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.

Embrace the mudness.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Last week, at about this time, I looked out of the window and spiteful, freezing rain glared right back at me. So I ventured outside to check whether rain’s winter* twins were physically in evidence. Indeed they were, a biting cold wind under a thunderous sky clamping the world in grey and misery.

Perfect conditions for riding a mountain bike at night then. And if you read last months Singletrack magazine**, articles abound on the joy of slogging through two seasons of mud, grit and grimness. Now we all know that such writings pour forth from the deluded, the medicated or the untruthful, and yet I find their tone worrying in that it fails to resonate at all.

You see maybe I’ve stopped being a Mountain Biker. Oh I still ride quite a lot, on different bikes in different places with different people. And yet, I enjoy being out with the kids for an hour on some play dirt, as much as I do humping up hills and scaring myself shitless going down. Maybe “recreational cyclist” is a more appropriate moniker.

That’s not good, and neither is my attitude to night riding at the best of times. Those times being mid summer, zero chance of benightment, short sleeved tops, comedy tan marks and trails of dusty grip. Even then, shifting my arse and mental state from ‘sofa‘ to ‘saddle‘ takes way more effort that it should when you consider how 99 times out of a 100, I love being out there.

My new tactic is not to go home at all. Ignore the distractions of family, warm rooms, hot food and a million things on the to-do list. Throw the bike in the car, and throw myself into a days work that’ll demand unwinding through a thousand pedal revolutions. But more than that, stop thinking it’s cold, and shit, and horrible and instead revel is the silliness of slippy trails, the joy of solace in normally crowded hills, the big deposit in the summer karma bank – all of that and all of the other stuff you can neither define or explain but makes up a big piece of the “why we do this” pie.

A difficult day morphed into a traffic stained drive home leaving me far too stressed for the gentle ribbing of my riding pals. But within the first hundred yards of splashy spinning, all that was behind and only things marked fun lay ahead. I felt good – and the older you get, the more random this seems regardless of any perceived levels of fitness and vim – and it was great to settle into the comfy armchair cadence of of the like-minded.

Better still, we bypassed the first 600 foot climb which leaves me breathless and broken every time. It’s a horror, and I wasn’t sorry to feel the shadowy presence of the big hill brood over our valley borne souls. We still put in a good shift at the climbing face though, and it was nearly thirty minutes before we commanded a high point overlooking twinkling lights of the towns and city below.

I’ve always loved this bit. Imagining the hundreds, thousands of people down there washing up, watching television, getting old by proxy and living little lives that didn’t explode a couple of times a week when mixed with mountain biking. I know this is a shallow and naive view of the world, but it warmed me as that cold wind howled over the tops. Time to go. Better still time to go downhill.

A descent through an old grassed earthen-work ditch is the only place in my riding world where two wheel drifts don’t lead directly to Accident and Emergency. A hasty discussion when we’d stopped giggling sent us onward – deep into the Malverns to ominous heights. Black Hill, Perseverance and Hangman’s point all connected with zig zagging paths and windy summits.

Below the three line, it was warm, pleasant even, to grind up the few hundred feet lost after we’d cheek’d our way down some alpine like swtichbacks. On top, the wind drove us on and back towards home taking in a descent that is so steep and so fast I’ve watched my life pass behind my eyes many, many times. Nowadays I displace the terror of the speed and the hiss of loose gravel under wheel by fast forwarding past the dull bits.

More climbing – there is so much here in such short distances. Every mile you ride, expect to climb 200-250 feet, but my legs and lungs had taken their cue from Mr. Positive Thinking up top. Which made the plunge back through steep woods with a couple of dicey chutes to finish seem more than a fair return for endless pedalling.

In fact, I was up for more up, a climb back up the bastard face of “MidSummer” to access a trail full of steep off-camber, slimy, frictionless roots pre-worried by a little drop that’s had me close to visiting endo-city for about, oh, the last year and a bit. But I was mad keen, or maybe just mad as my normal contribution to this part of the ride is a whining request for flatlander status.

But we called it a night, and also called it a damn good ride. The bikes needed a little hosing, I needed about the same when I got home, but I felt like a proper mountain biker again. And as I look outside, if anything it’s even worse right now meaning more slippy trails, more cold, more out in the grim conditions for tonight’s ride. You know what?

I can’t wait 🙂

* I know it’s not winter officially yet, but according to my internal barometer, it’s bloody freezing out there.

