Category: Mountain Bike Riding

The sheer unadultrued pleasure of a mud enema and frozen testicles in a sport than burns money at a similar rate to a small African country.

Three things..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

ST4 - New Linkage

… I lost after coming back from the Pyrenees. Firstly my motivation to ride, secondly the feeling in one of my toes and finally the ST4. Let’s take those in turn shall we?

Local trails didn’t really cut it for a couple of weeks when compared to being high up in the mountains. I trudged round, not enjoying any extra alpine fitness, not really enjoying being back on the hardtail, so spending the entire ride looking for my mojo, or a new place to crash.

A day walking in SPD’s reduced a previously frost-nipped toe to not-terribly-amusingly wooliness making walking a bit of a chore. It’s mostly back to life now, which is comforting considering I’ve been eyeing up a sharp knife in a Randolph Fiennes “Hack Your Own Extremities off” kind of way.

The ST4 tho was more than a little broken. Frankly it’s been a proper Marmite bike from the start; firstly the BB shells needed cleaning out, then I had no end of issues with chainsuck which may have been causal to the shock failing and taking the pivot bearings with it. Like a high maintenance girlfriend, it was awesome when it was good, but God could it piss you off during the many and varied drama queen moments.

And while it was obvious that all was not well with the bike while hauling aged carcass up proper mountains, the full horror wasn’t revealed until I removed the cranks and the bottom bracket kind of fell out at the same time. The threads, responsible for preventing such an event, were now wispy shadows of their former selves.

I was understandably upset. 750 miles, 9 months and the frame was both knackered internally and seriously cosmetically scared on the outside. Disregarding the warranty protocol involving form filling and original dealers, I rang Orange, spoke to their main man in Warranty and whined. At length.

He stopped me by offering a new 2011 frame, entirely re-designed and available in a couple of weeks after the Eurobike launch. I shut up then other than to say thanks. True to their word, Orange have painted one in my preferred colour*, recycled the shock and headset off the previous frame remains before shipping it back today.

All within three weeks, and all without a hint of trying to pull a fast one or looking for some plausible deniability.

So there we are. In fact there ^^^ it is. And once I’d spoken to Orange, suddenly riding became an official fun thing to do again. Come Sunday with a following wind, and a firm hand on the spanners, mark 2 ST4 shall be committed to the Malvern trails of lumps and bumpiness. Hopefully this time without the histrionics.

After all, that’s my job.

* and I’m shallowly happy that there will be no other Red frame only deals until 2011.

Beer or Bike?

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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.

Lessons.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

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.

Emergency Bladder Replacement

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

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

What’s in the bag?

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Everything really, and then again not much. Plan A was to have all this packed up and finished by lunchtime so I could spend pre-abandonment time with my family. Plan B was quickly enacted once Plan A had gone the way of losing the entire morning to work. And yes, I was booked on holiday although the only person this seemed to make a difference to was me.

Plan C stumbled closely behind Plan B once some ludicrously simple maintenance somehow ended with an attempt to un-cast the fork lockout. A quick trip the Nic @ the bike shop proved once again I am a spannering numpy, and the fix wasn’t in fact to place it carefully in the vice to make it easier to beat vigorously with a sledgehammer.

Ruthless selection of a biking only holiday wardrobe has kept the pack weight below 9kg and that’s including h20 at half of that. Okay I’ll smell a bit (more) and my evening pulling wardrobe of lycra and leg warmers is possibly a target for parody, but at least I shall not ‘go turtle’ each time an attempt is made to heft the pack skywards.

Somehow a trip to the camping shop for a£2 item ended in the purchase of a superbly technical garment that can – according to the marketing blurb here – act as a base layer, or a mid layer, or a “showerproof”* outer – in fact I wouldn’t be surprised to see it dispensing wine and fish once we reach the top of the mountain. Downside it wasn’t cheap. Still you can never have too much shit can you? Certainly seems to work for the kids.

