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.

Time.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Road Riding2 Comments

Slippery little bugger isn’t it? I am fairly sure that last week it was still snowing and mostly dark, and yet here we are with the longest day barely a weekend away. This would be enough to make me grumpy as we contemplate the depressing slide into Autumn, but time has stolen more than my Spring, it’s bogged off with most of the days since as well.

I blame working for a living. Really chews up your days and eats into the light, warm nights when you really should be a) riding your bike b) drinking beer outside c) repelling the triffid invasion by deploying petrol based weaponry. And then quickly slipping back into b). I seem to be stuck with d) which involves a fairly fully time job augmented by wasting time I don’t have doing other peoples.

You may legitimately ask what they are doing instead, and you would not be alone but I have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. For which I may have to mix work and home life by implementing c) during office hours when a particularly trying situation needs resolving.

I did manage a monster end to end Malvern ride this week which started on one of the longest days of the year but still finished in darkness. The entire gamut of hills were either summited or sneakily bypassed including my favourite rocky horror tearing down 700 feet of steep bouldery ribbon before finishing on a superb rock step drop off. Right in between these two items of loveliness are a set of narrow yet very steep steps which puckered me up in all the wrong ways.

But these too were dispatched with nothing more than a clenched bottom and tightly closed eyes, before declaring to anyone who’d listen that a) it was really easy and b) no thanks I’ll not be doing them again*. Only at 9:30 and at the furthest outreach from our start did we begin to wonder how one of the riding flange was getting home un-crashed without a set of lights to his name. We did our best with a bypass of significant pointy ridge through the use of an “evening bridleway”, and a quick scoot through darkening woods to a final climb over Midsummer.

Where our brave – if foolhardy – pal was now shrouded entirely in darkness. What with it being 10:30pm. Some 100m below was his car and safety – between us and that were a second set of leafy woods letting almost none of the not very much light through. He wasn’t keen to be the meat in a Lumen Sandwich so hung onto the back of us enlightened ones and mystifyingly made his way down using the little known skill of “bark brail“.

Brilliant, brilliant ride. 1100m ish and 30ks. All that trudging through winter makes sense on an epic like that.

Sports Day topped the domestic billing today, but – predictably – I missed one child losing quite often and the other broken one watching on. But I still arrived in time for lunch and left with no phone, no watch, no gps, no water (oops) but a brief time window and a fast road bike. Just headed out in a random direction and rode until my legs were shot and my head was clear. As good as the other night, for all the wrong reasons.

Mountain Mayhem this weekend. I’ll pop in to have a laugh, and personally verify that this could be the first event in living memory where monsoons have now sunk the trails below the water table. Good luck to any nutters participating – I have been offered a cheeky lap on a slack team but any free time I have this weekend will be spent with a glass in my hand. Or possible one in each.

* Lists you see, under pressure I revert to type. Surprised I’m not accompanying this lunchtime post with a couple of beers.

Four out of six ain’t bad

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding5 Comments

As Meatloaf may once have crooned if he could count past 5*. I appear to have died and been transported to Singletrack heaven with 100 kilometres of the wiggly stuff squeezed into less than a week. Ascent and, more importantly, descent has reached five imperial figures which is exactly half of what I managed all of last month.

But these numbers mean nothing without context. In this rather lovely – if confused – country we live in, every dry spell is vigorously mainlined by MTB junkies getting their rocks off on dusty trails under sunny skies. And for those of us who refuse to accept this is a three season sport, all that winter drudgery is rewarded with fast legs and an unquenchable thirst to go do it all again. And again.

Four rides, three locations, one simple idea to bank happy memories against future wet and miserable. We rolled into the Forest twice this week, and it rolled lush singletrack right back. It might not have the elevation of the Malverns, not the stupendous panoramic views, but bloody hell it’s somewhere beyond fun and into a place that surely cannot be legal. And yet a Malvern ride some 24 hours later reminded me how damn lucky we are to live between this two MTB environs.

A bit cheeky, trails that come alive in the evenings when the walkers have rambled off, perfect blue sky and visibility half way to Russia. A final descent into the setting sun with many metres bagged and ready to be unleashed in a duet with gravity. That’ll stay with me for some time, as will fast laps of CwmCarn – a trail centre 45 minutes from my house and a chosen testing ground for new bikes**

I know its’ secrets well enough to show Martin a clean pair of wheels on the first lap – feeling fit and pretty fast. Big Sandwich and Life Saving Cup Of Tea later, then it’s pretty much even as Martin hustles his big forked hardtail line astern to my brilliant – if fragile – ST4. I can forgive that bike anything because it is so natural to ride. Don’t think, just do. Don’t brake, just trust . This sometimes leads to Don’t look, just hope but how damn alive do you feel when all that is going on?

The last descent at CwmCarn has been properly breathed on by the trail pixies and now it is a kilometre of giggly awesomeness. I can hear Martin’s fat tyre scrabbling right up my chuff so abandon fast and smooth for ragged and dangerous. There is nothing wrong with such an approach assuming you’re still trail side up, which I very nearly wasn’t. Very Nearly is more than okay because it takes you to a place where you want to speak at a hundred miles and hour, but you cannot actually get any words out. I find pointing helps.

