Category: Bikes

Tens of thousands of words and the odd blurred picture of fast moving vegetation rehashing one of two tenuous threads. Spliced together using random punctuation and alcohol.

Some stuff is important. It’s not what you think

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography, Pretentious nonsense1 Comment

FoD - Autumn MTB ride #forjenn

So my friend Jenn succumbed to the total bastard that is cancer lastFriday night. She was 38 years old. At times like this, luadable homilies are deployed to assuage the pain: ‘there is now no more suffering‘ and ‘the worth in a life can be defined by the gap that it leaves’

Which I suppose is lovely and fine. Not entirely helpful though for those closest to Jenn now staring into that gap. I don’t include myself in that circle – as I said before we were friends, good friends I hope but not more than that. What I remember most about Jenn is her open heartedness, her instinct to help others and her unwavering joy at being alive.

On a cold and wet northern ride nearly ten years ago, I asked Jenn what she thought of a test bike she was riding and a minute later I was riding it myself. An hour after that – through my awesome powers of mechanical savagery having jammed my chain around the bottom bracket – Jenn rocked up, had a giggle, whipped out her chain tool and fixedit about the time it’d taken me to look at it, wrench it, swear at it and give it a well deserved kicking.

Small things, happy memories. Many who knew her better have many more. The outpouring of understandable grief would bring tears to the hardest hearted. I’m not one of those soit’s without a hint of embarrassment I’ll admit to havingmore than the occasional blub.

So we rode. Of course we did. That’s what we do. This is our Church. Turning circles unwinds our angst; makes sense of the world; stops the introspection; starts finding important things. Maybe if conditions were shit under stair-rods of rain depression might have set in, but we had none of that.

I believe in pretty much nothing tainted by religion, yetriding 60km of dry singletrack under benign skies with friends I love as brothers had me giving a brief nod to those who confuse beliefwith faith. Determined to make the ride matter somehow, I gave myself a stern 8am talking too re: not riding like a twat, not taking this stuff for granted, not being some kind of emotional cripple. Went well, even the dog looked impressed.

Go ride. First up a gap I’ve never done or even seen. Straight over without even checking it out. Worked our way back up the valley to descend a serpent shaped trail finishing with a deep-breath committed vertical roll in with consequences for imprecise lines. Never even stopped to have a look.

Gravel fireroad, pushing into a loose corner, front went and a second later so did a stomping foot bashingthe bike back onto line. I can’t ride like this. Not for long anyway but right now I’m the lucky bastard with the choice to do so. So get on with it.

On and on. I bottled one thing that’s been giving me the eye for a year or so and watched Cez launch long and stupid over something much removed from stuff I consider in mysphere of sanity. But that’s okay, still pushing it a bit, still having a laugh, still taking the piss, still doing the thing which defines us and – as importantly – our community.

I’ve seen many posts ‘I don’t know Jenn but thoughts to her family and friends‘. It’s easy to be cynical about this – say the right thing for group approval but I’m confident this is our tribe closing ranks and lamenting the loss of a good one. Social media is a bastard tho, Tom (Jenn’s husband) posted a pic of Jenns’ favourite bike with a ‘fuck cancer’ sticker on the seat-tube and no rider. Pass me those tissues.

And that got me thinking onwhat was brilliant about today’s ride. It wasn’t the loamy trails holding your tyres before throwing them off in an entirely predictable direction. It wasn’t risking a little to finda lot of stuff that’d been hidden in the oft visited drawer of ‘I’ll do that next time’. It wasn’t even encouraging others in their endeavours while being genuinely delighted they rode stuff you did not.

No. It was something quite different. 11km of tarmac separates us from our post ride pub finish and home. It’s mostly uphill and not a whole load of fun especially with the cold descending from grey clamped skies and every pedal stroke battling a rising headwind.

We’re not roadies. So we never leave a mate. No one gets shot out of the back. We trained our way back with a tag-team of wind takers without a word being said. Every 10 pedal strokes had us swivelling eyeballs over shoulders. Knackered riders took their turn even when it was clearly hurting.

Close to the end we slowed to a pace entirely appropriate for those blowing it someway out of their arse. Your individual speed matters not a jot. That has no place here, you are a member of a team, a community if you will of riders who look out for their own. The needsof the many is far more important that the prowess of the one.

