighty chunk of cash in less than seven days, please let them step forward so I can embrace them like a brother and assuage some of my guilt. Last weekend I was high up on a Derbyshire hill – in the pissing rain of course – wondering if I could really justify buying a new bike. Specifically this one which had me grinning like a loon and scrubbing crappy work stuff like a massive mental eraser.

I couldn’t. I was fairly directly honest with Carol about this. I didn’t create some convoluted list of dependencies that’d somehow make this cost neutral. I didn’t pretend my current flock of bikes was somehow unworthy of my God-like riding skills. At no point did I mention the word progression although ‘Alps‘ may have crept in during an arm waving view of my riding future.

No. I didn’t do any of that. My position was simply that I’d worked my bollocks off for seven months and come very close to rocking-under-the-desk stress bunnyism, and the only way I could make sense of that was to have something that said ‘you know what, you’ve earned that’**

Carol was as ever understanding if a little taken aback when the full cost was finally blurted out. You could buy a car for that, in fact we did. Or a Holiday, we did that as well. Not satisfied with a brand new frame, I wanted to adorn it with as much blinginess as a large warehouse in East Lancs could post by Friday. Somehoweverythingarrived on time including a massive hangover for the man dragged into the pub on his last day***

The sensible thing was to dispatch all parts to Nic @ Revolutions with a breezy ‘it might be a little more complicated that I explained’ before stumbling off for a second greasy breakfast. A quick call mid afternoon was met with a flowing invective I shallsummarisethus “fucking nightmare, those wheels, jeez what were you thinking, it’s a right bastard of a problem child‘. I hung up happy in the knowledge that someone other than me was dealing with this difficult birth.

Really if it were me, it’d have been hammers and tears of frustration before lunchtime. There are some mentalists of the screaming variety who love to build bikes. I am not one of them unless assembly is merely a percussion arms race with added powertools. Nic delivered the bike with a couple of throwaway comments including ‘tyres aren’t quite seated, should be fine on the first descent or they’ll roll off the rim. No Point dying wondering eh?”

No point indeed. It’s sat over there <— looking as if it’ll be writing cheques my limited skills will struggle to cash. I’ve added some air to the forks before capping my mechanical knowledge right there.

Tomorrow we go and ride. The day after that we go on holiday. I’ve been given strict instructions to arrive home with my shield or on it, after at least one incident where our vacation plans were slightly disrupted by the designated driver spending three days in hospital. Carol doesn’t need to bring this up, she’s just given me a ‘”we’re going without you” look, if you’re lucky we’ll txt you some pictures’ which seems entirely fair.

If, and it’s a big if, nothing goes wrong in the morning and Turkey doesn’t suddenly becomeuninhabitable, then the holy trinity of completing batshit project, riding my new bike and going on holiday with my family could come to pass. Got to be a better than evens chance.

What’s the worse that can happen?

* let’s be charitable and say ‘last week’ shall we?

** Possibly not all of that.

*** WikiAlex definition of dragged “Hey Fellas, I’m off the to the Pub, Credit Card behind the bar, WHOSE WITH ME?”