The only thing that scares me now is how long will it be before I’m too old to do this any more, maybe too broken, or too tired to ride in the winter, or too worried about mashing myself up. Just too damn crocked and decrepit. The worrying thing is – right now – I am as fit as I’ve ever been and riding at a pace that feels reasonably brisk. Probably all down hill from here then. Hope so, sounds like it might be an uplift 🙂

* Our mutt appears to have some musical talent as lead hound for Mad Murf and the Howlers. Current album “Where’s my breakfast” includes such classics as “Is there any more?”, “That was disappointingly small” and “How long till dinner?“. The difficult second album has stalled at the concept stage with only a working title “I’ve eaten the cat, what’s next?”

** There have been a few.

Somedays’ you’re the slugger…

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

.. somedays’ you’re the ball. In life, and much more when bikes become involved, I have tended to “The Ball”. Occasional glimpses of what the Slugger might look like have rarely occurred – and then only from the position of “The Ball“. Today I observed my two of my friends riding rather splendidly, while my own contribution to this riding ensemble was a proper sky-ground-sky event not experienced for many moons.

If we were to assume the mantle of the three cycling musketeers, Tim and Martin could fight over temporary custody of “Athos” and “Porthos” whereas I – of course – would rightfully claim the title of Dead-loss. It started well with enough with nearly a kilometre passing under tyre before I became hopelessly lost. For a while we thrashed through sunken trails with me looking worried, and the GPS demanding I turned right back at Reykjavik.

Eventually I passed off this navigational blunder as the new MTB Sub-Niche of “All Forest Extreme Power XC Exploring”, and introduced the clan to the “Mushroom Trail”* designed by nature to put the “hard” into “Hardtail” – machine gun firing off camber roots at single sprung cannon fodder.

I am very fond of my ST4, at times like this possibly rather more than is normal for a bunch of non organic tubes, but rooty, pedally singletrack is a lovely watch from a full suspension bike. We found much more of this in the next two hours, some of it actually on purpose but my random meanderings did have a final destination in mind.

Forest of Dean - May 2010 Forest of Dean - May 2010

The famed “Dowies” singletrack is hewn by a single man with a motorbike and way too much spare time. Forestry keep logging it, he keeps rebuilding it – multiple trails snaking down a steep slope, littered with fat roots, berms, jumps and general MTB gigglyness. If you can be smooth, you can be fast but that requires good trail knowledge, better skills and a whole world of self belief built around the grip of your front tyre.

Tim went first, me after using a few previous trips to hang pretty close to his rear wheel. This felt pretty good, not too scary, a salutary lesson on how damn far you can lean a well sorted mountain bike finishing with a mild buffing of an ego. “1:50 is the best time down there Tim” I offered as we winched back up for another go. What I didn’t know was Tim was going to have a crack at that time, what I should have known is there is absolutely no way I’d be able to stay with him.

I must have misheard “Ragged = Fast” because actually “Ragged = Slow = Crash” is what it must have meant. Ragged also means all that skills-shit which seems to work pretty well is given a slap by Ego as he barges uninvited into the driving seat. Ego thinks he’s fast but he’s so busy looking at himself, he rarely bothers looking up at the trail. As Tim disappeared at an alarming rate, I responded with a casing of a big-ish jump that – with Mr. Rational in charge – had been nothing but a bit of fun.

Now Disaster joined the race. He’d nearly caught me on three previous occasions, but this time changed tactics instead hanging about with Mr. Crash at the next corner. I turned up mostly out of control hard on the brakes, eyes on the front wheel, ego catatonic at the wheel. If I’d committed to the bend, I might have made it but I never gave myself that chance, hitting a big root square on with my head – think Tortoise being offered a juicy lettuce leaf – far over the bars, and not such much a passenger as an accident looking for somewhere exciting to happen.

The crash went on for a while. Over the bars and into the forest which was unpleasantly akin to being beaten with sharp sticks. Eventually the sky stopped flipping but I felt – since I was lying down – it’d be a damn fine idea to maintain that pose until my heart rate dropped below a million. Martin turned up looking as concerned as a man can while pissing himself laughing, and we determined other than a somewhat clarty elbow, the only real damage was to Mr. Ego who’d slunk off and left the scene of the accident.

I quite like crashing without properly hurting myself. It’s a bit like drinking without adding a hangover to your morning challenges. The high water mark of my ability is such that even a brilliant bike and dusty, dry trails cannot compensate sufficiently for ego-stoked bravado. I know exactly why the crash happened which is fine, because that doesn’t stop you being silly again. Possibly just a bit less silly.

Forest of Dean - May 2010 Forest of Dean - May 2010

Great ride tho; end of the bluebells, start of the summer. bonkers fast trails, fit feeling legs and a bike that was both superb to ride and – refreshingly – unbroken come tea and medals. If I could keep my aspirations in check, I might be sort of okay at this mountain biking thing. Maybe being the ball isn’t such a bad thing after all.

* Not quite true. Martin found it, having never been here before. The word that comes to mind here is “portent”.

Two weeks ago..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

… my commute started at an decidedly un-spring-line 2.3 degrees under cloudy skies. Less than half a month later, someone has sneakily relocated the entire UK to the Equator.

This seemed an ideal time to go ride a bike up very big Welsh hills which offered no shade, but almost unrelenting climbing. The temperature now was 28.5 degrees. At one point, I am fairly sure I was on fire. For reasons best understood if you’re nose down in a decent bottle of chilled white, I was press-ganged into attending the CRC MTB Marathon Series at Bullith Wells.