** Which, since I’m in it, is worth the cover price alone 🙂

A new bike and some proper riding.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Obviously the first statement is very me, but the second inaccurately describes my associations with bi-wheeled transport. Except in my head, and you don’t want to be in there. I have much to say on a new hedgehog premise that shall be used to judge future experiences, and most of a post sensationalising how the Aldi powertool designer has a direct line to the man who developed the Trebuchet. Languishing behind that are some further words on commuting in the cold, dark world we hardy Brits inhabit for the next six months.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

But somehow none of this matters. Abi had her new bike this week and we jumped through a couple of weather windows to try it out. There’s much to like; 26inch wheels, proper hubs, rims and tyres, disc brakes, lovely frame made of the stuff they used for race bikes a few years back and contact points and forks specially modified for the gentler gender.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

But that’s largely irrelevant because the crux of all this is how much fun she (and her sister now upgraded to Abi’s old 24 inch Spesh) had riding it. We’ll be back out in the woods tomorrow if the rain stays away where mud, smiles and proper parenting shall make the most of a snatched couple of days holiday.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

I’ve said before that any father who confuses being vicarious with being a good dad is a bloody idiot. But there is something rather special about hearing your kids laugh while being splattered with mud. It’ll probably all wear off as new bike syndrome becomes old hat, but until it does I am going to make sure every opportunity is taken to go and be silly in the countryside.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

Last week was horrible for all sorts of reasons. It throws the good stuff into sharp relief. And not even I can be grumpy about that.

I’ve st4rted so..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

I’ll finish. Probably. Or possibly not, because my cherished belief that the many issues with my riding can be simply solved though the slavish adherence to shiny purchasing syndrome has been superseded by the Peter Principle. To summarise Prof Pete, “Every man rises to his own level of incompetence and then stays there”. I’ve some pretty strong personal evidence that would buttress this theory beyond any danger of rebuttal.

But enough about my day job. Age brings many thing one of which is supposedly wisdom – in my view nothing more than realism sent for a marketing makeover – and while I continue to bloody love riding Mountain Bikes, I’ve accepted I’ll never be more than aspirationally average.

Let’s talk evidence again; I’m overly cautious when conditions aren’t perfect, useless with anything exposed especially if covered with chicken wire*, slow in super tight stuff and dangerously ragged when it gets properly rocky. None of this has to do with the stuff below groin level, and everything related to a small skill pie constantly nibbled away by basic scardycatness.

But reel me out some sweepy singletrack and I’ll respond with progress that is adequately brisk. Show me steep and scary, and I’ll show you how to get down there although it won’t be pretty**, plaster me with mud, freeze me with cold and threaten to benight me, and I’ll respond with a level of bloody mindedness that’d have the medical profession checking me for Donkey DNA.

Flicking back to work, I heard a brilliant phrase from the HR Borgs that went something like “Unconsciously incompetent“. I think that describes my riding perfectly – I am not the slowest up hill or the fastest down, but I’m mostly having a fantastic time even if others are laughing behind their hands.

Grudgingly – back to the Peter Principle – I still have to accept some of this is definitely still bike related. But not that much because MTB’s now are just so bloody good. Invest£500 and be rewarded with a component combination that’ll thrill you until your permanent grin promises sectioning in your near future. Spend a bit more, and you get a little less – yet sufficient degrees of separation eek out some kind of insane value proposition.

The trailcentre at Afan worried me that the marketing men have won. The car park rolled out pristine, range topping bikes, cool threads, an entire batallion of body armour and some well padded, middle aged white guys decamping from new reg Audi’s and BMW’s. Sorry to wander of the point here, but when the fuck did that happen? It must be trail centre specific, because the guys I ride with totally fail to mainline that particular look-at-me drug. Sure, they have nice bikes but they can ride them a bit.

I can’t help thinking it’s stopped being about trudging through endless winter nights to bank Karma for summer epics. If it’s not on a plate, perfectly groomed and encased in FairTrade latte’s, then this breed of mountain bikers can’t see the point. I spend too much money on bikes because I absolutely bloody love it, even though I’m not brave enough, skilled enough, fit enough, whatever to get anywhere close to the limits of the stuff I buy.

