Normally after a minute of watching small children pulling incredible stunts in urban locations, I tend to get a bit bored. It’s amazing, but leaves me a bit cold.
This however is unbelievable. Never seen riding so smooth, big and brave.
Enjoy 🙂
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.
Kneed For Speed
The rehabitilitation of the knee was fully tested by three rides in four days over the Easter weekend. After which my real holiday and the rain started, and much of the fun stopped. I am now a man tediously schooled in the art of plasterboarding. A skill normally abrogated to those with limitless boredom thresholds and ‘ave your arm off powertools. Sadly, the budget spreadsheet said no, and I inadvertently said yes.
Ride one was with my not-ridden-with-much-lately pal Ian who runs, walks and cycles in the Forest of Dean. Not all at the same time because a) that would be silly and b) I was already doing it. On my third unscheduled dismount, I lamented my choice of rubbish tyres, soggy fork and threadbare brakepads. This verbal lambastation went unheard by Ian, who had cleared off into the distance with his ten year old alu frame, one gear, venerable forks, v-brakes and a set of Panaracer Suicides*
We returned muddy but happy, and I’d committed to memory a choice selection of fantastic trails for an Easter ride with some friends who were scheduled to eat our food, drink the beer, ride some bikes and build a plasterboard ceiling. Obviously I was instantly lost on our return to the forest and never found ANY of the trails so carefully mentally waymarked.
But the great thing about this huge area of woodland is finding buff singletrack is akin to throwing a hedgehog at a dartboard**. This – and the happy navigational wild guess that deposited us back at the cafe – not only saved my bacon but made sure we were ready for some on returning home. Having ridden Jason’s fat almost-downhill bike most of the day, while watching him zoom off on my lovely light hardtail, made my need for food sit slightly behind that of a strong desire to lie down and not be disturbed for many hours.
The following day the boys then ceiling’d the big shed in double quick time, while I played to my strengths fetching tea and pointing our where things could be done better. As this wasn’t really adding much to “Team Plasterboard“, I dispatched myself to Morrison’s to clear the shelves of anything remotely BBQ’able. On my return, the roof was done, and the fellas were demanding more riding under sunny skies.
A quick mooch up to Haugh woods had us up to giggly armpits in rooty woodland singletrack. We rode everything I knew and found quite a lot more, all of which was dry, fast and extremely twisty. Again I was shorn of my proper bike, and instead rode the fully rigid Kona. A decision that had immediate consequences of loosening a brake pad, most of my teeth and a full re-organisation of my internal organs.
But sunshine, a working knee and a bit more speed brought the experience round to extremely satisfying. The prospect of finding the other 30k of Singletrack in these woods through a hot, dry summer could make even a trip to the FoD seem a bit pointless.
We returned and approached the shrine of the sizzling BBQ with revered silence. Before falling upon it and devouring the lot, much to the disappointment of an under the table based disposal unit. Murf looked particularly miffed at Al “three burger” Leigh who couldn’t find it in his stoney heart to even allow the smallest grain of sizzled beef to fall to nose height.
Top weekend. Fantastic weather. Non hurty knee. And because Yang must follow Ying, I am now putting the bored into plasterboard.
* The “Trailblaster” – a tyre that has as it’s unique selling point, a complete lack of grip in any conditions. Damp Roots?-certain death. Mud – uncontrolled slide into something pointy. Hardpack – from vertical to horizontal in all the time it takes to ask “any warning when these tyres go?”
** You know you’ll score big, just not quite sure what.
Jumps’n’Bumps
The feeling of mental limbo never really left me this weekend. There was this great big HONC sized hole into which I kept throwing stuff; yet while my body was amusing itself with adequate distractions, my mind was still wheeling away in the Cotswolds.
And while I did consider a 48 hour full on sulk and grump, it seemed a shame to waste two days of fine weather, and a family that’s not seen me as much as it probably should lately. Although on Saturday I abandoned them again to wind out mental tension in big hills while crashing small gliders.