Yes, after saying I’d never do another one, and forgoing what I know would have been a properly fantastic FoD ride, I found myself amongst the weekend tribe of proper race bikes and no body fat. I fitted right in as you can well imagine.

It wasn’t as bad as the HONC, only being half as long. It did manage to pack in the thick end of 5000 feet of climbing in a mere 52ks which hurt especially since you were being basically charbroiled on endless moorland climbs. My preparation for such a tough day out was essentially zero. Since it was 9pm the night before and I was a bit squiffy, the best I could hope for was to load a working bike into the truck and lob in a few MTB accessories.

Water I remembered, sun tan lotion I didn’t. Good job I have this full thatch to protect me from badger stripes eh? Because they’d look STUPID. Even my knees are sunburnt. Of the 1000 riders – some of whom were doing the proper race distances to whomI tip my virtual hat – most were very friendly, many were terrifyingly quick uphill, a decent handful showed capability the other way round and the rest were, well, a bit shit really.

I’m fairly sure the swathe of people I managed to overtake uphill were out for the long haul, although downhill I’m not sure what their excuses were. One lad, on a£3,500 six inch full suspension bike, was clearly carrying out a practical experiment of exactly how slow it is possible to ride if you are presented with a difficult technical challenge such as a small tree root. I think I might have used a naughty word (or three) when I finally passed him.

The ST4 was great. A bit broken though with my middle ring becoming unavailable for use some 30ks in,* and a horrible click-per-pedal-revolution torture that had me pining for Elvis Costello or some other stuck soundtrack in my head. My investigation is postponed because the frame is too hot to touch, and I’m in post-ride hydration therapy. Just waiting for the fridge to cool me down my next pint of sports-tested fluid.

In other news, the dog has gone into hiding what with being big, black and furry. Not an ideal combination when the sun is cracking the patio stones. All the garden, so carefully planted last year, has either died in the frosts or been crisped during this hot spell. A few remaining sad looking specimens clearly are expecting something like an asteroid strike to finish them off. Verbal appears to be on the mend if the reduced volume of painkillers is any guide, and little Random is, as ever, away with the fairies.

Apparently it’s going to cool down 10 degrees and rain come Wednesday. I’ll expect snow then should I?

* I blame a lack of assos cream.

A new riding genre.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding5 Comments

Forget your power-XC, aggressive All-Mountain or Riding-round-in-circles-while-dressed-in-silly-clothes, these last ten days have opened my eyes to a style of riding that is entirely attrition based. That sad collection of broken parts represents a litany of trail-based disasters which has stripped me of a whole load of cash, and rendered the barn mostly devoid of spare bikes.

The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice the high co-efficient of Mech based products to general MTB detritus, but these are symptomatic of a far more serious cause. Before I explain what, let me explain how. First take the ST4 and add a spiteful branch to a fast spinning wheel. Stick hits mech, arrests wheel, rotational energy transferred to drilling the stick into a catastrophe of sheered brakeaway bolts, bent mechs and sacrificial hangers taking one for the frame.

I wasn’t unduly concerned with a flurry of Internet activity procuring fast delivered spares, so ensuring my participation on a ride three days later. This sanguine approach to the rough and tumble of bike ownership soured a little as the clever and expensive air can became a very stupid pogo stick. Without the sophisticated platform damping, a single pivot suspension system returns to the bongy age of early double springers. And that gets old very quickly – it’s only when something breaks, you realise how damn good it was.

What I hadn’t realised was how damn bad it would be getting the bugger out from various close fitting linkages. Weary puzzlement soon gave may to the kind of annoyed grunting and twitching for the big hammer normally associated with an embarrassed trip to the bike shop. But the shock came out undamaged as did a swathe of small and unexpected parts. My life was suddenly full of ball bearings, mashed cases and unidentified broken bitswhere sealed bearing once were. Orange agreed that their promise of “guaranteed for life” probably covered me for Warranty with only 400 miles and 4 months under-wheel.*

Both the repaired shock and a bag full of bearings arrived free of charge over the next few days, but still the bike is nothing more than a pile of bits. Because I own neither a bearing press, nor the skill/bravery to proxy something using a vice and a socket set. “Interference” fit is something my close friends tell me isn’t a long word meaning “smash them out with a hammer and while it’s in your hand, you may as well use that tool to fit the new ones”.

So it’s down to the bike shop, and I’ve asked Nick to take a few other minor indiscretions into mechanical consideration. For a start the brakes don’t stop. Well they do for about ten minutes so lulling one into a false sense of security, before the levers bang the bars and your options are limited to nutting a tree or abandoning ship. The front mech has taken the destruction of its’ mechanical brother rather badly and now has an action so stiff it speaks of Shimano Viagra. It’d be easier to list what is still working…er let me see…. er, no that’s broken…. hmm that’s pretty shagged…right…not much then.

But even after all this angst, I was able to unleash the power of my bike acquisition strategy by dusting down the not-ridden-very-often Pace which proved good to go. Well good-ish, I spent about an hour chasing a knocking noise around the rear triangle only to finally realise the headset was loose. The bike lasted exactly two and a bit rides unbroken, being much fun to ride downhill and only a bit too humpy on the ups. It survived 45ks in the Forest, a good pummelling on some Malvern super-dry trails, and then nearly an hour back in the FoD.