But they are not fashion accessories. It really pisses me off these guys – and they all are – can’t generally ride for shit, but that doesn’t matter because they look like they can. And after a day pinging them off the trail, let me tell you I am not stereotyping here. If we all get ghetto’d onto Scalextric circuits, and exclusion is now based on the stupid price of entry, then we bloody well deserve it.

To trump my own argument, days like this are why trail centres are ace. We rode W2 – 45k, 3000 feet of climbing taking in the Wall and Whytes routes. The ST4 was properly fantastic on every section, a proper trail bike with non racey angles, enough travel to get you first in and then out of trouble, super low bottom bracket that replaces cornering with instinct, and a puppy dog love of just never wanting to stop.

The odd pedal strike aside, it’s the best short travel full suss I’ve ever ridden***, it never feels underbiked or overweight. It’s both simple and clever making best use of the brilliant shock technology now on offer. It’s Jedi Speeder fast in fast singletrack even with my fists of ham, and bounces up and down rocks as well as bikes with significantly more travel and heft.

I liked it very much. I liked riding with my friends more, and feeling fit enough to enjoy through to the very end. Driving home, I had a thought on loop which went something like “I fucking love riding mountain bikes, don’t you dare ever take that away, don’t let stuff get in the way, don’t make excuses, don’t make this AOB. This isn’t about being different any more, it’s not about the next best thing, it’s not about what makes you look good, it’s about flashing between trees, picking lines that shit you up and then make you laugh out loud, grinding up climbs, taking the piss with your mates and just not ever stopping“.

Do I want an ST4? Sure, lots of reasons, even a few good ones. Would I make a deal with the devil to sell everything I own to ride a few more years on what I already have? You betcha.

* A material I think of “face ripper”

** A comment that encompasses almost everything I try.

*** And yes, I accept there have been a few.

This is not my fault!

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding8 Comments

I know, I know it never is. But this time, It really isn’t. After giving up the opportunity for two great rides this weekend, so as to have a go at this “proper parenting” phenomenon I’ve heard about, it became clear my pesky kids continue to sprout upwards in the manner of a certain pantomime beanstalk.

A woodsy ride – in which I must say both offspring showed the kind of skilled riding and lack of blubbing that suggests a paternity check may be in order – demonstrated Random’s 20 inch wheels have turned her into a BMX monster, and lanky Verbal is now too talk for the 24inch upgrade she’s been riding for a while.

So in that well trodden upgrade shuffle, Random is happy to have her sister’s cast off, and off to the shops we go for a new full size one. My purchasing rationale is based on frame size, engineering quality, component options and other such important stuff. Verbal cares not for such things, and wants only for it to be black. Or red. Or preferably both.

Frankly the options are bewildering, and I’m a bit out of the game since my pantheon of never ending new frames came to a dead stop last year. I’m over all that you see, have everything I need, no marketing guy is getting one over me. Oh no.

And then I saw that frame and started making excuses. Love hardtails, but the old lower back is giving me a bit of grief. Short travel full suss would do almost everything for me now, since the big away trips to scary places look unlikely to be repeated. A spot of middle age cosseting would not seem unreasonable for a man whose feeling a bit Bike-Mojo-Lite lately.

And then do them in custom colours. But like I say this isn’t my fault, I wasn’t looking for a new frame and I certainly won’t be buying one. I think we can look at my unblemished history in this area, and all agree on that at least.

Small is beautiful

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

No, this is an excuse for the size, or otherwise, of certain manly parts. Although having ridden my little ol’ jump bike on some not really trails at all today, I believe I may be searching the Internet for some bigger ones anyway,

Those of you not on the strongest of medication may have noticed that photo is composed to a skewed horizon. I’d like to say that’s exactly how I planned the shot, and it has much to do with accentuating the angle of the bike, the verticality of the little rock, the bigness of the sky. It’d be an artistic untruth though because iit is the result of an photographic technique known as “desperately trying to fit everything in”.

Size again you see. Maybe it does matter. Certainly did on this wall.

Malverns September 2009 Malverns September 2009

I looked at that in a very manly fashion, while some random XC whippets embarrassed the entire MTB genre by repeatedly riding down a couple of steps in a manner that’d mince you straight onto Strictly Come Dancing. Anyway after a few looks and a run in, I ran out of bottle and went to look for less scary things.

None of which were on offer on the final run of the day. On the upside, it was all downhill which – after much winching up the ol’ DMR on flats and a rear axle pedalling position – was a relief. Also in need of relief was my arse, ruined by a cheap saddle I never expected to sit on much, so standing up on wobbly muscles trumped lowering the throbbing chaffed appendage back onto that torturous perch.

