Go through the motions, count the short days, lament the long nights, bitch about how the endless slop is indescribable. No that’s not true, we just don’t want to talk about it. Fantasise about early Spring instead.

Sun on your face, trails dry-ish under leaf still a bit sticky but no longer greasy snot death. Climbs not demanding 100% effort with tyres muck spreading water cosplaying as soil until gravity kicks in with a half hearted effort to make things easier.

You’re still pedalling but that’s not really the issue at hand. A hand gently pushing a grip or carefully caressing a brake. No precision tooled summer lines, more a broken compass occasionally pointing in the right direction-  sometimes as a direct reaction to rider input, but mostly handing the whole thing off to luck.

That’s the reality of riding right now.

It’s kind of fun. Until every part of the bike is either broken right now or merely waiting its’ turn. The washing machine is on suicide watch, and with a weather forecast predicting clouds full of rain and days full of bone chilling cold, you wonder if this is the year to fuck the whole thing off.

And then you get a day. After 10 previous of hardly any rain and those drying winds. You’re hoping for something like a dry line but you pretend you’re not. Don’t want to jinix it because today might just be that day. The mid winter miracle.  When an extra trail isn’t a chore, a favourite corner loams itself out of the mud, a tricky obstacle can again be a brakeless giggle.

Yeah we had one of those days. And by god we’ve earned it.

More pragmatically, this is the first time i’ve ridden the BFE in the dry and it just came alive. Set of bends I love and the steel frame throws itself into the apexes in a way that’s hard to describe, but desperate to repeat. Grip is still mutable, but mostly  banging the stops on the fun-o-meter. Speeds ramp up, misery is tamped down.

There are – in my view – mostly heavily medicated riders who embrace the winter in a way I cannot. They talk of a skills upgrade when trading speed for grip. They offer up nebulous benefits of bastard muddy climbs and plastercine fire roads. For them this is not a season to be ignored, but to cherish as an antidote to summer dust.

We’re a pretty broad church on the hedgehog but there are lines never to be crossed. Places we cannot go. Fake news that shall not languish unchallenged. Hills on which we shall righteously die. And this is absolutely one of those. Winter is horrible. Its four months or more of enduring the grim. I know this to be true, and one day of riding dry trails confirms I am the only sane man amongst a bunch of lunatics.

Or night. Three days later just Rex and I headed out onto our local hill. Not only had the Wednesday night crew been denuded by injury*, no other rider seized the opportunity for a dry ride. You can count those on the fingers of one foot most winters, so we’re in good spirits climbing into the woods. This local patch of goodness was exclusively ours, and we were going to make the best of it.

A plan had been formed. As it had been formed by me, it wasn’t a great plan but we were soon shouting “hey this bit is dry, it’s NEVER dry in winter” at each other rather than concentrating on trails crispy under crinkly-dry leaves. Which made finding the dirt a little challenging, but this seems a churlish observation to make on otherwise brilliant conditions.

Rather than just poking the Weather Gods with a stick, I’d gone full frat-boy and pulled down their pants while flicking V’s by riding my how-many-pivots-no-forgotten-going-to-have-to-start-counting-again Rascal with summer-y tyres and no rear mudguard. Way beyond brave and long into stupid, we were lucky not to be drowned.

Instead the skies cleared, the wind dropped while the Earth did her stunning organic planetarium thing. We gave that a nod before turning our attention back to riding as fast as we could before winter again slapped us icily in the chops. This involved recalibrating how quickly stuff was fired into the aged optics, and how little braking was needed to deal with that. This is my kind of problem.

Even when my helmet light ran out of amps at the exact point a gap jump should have been its entire point of focus**, I couldn’t stop marvelling at how fantastic the trails were. This time of year we’re pining for summer rides, but after this one Rex and I agreed we’d happily ride these conditions every night without worrying about sunlight and warmth.