Before an unholy trinity of bad gear choice, a slightly bent chain and a huge sodding – if unseen – root, left with my that familiar lack of drive. And then I realised that Fate has taken against me, although enquiring of a Singlespeeding mate with squeeky breaks why he didn’t just get a proper bike may have poked that particular vengeful God in the goolies. The Butterfly Effect applies here – “Take the piss out of someone elses bike and ruination of your own will be visited within the hour“.

My fiscal misery continued when a close examination of the once expensive parts showed the cheese-dropout ™ hadn’t failed quite quick enough to save ANOTHER new mech. Amazingly this bit of metallic Gorgonzola somehow is worth* twice the£15 forked out for a bit of pressed steel to fix the ST4.

I am left with the roadbike and my Trailstar. I dare not ride either of them because bad things come in threes and if they don’t break I undoubtedly will. Many years ago a friend of mine reckoned “You could get a similar experience to MTBing by running around a forest setting fire to ten pound notes“. A wise man that fella, and he’s a Fulham supporter – two things you don’t normally find in the same sentence.

So there we have it; God hates me, I have found solace in the philosophy of a Fulham supporter, and have spent an average of twenty quid a day to push broken bikes along some lovely dusty trails. I’m off to burn a bunch of cash as a sorrowful sacrifice while taking my therapy from a bottle. I may be some time.

* They also admitted in passing that the cause might be a bent swingarm. “If it happens again send the whole thing back and we’ll sort it out” / “Is it okay if I set fire to it first?”

** Depending on your value of worth. As the buyer, I was struggling.

Pass me those legs..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

… no not those, they’re entirely useless for anything other than modelling socks. Assuming I am sitting down. Slightly tired right now.

Bit special this weather isn’t it? Trails so dry that a couple of brief downpours were almost dust-dampeningly welcome. Not quite as moistly appreciated as a couple of mid ride pints ,in a rather fine pub on the banks of the Wye. I rarely risk beer when the off road isn’t done, as the increased alcohol induced silliness in no way makes headbutting trees any less painful.

Today’s justification came after a section of trails that invited you in, shook you up, blended pure adrenalin with healthy dose of fear before spitting you out gabbling, giggling and desperate for a pint. A pint that was preceded by some urban amusement in the form of many, many steps which rewarded a bit of pace and rhythm. I certainly achieved both in the pub afterwards.

It is a bit odd riding with people you barely know as one of two things generally happens a) they try and rip you legs off or b) are the kind of riders whose view on life is diametrically opposite to yours. In the Forest, you must also be ready for the sounds of Duelling Banjo’s, when someone stuffs a pair of boar tusks in their helmet* and darkly proclaims “It’s time to initiate the new boy, fetch the chicken”.

Multiple Daves, a Nick and A Gary did none of those things – although I feel an initiation ceremony may only be waiting for the hours of darkness – and proved just damn nice people who were happy to show a gobby northerner their favourite trails. And what trails they are. After Wednesday, I fully expected to be a bit disappointed because it was hard to see how the basic awesomeness of that singletrack could be matched, never mind bettered.

And, cutting to the point here, the first hour pretty much backed that up as rendezvous plans fell to confusion, a dearth of mobile phone coverage and some roadie criss-crossing. Eventually – after nearly being taken out by a twatty eye-test needing Volvo owner – we found an approximation of a riding flange and went searching for some dirt under tyre.

FoD Monster Ride - April 2010 FoD Monster Ride - April 2010

And what we found had a bit of everything, fast turns, tight turns, open sections, rock drops, jumps, gulley’s and occasionally terror all bounded by the bountiful forest. I was happy to bottle a big roll down that required precision and bollocks, neither of which I’d remembered to pack in my Camelbak, but did my best to make up for such wanton neshness everywhere else. I think the school report would read something like “doesn’t have much aptitude fo the subject, but tries hard. Rather noisy in class“.

And far from being embarrassingly overbiked – with the ST4 shock being properly broken, and a bunch of bearings having gone the same way – the Pace was a perfect accompaniment to some steep’n’deep trails which went from the barely defined to the obviously crafted. At no point did I think “you know what, I really should have brought the rigid Kona, that’d be ideal for that steep, rootfest, death line over there”

Proper ride that. 45ks, 1100m of climbing (I’ve gone metric, it’s all that road riding), out for five hours, one of those spent happily in the pub. And the second I’d made my goodbyes, while trailering the dusty bike, the heavens opened and the righteous gone rained on. Which was fine as I was inside the truck at that point.

I nearly didn’t ride today due to a combination of terrifyingly complex family logistics, and the option of throwing expensive gliders off windy slopes. But I can do that when I’m old and broken – until then more of this please.

* the one on their head. It’s not quite as bad as you may have heard.

Lessons Learned

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

“You never stop learning” as preppy and enthusiastic training types are want to brightly scold you. At my age, it’s more of a “never stop forgetting” decline, but there may be some merit behind the over-reaching ethic of self-improvement.

Take last night for example, some representative example to share:

Meet time is not ride time. Oh no, because first there is “faff time” and “chat time” before we’re ready to go. And then we don’t because someone’s disappeared for a spot of dogging*, someone else hasn’t even turned up yet, and the route is still in the “committee” stage.

It’s all part of the ride experience, and – I’m sure – backed by some EU rules.

Mid April is still night riding. Even if you’ve forgotten your lights. Then it’s more “dark riding” really.