The trail down was barely discernible, dropping steeply between still high bracket and gorse. When it did finally open out to something that might once have been a path, the improvement in visibility was mitigated by the loose yet fat rock garden that created an experience best thought of as a pinball game caught in a washing machine.

The DMR was a lot of fun though. Easy to get the scarred buttocks way over the back wheel, the small frame giving it fantastic maneuverability and the big forks ploughing through when my fear based dithering threatened to pop us into the undergrowth. It’s so unlike the Cove – more brutal, more direct, sharp angles forcing weight over the fork, pushing elbows out and grins higher.

All the parts on it are old or second hand or cheap, the frame cost buttons and it’s entirely the wrong bike for – well – most things really. But it has one feature that cannot be fashioned from fancy metals or accessorised bling. It made me feel about 12 years old again.

And that’s becoming important. More important than supposed progression or fitness or riding in new places. Because it’s become apparent to me that flying gliders on a slope – obsessive and much fun as it is – seems to be a an old mans’ game.

I’m not ready for that yet. I want to be twelve again. Best reason to ride a bike? You becha.

Mud in your eye…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

… and in every other orifice as well. Think about that for a moment, while I confirm it was EVERY orifice be it covered with clothing or not. A festival of mud laid out the sloppy stuff front, centre, up, down, in and out of every bodily crevice I had inadvertently placed in the line of fire. This was not – as some of my more pervy* readers may hope – an introduction to the Malvern Hills Dogging Experience**

No the reason for my homage to a swamp monster was a ride in Haugh woods that left me 75{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} man, 25{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} slurry. Reasons abound for such muckiness ranging from a month of rain where summer should have been, and some careful harvesting of trees using nothing more than multi tracked twenty ton earth movers.

Tim – a recent innocent comet gravitationally pulled into the slightly bizarre, often drunk orbit of Planet Hedgehog – was regaling us with stories of how, under this foot of oozing nastiness, fantastic singletrack was desperate to get out. After two hours, so were we having destroyed my legs, a very expensive wheel and most of a previously pristine drivetrain.

On the upside, it wasn’t my wheel and the “Chiltern Experience” was rapidly put behind us as an old friend turned up with an even older bottle of Brandy. That ended as well as expected, and put paid to a navigationally challenged attack on the Long Mynd planned for the following day.

My riding pals have known me long enough to interpret “fellas, one thing, I’ve no idea where the fuck the start point is, never mind the route, my GPS is merely LCD candy ,and the only available map marks this region as ‘here be dragons‘” as a cry for help. In that vein they helped themselves to more alcohol and a drunken plan hatched a slightly less epic Malvern Hill Romp.

Which was – and I’m going to appeal to the common man here – fucking fantastic. It didn’t start well with hangovers, faffing and car parks full of red socks. But once 10 minutes away from the sour faced, ski-pole*** mountain bike haters, we bagged a large number of peaks stopping only to inhale vast quantities of cake and the occasional funny turn.

Some of these were my rubbish route finding, some my friends’ need to have a little lie down until Fantasia stopped playing behind his eyes. He’s not been riding much, but I was in awe of his riding approach which was to start slow and maintain that same pace for four hours plus. Not for him some ego straining push for the front – well not until I outed the cake from my Camelbak anyway.

It was ace though, still winter muddy but warm and not the Flanders experience suffered the day before. So impressed was I with the utter bloody joy of bicycles, I rocketed out of bed at 6am this morning to ride another one to work. The rain didn’t stop me, although an absence of four weeks’ commuting nearly did. So disappointed with my energy levels on the way back, I decided the best thing would be to extend the ride up the huge sodding hill summiting at the radio mast.

Nearly needed that to signal for help and possibly an ambulance. Eight minutes out of the saddle with a few hundred feet of sweaty grind, before switching gradients to a bonkers flat out descent into the valley bottom on a bike with shit brakes, thin tyres skidding over damp mud and a pilot wondering what the hell he might do for kicks when he can’t do this.

Got home. Got dog. Got kids who wanted to ride their bikes. Got another bike out and rode that with them. Well you would wouldn’t you? First day back at work was rubbish but sandwiched between wheels, I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.