The bike is now in the bag. Every time I face this much hated task I pretend that THIS TIME I will take my time, pursue a logical approach, create a safe cocoon for expensive parts by cunning use of pipe lagging and a small sample of sticky tape. And, in line with previous attempts, the bag looks like a botched kidnapping or an explosion in a masking tape factory. It’s all pointless anyway as the baggage handlers seem to take great pleasure in skimming the bag across the tarmac having launched it from their little truck.

I have not the strength to start on the Camelbak. There’ll be lots of time for that tomorrow because with a 3:30am start come Friday, not a huge amount of point going to bed.

* Beware that word. Someone stole the “for about 2 seconds” from the end of it.

Not just me then..

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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?

Rag it. Ragged.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

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.

EX “Can I have Some” Moor please?

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With my repetitions thudding tediously into your mind, I accept that surprise would not be your first response when I extol the fantastic riding we have right here on our doorstep. Which is as good a reason as any to why our winter planning for far away trips failed to survive the first contact with the enemy.

But that enemy is not just the good stuff on our doorstep, it’s also the brokenness, busyness, parent-ness and apathy of the long forged riding flange. There is a sad “ but inevitable “ fading away of the camaraderie when separated by many miles, and a slide into treating riding as optional and other life stuff as mandatory.

Not me of course, and desperate to tick off another location perfectly coincided with an e-mail wondering if I would rather be riding in Exmoor during the day and drinking beer later on. As opposed to what? Working? Tough choice, but I think I might be in.

Arriving far along the craggy south west coastline, Mike (freelance Journo) and Russ (same but with Snapper skills) immediately demonstrated their professionalism by matching clothes and bikes in line with ambient lighting conditions.

Now many times I’ve been accused of being over-biked, but rarely under-dressed*, yet my slimming wardrobe of stealthy black was soon accessorised with a bright orange top Russell’d up from his capacious product testing bucket.

I learned some interesting things on this shoot. Firstly 3 is not a crowd for photo shoots. One photographer hefting mountains of kit someone ruining his riding experience, one proper journo and on hanger-on desperate for an Andy Warhol moment. I’m sure you can establish which role I took.

A single rider fails to prod the I want to ride here NOW gene that is encapsulated by a pair riding close and grinning inanely. It backed my hypothesis that the joy of the sport is equally divided by where you are riding, and who you are riding with.

So now we have the tools to sell the area, all we need is a route. Or a number of routes confined by some nonsense around OS squares. Mike had worked hard to create easy, medium and hard variations and all we need to do now is ride them.

Er, no. Because proper photography takes a shit load of time. And then a bit more. Poor old Russ carried up tripods, slave flashes, multiple lenses and a couple of very expensive digital bodies. And he was determined to use them all. Because if he doesn’t get the shots to fill the brief, he doesn’t get paid.

First tho we had to remove ourselves from sea level after a couple of establishing shots where Mike instructed me in the art of the pointy elbow and inane grin whenever facing lens-wards. This also gave us ample opportunity to send up the local architecture which clearly was under the strict control of the twee inspectorate.

Hello Madam, I am duty bound to inform you that insufficient agricultural brass work is visible for a property of this size. And I will further be carrying out a full investigation of your Wisteria which fails to fulfil the stipulated volume.

Amused by this, the climb from the sea front soon wiped that smirk from my face especially after Russ had us climb a nasty little rutted trail a couple of times while he lined up his angles. This wasn’t the last time seditious thoughts entered my head around why uphill grinds involved twice as many takes, when compared to flashing past the other way.

Awesome woody trail though. Not what I expected at all with Exmoor being well know for miles or moorland bugger all and stony tracks. Like the Quantocks only ten times bigger with half the number of people. We rode one section many times with Russ directing traffic Come on this is the best ride you’ve ever had, small you miserable buggers.