Life affirmingly good. As I explained, at length, to a – temporarily – broken Matt in the pub. I promised myself I wouldn’t gush how great it was out there, because he’s two+ weeks away from getting back on a mountain bike. Yeah, about that.

Will it last? No of course not. It’s not spring or even pre-spring. we’re a long way from emerging blinking out of the dark. But it’s a marker, a memory of better things, a signpost for what is to come, a reason to keep buggering on in the face of bike destroying shitiness. And for that I’ll happily take it.

Chinks are good. Full spectrum light will be better. Right now tho, two dry rides has me desperate to go long. The weekend awaits 🙂

*some post medical procedure, others long term sick, one nursing injuries entirely attributable to significant alcohol and a detailed facial analysis of the local tarmac while under the misapprehension that physics doesn’t apply to drunks!

**luckily my trusted technique of closing my eyes and hoping for the best defused any danger of a lie down and some performative groaning.

It’s a myth*. Empirical thinkers everywhere dismiss such nonsense. We shall apply the scientific method and sweep away these weak minded fallacies**. Well yes, I’m mostly entirely sympathetic to that viewpoint. And yet…

Bad things happen in threes (they really don’t. I cannot begin to bore you with the volume and breadth of research that proves its biases and coincidence, but you know we’re on a fact free roll here. Tarot cards might be out next).

Not on the 13th tho. One day before. 5:15PM. A distracted Al is running late which partially explains my attempt to fit two large objects into a space only big enough for one. Partially suggesting there is a primary cause; that being I am an idiot.

Carol’s car reared up in the mirror just in time for me to lift my foot off the accelerator. But not in time to jam the brake. The jarring thud shattered the trailer lights, bent all sorts of previously straight things, and removed significant paint from the Fabia.

Sighing I slammed my car into park and trooped inside to ‘fess up. Carol was remarkingly sanguine about the whole thing other than reminding me this was the second time I’d attempted to punt her car into the kitchen. The previous incident WAS NINE YEARS, ago but I didn’t feel this was the time for mitigation.

If it was, I’d have pointed out she never parks her car there. And if she does, well she knows the risks! Wrestling the remains of a once expensive trailer made me later still and managing a ‘fuck this shit, let’s hit the beer fridge‘. Instead, I convinced myself I’d had my accident for the evening so joining the ‘Slitherati‘ would trump beer therapy.

There were as supportive as ever 😉 More than the trails for sure which resembled little more than sad muddy rivulets. Hardtail country for sure and dispensing with the front mech at least makes chainsuck a thing of the past. Or, you know, maybe not as it was both present and frequent when pedalling through misery repurposed as rain slumped dirt.

As I abstractly wondered what horrors daylight would inflict on my now not very new frame, it began to rain. And pretty much didn’t stop until this morning when Em’s birthday ride took a bit fat rain-check. That sign ^^^ is probably 30 feet from the banks of the Wye, and the bottom three are rarely submerged.

Plan B Was Zwift. That’s a terrible plan and should never come before Z. And the whole “Fatman to the Shedmobile‘ thing is at best a stuttering cipher of years past. There are many reasons. Most of which start with ‘Can’t” and end “be arsed“. Unsurprisingly then, 60 minutes felt 59 minutes too long.

Too long pretty much describes my maintenance regime for various bikes in states of obvious distress. I hitched one to my mate David’s borrowed trailer*** and reversed VERY CAREFULLY out of the drive. arriving to see Matt cleaning the BFEMax abandoned after Thursdays’ ‘drivetrain destroyer’.

I expected things to be a little abject on the chainstay front. I didn’t expect the physical instantiation of a savage bear attack. Can we fix this one, before starting on that broken one I asked, casting a grubby digit at the wall art Giga not ridden since Molini. Affirmative, to the garage we go.

I expected to be heavily invested in the frustration of manipulating protection tape over curvy tubes. Matt felt this lacked ambition, so after a brief skip-rat in one of his many bins of plenty, he emerged triumphantly brandishing a copper pipe. Closer inspection confirmed a plumbing offcut sporting the full gamut of 90s solder and paint.