* Based on what I know, that’s all of you. Except for my mum who is currently disconnected from the Internet due to youngest son’s complete failure to remotely troubleshoot a broken wireless connection. I shall be sending her up my special hammer in short course to remedy the problem once and for all.

** Which is the second highest search vector to this site. The first being “sex with hedgehogs“. I wish I were making that up.

*** “Are these the lower slopes of the Alps?” / “No” / “Then WTF?“

Rush Hour

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography4 Comments

I have one hour. Exactly sixty minutes to switch life modes, exchange drudgery and bug eyed stress for stolen pleasure. It doesn’t matter why or when – only that the clock is ticking, and I need to feel fast air in my lungs, dirt under my tyres, joy in my heart. I have to go and ride my bike.

First of too many problems is the dearth of any proper good muddy stuff from our door. Sure with the Malverns on one side, and the Forest of Dean on the other, I am only a short drive from stonking trails, and not much further to the wilds of Wales. But there isn’t time for trailers, parking and faffing when you’re a mere hour from needing to be back here.

The very local woods offer nothing other than an excuse to lose the dog in the overgrown footpaths. Head a little further out and a huge expanse of forestry should roll out a million trails, but it doesn’t because of too many horses, to few bikes, too little traffic and my apathy based exploring routine. I’ve driven out there a few times, and come back disappointed vowing to carry on next time to stuff I know is good.

Much of this is because I’m a rubbish explorer, no sense of direction, and yet blessed with a gift to divine rubbish tracks. If you’re in the market for a six foot wide ruined trail full of horses hooves, red Herefordshire mud, viscous shrubbery and a dark heart from which there is no obvious escape, I’m your womble.*

So it’s a bit crap for mountain bikes, and I’m completely unable to find any of this mythical singletrack I’ve heard talked about. But it’s close, 3.3 miles and that’s less than 15 minutes to a man who has 3 week unridden legs, and the need to unwind a million wrongs visited upon him.

Big Ring. Stand up. Ignore wheezing lungs and unexercised muscles. Forget that road riding is dull, blot out the threatening clouds and incessant headwind – there are many things worse that this and most of them are inside.

I’m still attacking everything when I first hit the dirt, diving under the trees on a trail I’ve jealously eyed up on numerous dog walks. Which already goes against the plan of riding just 4 known tracks to the valley bottom and then sprinting home on the fireroad.

But every mountain biker has a Pavlovian attraction for snaky singletrack, and it’s not long before I’m clearing deadwood from a little used trail and thinking happy thoughts on improvements if only I’d remembered my spade. But time doesn’t stop, and neither can I – sweating a bit now – switching to a favourite rooty trail that’s way drier than expected and twice as much fun.

God I’d forgotten how great this is. And it has nothing to do with the bike. Oh sure, the Cove is perfectly balanced, razor sharp without being twitchy, taut without being painfully stiff, fast without being fragile but that’s not what matters right now. Because right now I’m not inside with a pile of work, or outside trying to make sense of ongoing house devastation.

No time to gloat, time to ride, pick another trail and spend minutes I don’t have trying to jump a rooty set. Twice I cock it up, so go for a dumb brakes off approach that ends as well as you can probably imagine. Still, since I was lying down, this seemed a perfect time to break out a lunchtime energy bar and surreptitiously check e-mail. No Signal? That’s fate. Time to go.

Not enough of that to ride a cheeky trail around the lake. Walked loads of time with dog and family, it’s root strewn, off camber, damp today and sure to be rubbish. But I ride it anyway, and it’s bloody brilliant of course – not as it offers some kind of singletrack nirvana, or great speed but because I shouldn’t be here, and nobody else is.

Flick of the wrist shows bad numbers so I quit while I’m just a little behind my rush hour schedule. But not so fast that I cannot mentally mark a myriad of possible trails which peep enticingly from behind summer growth.

My hour is nearly up and some cad has laid an extra mile of tarmac between my fading legs and the demands of being a grown up. The headwind has even strengthened** but a main road short cut deemed to be less risky than the hilly back roads*** bought me enough time to make a sub sixty possible.

Being two minutes late didn’t matter unless you’re the type of person who stokes his competitive gland every time bikes are involved. So that’s me on a final charge which brought the house into view, and a moto style entry over the frictionless pea shingle impressed exactly one person. And that person read 59:48 on their stopwatch.