When bikes > 5, there will be a mechanical. Ahem, that’ll be me then, serially stuffing air into my shock which still has some damping, but not any associated with compression.

Don’t think that because the route pathfinder is also lightless, you will not suffer benightment in a dark forest with people you hardly know. This is because he can clearly see perfectly in the dark, and may have been crossed with an Owl or a Bat. You however, will find your way by crashing into trees.

It is not possible to avoid chasing people. I am like a labrador, they are the juicy stick. I can hear Tony Doyle “Slow in Fast Out, Looking round the corner” in my ear but the Ego Devil is on my shoulder shouting “GET ON WITH IT YOU MINCER” and it’s his advice I follow. Predictably, the stick remains uncaught.

New trails should not be taken at full pace. Becuase you will find yourself entering an obstacle (let’s hypothosise a very large and deep roll down) at a speed far exceeding your skill base. Regardless of the parlous state of the bike’s suspension, you absolutely will acheive full travel on the anal sphincter.

Local knowledge rocks. Fifteen miles of perfect singletrack, grippy on the corners, fast on the straights, rooty and tight one minute, fast and open the next. Dust motes backlit by the setting sun. Finish one section and immediately dive back into the woods for more trail perfection. You know it won’t always be like this, and somehow that makes right now even better.

Riders make the ride. If I’d been accompanied on this trail only by GPS and my own company, the ride would downgrade from great to good. Regardless of the long back stories from the guys on the ride, I still felt part of a kind of group conciousness that just wants to ride, to have the craic and to feverently help someone falls off in front of them.

One thing I didn’t learn last night was just how brilliant riding bikes is. Because I already knew that. But it is brilliant to the power of giggle when you add all the summery elements, so badly missed in the never ending winter we’ve endured.

I’ll be there 6:30pm next week. Ready to faff 🙂

* this may not be entirely true, but they came back looking flustered, yet satisfied

The Return of the Sweaty Helmet..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding2 Comments

.. or “Why must I race every day, even when there is only me, and therefore I can only lose“. Standard Disclaimer absolutely appropriate here: “It’s not my fault“. My unpleasently perspiring arrival at the station this morning was entirely driven by technology and fear.

Technology being my bike computer pretending to be a GPS. One of its’ nastier features is a “virtual partner” where a slimmer, faster and less heavy legged version of yourself powers away effortlessly into the far distance. Essentially you’re racing a clone from another ride, but it’s a speedy clone saved with the fastest time ever acheived.

And that’s a bugger, because every commute Bealzibub’s LCD annointed one on earth mocks me as he stretches his lead. Until today, when – head down, legs madly spinning, lungs gulping down bucketloads, and sweat poring down my face – I beat it. By 7 seconds.* At which point alarms were going off all over my head including “Warning – legs not available for re-use”

The fear bit is wondering if enough riding has prepared me for a spring/summer/autumn of endless riding, without a lack of fitness chucking a stick in my spokes.

it won’t be the same stick which ripped out my rear mech yesterday, as that was both real and really bloody annoying. I am not entirely blameless, since our hack through stick alley was brought on by a navigational failure made worse by refusing to accept the wrong way was -in fact – the way we’d been going for some time.

Tim B fashioned an epic uber-bodge with nothing more than a chain tool and basic knowledge of chain growth, while I silently brooded over the thick end of a£100 worth of busted parts and fat dinks in a previously pristine chainstay.

We managed to finish the ride and, even with the silliness of singlespeeding, it still proved to be awesome under warm skies and atop dusty trails. If we were being honest, neither of us were really truly at the races; Tim fell off early doors and seemed to spend the rest of the ride trying not to do the same, and – even before derailer emasculation – my newly learned trail skills appear to already be half forgotten.

It mattered not. We climbed enough hills and covered enough miles to earn a large egg based reward. Aside from Tim’s claret coloured knee, both of us had received sufficient bramble action to pass off as “badger strike” when curious children questioned why I was bloodied from both thighs down.

The trails are so rock hard at the moment, a spot of rain wouldn’t do them any hard. Did I just say that out loud?

Oops.

* Tonight I shall be clearing ALL the ride histories. No way I’m racing myself again at that pace. I will die.

Seasons

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

Taken by Tim B, December 23rd 2009 during this ride when we still found snow novelty fun. How that changed over the next two months, with a winter cold enough to freeze or bore you to death.

Today was the first “proper” MTB ride with smallest (and yet not very small nowadays) child, with the Verbal one dispatched to ruin a friends’ house on the roundabout of Sleepovers that have erupted this last few months. Talking of eruptions, it is clearly a train company plot to bolster profits because we’ve had a horizon scraping blue sky day that speaks of summer. Ash did feature in my day but only shovelling some fire remains into the compost bin and fetching the dog out of what was left*

Random, despite her bike being mostly unridden for a few months, picked up from where she left off, climbing a few more hills, eeking out a bit more speed on the downs and looking pretty damn relaxed. A steep, loose path to the lake was a two person descent with one running along side holding the brake lever only last year. Now she just controls her speed using the infamous “Donut”**, until – about half way down – abandoning them completely and hooning off to the power of “wheeeeeeee”. Scary stuff I can tell you.