We talk often about not taking riding mountain bikes in amazing places for granted. And we’re missing the point by a million miles. What matters is being there for each other, being part of a close knit group of the like-minded, being included and being part of something rather nebulous, slightly cliquey and endlesslyfantastic.

We’ve lost a great one one in Jenn. Let’s not fuck about and pretend anything different. But what a privilege it is to have been part of her world and ourwider bike riding community.

It’s not the gap that people leave. It’s how they make you feel when they’re gone. Go hug someone you love. And raise a glass for those so cruelly taken you cannot.

Ride In Peace Jenn.

Dark, cold, wet. Pick none.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Worcester Beacon

Last week was rubbish. Vocationally such things are commonwhen the best laid plans meet that stimulating and challenging group of randoms otherwise known as customers*

Not this time. I was riding my bike. Although not really. More slithering darkly between – and tediously often into – trees attempting to reconcile mountain biking with my friends andthe extreme grumpiness of not being in the pub yet.

Excuses were legion. I traded them in the car park explaining to anyone who even pretended to listen that night-riding was for those with proper 9 to 5 jobs, my lights were at best ciphers for 13th century monastery candles, this bike – this one right here – had questionable suspension at the front, none at the back and about an undamped inch derived fromthe broken dropper post.

No one cared. Quite rightly. They just fucked off at light speed engaging the Chinese lumen photon drive with nary a care for ground conditions best described as boundlessly shit. Two days torrential rain had turned rock hard trails into griplesswonders pretty much signposting wheeled idiots into the trunks of waiting forestry.

I didn’t hate it. That’s too strong an emotion, but I wasn’t enjoying it much. Neither was the hardtail I’d selected as theindubitably perfect companion to three hours of mud wrestling. It responded by silently shedding vital transmission components far and wide into the deepestreaches of this dark forest.

A tipping point was reached where mechanical suicide of a chainring gave me the perfect excuse to leave the field of battlecitinga verified medical injury to my worthy steed. Which would have been fine. Lovely. Perfect. See you in the pub – not for me the infamyof a dishonourable discharge, I could instead sympathise with those having slogged a further 15km. While feigning disappointment at the cruel mechanical maladies preventing my participation.

I wish. Toolkits rolled out littered with spares of every description. A fewof which could be best summarised as ‘oh fuck, chainring bolts’. The mechanicaly minded fixed my bike for which I thanked them through clenched teeth. Back in the saddle, things improved a bit but only because we’d breached the FPFP** and any riding I managed had to be better than the shitty-scared stuff exhibited so far.

Some way behind the rest of the crew I couldn’t help noticing. I rode this very bike on these trails a few months ago with the sun in the sky and loved every minute of it. Not tonight tho, stiff, blind and confused – I’m just not well configured for winter.

Except it’s not winter. Since that night when even the pub failed to add much cheer, the rain has stayed away and the trails have responded with a last echoof summer hardness. I’ve been doing this long enough to fully understand that no deadline or parental obligations are anywhere near as important as heading back into the hills for one more perfect fix.

Not perfect. Pretty close tho. Malvern Hills looking mighty fine. Chilly but not cold, moistness in the trails manifested as grip not mud, feeling fit regardless of a hotel diet of bacon, eggs and beer. We stuck a couple of digits up at the fast coming night by starting two hours before sunset – a rather lovely phenomenon we chased homeon the last descent.

Between the two, hills were climbed, loam was middle aged roosted (I don’t really know what that means but jamming on the rear brake and sliding the bike into line for the next bend has to be called something), route options were considered, new trails were revealed. And all the time watching the darkening horizon.

No lights. Not interested in having something of the night about us. Winch and plummet for a happy two hours riding with someone with whom I have long had a friendship, a hint of competitiveness, an understanding he’s mostly faster than me and a vague level of maturity that I no longer care.

We parked bikes on a well photographed bench at the highest point of the hills and 1.5km from the cars. All downhill. Admired the sunset, congratulated ourselves on living in a pretty damn fine place beforefixingour sights due west onto that orb currently setting fire to the clouds.

I’ve ridden this descent a hundred times. And every time I pick a terrible line, give myself a scare, brake when I mustn’tand attempt to wing it when I really shouldn’t. This time I lost Martin 30 seconds in and my doomed attempt to make up lost ground had me hitting the ‘moon rock’ a little faster than intended.

A moment of silence. Just enough time for a full on retina download of silhouetted peaks cast with a reddening glow. Then the crunch of 150mm travel forks damping the danger of loose gravel. Fast, so damn fast – never wanting this to stop, but hoping the end comes one second before my ego out-rides my competence.