Mike smiled and stuck his pro elbows out while I floundered behind. It really isn’t as easy as it doesn’t look. Trying to maintain a certain gap, mugging a bit when bike enters frame, throwing all sorts of silly shapes all while not crashing through the bushes and into expensive camera kit.

But it’s fun, 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of which is entirely attributable to riding mountain bikes on new trails, and 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} because you’re an attention whore – so having a pro photographer snapping away makes you feel a whole lot better than you actually are.

And Russ is very, very good. Different to Seb who did his best to teach me the how of MTB photography, what you miss is how much of the job is picking a brilliant location, waiting for right light, positioning the riders, trying different stuff and then just doing it again and again.

Easy eh? It’s not, we shot at one location where a trail bisected a couple of small streams and dived into a few trees throwing roots out into our path. If it were me, I’d have hid behind one of those trees and shot riders passing through. Russ got up high and asked us to ride close with the final shot depicting made up speeds of two riders fighting their way off a treacherous island.

Clever that. Which was more than my forks were making the kind of noises not associated with long life or short on cash. I ignored them as we sallied forth back to our start point for a lunchtime rendezvous with anything majorly calorific. We hadn’t ridden that far, but I was still blowing a bit with the multiple re-runs and trying not to look like a total cock.

Back out again, this time heading up and over the wider moor looking for killer shots with bits of Wales in the background. I surprised everyone with a climbing performance that propelled me so far upwards, I totally failed to stop where Russ wanted the obligatory hill-climbing gurning pose.

Although by this time, I realised that any publication “ even if it ran to 13 pages “ was likely to feature the professionals rather heavily. I had no problem with that because the riding was fantastic, and we were only hours from some well earned dead pig and a few beers.

What I did have a problem with was the now obviously broken forks. These Rockshox Pikes are known for being indestructible. Apparently the earth will crack before these bastions of the lazy rider can ever break.

I failed to see any obvious shift of the tectonic plates, but my myth busting forks were properly busted. First 30mm of travel absolutely fine, 31mm not fine, not fine at all. Rather than an additional 110mm of coil sprung plushness kicking in, instead sounds I can only describe as expensive were getting it on in both stantions.

I explained this predicament to Mike and Russ who showed much needed sympathy quickly followed by a rather less sympathetic the show must go on missive. And so it did to the sounds of crashing components, battered wrists and the background whinge of a pissed off Yorkshireman.

Russ declared the light gopping as some kind of spring inversion bathed everything in flat white so we sort of gave up with photography and instead headed off on a track that was not something easily included in a route guide.

I’m not telling you where, but I will tell you that I’ll be back with a working bike and a determined expression. Brilliant and bonkers trail, hugging the cliff edge and rewarding skills failure with a two second tour of interesting geology followed by certain death. Compelling, difficult, seemingly never ending and accompanied by the cacophony of forks somehow becoming even more broken.

The last descent broke me as well. With a working bike it would have been bloody fantastic, steep, rocky, lumpy and silly fast. The back of the bike was working fine and I did consider tackling it in reverse, but settled for a wrist bashing slow navigation accessorised by much grumpiness.

Chilly now, we made our way back up and over to the cars, quickly lobbed stuff inside and headed off to a fantastic B&B that greeted us with much grandeur and stateliness, but was run by a cyclist and man who was happy to share his front room and biscuits with three grimy mountain bikers.

The pub dinner was surprisingly ace based on the general air of flightiness of the place, and the beer was more than good. Drinking a few of those gave us ample time to disgrace ourselves with the pub quiz. Ace trails, much fun, learned some things, broke my bike, drank some beer with old friends. That’s a good day whichever way you look at it.

And if you want to look at it, check out What Mountain Bike this month. As I suspected, my grizzly fizog is generally a blur behind the proper riders but it still was an experience I’m keen to have another crack at.

If asked, this time I’ll prepare with some intense gurning practice in front of the mirror. It’s the one skill I feel I can bring to such an event.