Don’t get me wrong – the trails aren’t fantastic, at no point did I carve successive corners or jump some monstrous double. The bike and I are splattered with smelly mud, every exposed limb has been brutally slashed by vegetation with attitude, nothing has changed here other than an Inbox close to explosion, and it’s just started to piss it down again.

But I don’t care. Because for a while there I forgot just how bloody great mountain bikes are. That’ll not happen again.

* Remember Womble’s picked their names by blinding pinning a map. If I were really a womble my name would be “For Fuck’s sake, the map is over there, that’s my HAND”

** Out and Back on the same road. Both into a headwind. Ask any cyclist, they’ll tell you this is always the case. We don’t know why but when we find out someone is in for a bloody hard time.

*** Risk assessment went something like “may get run over by a mad trucker heading to Ross, but almost certain heart attack if I have to go up there“

Kids Play

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

Let’s be honest here – there is a bit of Competitive Dad inside all of us. And for some that’s because they had Competitive Dad outside for all their formative years, and never really worked out how to stop. Not for me, my old fella wasn’t so much hands off as completely disinterested. Which is something of a reason why I vacillate between total commitment and tired apathy with my own offspring.

But the parent I’ve never wanted to be is that one screaming from the sidelines, desperately striving to put the Victory into Vicarious. There’s always a positive stop between my frankly pervy love of mountain biking and forcing my kids to try and share something of that. Good reasons abound – they’re girls, they’re (still) not that big, MTB’ing is a tough sport, and they have variously preferred scooters, ex-board, walking and – well – anything else really when I’ve punted a spot of weekend dirt riding.

Today one of them mined the giggle-lode I so cherish, while the rest of the family had a damn fine go, before retiring slightly scared. Random (8, bonkers, untouched by reality) demonstrated a level of focus that made me wonder about alien abduction. She piloted her little 20inch Spesh Hardrock down trails the big boys ride, and showed a level of bravery making me wonder again – this time about adoption.

That’s not her in the photo. Verbal shares her Mum’s terror of hills and my oft repeated maxim that “your brakes control the speed, not the hill” failed to unlock tight muscle or deflate the scary gland. But she had a proper try even though it was apparent the only thing more scared in the entire forest was probably Carol.

Who – having narrowly avoided plunging into a dangerous ditch – rode bridges she hated, survived downhill trails that offered nothing but fear, and a truly, scary off camber bend that gives me the heebies before retiring with eldest daughter to the safety of the fireroads. I was properly proud of them for giving it a go without the hint of a whinge, and riding stuff that was clearly shitting-the-bed scary.

My kids don’t ride much and I don’t push them to do so. I’m always amazed how quickly they pick it up again, and while I was picking up my lovely old Kona having helped Random over a nasty log bridge, it became apparent she wasn’t going to stop. A cocktail of roots, dips and little drops were mastered with nothing more than youthful bravado and a happy chuckle.

I watched her ride it – having stopped talking since she clearly needed no coaching – with a lump in my throat. Where do they learn that shit? Even when she was properly gorse bushed at the trail end, she just picked herself up and got on with it. Well sort of, I had to push her home but she’s desperate to get out again. I may have found myself a sleeper 🙂

On returning home, the hound was walked by bicycle and suddenly these two wheeled transportation devices are the best thing since… the last great thing, but I’m happy with that. We then jumped our fence and went exploring in the stream at the bottom of the garden. Which was way more fun that it probably sounds.

There are times when kids are bloody difficult. Anyone who tells you different is on strong medication or telling lies. This was not one of those days.

Hedgehog Service Broadcasting

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

We don’t do requests on the ‘hog. Mainly because we don’t get any. But, if we did, we wouldn’t because we put the Hedgey into Edgy. Clear? Good.

However, a shout out needs to go to all round good eggs, riding pals and confirmed 24 hour nutters Jezz and Ian who are competing in this years Mountain Mayhem. It’s just round the corner at Eastnor Castle and I shall be playing to me strengths, by pitching up with a pitcher of beer tomorrow night, and applying some liquid therapy to those riding in ever decreasing circles.

I popped up there pre-race start and it’s a) a bloody huge event and b) bone dry with a good forecast. Which is a bit of a relief after last year*, when the best way to complete a lap was by helicopter.

