I haven’t written much lately but, to quote from that famous* Stratford Upon Avon postcard, neither has Shakespeare. The difference is that he’s dead and I’ve just wanted to kill people. Harvesting 700 people from three dilapidated buildings and re-homing them in a shiny new one shouldn’t be this hard.

This assertion is based primarily on having it done quite a few times before. With more people. And less time. And considerably more complexity. The difference being this client has a level of dysfunction which upgrades any project to more of a quest.

All of which has resulted in many, many late nights, a few stand up arguments, a few more sitting down with my head in my hands, the very real prospect of me removing myself, bat and ball on the not unreasonable grounds of possible prison time for extreme violence metered out to the unworthy.

As ever my coping strategy combines alcohol is medicinal quantities and multiple trips to the mental refuge of mountain biking. When it finally stopped raining, the trails responded with a late summer bounty of slop-free hardness and occasional dust.

Most of my riding is prefixed by a mad dash from the office navigating the horror of the Hagley road and three separate set of roadworks** chasing a fast setting sun. And I cannot enjoy the hard packed dirt until my poor riding buddies have suffered the collateral damage of my gapless verbal machine gunning synopsis of another shitty day.

Then it’s been good. I’m not sure if it’s confidence ridden in from many rides this last six weeks or some kind of ˜don’t make me go back there‘ death wish, but my edge has been well and truly ragged. I’ve dragged front wheels slides back from certain disaster, survived endless cased jumped and bar-kissed almost every tree in the Forest. Both my bikes have been brilliant, which is obviously why I need a new one.

That project has stalled with a booked demo bumped by another Saturday in the office. Instead Random has gone from one bike she loved to two she’s not quite sure about. This after moving on her much cherished Islabike, which has taken her from a towpath rider to a full on MTB’r in a fast growing 18 months.

She’s too big for it now, visually demonstrated when she threw a leg over her sister’s lovely if languishing Spesh Myka. However Logic being a hostage to delusion in our household, I received instruction that Abi might suddenly regain the riding bug and that Herefordshire might suddenly become flat*** enough for her to enjoy a family ride.

Seizing on this as an opportunity for more bike buying, a quick scan of pre-loved bargains brought forth a bike with a dodgy providence and dubious history. Originally trumpeted as being custom built for the manufacturers wife, we subsequently discovered that not only was this a massive porkie, but also the frame wasn’t even the same model as advertised.

Not a problem for me as it’s clearly a thing of hand crafted beauty. Possibly a problem for weight-weenie Random who has her sister’s hatred of hills pointing up. My response was “ inevitably “ to throw money at the problem; lightening the frame by hanging boutique bits on the outside and replacing the weighty coil shock with an air equivalent in the middle.

And adding pink of course. Lots of pink to a frame probably designed for being hucked off massive drops. It’s essentially an elephant in drag, but looks bloody fabulous and shall be pedalled into the local woods on Saturday assuming Mr Fuck Up doesn’t visit the project meaning another weekend lost to the insanity of others.

I did manage to find time to take a few photos in between bouts of beating my head against a shiny new desk. Here are a few examples:

Martin on the Worcester Beacon at Sunset

Nig in the Quantocks

Andy in the Malverns

Right I’m going back in. Four more weeks and we’re done. Or maybe earlier I’ve burned the building down to show my displeasure of all things stupid.

* Not really

** I can only assume there is some kind of ˜big data’ thing going on which pinpoints my regular routes and inserts 5 miles of roadworks in the middle of it.. No way it can be coincidental.

*** It appears to be my fault that we live in such a hilly county.

This was team-mate Martin’s analysis of how easy next years race would be as compared to the 24 hours of circular insanity we’d just participated in. I couldn’t help but point out that a) I had absolutely no intention of testing that theory and b) a ‘walk in the park’ well described my time out on the course.

Eastnor is many things. Spectacularly beautiful nestled as it is under the stunning Malvern Hills. Ideally set up for large scale events. Sufficiently lumpy to create interesting mountain bike courses*. All of these things and more. What it isn’t is particularly weatherproof, especially on the end of the wettest spring since Noah was a lad. The estate doesn’t allow for built trails, leaving the course to be cut through wood and shrubbery all joined by stony tracks.