Fair to say I was dubious. Although a stopcock to drain water from the frame felt like a timely upgrade. Undeterred, Matt sawed, hammered, tutted, measured, hammered some more and then just set fire to the thing. It was quite an education.

I had no idea where this was going, but it was certainly exciting. Matt’s garage is full of potentially flamable insurance claims. Today tho the pervasive dampness negated any need to dive for the fire extinguisher****

After more fire, hammering, and execution of skills so far beyond my own they might as well be magic, Steampunk Chainstay became a thing. And what a thing it is.

I’ll like it even more when it tarnishes to the point I can pretend we nicked it off a church roof. Until then it’ll perform admirably to ensure the chain stay remains attached to the rest of the frame. I feel this is an important role, and, as such, relieved someone else was responsible for it.

Through all this tho, I am loving riding. Even when someone someone stupidly suggests ‘well it can’t be as bad as last week‘. Of course it was and we’re barely half way through winter.  So it’s not going to get better any time soon.

Still, Birthday ride postponement is only until tomorrow when I expect to be circling a Venn defined by 90% difficulty and 10% terror, and intersecting on giggling, doing the best slides since you were 11 and maybe the odd mud splattery.

Friday the 13th has been and gone. I’ve bracketed it with two rides. Another one tomorrow. Good luck comes in threes.

*Loki, the god of mischief, gate-crashed a banquet in Valhalla, bringing the number of gods in attendance to 13. Deceived by Loki, the blind god Hodr was tricked into shooting his brother Balder, the god of light, joy and goodness, with a mistletoe-tipped arrow, killing him instantly. So you know, scenes 😉

**I’d bet tho they’d stay away from wide open spaces, where a carefully directed lightening strike may cause them to reconsider.

***which considering I’d just smashed mine in act of naked stupidity shows what a great mate he is for lending me another one!

****that would likely to be empty or repurposed as a legally dubious Nerf Gun.

Or, to paraphrase an old joke, “where’s the “F” in motivation? There is no FinMotivation‘*. Already last years mileage total has sailed off over the horizon after which I reclassified it from ‘target‘ to ‘unrealistic aspiration‘.

My increasing winter slackness normally has, at least, some slack removed through repurposing the shed roof as a winter jacket. Going nowhere slowly, not really having any fun but remaining dry and very warm except for the steaming moistness of my personally created humidic shower.

The pattern has been firmly established over the last five years. 1500 guilty kilometres mostly spun out through the dark and depressing season. Post cheese desperation in January, pre-spring preparation come Feb, tapering off as outside becomes invitingly warm and light. Nothing then until the nights draw the curtain on Autumn late October.

Not this year. Not even close. December 2021 I put in a late surge to nudge me over that 6000km target. January started well but tailed off after two weeks. February, I really couldn’t be arsed at all. After that, bog all until the physical evidence of too many summer beers heralded a brief return to the virtual world**

Yeah that didn’t last long either. Backintheday(tm) I semi-regularly endured three torturous hours in that static experience. Physically it’s a pain tho, not just a saddle slammed arse, but – other than non freewheeling legs – body parts not designed for locked positions. Apparently there’s people out there who’d pay good money for a half day session with all those attributes. Still so do I. Twelve quid a month which seems stupid based on the last few paragraphs, but here we are.

I’ve not fallen out of love with the turbo because I never got much above a base hatred for the input, only buggering on for some perceived output. Sure there are options to tempt even those with absolute zero boredom thresholds. I’ve tried them all: racing (no, was rubbish in real life, mirrored on Zwift), training programmes (12 weeks is at least 9 weeks too long), and riding groups (better than riding alone, but you know you’re still on a turbo).

Quandary then. Requirements: not getting fat, managing decline of a mid 50s body, not being a grumpy bastard. Issues: lack of any kind of fortitude when it’s cold, rainy and just fucking horrible adjacent to my ability to ride in mud shattering the myth that practice makes perfect. Options: many different bicycles that only work outside.