I even manged to fly the new, fast one which, being German designed, had a perfectly logical build process as long as one remembered to adopt the correct “installation position“. Being English, I’d wandered off the precise instructions to practice the art of wingtip painting. Practice being what I needed, as everyone within a five mile blast radius of the spray tin is now calling me “Mr Overspray“.
The tail – especially bad – looks as if I’ve spatchcocked a gerbil, such was the red splatter effect of the over enthusiastic paint dribbler. It still flew very well – even if I didn’t – although the last landing crash ripped the nose off. An arrival I am now thinking of as “The Michael Jackson”
The obstacle course I built for the kids on Sunday lasted all the time it took for them to become bored with it. So ten minutes later, I harvested some wood for my now insulated timbered erection*, and built an eight inch lip for the pair of them to roll over.
Which they both did rather well although Verbal decided – as she is nearly 10 and therefore knows everything – that she’d ignore my patient instruction to stand up, pedals level as she dropped off. Still at the end of an hour, it was her with the sore bottom and me with the knowing smile. Random just nicked her sisters’ bike and mosied on over with a look of not oft seen concentration.
I had to have a go. Obviously. Normally any photo of me riding clashes terribly with my own internal image of trail God. This one bucks the trend in no way whatsoever, but at least I’m looking quite thin. And that’s not just on top.
Whether that will continue after the scary Physio tells me off this evening, I’ll let you know. I’m so desperate to ride right now, I’m even considering commuting in the pissing rain tomorrow. One year, I’ll get injured in the Winter and not feel as if another summer will be lost to encroaching fat and decreasing fitness. I am very much hoping it will be this year.
* I am unlikely to get bored of this joke. Sorry.
HONC’d off.
It’s official. The left knee of an aging Al is going to require all sorts of external help, with the worrying possibility of being holed below the water line by a man with a drill. Deploying a displacement approach of “not asking a question you don’t want the answer to”, I’ve been avoiding doing anything about the increasing soreness for a few months now.
It’s always been a bit wonky. Made more so by that high speed impact with Chiltern flint, and a somewhat slower speed impact with a surgeon’s knife and much stitching. From then on, there was a low level background twinge, occasionally upgraded to a sharp “arrrghhh“.
Ironically, as my fitness has gone one way, the knee’s gone the other. And after a gentle commute home last night, I was pretty sure that any sort of riding was at the mercy of someone else’s diagnosis. Right now, that’s just the Physio and a bikey curfew which I am going to break. Unless it doesn’t improve, in which case it’ll be balancing a need to ride with the increasing likelihood of the aforementioned scary drill.
I’m understandably pissed off about it. Missing HONC after working so damn hard over the winter is one thing, the prospect of not being able to ride for … well … let’s not go there eh, has subdued even my normally optimistic – if naive – view of the world.
The only good to come out of this, is it has allowed someone else to participate who was desperate for a HONC entry, and he was good enough to chuck some cash at the CLIC-24 fund. That event is six weeks away, which doesn’t feel long enough.No way I’m missing that though. Even if I have to hop round.
If you’ll excuse me I’m going to go and drown my sorrows 🙁
Does my arse look..
Okay it does. Right moving on, a couple more pictures taken by Tim “the lucky bugger with a new camera” Beresford. And for those of you pointing at the screen and beckoning over complete strangers for a laugh at ‘dwarf-leg-man“, I think you will find that I am riding in the new-school style of “crouching badger, hidden terror”
Indeed, this is a style that is well displayed here.
The smell of fear was wafting up from my ample behind I can tell you*, and I was very happy to have the big unit all the way back there. An over the bars exit would have been rewarded by a spiky meeting with some pointy ground and some optional groaning.
I did have a number of attempts at not riding that, and only managed to roll over the drop when bottling out became the more dangerous alternative. Quite pleased that I’ve not become a complete wuss, although those 2.1 tyres are perilously close to lycra in the wardrobe.
They’ll be off after HONC, as will I probably. My post HONC warm down regime is currently based around setting fire to every bicycle I own and buying a motorbike.
Anyway, in a break from Hedgehog tradition, here’s a picture of a proper rider. I quite like the way Tim appears to have gone all Praying Mantis over his handlebars.