So with rain comes mud as water floods off the hills creating a thousand rivers funnelling into freshly felled singletrack. 700+ riders out on the course for the full twenty four hours will deepen ruts in the middle and extend the mud out to the trail margins. That mud will either turn your bike into a static 40lb brown behemoth or you into something from a low budget swamp monster flick.

Mayhem being a bit muddy isn’t a new thing. But 2012 will be a high water mark for as much dread and horror mixing rain and dirt can bring. Some people love that kind of challenge. Team Mate Sean is one of those nutters who relishes challenging himself in yet more terminally stupid ways. His event bike sported a set of race tyres, bugger all frame clearance, a rear brake some ten years old and steering geometry even more venerable that that.

He was our fastest rider, the one who had the best accident, the muddiest after a spectacularly grim final lap, the most innovative in terms of bike washing and personal hygiene** and the man most likely to declare himself ‘fit and ready‘ to get back into the rain and shit, the damp and slip, the pain and suffering. And all the time he’d be smiling, grinning, absolutely loving it.

I’m not like that. Wish I was. But my attitude can be pretty much summed up by the ethic that while I accept working hard pays off in the long run, cheating works right now. Give me a challenge to hurdle and I’ll run round the outside clutching a book of excuses. Pit me against difficulty when there’s an easier option and find me slacking off, beer in hand honing displacement techniques.

Don’t like racing. Don’t like being crap at racing. Don’t like tents. Don’t like rain. Don’t like carrying my bike. Not bustingly keen on sliding head first into trees. Can find other more interesting things to do than ruining a hundred quids worth of drivetrain in single digit kilometres. And mud, especially that endless five foot river of slime and slop? Christ no, I’ve clearly been reincarnated from a Californian.

My laps (yes there was more than one, no not that many more) had a number of highlights. T-boning some poor rider who fell in front of me some five minutes in was the first; an accident which would have been more amusing had I not performed involuntary keyhole surgery with a brake lever as I exited stage front. The mud quickly closed over my bleeding knee but failed to offer any anaesthetic qualities. I am unique in my ability to ride while limping, which is as close to anything famous about the rest of the laps.

I found myself laughing a lot tho. Because there were many brave riders working harder than I and none of them were crying, so I settled for a happy grimace. I laughed at pro riders falling over and struggling to get back up. I laughed at how bloody accomplished these same riders were carrying speed through sections I was hobby-horsing through – testicles on the top tube and feet quicksanding into bottomless gloop. I laughed at and with everyone else being mostly sideways almost all of the time.

I even managed a grin when I was overtaken by someone who was walking. While I was still riding. That’s classy Al I thought, can’t even beat a bloke who is carrying his bike, if you were a racehorse they’d just shoot you now. Something I’d have gladly accepted – nay begged for – come the climb out of the campsite for the 2nd half of the lap. I know this area very well, yet never realised there were four obelisks on the top of that hill. Either than or we attacked them in some kind of bastard pincer movement.

Quite slowly it has to be said, except for a triple-arrowed ‘DANGER‘ marked rocky descent which us Malvern-boys eat for breakfast*** where great satisfaction was had blasting past those on the mincing line. However such was the uncontrolled speed of Team Antler (long story, now I can’t pass any of my team without making the sign of the horns. It’s not something a 44 year old man should be doing apparently) riders that the normal instruction of ‘passing on your right or on your left‘ was not really appropriate.

Which is why I’m fairly sure, in the entire history of mountain bike racing, any poor bugger has had to content with “ON YOUR BEHIND” before a wild eyed man barely clinging to the bucking ugly-stick bounced flashed by jauntily punching him in the ribs with the handlebars. He overtook me on one of the endless climbs between then and post lap beer therapy. It was him all right, I could feel the hate.

The rest of it was fairly bloody miserable. There’s all this bullshit that ‘you take your own weather with you in your mind‘ positive thinking, but my counter-argument is the ACTUAL weather is waiting for you on arrival. It’s hard to get excited about a 16k lap which takes nearly two hours, the reason for which is simply that walking in knee deep mud takes a while.