Done. Grin. Point at things. Make plans for next week while prevailing weather conditions stay fair. Wonder about last week. Work out that without the bloody awful, you’ll never appreciate the almost perfect.

Apparently there’s something important on the television. I’m watching the video behind my eyeballs. Nothing beats that.

*plans never survive contact with the enemy as the old military diktat states. Lesser known is the concept of ‘first intent’ where whatever happens you try and do just one simple thing. For the NHS it is ‘do no harm’. For me it’s ‘do no harm that might end with a jail sentence’.

**FPFP – Furthest Point From Pub. From here it’s just a matter of staying upright untilthe lights of the post ride medication centre hove into view.

We’re riding down there? F*ck me with a pineapple*

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

Under Ventoux - scary traverse

Mount Ventoux is a mutant. A geological freak dwarfing every other peak even in this land of rocky giants. Cricking your neck at the base tricks the brain into the false assumption that the tree level is almost perpendicular to the valley floor. It isn’t of course, this isjust a bloody big mountain.

Verified and validated by the 21 kilometre climb to the summit. Passing miles of lycra in various states of distress; from the whippet thin climbers etched with lactic pain to the weekend warriors slumped over the bars barely making any progress at all.

This was not our world as the van made swift progress with sturdybikes in the back and fragile riders in the front. Well not all of them; it’s times like this when I’m reminded of someone cleverer than me who intoned ‘Some people are more certain of everything than I am of anything‘. Most of the vans occupants looked relaxed, expectant or enthusiastic. Me? I was shitting myself.

Ventoux is not a pretty mountain. It’s shot blasted from glacial activity and there’snothing to detain you at the top. Other than faffing, sandwich making and, in my case, a desperation to get started. Or closer to finishing. It’s a zoo up there with bikes, motorbikes, camper vans and what I can only term ‘general vagrancy‘ as random individuals mill about in the heavy traffic.

Trying to be less random, we descended a couple of hundred meeting – nobbly tyres whumming in stark contrast to the stealth of our roadie brethren. Finallyabandoning them – amusingly – at a no cycling sign accessing a track made up entirely of shale and fear. First tho, we had to do photographs. Oh do fuck off, really? Yes really, social media is a voracious beasts and demands content even if at least one participant is clearly forging a note from his mum.

Finallywe rode. To the first hairpin anyway where Mike picked a line I’d already nominated as ‘assisted suicide‘ and somehow flipped direction heading back the way he came with barely a change in velocity. I consulted the risk/reward matrix and tripod’d round on two wheels and a shaky leg.

It’s not just the exposure.Which is pretty much constant. Or the danger of death if you fall. Which is sustained, evident and – unless one lacks an iota of imaginative thought – served up in a manner specifically designed to scare you shitless. It’s the endless technical challenges mocking your hard learned skills and veneer thin bravery. Mountains are relentless.

Having survived a few hairpins with a few hundred feet of ‘all body scrub‘ waiting for a single mistake, we dropped into a stumpy tree line which at least partially hid the horrors of a path hanging precipitouslyto themountains flank. Riding a littlemore of this convinced me the worse might be over and with itmy lemming like obsession with the edge. Go me.

Oh. That traverse then. On a trail- although that somewhat overstates the 18 inch wide path barely cut into a 50 degree score slope starting at the top of the mountain and finishing in the valley many hundreds of feet below – narrow enough that the only progress option was shouldering the bike and pretending nothing to the left was really very scary.

Then a climb to the lunch stop where a single slip would have been ‘Al’s gone, fetch the spatula‘ territory. While others hung their legs causally over the abyss, I pushed mine into the narrow dirt and my back into the ground behind. Funnily enough I wasn’t very hungry.

Should have eaten tho as the next two hours were a ride-push-ride-push on the endless traverse. Those in front were loving it- on their bikes, meeting the technical challenges with commitment and skills. Back in the cheap seats, I was barely managing 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} before hopping off an using my extremely competent bike as a crutch.

Had a word with myself. A few actually. Most of them were simply ‘fuck‘. Fuck the mountain. Fuck the exposure. Fuck my cowardice. Fuck Fuck Fuck, I’m am 48 fucking years old and I can’t fucking do this. That went on for a while before even I became bored of my own whinging by which time I’d fallen a long way behind.