* Except for one impulsive post ride moon to the shocked and staid residents of Chalfont St. Giles. Well with a name like that, well you would have to really.

Myndyd Du

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The same semantic lore which decrees “Westwood Ho!” cannot be articulated without a piratical bent, dictates that John Inman leads on vocals whenever “Myndyd Du” hits the larynx. Maybe a bit of Mr Humphries crossed with Frankie Howerd* to really kick it; “oooooooh Mynnndndddduuuuu”. Possibly it’s just me. I find it generally is nowadays.

Certainly it felt that way when meeting up with bikes I could identify but people I couldn’t one early Sunday morning. Any earlier and it would have qualified as a night ride, but my concerns were more around a worrying lack of body fat from various competent looking individuals, and finding myself significantly under-biked.

This never happens; a lack of talent and bravery ensures a cheese-straw is never taken to a gunfight, but even bleary-early-eyed I couldn’t help but notice that my nice-personality-shame-about-the-size 4 inch travel bike was entirely oversprung by a number of six inchers and one monster DH rig pretending to be a trail bike.

Wolf? Sheep’s clothing? I think so. Not much time to worry about that since – in a break from normal FoD rider protocol – adherence to the start time was confirmed by Gentlemen Starting Their Engines. I explained to the kind fellas transporting my bike, that my presence was entirely due to some opportunistic sidling up to the FoD night ride crew and looking keen and needy when a Wales trip was being mooted.

They explained right back with a whole exotic list of fantastic trails they’d ridden, most of which were entirely unknown to me – not that this stopped me nodding knowingly and assuming moon-riding had blasted off while I hadn’t been watching. I began to worry properly until a detour sent us fetching our 57 year old guide who apparently liked to take it steady. My relief was short lived when Tony sprinted from his house showing a physique clearly missing any ravages of age or poor living.

Right then, blagging and excuses it is then. I started well on the stony climb from a car park marooned at the far end of the world’s longest one way road. A quick/slow/quick seatpost clamp fettle saw the boys disappear at a pace entirely inappropriate for a 7k climb into a nasty headwind. I caught up with them eventually providing a perfect excuse for a camera/deep breathing halt. My second attempt to close the gap ended with that holy trinity of slipping chain/maximum power and gonads on the stem. On the way down I deaded a leg, which slowed me further for the entire ride, although the fire in my bollocks somewhat overrode any competing medical condition.

Mynydd Du Summer route Mynydd Du Summer route

Gingerly remounting, I managed a few more strokes** before hopping off and limping upwards on a bouldery causeway that opened up some lovely views I entirely failed to enjoy due to throbbing grunties. And even though I was so far behind, Gary had carefully explained my special needs navigation ensuring I wasn’t left to sit astride alone on Lord Hereford’s knob. Good job too, already way too much action DOWN THERE already.

First descent, proper old school. Moorland wide tracks, little drops into wind bashed peat, gulleys, easy gradient, absolutely no corners. I passed a couple ensuring that John and Frankie were vocally active “just passing on your RIGGGGHHHHTTT”. That’ll be a result of the testicle slam some ten minutes earlier. Enjoying it so much, only when Tony turned off some distance behind us did the realisation that we had just added a bit more climbing to what was already rather a lot.

Mynydd Du Summer route Mynydd Du Summer route

I do love this kind of riding though. Not the Gonad Mashing bit, no more the big views, non Scalextric tracks, multiple lines, bump, bounce, heft, lift and manual, few hard pedals then same again. The ridge we took had all of this even if the climb to it had the kind of grassy friction that would have made it absolutely unrideable in the wet. Which in Wales is the other 51 1/2 weeks of the year. It ended in a dusty and loose vertical drop that was properly exciting. More so as you approached seeing nothing up front but the far horizon.