* even if you probably didn’t want to know.
Spring rocks
Asking whether the Malvern Hills can be a bit congested on a sunny Spring day, is a little like wondering if Tesco can get a little crowded the day before Christmas. It’s a small set of hills with a big catchment area – all policed by a bunch of people who seem to enjoy getting up on a Sunday and putting a tie on.
The hills are shared not only by walkers and mountain bikers, but paragliders, model gliders, sheep, protected woodland and more SSSI’s that you can shake a rural White Paper at. The result is 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} tolerance and 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} confusion.
Take this mad example; the Malverns are split in half by the county boundary between Worcestershire and Herefordshire. Apparently the Worcestershire council designated all their paths as Bridleways, but Herefordshire chose footpaths. This is even more bonkers when a scan of the OS map shows virtually none of either. The paths are just that, and I’m much more interested in good trail manners than I am with someone telling me where I can ride my bike.
Despite a bit of car park centric congestion, Tim and I had a fantastic morning in the further reaches of the hills. Tim finally cleaned this nasty rocky outcrop near the Wyche, and I managed the same on a decent down from the Worcester Beacon. We knocked off two thousands plus feet of vertical, and finished up in the pub, catching those early spring rays.
The trails are bone dry, the bikes are dusty and the speeds are starting to come up a bit. Obviously this is all too good to be true, which seems a good time to point you to next weeks’ weather forecast.
Ah well, I’m “tapering” for HONC anyway and if that isn’t a good enough excuse, my poorly knee certainly is.
Deep Cove
Sounds a bit rude, but it’s all part of the marketing myth put out there by the designers of my favourite MTB – Born on the North Shore and designed to cope with the toughest environments, the knarliest trails, the most aggressive riders. Then the hyperbole escalates further, with the brand associating you and shredding, roosting and railing.
It’s nonsense of course, and that’s a shame because beneath all that bollocks is hidden a fantastic hardtail that will has limits, to which I shall never get near. But that’s not a problem because, operating inside my own bravery envelope, this has been the best bike I have ridden by far*
I’ve owned this pre-loved example for over a year now. I branded it on the first ride, with the chain biting a deep gouge from the chainstay. Such damage make it’s essentially unsaleable, but again this would be missing the point. I don’t want to sell it, chop it in for something a bit shinier or clothe the new emperor for the hundredth time.
And while this may send shock waves through a cycle industry traditionally boosted by a sell-me-the-next-best-thing obsessed Al, it’s not quite the epiphany I’m painting here. Because, aside from the rear mech, seat post clamp and possibly one or two other forgotten components, there is nothing on this bike that hasn’t been upgraded or replaced in the last twelve months.
It’s on a third set of wheels, a second set of forks, brakes, bars, saddle and chainset, the headset has been swapped out as has the chain, cassette and all the cables. And the front mech is on about its’ third incarnation ,after an expensive incident involving some frustrated hammering. In my defence, some of this was crash damage, although the prosecution may argue that this pertains to one brake lever.
I’ve ridden it a lot and in a lot of places; from the sun baked Pyrenees to mud splattered forestry trails. I’ve pushed it up some big hills and ridden as fast as I dared going back the other way. I must even publically admit to giggling when engaging in Jedi Speeder tree dodging at silly speeds, so each time I ride it, it just offers up a fantastic platform for having a bloody good laugh.
Which is what Mountain Biking should be about really. The rest of it is just vanity, corporations wanting to make a fast buck, and testosterone scatter-shot pretending to be competitiveness. The more I ride, the better I seem to get, although I know much of this is fitness not any late blooming of skill or bravery. The less I read of magazines and internet forums, the happier I am with what I have.
It’s a slightly worrying mindset. At this rate, I’ll be slap bang in the marketing target zone for ownership of a beard and a Marin.
* And there have been a few
Ah there’s the f’ing snow
I whinge. God answers. Thursday and Friday added sufficient snow to make any attempts to leave the county largely fruitless. Although much of this was the result of the three local councils having only sufficient salt to season a small stew.