Mud not a problem right now. Cold tho. Jeez, proper baltic these last two weeks. Rides  reintroducing me to the pain of frozen fingers, ‘one foot‘ toes, locked jaws** and watering eyes. Got it done tho, four rides, two in the dark, all starting below zero, one finishing at a arctic minus six.

Before the snow, the benefits of carefully examining the winter wardrobe for the best garments before deciding to go with ‘all of them‘ were legion. Dry trails, like summer from the axles down, hills to ourselves and the inestimable joy of walking into the pub like a Shackleton explorer, ordering a properly earned pint before acknowledging the respectful nods of the hardy locals****

After the snow, frozen ruts were one of many disappointments hardening the ride to deep mud conditions. Lots of effort, not much velocity uphill. Other way had a 50PSI vibe as cold hardened tyres pinged off unseen frozen tundra. It was like riding down a bloody Stegosaurus.

And then there was Saturday. Thaw was coming so we’d best get going.  A slightly broken Steve, Matt and I headed over a still frozen hill having decided these were the perfect conditions to explore little used trails on our way to a favourite riding spot. This went as well as expected with much bike portage, low hanging trees dispatching snow into previously warm garments and much map bemusement.

We popped out on icy roads leading me to offer that the scariest trails we rode in Spain and Italy this year weren’t a patch on the almost certain death under the wheels right now. Slide off here, next step Walford at close to terminal velocity. Trails tho were just so good. Variable for sure, but at least a million times better than proxy bikes in virtual environments.

The sun was low. Mostly it was absent. The sky was clamped in that cloud promising cold now and sleet later. The woods were full of contradictions; snowy in places, icy in others, occasional mud to keep you on frozen toes, glassy roots to knock you off them.

We went pretty long as well. I’ve not done enough proper ‘thank fuck this is the last climb, I am totally spent‘ rides lately. 1200 vertical metres and 40 kilometres in the cold will do that. Lots of layers being added as we climbed onto the somewhat slushy roads, some four hours after we’d left them,

We returned to those new trails. Some may complain these are actually footpaths, but they would be incorrect. These are winter bridleways. No one is walking them other than snuffling boars. And us, dropping into a gulley full of winter and fun, sashaying on frozen leaves, feeling the back then the front tyres vibing to a different rhythm. *****

It’s all good. We’ve been managing that all day. Then we’re out and into that final climb to a warm pub and a proper sit down. Yeah it was cold and tough and that’s how it should be. I have been broken many times climbing off the turbo, but it doesn’t feel like this. This feels like what I should be doing. Need to be doing.

If I’m going to spend time with electronic equipment, it really should be the washing machine, not the turbo trainer. Right now I’m ready to go long through the season of the grim. Because, when you consider the options, it’s absolutely the right choice.

*say it out loud. Sounds way better. Well a bit better. Maybe.

**normally accompanied by a grimly grunted “FatMan to the Shedmobile”

***a benefit to my riding buddies.

****I might have been imaging this.

****This time of year, my only religious commitment is to a unquestionable belief in my front tyre.

I am searching for something. Mostly my riding buddies, visually absent from the trail in front of me. Which gives me plenty of time to wonder just when I forgot how to ride a mountain bike. In the evidence column are blind trails barely chronologically separated from a 24 hour rain storm. Coincidentally a similar time spent in the van motoring the 1200km to Molini nestled deep in the Italian Maritime alps.

A region of steep sided wooded valleys hiding partly abandoned villages hacked out of rocky hillsides with 1000 year histories of Machiavelli commerce, inquisitions ending in burning witches and WWII German occupation – all of this and much more against a backdrop of agriculture industry powered by water and burning timber. It’s both a medieval time capsule, and a cultural lament for what happens when a nation finds other ways to feed and clothe itself.