It was like the map had just ended. Arse on the rear tyre, try and be a bit brave as it all gets loose back there (do your own jokes, I’ve already passed the limit on my own internal smut-o-meter), let go early enough to ping happily through a rock gulley that felt all Lake District-y except for the complete lack of grockles. The silence was broken only by contented mountain bikers mixed on conversational random; firstly nano technology, then most horrific injury before a seamless segue took us to whether having a crush on Maggie Philbin could ever be right**

Mynydd Du Summer route Mynydd Du Summer route

Soon after a trail that was the second most lost thing in the entire Country of Wales. The first being us of course as we reconfigured the bikes to “machete mode” and ploughed through shoulder high vegetation hiding wheel sucking dips and divets. Hiding but not covering as I found after trying to fall off three times. Fourth time lucky over I went, pausing only briefly to gouge my inner thigh with a mirror image of the rear brake lever. Still it took my mind off my testicles for a bit.

We did eventually find the trail and I wasn’t entirely pleased about that as it wound a long and windy path through streams and gulleys. Sometimes a bit testing, always upwards and the fast boys were just far enough ahead for us slow coaches to realise this was going on for some time. I settled into a pace that. were it a town, would be linked with Walking, Ohio only to watch Matt and his 40lb freeirde rig breeze past. Bastard. I said nothing tho as he was my lift and I didn’t fancy riding home.

Another fern thrash and Tony doubled his chance of having my babies by declaring all the climbing was done. Good job so was I although, on reflection, next time I’ll pump more than 23PSI into my tyres and after an aborted alternative finish, we dropped fast and very loose on a fireroad before a hairpin bend closed the forest behind and above us. Where my peril-sensitive glasses changed from dark to light faster than anyone else could say “where the fuck is the trail?“. Others were less tech’d up and I followed Haydn past a couple of people laughing as he tried to divine the trail. And mostly failed.

Car park. Lie down. Pretend I’m stretching. Last few rides I have felt properly empty. Either too much riding or total lack of MTFU gene. The boys suggested we filled up on beer and peanuts in a local hostelry which was more than a little welcome. Proper day out that, very much enjoyed and a top bunch of fast and friendly riders to share it with.

I clearly didn’t make a total dick of myself (or they really are just terribly polite) because now I’m on the list to go play in Coed’Y’Brenin come end September. Based on this ride, I have a feeling it is going to be a a whole lot of fun. I’m packing the spare liver.

* You’d need a crowbar to separate that particular artistic pairing.

** Well it was bloody sore.

*** It isn’t. However we’re split on Phillipa Forester. Having just re-read that, maybe I could have chosen less descriptive words.

I blame the singlespeeder.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding6 Comments

And if we blend in the Government of the day augmented with traffic wardens, estate agents and any person who volunteers to be on a committee, we have created a body onto which all the evils and ills of the world could be blamed.

Ready the Scorpion Pits and Bring Fresh Spiders I hear you cry, but even in the benevolent dictatorship much loved by the Hedgehog, first there must be a trial where evidence of misdeeds and character assassinations can be aired. I didn’t say it was going to be a fair trial.

The Wednesday FoD ride is become a confusing juxtaposition of slack and speed. Which I reversed by turning up early, before becoming increasingly lethargic. Whereas the riding widdle* rolled in at ever increasing intervals, with excuses ranging from forgetting what day it was to a total boycott of the Julian date system.

Now I had every reason to invoke faff-time what with the Cove maidening its’ reincarnation, no such latitude should be available to a man who has dispensed with his entire selection of gears. And yet, Adam appeared to be having significant car-park issues with his Inbred** resolved largely with rolls of gaffer tapes, and the occasional targeted trail tool wang.

Obviously I made jolly jest at his japery, and just as obviously he paid me back in spades. First tho a rude awakening “ of the arse mainly “ riding a single sprung end. Immediate and direct are good things when the front wheel is sniffing dusty trail, but less appealing when the rear attempts to insert the saddle up ones’ jacksey.