Embolded by fearless trail skills, we tried a “hard” track by the lake with a few roll ins, bigger roots and tight turns. Aside from falling off and attacking a stump with her front wheel, she was essentially awesome and undamaged. Even my personalised 1:1 tuition didn’t seem to hamper her much either. A half fallen tree was negotiated with a breathtakingly instinctive move to stick her head on the stem and hope for the best, while a tricky bit was undertaken three times to make sure “I got a decent photo“. No idea where she got that kind of Prima Donna “look at me” attitude from.

Obviously she then boasted to her now re-located sister on how much better her riding was, leaving me to arbitrate sibling DEFCON 2 with a crowd pleasing “You’re both really good“. “Yeah, but I’m still BETTER” asserted verbal. I chucked them outside and left them to it. Practical parenting I like to think of this as.

Anyway, the point – if there has to be one – is that the seasons have really changed. Apparently dead stuff is becoming leafy stuff, grass is growing, days feel long, weeds are being dug, things that look like weeds are being planted, and tomorrow I’ll be earning cold beer on dusty tracks, going fast and praying the weather won’t break for a bit.

I’m struggling with my normal grumpiness. Probably means I’m due to fall off and lose a limb or something.

* That’ll teach me to give him a wash then. He’s remonstrated by rolling in anything ending in the word “Poo” for the last week. If anything he smells even worse, and honestly I didn’t think that was possible. It’s like having our own mobile Porton Down.

** Squeeze the brakes like you’re holding a donut and don’t want projectile jam in the mush I taught them. They now seem to think this means I have to actually give them a donut.

Are we there yet?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding5 Comments

The brain is a remarkable organ. Some would say the most remarkable organ in your body, although most of those wouldn’t be men. It is capable – rather unlike certain other appendages – of significant displacement activity especially when faced with much of the same for most of the time.

In the case of one hundred kilometres of not terribly different things happening in front of me, the cerebral loaf sliced up time with the insertion of looped music into a head otherwise stuffed only with boredom. Sadly this synapse sponsored play-list contained only one song, of which I know almost three lines from the entire lyrical ensemble.

Elvis Costello may be a genius songsmith and I have some time for much of his back catalogue, but even his most ardent groupie would tire of hearing a repeat of lines including “Checkpoint Charlie” / “Mr Churchill” and “Johannesburg” interspersed with some desperate humming. Six hours of “Oliver’s Army” has left me with no choice but to dedicate the remainder of my life to hunting down and eating every remaining copy.

Between slapping my head in a doomed attempt to skip tracks, the HONC passed me by in a series of emotions primarily swinging between boredom, misery and dashed hope. I’d also like to record brief periods of fun, humour and generic enjoyment except I don’t think there were any.

It went something like this:

Mile 0:

Arrive in Winchcome at far-too-bloody-early o’clock, and am immediately confronted with arm waving high viz jackets, middle class white people* of differing shapes struggling with the full range of two wheeled accesories from the basically recreational to the achingly niche.

Meet riding buddies and swap excuses. Difference being they a) have ridden the event before and are looking confidently fit and b) are both much younger and competitive that me. I decided right then this would be the last time I see then.

Mile 1:

And we’re off. Instant cockage overcomes pelaton types and there’s some elbow out action down the high street. Wonder if it’s just me that thinks with 59.5 miles to go, sprinty showboating might be a little out of place. “It’s not a race” I want to shout but instead just hand out some lessons in exactly how pointy Yorkshire elbows are.

Mile 3:

First climb and I wave bye to my friends as they carry out their threat to put in some hard yards, so not to be caught behind slow and rubbish riders as the road turns to dirt. As one of those slow and rubbish riders, I applaud their commitment from a very spinny position some way back.

Mile 5:

We crest the first (and longest) climb with testosterone levels still high enough for some knob to save himself one second by rudely pushing in as we approached a gated crossing. Already a bit miserable, I opt for some sport by drafting el-knobbo on the road right up to the point when he notices, then cruising by in the manner of the aerobically untroubled. Then slowing right down so he has to go straight back past. Guess what I did then? I know, I know I just can’t help myself.

Childish yes, and I bored of it after a couple of miles which unfortunately swept us past the exit marked “all non lunatics turn here” and committing myself to the full 100k. Mr Costello sat himself downon a comfy chair for a nice long set.

Mile 10:

First checkpoint. Only thing of note was the first proper muddy section (of which there were thankfully few) where some racey nutter took a bankside route to pass the double stacked riders. The end of which dropped him into a hub deep puddle of vile slop, and – because there is a God – then pitched him head first into a second vat of something similar. To be fair to the fella he did acknowledge the cheers from the righteously avenged.

Mile 15:
“Give it a REST ELVIS” I found myself shouting much to the apparent consternation of some innocent fellows I’d fallen in with. It has to be recorded most of them were significantly quicker uphill showing levels of commitment reflected in their raspy breathing. Show them a bit of downhill though, especially were it enlivened by a smattering of the slippy stuff, and they’d show you their getting off and walking skills.

But with the ups lasting far longer than the downs and the off road being pretty benign, soon they left me to be replaced by the next keen set of riders who would swallow me up and spit me out the back. This bothered me not at all as my plan had nothing at all to do with what what going on with other riders’ abilities.

Mile 20:
Time to execute on Ride Plan. Off the bike, bit of a stretch, force down some ‘orrid energy bar, slurp a few mouthfulls of electrolyte laced water and then stretch some more. Having fallen victim to terrible cramp and general un-wellness on long events before, this time I was going to finish on the bike however long it took. In my mind that was about seven hours, but the GPS told me I was doing a little better than that.