Tourism has taken up some of the slack. Helpful geography and a whole lot of hard work has developed an extensive trail network augmented with natural trails grubbed in by hunted and hunter. Accessed mostly by uplift van – and ever more frequently by eBike – there’s awesome dirt below a 1000 metres and endless rock above that. Significantly less well known than Finale Liguria – it’s boastful brother on the coast – but, for me, a better riding experience.

Well, it would be were I not a million miles behind where I needed to be. No, that’s the wrong metric, really just a few inches further back than optimal. But when you’re riding a slack 64 degree enduro sled thing with 180mm of travel up front and barely less some way behind you that’s a problem. More so if you want to actually make some use of all that capability. And ride round corners. Both of which feel important.

Not important enough for me to stop hanging back, jerking my head away from perceived danger, fixating on corner entry while smooth apexes are happening to other people. I’d be better off, getting off and grabbing some handy logs from the forest to portage my way round. A bit of me is loving riding in such an amazing place, but the rest of the cerebral loaf is chafing at my inability to do it any justice.

This is not a “comparison is the thief of joy”* thing. I’m genuinely happy the fast fellas are busting out rooster tails with all the skills and none of the worry. It is a tooth gritted ‘what is the point of coming all the way here, with this bike, on these trails and riding like a twat?’. What indeed? If I were piloting a boat – and based on local climatic conditions this would be a shrewd choice of transport – steering from the back is by design. On a long travel bike, it’s more by idiot.

I got through the day. Didn’t ride very well. Reasonably content tho what with not ending as a fleshy tree motif. Stole a cig from a local, stood outside the bar under stary skies and applied some rigorous post ride introspection. If you want to be nearer the front, you need to start with your position on the bike. Right then, that’s sorted, best toast it with a few more beers.

Next day riding God from the start then? Er, no but things improved a whole load over the week. Riding every day will do that, as will chuntering into the GoPro that unless a dropped saddle is rustling the inside of your shorts, you need to drag yourself forward.  Head over the stem regardless of gradient. The view from up here is amazing, the bike just wants to go – push the bloody thing into corners, over precipitous drops, away from endless death-by-exposure. If we’re going forward, we’d best get forward. It won’t fix all my riding defects, but it’ll hide them for long enough.

Final day it rained again. Last run. A couple didn’t want to get out of the van but how could you not? Having exited the vehicle, I realised exactly why not what with the spiteful rodding of sideways precipitation. Jacket on, drop into the trail. Finally, the bike feels supple and I feel good playing with the brakes rather than leaning on them.

The conditions are a great leveller even as the track steepens and I’m still hanging onto the train.  Just let the bike run then gather it up way later than your brain demands. You know what, I might even risk going a little bit faster. Maybe I’ve finally cracked it. ***

If I have, it’s not because I’m in that perfect Venn of confidence and competence. I’ve pretty much stopped thinking at this point. Everything is operating on herd instinct. Don’t lose the tow. When it’s gone so are you. Do. Not. Lose. That. Tow. Hang in there and let it hang out. It’s about three minutes of mud-flecked giggling madness.

Something clicked. Not a mouse on yet another ‘how to ride video’. Nor a single inspiration spearing sun-cracked clouds.  Something else, I dunno let’s call it knowledge retained by awesome topography. Whatever, the speed is out there mostly still a memory just beyond recall- the harder you try, the more nebulous It becomes. Without getting all Zen on you, sometimes you just need to let the trail come to you. And when it does, you’ll be surfing the whole fast without fear thing.

It won’t last of course. Knowing it’s there is enough. Because this means every single ride you get to go looking for it. And sometimes you’ll find it in the last place you looked. How fantastic is that?

Going forward is the new falling behind.

*my second favourite US political quote (Roosevelt). My favourite is the founding father Benjamin Franklin who said “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy”**😊

**Except he didn’t. Which is annoying.

***five minutes later, biggest crash of the week. Still didn’t die wondering 😉

Those of a certain age will remember “Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right, Here I am stuck in the middle with you” from 1970s Scottish rock band Stealers Wheel. That’s a useful description for my Rodin posed discombobulation of the latest ShedofDreams(tm) upgrade.