If it was just me, it’d have been just me going home. Assuming I turned up in the first place. But my team was simply too brilliant to let down even by a man rarely troubled by any feelings of guilt. Sean – we’ve established – team nutter, relentlessly positive supported ably by his wife Kay who makes the BEST BREAKFAST IN HEREFORDSHIRE, and can be relied on to locate the ‘you know long metally thing with a spike on the end‘ during periods of desperate pre-lap maintenance.

Martin is impossible to faze. I think it’s spending his working life with sheep that allows him to suffer sleep deprivation, seas of mud and broken machinery with unfailing humour. While, like me, he didn’t enjoy much of the lap, the good bits were more than good enough to make up for the trudgery (new word, OED informed!) of the other 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}. Sean’s Lad – Kieron – was impervious to dampness and difficulty tackling the course in a pair of tractionless trainers, while attacking the descents with the immortality of youth.

And with various friends popping in to point and laugh, it made for a brilliant atmosphere that was reflected across most of the teams. We were parked up next to Team Sumo who – with their glitterball and 80s back catalogue – cheered us during the exceptionally trying periods, as did their incessant “JUMP JUMP JUMP” chant as riders passed their hastily assembled ramp.

Me? I was essentially bipolar; going from adrenaline fuelled machismo to chin-in-hands depression hating everything that was hard. Until I gave myself a talking too, got my arse out of bed at 4am and went back out there not because I wanted to, but because everyone else was doing so without complaint. And you know what? It wasn’t quite as fucking awful as I expected. There’s probably a lesson to be learned there.

So in summary- Fucking Dreadful. Slightly less summarised – as I slithered out of a car park full of wrecked bikes, marooned cars and endless – and I MEAN ENDLESS – mud, I found myself somewhere between happy and relieved. Happy that it was over, relieved I didn’t really let anyone down. Happy that I’d been a part of something that will soon pass into legend, relieved it wasn’t because I’d smacked myself in the head with a tree. Happy to see so many riders of all abilities just bloody well get on with it, relieved I had a team of friends who made sure I did the same.

Oh yeah and this. Somehow – and I place 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the blame on my team mates here – we ended up 40th in our Category. From a pool of 180. That’s so inadequately slack I’m quite upset about it. Something I might have to put right next year.

If I wasn’t retired.

H’mm.

* Some of you would argue that the Mountain Mayhem course is not interesting. I would then direct you to the Marin Rough Ride and rest my case.

** By throwing the bike into the lake and diving in after it. I love Sean, he’s my kind of bonkers.

*** Sometimes through the simple approach of smashing into it face first.

In the west of the Forest of Dean, there are a number of abandoned pill-boxes built during the second world war. A few of them are close to where the DIRT Magazine journo’s ride and build. So it’s not entirely surprising to find some enterprising rider, with balls the size of melons, has fused the two to create a hucking great jump to flat.

I don’t know how big it is, and I forgot to take a photo but it’s a monster. Proper ‘oh he’s not made it, someone fetch the spatula‘ dangerous and so far beyond my riding ability they may as well have built it on the moon.

At least then I’d have a proper excuse not to ever consider riding it. Instead I went with ‘fucking hell, that’s some kind of sick joke, yes?” Apparently not. This trail obstacle/assisted suicide represents the crux of a trail known simply as Bunker. Even getting that far without being splattered requires 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} concentration and commitment for those of us not replete with a box of trail skills honed for tall building leaping.

Dropping from the the ridge some 200 metres above the river, the trail unwinds in steep, off-camber sweeps peppered with jumps, drops, nastily pointy rocks and slightly more exposure than I’m comfortable with*. Section after section teeter on the limit of my good-day skills demanding an absolute commitment to a line, quick and decisive weight shifts and – for preference – a bloody good bike underneath you.

Don’t misunderstand me here; never in my riding history has any bike represented a high water mark in terms of ability. No a combination of squidgy brain stuff and a lack of bravery clamped the anchors way before any such theoretical limit was reached. But good bikes help enormously to compensate when the bloke on top lacks any discernible talent.