It also told me I still had 40 miles and 4.5 hours to go. I began to obsess a bit about that pleading for the miles to decrement at an entirely unrealistic rate. Paranoia infected my thought processes, and I forced myself to look away believing the evil little numbers would only change if I wasn’t watching.

Mile 22:
It was in this state of mind that I made the first of my navigational mistakes. Obviously it was downhill, and some distance from the usefully placed course marker I’d somehow missed. On the upside, I’d dragged about five riders with me which ensured company on the grind back up to where we could see many riders zipping by wondering what these losers where doing all the way down there.

From now on, I’d forget about the miles and follow the little pointer religiously.

Mile 24:
“My GPS says we’ve gone the wrong way” I quietly whispered to a few more riders milling about on a road junction. Back we went a headwind-y mile back up a dusty road with me pretending it wasn’t my fault. Thinking about equipment and its’ appropriateness, it is fair to label the ST4 as far too much bike for the road sections. Even with 40psi in the tyres, I was briefly jealous of those whizzing by on Cross Bikes or light hardtails.

I say briefly because almost every off road section was a washboard field crossing, a rutted doubletrack or a rocky gulley. Here the full suspension bike held sway, and it was with some vainglory that I passed riders who were desperately hanging on to the bars and, probably, their kidneys.

One fella I kept seeing on a cross bike very similar to the one I sold just in time that I couldn’t ride it here, did a pretty solid job of descending on something entirely unsuitable. But every time he caught me up on the next road section, something had broken; his toolkit, a spoke, his eyeballs, etc. It is difficult to show sincere sympathy while at the same time explaining just how smooth the ST4 was down that very decent that had beaten him up.

“You didn’t enjoy it?” / “No way, it was ACE”

Mile 30:

HALF WAY. Thank fuck for that. 30 miles still to go? Bollocks.

Mile 32:
Mr C clearly in for the duration “Churchill” “hmmmm, hmm HMMM HMMM hmm hmmm Johanesburg Hmm hmm OH FUCK OFF”. Arse starting to hurt now. Even with sufficient Assos cream to lubricate a Rhypnol evening at a Boy Scouts badge ceremony**, my “sit bones” were becomes jagged bones to the point where I’d started to have a strange fantasy about squatting on a pineapple. Long, lonely rides can do that to a man.

Mile 33:
Photographer attempts to lure me into stream crossing. I’ve heard all about the bike swallowing properties of this obstacle so skirt round the side and freewheel into the food stop. Busy, but I know no-one. I was following up a vague web conversation to meet up with Jo Burt, but didn’t feel I knew him well enough to offer a hand shake when I’d seen him earlier.

To be fair he was taking a piss, but I accept I missed the perfect opportunity – on our next meeting – to open with “Hey Jo, didn’t recognise you without your cock out”

Mile 35:
Quick cake and tea stop and I’m off before the chilly wind saps my motivation to get this thing done. A quick stretch nearly had amusing consequences when I had to be helped back to an upright position. I’m fairly sure no damage was done to either my reputation or dignity, as I remained half hinged and mostly helpless.

Mile 38:
20 to go, last 2 don’t matter as they’ll be back into the village and sheer bloody mindedness will get me there. I know from a route scan there’s some tough climbs and they are almost entirely into a strengthening head wind. Cake Powered, my uphill prowess increased to the point where tired riders were dispatched with a cheery “On your right mate” and for a while I felt like a proper racer.

Mile 42:
Now being passed by same riders who clearly have proper fitness. Pass a few back on a long rutted doubletrack into the valley bottom. Enjoyment tempered by climb out of the far side, firstly through a ploughed field and then over a rocky horror climb bounded by an aggressive hedge. People are pushing now but I’m still grinding on, loving the plushness of the ST4, hating everything else.

At this point my “Greta Garbo I want to be alone” approach was fully tested as an old man riding a bike made new in 1973 – including the original toe clips- breezed by. What was that I said about retaining any dignity?

Mile 44:
Okay quick push now up a bastard climb that sat atop a muddy section which showed just how bad this course would have been a week earlier. Pretty much un-ridable in my view and while we cursed the eyeball pinball that the ruts and tractor tyre artifacts begat, it was still one million times better than a 100 kilometre slug-fest with thick mud under tyre.

Mile 46:
After that climb was done, I was pretty much done. We rode through the impressively manicured grounds of Salperton House on a wide track awash in acres of verdant grass, and my aching body could no longer resist the siren call of the slack. As I lay supine, happy to be off the bike and out of the wind while being gently warmed by a cloud broken sun, hoards of grim faced riders whummed by. The occasional one took my regal wave as affirmation I was not in need of medical attention, and only the prospect of being shot by a rich man with a gun***with a vague idea of what a pheasant might look like, roused me from a slumbering torpor.

Mile 49:

CHANGE YOU BASTARD I requested politely of the GPS. Road, Climb, Field, Bump, Down, Up, “Churchill, Hmmm Hmm Johanesburg, Hmm, hmm, hmm Checkpoint Charlie, Hmm, hmmmmmmm after you Elvis, you know the words, mnnnnnrrrrtghhhhhhmnmmmmm”. Anybody else getting groundhog day?