I stopped for a pointless fettle only to find I had been abandoned. I don’t think you need to be told which individual failed to pass on my need for a halt do you? In his defence, his knees may have been exploding, but this gave me little comfort in my increasingly desperate meanderings searching for riding pals, tell tale tyre tracks or a mobile phone signal.

I found the latter at exactly the time one of the Al-finding splinter groups called me up, established my location, listened to the confused silence after directing me back to the riding cluster, before hovering me up with more cheerfulness than I’d be exhibiting in his position.

There was some joshing around my under-developed sense of direction. I countered that it was developed just fine thanks, it’s just a bit rubbish. Anyway while I was happy to re-united with the fine fellows who’d spent 15 minutes chasing round the forest searching for me, I couldn’t help thinking the uni-cogged one was entirely responsible.

Split ˜em up and the do ˜em one at a time I could see him thinking. My imagination ran wild projecting a vision of a forest full of smashed derailers and severed limbs, as this advance guard of the one-geared Jihad carried out his dreadful night-work.

I was installed mid-pack and given stern warning not to wander off on my own again. A pack that snaked on some old-school trails skirting an enormous lake hidden by vegetation and some kind of invisibility field. Honestly, one minute there was nothing but trees and the next, some great bloody body of water looms in your field of vision. I fully expected to see some Athurian knight fetching a sword out of it.

Following on was a rooty trail needing pedalling to maintain motion. Puts the hard into hardtail that does, and watching the dual-spring boys riding away makes you appreciate just how damn good modern full-suss bikes are. Come the next big climb tho, the low weight, high power transfer of the Cove reels it back a bit.

But bikes “ mountain bikes especially “ are for riding downhill and a perfect example of such a trail now awaited. Two brilliant things happened down here, firstly I was reunited with the simpe joy of sorted hardtails nailing swoopy singletrack, and secondly the Singlespeeder fell off.

Adam looked a bit bemused at the cause of the accident. I was able to help him out by explaining that he had been unable to select the correct gear. What with him not having any. He may have laughed but I reckon when the rest of his alien tribe land, I’m first in line for the anal probe.

Light running out, we made hasty tracks onto Green Lane a peach of a trail arcing through head high vegetation. The super fast boys disappeared pretty quickly, as did any sense of where the trail went next as I found myself heading up the rest of the pack.

These fellas are also pretty rapid and I certainly couldn’t deal with ignominy of being passed by an injured man missing vital components, so head up, imbibe virtual bravery pills, let the bike do its’ thing. Which it did stunningly well even with my wide eyed twitchiness at the speed we were now travelling.

Ace. Not quite as ace was Steve’s short cut through a spiky part of the forest where he pretended there was a route. Clearly he’d been egged on by the Singlespeeder, or the mind control was beginning to take over.

It did at least take us to a trail I ACTUALLY HAD DONE BEFORE. Only in the wet and on one of my first visits to this MTB playground. It did seem to pass far quicker this time around, but maybe I am just thinking slower nowadays.

Properly going dark now***, we finished up on a rollercoaster of a track that you probably wouldn’t risk in the day. No better way to round off a great ride than some dusky trail poaching. Except possibly for beer which was on the agenda, but a 5am start meant I had to wearily decline.

But, I thought, probably time for a quick cold one when I get home. Except the fridge was empty of liquid therapy, and the only alcohol alternative was to make myself a Snowball. Not even I am that dependant.

No beer in our fridge? I know, it’s unheard of. Almost an impossibility. How could it be allowed to happen?

I blame the Singlespeeder 🙂

* What is the collective noun for a group of mountain bikers? I’ve always favoured Flange but could be persuaded on Gusset or even Trunion.

** This is a bicycle brand. Oh to be a fly on the wall during those marketing meetings. The hilarity eh?

*** I was going to use the phrase Those nights are drawing in but dare not say it out loud in our house. It tends to trigger a violent rolling pin reaction from Carol.