Then I fell. In a supreme act of irony I’d refused to walk an exposed section, caught a pedal on the inside due to my clinging to the transient safety of the rock and flipped myself end over end down the scree slope. Four times I rolled; this is an accurate assessment because four times I counted the sky rolling past my saucer wide eyeballs.

Then it stopped. As did I. Surprised not to be accelerating towardsthe valley floor shedding vital body parts. Lay on my back waiting for the bike to hurtle past at terminal velocity. When that didn’t happen, decided to hang about for a bit longer while damage control checked in.

Not too bad. Shoulder sore but back protector and helmet had apparently saved important squishy organs. Climbing back to the track took a while giving me a first person view of exactly how steep the gradient of the mountain was. Could have done without that to be honest.

Dusted myself down. Got back on. Got straight back off and pushed for quite a long time until reunited with the my riding pals who clearly couldn’t see what the problem was. Remained very quiet because didn’t trust myself not to have a major hissy fit.

The rest of the ride was okay. I was pretty shit tho. Physically spent and mentally frazzled, I made excuses for my inability to ride stuff that’s well within even my limited remit. Wondered if this was a high water mark. Maybe I’m too damn old, too bloody scared, lacking theskills to ride this stuff.

Thought about that a lot since. Then saw the pictures and wondered how I’d have felt neshing out at the start. Realised there is still life in the old dog yet. Not sure he can be taught any new tricks tho.

Mountains are a brutal environment. Uncaring, wonderful, terrifying and beautiful. They strip you bare and fill you up. Emotions fluctuate from joy to terror. Only high places make you feel like this. You have a choice. Don’t take the easy one. You may never get the chance again.

*this was my response to the trail pointed out very early on. It was a phrase I revised many times during the rest of the day. I could be heard muttering ‘pineapple, pineapple fucking pineapple’ whenever the exposure was cranked to extreme. Which was pretty much all the time.

Laziness is hard work

On By AlexIn Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment
When you start texting family members demanding a cup of tea, you can officially declare yourself a lazy bugger.

Laziness is a curse. Or a blessing. Or somewhere in between, but for those of us born / afflicted with the lazy gene it is all we know. Whichmakes understanding that jolly demographic whosedays are filled with activity and never seen without some kind of creative tool in their hands all the more difficult.

You know the trope- never at rest because there’s always so muchstuff to improve their environment or themselves and their families. Half way up mountains accompanied by equally active tiny children, or copying theSistine Chapel roofwhile redecoratingtheir toilet walls. it’s tiring just thinking about achievingso much stuff,and whatlittle energyI can exertis directedathating them. Just a little bit.

While they are drinking from the font of endless endeavour,we are slumped over the lesser relics of procrastination, apathy and displacement. I could explain this to you,but it’s far too much bloody effort. Instead let me give you some examples from a mundane interlude in my life.

This incident of the incurious Al in the daytime took place ona balmy late summer afternoonat Morrisons. This meteorological context is provided only to fail to explain the behaviour of the pathologicallylazy.The supermarket has two car parks, one a two minute walk away from the front door, the other abouthalf that. At no point was any shopper risking anything other than squinting on their epic march to the entrance.

Yet denizens of the indolent tribe were impatiently queuing for the latter which appears unhealthily focussedeven to a lazy bugger like me. Parking in the tarmac emptiness of the able limbed, I still had time to lock the car, unlock it on returning for my wallet* and pass those who’d been in front of me. Revving engines and vigorous hand signals suggested lazy should not always be considered synonymous with an easy going nature.

Upping the ante somewhat, a man emerged from a car abandoned in adisabled space. He looked perfectly abled to me, not – for example- obviously missing a leg. In a moment of perfect irony he was very nearlymowed down by those who were too lazy to park at all,insteadcircumnavigating the car park waiting for their shopping kin to trudgeout of the exit. Now that’s properlyslack.

Inside it’s somehow worse, all glassy eyed sweeping of random items bytired arms. And yet within this state of apathy are occasional outbreaksofverbal violence. This is because supermarkets have a secondary function as anger factories equipped with temper amplifiers hidden in the cheese aisle.

Flashpoints over such red-line issues as the choice ofbreakfast cereal ˜Not that oneJohn it gives you terrible wind‘ escalating to couples nearly coming to blows at the deli counter. The bemused employee behind is half cheesemonger, half councillor. It’s a good job the sharp tools are held safe on his side of the counter.The dull ones are very much on the other side.