Mile 53:

Last 4 have passed in sort of a blur. A very slow blur that can only be recorded by expensive motion capture cameras normally filming the changing of the seasons. Everyone in our little group looks a bit fucked and worn out. The views have been horizon-to-horizon lovely all day but now we’re climbing onto Cleeve Common which seems to double as a council tip.

Before we get there, another photographer jumps out and demands some kind of cunning stunt from a man who has lost all interest in cycling. I manage to get one of my ends up while silently Spoonering his request. For a second it drowned out Oliver’s Army, but the bugger was soon back garrisoned in my frontal lobe.

Mile 55:

Jeez, we’re in the epicentre of the world’s largest fly tipping experiment with a difficult juxtaposition of dead fridges, spring-out sofas and surly motocrosses. Bastard rocky climb as well which I ride because I don’t trust my knees for pushing. I pass a few with a tired “how you doing?” generally illiciting not much more than a grunt or groan. The fast boys and girls are done and showered, and it’s all mid pack and difficult now.

Not far to go but it’s properly hurting now, I’ve had a first bout of cramp trying to re-seat a dropped chain that’s disappeared behind the cassette of a rider whose entirely clueless on what to do next. I fix it at the expense of bloodied knuckles and comedy emergency stretching.

Mile 56:

Ah hah, ROTB (Roadies on Mountain Bikes) in matching jerseys and beaten expressions make organic slalom markers on a proper ripping singletrack descent from the common’s top. I spend some happy seconds thinking no one has passed me on a descent all day, before the realisation that about ten times as many have gone past when the trail points the other way somewhat dampens my rampant ego. Not much else is rampant apart from a desperate need to eat, but I’m sick of goo-ey energy bars.

God shows again he’s the beneficent being the Church is always banging on about by placing some young entrepreneurs on the common, pimping out mouth watering chocolate slices for 50p and encouragement for free. Many riders pass while I make multiple purchases and wonder if I can recruit them for Dragon’s Den.

Mile 57:

Hello twatty headwind how I’ve missed you. C’mon Elvis let’s sing it together “Checkpoint” grind “Charlie” Gurn “Churchill” Grimace. Repeat until it’s gone beyond funny, and into that dark place where the cackley demons live. I. AM. NOT. GETTING. OFF. Most of the other riders did as pedalling on damp grass after 55+ miles of quite enough became far too much into the tooth of half a gale. But I’m just not built that way. For all my pretending not to care about the pace of others and sticking to a plan, I still have myself to beat and beat up so I give up trying to find a lower gear and just bloody well get on with it.

It ends eventually and what an ending with the best descent of the whole day opening up into a rocky gully full of mud hidden traps waiting to claim tired riders. And I’m shot, completely, no new Trail Skills to save me here, no “in slow out fast“, no looking round the corner, no outside pedal down, just sheer bloody bravado and joy and this being so good and so close to the end. I know the climbs are done so I may as well put everything into the next mile

It’s ragged. It’s not pretty. It’s not even a distant cousin of smooth. I hear the chain slapping the swingarm, the heavily PSI’d tyres scrabbling for grip and I’m making too many corrections, trying to flow but never getting close. And then Ol’ Toe Clips is marooned in the middle of MY descent doing 4 mph and that won’t do. I have two options, one is polite and correct, the other tells you why instinct and common sense are never equally distributed.

Suddenly Elvis has left the building, the pineapple was a forgotten fruit and my mind was full of “The Italian Job” imagery as they escaped down the tunnels. I hit the bank hard, rocks cascading below me to the drumbeat of the impulsive, railing high and left above Mr. Marin and his Sensible Pace before I’m running out of road and ideas. Got to drop back in, probably clear, probably, definitely maybe, better than an even chance, no choice, it’s crash or turn.

Noises sequence like this: Trail bike hits trail hard, suspension compresses with a loud squish, rider behind makes a noise with an “O” shaped mouth, rider in front is high on adrenaline shouting “YOU WERE ONLY MEANT TO BLOW THE BLOODY DOORS OFF”. Everyone is happy. Well one out of two anyway.

I stopped some time later as muddy dirt met tarmac to clean my splattered sunglasses and still my beating heart. Matey Marin caught up and we agreed to disagree that my passing move was either “Safe, controlled and well intentioned” or “Dangerous, bloody stupid and inconsiderate”.

This is a very friendly event even with 1200 riders, and yet I’ve managed to piss at least two of them off. Ah well, it’s not like I’m coming back.

Mile 60:

And I won’t be. Collecting my time at a smidge under six hours I didn’t feel particularly worthy or content. The car park was more than half empty which shows exactly how good the time really was. My arse hurt, my knees ached but not so much I didn’t ride last night on some sublime, dust speckled woody singletrack. I probably could have finished 30 minutes quicker if I could have – at any point – given a shit, but that never got close to happening.

My mates finished nearly an hour quicker and declared themselves satisfied and sated. They’ll be back next year. I’ll be riding somewhere fun for three hours and then going to the pub.

* All driving 4x4s as well. Honestly, what a stereotype eh? Know anyone like that?

** I apologise for the tastelessness of that joke. You have to appreciate the pain I was suffering at the time.

*** Salperton House is a very expensive retreat for posh people with too many teeth and not enough manners to go and shoot fat birds. I believe they keep pheasants in the shed, not alcopop’d blonde’s from Essex, but maybe someone should check.