It’s a shock I hear you say. It certainly was. Carefully installed where a perfectly acceptable air powered version was recently located. A synonym for ‘perfectly acceptable’ would be ‘bloody expensive and significantly more competent than the meat sack positioned aft‘.

Let’s address that first. Not the rider held back by non race-tuned suspension. We can all agree a block of stout oak preventing the front and back ends smashing together would be a proportional solution to the needs of this pedalling idiot. The stock shock tho – while marketing itself as the perfect Venn between lightness and performance – proved itself to be serially rubbish.

200 miles in, it acoustically cried for help in a manner that precision machined aluminium components for an interference fit never should. Unbolted and packaged up, it returned with most of its significant parts replaced and managed a further 800 miles without exploding or shitting its internals.

Although not exactly with flying colours. It’s key characteristic was a chirping unhappy squish under any kind of load and a damping circuit offering a graveyard feel somewhere between recently deceased and full rigour mortis. I wasn’t sure if to get it tuned by a professional, or exorcised by a man of God.

Options then. Nukeproof offer a few on new frames with real springs replacing their nitrogen based proxies. Those options have passed through the marketing department with offerings of ‘cheap but not very good’, ‘stupidly expensive for the most discerning customer‘ and ‘make loads of these, the idiots always go for the middle option’

Not this idiot. Fuck, I tried. Convinced myself the middle option was most of the performance at barely half the price. Referred myself to the law of diminishing returns. A suspended sentence ending with ‘don’t get yourself into trouble buying the wrong thing’. Repeat offender and all that,  but I was going straight for the middle option.

Until I made the terrible mistake of asking my riding pals what they thought. Jokers  and clowns the lot of them. In case this clumsy metaphor isn’t obvious, let me be clear the crash landing of fiscal responsibility lies entirely with those who I think of both as my friends and a devil on the shoulder.

Honestly I considered telling Carol the bike had been stolen and this is how I found it. Still we’re here now with a shock hand built it Italy*, calibrated forensically in Wales and bolted onto my Enduro Sled**. Regardless of how it performs, just look at it, a thing of mechanical beauty.

So how does it perform? Absolutely no idea. Fetched it from the suspension tuners, dropped it off a couple of curbs, downloaded the amusingly translated manual, poked around with the adjusters but mostly just sat in the shed nodding. It definitely looks right, so it’ll probably ride right.

Tomorrow we’ll find out. Not against any kind of baseline from the previous three months since it’s been absolutely rodding it down all week. My guess is I’ll be far too exercised on what’s happening to the muddy front end to notice any improvement out back.

I expect the only empirical analysis will be based on if it’s easy to wash the mud off compared to an air shock. This is no way denudes it’s general awesomeness. Because anything costing that much really needs to be quite a lot better than the thing it replaced.

I’ll find out properly in two weeks when we’re heading to the birthplace of the shock. Well close anyway, Molini in Italy where – after a mere 14 hours in the van – we’ll be riding lush late summer trails under blue skies. Still I said that about Finale in 2o19 a mere 75 miles to the south. It rained all week and Tim travelled home with  smashed leg bones encased in a cast running from ankle to thigh.

Best not to dwell on that. While I know pointless upgrades are very much my thing, this one feels like it might deliver something. Something other than looking properly bling. Still delusion is pretty much my thing as well so I’m hardly a trusted witness.

Guess we’ll find out. That never gets old.

*let’s not hope like the 80s Alfasuds tho. The standing joke being ‘what would you do in a three minute warning’ / ‘I’d let my Alfa rust to nothing’

**I accept that is a terrible description of a bike. Whole it’s not as stupid as ‘rig‘ or ‘whip‘ , it’s not really acceptable.  Assume I’m being ironic.