I digress, laziness permeates even the checkout. Bags carelessly loaded with no methodother than that of the slovenly path of least effort. Soft stuff thrown into empty bagswhile heavy, edgy stuff is shovelled on top. Only my inane Englishness preventsan embarrassingbarging in and loading the produce with some kind of system ˜the square things all fit together and – for future reference – what you believed was the large lettuce at the bottom of that bag is in fact your baby’.

And then payment. Or not as it it oft the case. Women – and I blame their voluminous purses for this – delve deeply into their handbags thereby triggering theopening of a portal to another dimension where infinite compartments may OR MAY NOT contain a credit card. I’m always surprised at their surpriseof being complicitin some kind of financial transaction to free their overloaded trolley.

Oh hang on, I just need to find my Morrisons card‘ they’ll trillblind to the seething eyes of passive aggression queuing behind them. ˜Is it worth dying for?’ I nearly shout as my hand grips a wine bottle and my mind dreams of committing blunt force trauma for the benefit of the gene pool.

This is the hard edgeto being lazy. It’s brilliantif that is all you are. Sail through life achievingfuck all and not giving a shit. I hate you almost as much as Mr. 24 hour party person up there. Sadlymost of us are trapped in a venn diagram of laziness, guilt and impatience. The intersection of which is angst.

It’s that thing of being geneticallylazy but feeling endlessly bad about it. Which inevitablydescends intoan ever deepening spiral of guilt. And further apathy. I find the best way to tamp down those imposters, and revel in the guilt-free life of the singularily lazy, is to douse their fire with alcohol.

It’s like Frank Turner sings ˜I dream of all the things I need to do, but wake up and never follow through‘. He could have been talking about taking a dump of course. I’m far too lazy to work it out one way or the other.

Right now the lawn needs mowing.If I procrastinate for long enough, it’ll probably start raining.

* this is happening increasingly often. The forgetfulness trajectory suggest not many more days pass before I turn up to something important in just my underpants.

Slated

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments
Antur Stiniog - Birthday Ride
Birthday Snake – thanks to Ian Beddis for the photo

Blaenau Ffestiniog has a challenging aesthetic. Dwarfed by scarred mountains, cut deeply by a hundred years of slate mining, and diminished by the slow decline and eventual cessation of all such activities.

Many times we’ve skirted its grim and grimey centre on our way to softerlandscapes unscathed by such obvious commercial activity. Most of those days the buildings appear huddled together against the incessant rain and wind. There’s little to stay the traveller looking for the wide open spaces in these wild, Welsh mountains.

Rather than give up like so many tragic mining towns, the communityhad a good look round a the slate heaps and vertical geography before deciding ‘you know what, we should have a crack at that tourism thing‘. With some success.

Hidden between the monster zip lines and underground experiences liesAntur Stiniog – five trails cut sensitively into an already battered landscape and served by a super-efficient uplift service. This is not Bike Park Wales snaking between unharvested forestry and gentler landscape – no here we findno nonsense ribbons of rock the making best use of the localgeology augmented with all sorts of extra stuff to test the stoutest of defences.

Another birthday that most men of my age would spend stiff inunwelcome new jumpers stuck between unwanted extended family instead packed Matt’s van with what – on first sight – appeared to be an explosion in a plastics factory. Full face helmets of dubious vintage rolled over body armour apparently last deployedduring a vigorous strugglewith a tiger.

Three hours later we met up with an old mate of mine who being a bit more organised has already managed a couple of runs: ‘Blue? Fine, good fun. Red? Shit myself‘. Right then, we’ll start on the blue, then but first a comedy assemblage of riders and clothing putting me in mind of Cluedo: ‘Ah Yes, Mr James Upside Down in the Van being strangled with a Helmet Strap‘. Nick looked on mildly bemused but because he’s known me a long time not entirely surprised.

Eventually we rocked up to the windy summit before arsing about a while longer to ensure the proper riders wouldn’t be held up by #ukminceontour* First run is always much compromised by stiff muscles, unfamiliar trails, a touch or more of fear and mostly not wanting to mong oneself on the first run of at least ten. The picture up there is about one minute in. I’m the one in the middle looking as if he’s decided to have a poo. Taken me years to perfect that stance.