Ian is riding a very light race bike he has RUINED by removing all but one gear and any vestiges of suspension. Jezz has foolishly packed mud tyres, and therefore inadvertently invoked “Hailstorm’s Law”. Honestly I don’t know why he didn’t just travel to Chile with a butterfly and let it flap it’s wings. Next thing, tornados in Swindon**

Anyway, best of British to the pair of them. Nutters they may be, but they are hedgehog reading nutters. And – as we’ve said before – that’s a SPECIAL type of nutter.

* and almost every one before that. The term “European Monsoon” seems lost on race organisers.

** Inspired piece of Meterological urban planning that.

That’s just wrong.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

Pretty much sums up my thinking, as I solved the mystery of why the British Army can’t source sufficient body armour for the front line troops. Because we’ve nicked it all, and were variously unpacking it, dusting it down and strapping it on at a trail centre car park.

When I say we, I am referring to weekend biking warriors in general and not me specifically. Because after giving my knee a repeated percussive workout at CLIC 2008, it became clear that my body was pretty well healed, and any perceived protection was addressing the wrong organ. The mountain biking part of my brain needed armouring up and a bit of a cuddle, while acting Mr. Plastic Fantastic was merely other limb placebo.

There’s a good argument for body armour, but it’s not the lame one trotted by those who confuse adrenalin with danger. And we’ll be back to that, but first this – the right time to strap yourself in a shock proof cocoon is when you think you’re going to hurt yourself. Back at Chicksands when multiple feet of whistling air separated squidy organs from hard ground is a good example. As was giving it some humpy on the downhill course at CwmCarn.

Here the body untalented – into which I absolutely place myself – quite rightly try and balance the risk/reward gig by piling plastic on the “staying alive” side of the seesaw. I crashed so many times back at Chicky which that was fine because I left my comfort zone in the car, and forced myself to try stuff that was beyond my meagre ability. That armour has the scars of those rough campaigns – full face helmet dented, leg pads in natty lion-savaged motif, pressure suit compressed where otherwise my spine would have been.

But trail centres are purpose built to roll out thrills without any spills. There are no walkers to cross your path with danger, no unseen obstacles to pitch you eyeball first onto a pointy rock, no trails apparently hewn by spiteful Gods trying to kill you. In short, much fun, bugger all risk. And the facile argument which runs “I can’t afford to hurt myself, I have to go to work on Monday, I have a family” misses the point completely.

Points really. Here’s the first; Mountain Biking is dangerous, Christ I should know having been hospitalised twice, and bruised a million times*. But if it wasn’t a bit spicy, we just wouldn’t do it. Sorry but we just wouldn’t – we’d ride the Sustrans, head out onto broad leafy cycle paths, squeeze into roadie tops and pound out the miles, but we would not risk possible and permanent injury whizzing between trees and banging over rocks.

So if you don’t want to get hurt, the solution seems to be body armour. But it’s not a solution, well it is but it is looking for a problem that doesn’t exist. I found the best way to avoid crashing was to slow down a bit. Radical I know, but riding at 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of whatever ability you have has many benefits, some subtle, some less so.

You don’t crash for a start – that’s a big one. You’ll still take risks but they’re calculated and the important part is you don’t think you’re going to crash. And when you back off, interesting stuff starts to happen as panic braking and desperate pedalling give way to looking further ahead and using the trail. And with that comes smoothness, and with smoothness comes speed.

It’s a beautiful thing, man. Seriously this became clear I was chasing a super smooth friend of mine at CwmCarn a few months ago. There’s a section before the last climb which has little gradient but more than compensates with a river of flowing left-right-left bends. I’ve always enjoyed it, but following someone who can clearly ride a bit, you begin to realise that to be fast, the most important skill is to think fast.

And when you’re thinking of better lines with faster choices, there is no time left to think of crashing. You don’t need body armour because it’s going to slow you down, both in thoughts and in deeds. Don’t get me wrong, it absolutely has its place, but trail centres aren’t any of those.

And last night, riding with the same friend, we were ragging down some local cheeky trails into the deepening gloom. These are MY trails, and I know them well enough to take a few risks, but not too many. Only twice did I open the taps and go beyond 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}, and both of those shot me full of adrenalin and full on fear.

The rest of the time, we were having a bloody fantastic time, by not crashing. And by not thinking about crashing. That’s my problem with body armour – it’s not an ego thing, or a macho thing, or an image thing, It’s an attitude thing.

I could be wrong. But – let’s face it – that’s pretty unlikely 🙂

* This could be because I’m rubbish. I concede that point. Before you make it!