An expression slightly more couth than “buzzing about like a blue arsed fly” which traditionally warrants a suffix in the form of ‘lend me a broom to stick up my arse and I’ll sweep the floor while I’m here’ . For those not mentally tuned to Radio Hedgehog, the paired down summary is that my life suddenly became extremely busy.

Which hasn’t entirely squeezed out a strong desire to throw new bikes down lavishly dusty trails – what with an upgrade to badger-lung, and the continuing seasonal confusion where Spring was loving a Summer upgrade for a couple of weeks. Somehow rides and days numbered the same for a total of five before sleep deprivation and lungy hangovers slumped me in front of late night TV instead.

Firstly Jess and I – along with around ten thousand other people* – had a dustful of the blue trail on Sunday morning with the only disappointment being a couple of cocks who failed to understand that a heavily trafficked easy trail isn’t their personal playground. They at least had the decency to sheepishly apologise for their antisocial trail behaviour when some middle aged bloke got all angsty. The cafe staff were more apologetic regarding the run on the ice cream fridge, which mattered not as we just had cake seconds instead.

Arriving home, many jobs of increasing tedium faced a man recently re-acquainted with reasonable oxygenation. Regular readers will be unsurprised to find excuses outstripped responsibility leading to a ‘quick blast’ on the Cross Bike which had me giggling like a Friday Night Stoner. Rooty trails are being increasingly sought out which faze me increasingly less, and the bike not at all.

Flushed with success, two desperate flits across the South Midlands fetched me up at first a Malvern and then a FoD night ride. Both times onto one of those spinning plates was handed my arse. Everyone is about 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} faster than I remember or I’m 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} slower. Both uphill and downhill to the point when a riding pal enquired if I was pleasuring myself on one particularly arduous climb. Oxygen being at a premium, my only available communication method was a mildly vigorous hand signal indicating that a) no I was not and b) if this hill doesn’t stop soon, can someone bury me here?

Since it was by then dark, he received nothing but ‘deformed rabbit‘ silhouetted in the bike lights. Arriving home quite badly broken it became clear that this was essentially nothing to do with a month off the bike, and a lung function somewhere close to 80{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of not much to start with. No it was a bike issue. And that’s easily sorted. Pass me the eBay login.

First up, a longer fork to better suit the frame. Out came the light, stiff and insanely expensive 5 inch prong to be replaced by a pre-loved crude approximation of a proper sprung end but – and here’s the important bit – an extra two inches of travel. Hammer-time over, I examined the igor-more-bodies like transformation with a mixture of satisfaction and mild concern.

Firstly it’s not exactly stealth black is it? It puts one in mind of a fat lass stuffed into six inch Essex stilettos. Secondly it’s a lump and a half adding over an old school pound to the front end. This thing has the gravitational mass of a small moon. One description may be ‘planted‘, another is ‘immovable‘. It’s certainly impossible for twelve stone** weakling like me to heft the front end over any obstacles – which is not such as issue since this spring behemoth shall easily roll over anything up to a two story building.

The back end tho, suspended only by my withered legs is likely to get quite a shock when said building transfers potential energy into arse reaming force. A quick ride suggests finding out might be quite a lot of fun until it all goes wrong and someone loses a colon. And again searching relentlessly for anything positive, the massive weight increase has been largely offset by the removal of a single headset spacer.

Anyway it’s done now and so am I . After two weeks of string bag/stick an octopus in there 12 hour days, absolutely nothing is of more importance to me right now than just going to sleep.

So for those short of time, here’s the pictorial summary of things that happened in the light. For night rides, please mentally insert ‘fish out of water’ rider desperately signally for something pint sized and medicinal.

Tomorrow we’ll take fat boy fat for a play in the Monmouth hills. A place hardtails rarely go. And even more rarely return. Luckily I’m equipped with a bravery-light/mince-heavy riding style which should see me through.

* Mainly – it has to be said – fat mountain bikers going quite slowly. Jess caught one up on a climb which made me grin a bit. I was still someway behind 😉

** I refuse to accept the existence of metric measurements. I was born before 1971 and the common market and can therefore only think in imperial.