With only five trails and great signage it’s impossible to get lost. We got lost. Diverting accidentally to a red trail that ensured proper technique and commitment was pretty much hard wired into our minds as gradients steepened and rocks embigened**

Arriving shaken and a bit stirred back at the uplift truck, we were immediately whisked back to the top in less than five minutes. More runs increased confidence that a) there was nothing here that was trying to kill us and b) these bikes really are quite amazing aren’t they? How can a chassis that’ll happily flatter you on some all day yomp across local trails be quite so bloody awesome on stuff that is mostly occupied by downhill bikes, mirrored visors and riders who can apparently reach low earth orbit off every lip?

Elven magic clearly. Even so by lunchtime we’d progressed to the reds and loved the technical difficultysplit between some reasonably committing drops and fast open sections where the bike would just float above the rock crust. Assuming you could stay off the brakes. I had a brilliant run chasing Rex for the best part of three minutes – letting the bike run, trusting mytechnique when the going got steep and the bike when attempting to land on downslopes out of your eyeline. Then I got cocky and crashed. Wasn’t a big one but bruised the only part of me not fully armoured up.

BPW you can ride on a hardtail with minimum protection if that’s your thing. Not here, I was happy with the heavy breathing full face and neck to toe plastic reinforcement. The consequences of getting it wrong had smashed limbs writ large. As we found out after a quick lunch of carbs and liquid. This not riding uphill is tiring stuff.

“Black then. Shall We?‘ Three of us in the affirmative withthe group splintered bypunctures, tiredness and an understandable reticence to risk trails we barely dared even look down a few hours earlier. Cez and Rex set off with the kind of confidence I dream of leaving me properly positioned as tail gunner. I saw Cez disappear down the first insanely steep step down with barely a pause. One secondhe was there, the next gone, disappeared some 30 feet below. Oh fuck. Like that is it?

It was. Rex was next and his heroic commitment wasn’t matched by similarsuccess. His bike kicked out on the rock step half way down propelling him upwards and backwards in the kind of rotational parabola normally suffixed with ‘and Pike to finish’.

No water just rock. Rex hit it hard and tumbled down the slope in a confusion of arms and legs. ShitShitShitShit that doesn’t look good ‘Rex, you okay mate?‘ I shouted hard braked from the top. A second passed. Then ‘Yeah all good, landed on my backpack, not sure about my spleen tho‘

This was an ongoing joke from my Slovenia bike park experience. So thankfullyhe was both alive and lucid. I picked an easier line down to find Rex back on his bike, grin firmly back in place. Legend. I’d have been calling for the helicopter. He then sent me out first – being understandably a bit reticent to hit obstacles blind – but the rest of the trail harvested fewer demons.

We found Matt and Mike fixing punctures and the not very famous five made it to the bottom without further incident. I rode a couple more times and few tougher lines including the ‘chicken line‘ avoidingthe terrifying double black crux move. Even that line had me mainlining my inner chicken. Happy to get down that unscathed. Style? Speed? Technique? Er, no. More an internal telling off for following Cez off anything blind.***

I quit about then. Physically all was good, but mentally totally frazzled. Ian and I shared a coffee while the rest of the boys hit the uplift truck for a couple more runs. Fast ones as well by all accounts. Fine by me, I was happy to mirrorthe same physical approximation as earlier in the day, and happier still Rex hadn’t done himself some serious injury.

We said our goodbyes to Nick, got back in the van, got back to Ross a few hours later and got pissed because a birthday is as good excuse as any. Forty Eight years old and riding black graded downhill trails with my friends .

That’s not a birthday, that’s a blessing.

* I speak for myself here. And maybe one or two others. As ever I positioned myself as ‘rear gunner’ but had to fight for that station!

** what do you mean that’s not a word?

*** Appropriate noun. Had my eyes closed.

Moustache is the new beard

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

The Mou-Stache

Years ago when I had a proper job, a very earnest young engineer rushed into my office to explain how light – the very light coming through mywindow – could be multiplexed, sliced, diced and repurposed for transporting ones and zeros at unfathomable speeds. Speed of light – obvious to him maybe, I was pretty much winging it from ‘hellomynameiskeithandhthisisveryimportant‘.

Mountain biking appears to be going to same way. We’re splitting niches at an atomic level, so no sooner have my most recent two purchases been deemed heritage then even the marketingly trumpeted perfect wheel size isdenuded by something even more magnificent apparently. Suddenly Wave Division Multiplexing doesn’t seem quite so insane*

I’m thinking of this endless carving of phantom niches as the physical manifestation of ‘Peak Beard‘. I appreciate people have things to sell but you’re really starting to piss the rest of us off. Oh the new standard means a new frame does it? And new forks to go with it? Will my 2 week old wheels fit? No, thought not.