I took the opportunity and the Kona for a short, silly, woody retro ride. And to get in character, I dispensed with all that fandangly modern equipment, and instead sallied forth in jeans, Vans, sweatshirt and wooly hat.*
Everyone has fond – if inaccurate – memories of crisp rides in firm packed snow, drifting effortlessly betwixt trees in a magical winter landscape. The reality is a hard slog uphill, your progress measured by both tyre and foot marks, followed by an uncontrollable descent where everything ends up full of snow.
That’s tyres, brakes, shoes, ears and nose as either the front washes out and you lowside into a bush. Or the wheel drops into a hidden divet, leaving you with little option other than to ponder the full might of potential energy as you spin carelessly over the now motionless bike. The result is a credible impression of a fat snow angel and the cold seeping through your bottom as you lie there trying to get your breath back.
It was still fun though, and after spending half a day yesterday fetching the kids from the bottom of icy slopes high in the Malverns, I think today should be spent trying the same on a bike. This time I’ll be properly kitted up although the concept of an SPD wellie is appealing.
* Which had the added impact protection of a comedy bobble.
A correction.
Last night, I breezily labelled the Malvern Hills a somewhat demeaning “small but perfectly formed“. This morning in about 40 knots of ridge wind, they proved beyond doubt that any future description must include “steep, long and hard”
The day didn’t start well – but what day does at 7am? – with a frantic search for firstly the car keys, and then a black dog in a dark field, followed right up with the navigational challenge that is Ledbury Town Centre. Currently the water board are digging most of it up, seemingly so they can skewer every other major utility in grappling distance of their heavy plant.
This results in a diversion through someone’s front garden and over a hedge. Not difficult in the truck but time consuming never the less. My raffishly late arrival was made later still by a game of chicken with a pheasant. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but I had to feel especially sorry for the poor bugger since it’d just survived the shooting season.
I like to think it was striding purposely to meet its fellow survivors when I had to swerve several times to hit it. Not that the bumper delivered a killing blow, no that was left to some fast work with an SPD shoe and some tactical looking in the opposite direction. The whole ride that bloody shoe wouldn’t clip into the pedal properly – I think it still had a bit of bird brain stuck to it.
Still 750m of climbing, 18k’s, 1hr30 riding, 10 minutes comedy Body English in an attempt not to be launched into space off the big hills, and a bitingly cold wind which, of course, ensured I received a puncture.
That’ll teach me to be rude about the hills.
Muddying the waters
We’re lucky living here at the epicentre of some fantastic and varied riding. Head north to the small but perfectly formed Malvern Hills, drive west for 45 minutes to confront the hard edged mountains of South Wales, or draw a 10 mile circle around our house to find cheeky singletrack hidden in vast Forestry plantations.
It’s almost as if I planned it that way. No really, there are people who honestly believe I am nothing but a slave to such a single agenda. And while my smug gloating of mud free rides all year round are based on the almost truth, occasionally I need to pay homage to the sloppy dirt embedded in every mountain biker’s DNA.
Today I promised riding pal Tim an endless vista of carefully crafted singletrack nestling between fast fireroad transits, spiced with roots going one way and cambers the other. What a rain soaked forest delivered was something significantly more muddy, and immeasurably more comedic.
This is a silly sport, and days like this remind you of exactly why. There are trails in this forest that could justifiably be charged with corporate manslaughter – all slick roots and jagged stumps. But most of our two hours of mud plugging were spent heading sideways occasionally backwards, and sometimes still on the bike.
That picture up there is taken from a carefully chosen position, into which I’d fallen trying to ride the same trail about twenty seconds before. My tumble from the bike was punctuated by a slippy slide of giggling and general tomofoolery. Tim – the bastard – only rode it, but then generously fell off one second later to make me feel a little less rubbish.
We felt better than that as well – once the ride was done, we couldn’t decide between Egg or Bacon sandwiches. So we had both. Tomorrow is forecasted -2 at 8am, which’ll be one hour after I’ve stumbled out of a warm bed. Stupid? Probably. Looking forward to it? Oh yes 🙂