I grumbled my way into the shedofdreams the other day looking for reassurance that my pantheon of mountain bikes still represented something worthwhile. And in the manner of any man who has a sock drawer, I took to harvesting the oily contents of my extensive spares holding to create space for the detritus washed up invarious short term receptacles.

Failing to solve the equation of loads-of-crap – available space > 0, instead I was struck by the righteous vision that rather than toss decent parts into a dark corner, I could instead hang them off something a little more aesthetically pleasing. A quick inventory ratified my thinking; transmission, wheels, bars, stems and brakes framed a single missing component.

That’s what the Internet is for. The first thing distracting me was the colour. RootBeer Trek call it, but for a child of the seventies, it’s clearly a homage to the motoring icon that wasthe Vauxhall Chevette. The second thing was the price which – while being more than a small multiplier of a cardboard box – was intriguingly cheap.

Emails ricoshayed this way covering condition, use, issues and inside leg measurement of the current rider. While slightly odd to request personal dimensions from someone you’ve never met, this – for a man whose leg growth was first lost and then found in his arms – is vital. Large frames invite an interference fit between soft love spuds and hard aluminium. It’s a mistake you make only once.

A brief meeting ata windswept motorway services saw yet another bike anointed in the shedofdreams. Bit of spit and polish and the turd brown sparkled just a little. No getting away from the lack of rear suspension tho. My hard stance on no more hardtails has beentriggered by an increasingly soft back.

Riding is still pretty much okay. The next morninghowever is not. Standing up, my lower back gets up about half a second later and my knees sometime in the afternoon. There are volumes of TLDR shit written about how riding hardtails makes you a better rider; connects you to the trail; keeps it real, etc, etc.

Yeah whatever, get a shave beardie. Still before I could ride and hate it, first it had to be built. All the easy stuff I hammered together before handing it over to Matt breezily explaining the cranks didn’t really fit and there were big holes in the frames where I assumed some cables may need to be inserted.

I provided beer and an extra pair of eyes as stuff pinged to the four corners of Matt’s amusingly chaotic garage. Soon we had a bike that mostly worked and a rider who still wasn’t quite sure why he’d bought it.

Maybe I’m sticking it to the marketing man. The latest version of the Stache (that’s what it’s called. No I’ve no idea either) is dripping with new standards and irrelevance. Mine from all the way back to 2011 is none of those things. It’s two triangles, some funky hydroforming and a load of second hand parts.

It’s far better to look at than a box of spares. It’s conveniently the colour of winter. It may get ridden more than the other 29er hung on the wall, and ignored since the Aeris turned up. If not it’ll bolster my real mountain bike credentials. It’s like Alfa’s for petrolheads, every proper rider must owna hardtail.

Even if he or she doesn’t ride it. Looks better than a battered box though doesn’t it?

* it is a real thing. Incredibly important in our digital world. Cornerstone of an exploding digital age. It also allows those on the near end of the autistic spectrum to play with lasers. I’ll leave you to decide if this is a good trade-off.

There’s something in the Aeris

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Bird in the air!

In this case it’s my friend Cez whose picture upthere writes the thousand words best summarised by’it’s not about the bike‘. I promise you fewer to frame six weeks of new bike ownership riding over six hundred kilometres with a vertical profile offifteen thousand metres.

The latin root of Aeris is simply ‘Air‘ -a place this bike is significantly more comfortable than the old fella riding it. Not in Cez’s case obviously where he’s thrown it over that gap jump with the kind of wild abandon 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} missing from my bravery repertoire.

However even working within thismore limited riding envelope, ever wider apertures have opened up of what a great bike/average rider hybrid can achieve. The Aeris isn’t one of those Rottweilerbikes giving it the ‘grrr, go on bite it, grrr, faster, chase it, eat it’ which insist on 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} commitment 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the time. You know the sort, it’s all absolutely new and splendidly brilliant right up to the point when it isn’t leaving the trail splattered with previously usable body parts.

It’s more like the quiet member of the band – say the rhythm guitarist – largely ignore-able but oozing competence and ensuring the player looks pretty damn awesome. Until you start to push it a little bit when it gets a bit hairy’n’lairy, stomping on the fuzz pedal and bashing out some Hendrix riffs.

No devil on your shoulder this, more a good mate gently suggesting ‘you’re fine with that, c’mon we’ll do it together, trust me, it’ll be great. And it has been, clearing my biggest and scariest ever gap jump (but not that one above), punched out quite a few Strava PBs on trails I’ve ridden 100s of times and conquered a couple of obstacles made impossible by previous excuses.

It’s not a game changer tho. The PBs are seconds at best, the scary stuff is still bloody terrifying, the gap jump had me all wobbly legged before and after. But this is quite a bike Ben and the boys at Bird have built; long front centre, slack head angle, low bottom bracket, aggressive stance. Stable and composed at speed, lithe and carve-yin the tight stuff. Climbs well, descends better. Small margins maybe, but margins all the same.

As a trail bike, it’s hard to find fault. The rear shock is a thing of magic delivering climbing grip and descending confidence. The forks aren’t far behind masking my ham fisted-ness and inappropriate braking. Rims forged from carbon are ridiculously wide and stiff bulging out tyres at 20 PSI. Brakes are personal wall and everything else just works brilliantly.

In those six weeks, I’ve dragged it up the Malvern hills, pushed it round a thousand corners in the Forest, chucked it down Cadair Idris, barrelled it through the Quantock hills and giggled my way around four trail centres. And for most of those rides, I’ve pretty much forgotten about it while enjoying the scenery flash by a little quicker than previously.

For balance it’s not perfect. The slingshot cornering is delivered in part by a very low bottom bracket cranking pedal strikes on anything vaguely lumpy. The finish on those carbon rims is pretty ropey. And, er, that’s it. Any other problems just call up Ben or Dave for a quick chat and find yourselves 30 minutes later sort of understanding how suspension works.

North Wales MTB - April 2015 {HPR}

Half way down these steps on Cadair Idris, it became apparent I’d bought a bike that both suited and encouraged me. I’m still stuck with those mental hangups and physical frailties which ensure this bikes’ capabilities area million miles from my own limits.

That’s not really the point tho. Do I take a moment before every ride to savour how bloody good the next few hours are going to be? Do I stay the worry overcertain obstacles which normally have me reaching deep into the excuses bag? Do I just want to ride, ride and ride just a bit more? Damn right I do and that’s not the result of a quantitativeevaluation of angles and other supposedly important metrics. It’s riding as fast as you dare whilepassing silent thanks to those who understand better than you what constitutesan amazing mountain bike.

In these six weeks since the two big bird boxes arrived on the doorstep, the Pyga has languished dustily in the shedofdreams. My plan was to compare it to the new incumbenta month after tarnishing the new bike glasses. It hasn’t happened and I cannot see when it will. That doesn’t make the Pyga a bad bike at all, it just makes the Aeris a really bloody good one.

Roll on Sunday.

Turning a corner

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike Riding, Photography, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Most of Cwmcarn.. the bits they weren't logging

Have you ever had the the feeling you’re a minnow pretending to be a shark? No? Really? I get it all the time, sometimes professionally which is easily mitigated by astrategy of winging it- an approachserving me well duringthe last twenty years. And asoften riding mountain bikes, where that doesn’t work at all.

There’s a strange juxtaposition of a digital record proving you are faster than 75{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of people you’ve never met, while being 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} slower than those whoyou know. Placing yourself as tail-end charlie does get a little wearing as those with more skills and less imagination flick perfect turns, while you fall ever further behind attemptingto reenact apparently simple techniques to forestall a squishy tree hybrid.

Sometimes I wonder if I think too much. Heading into an apex – and every apex feels like the one which ripped my knee open triggering an extensive hospital stay – mentally there is all sorts going on, setting an edge, point hips at the exit, pushing the bars, leaning the bike not me and all that skills-course mental memory.

The physical manifestationis somewhat different. It’s not representative of whats going on in my head, leaving me sufficient time to disconnect the frontal lobe and go with thescreaming hind brain to ‘slow the fuck down’. Which I do. And blow the corner. That’s quite annoying. Possibly tending to the understatement hereas it’ll keep me awake beyondthe midnight hour, becausemental castigation fails to trigger the appropriate physical moves.

Big rocky stuffwith pain etched on every pointy granite formation? Fine, let me at it. Reasonable sized jumps with no obvious landing other than ‘something over there’? Okay with that thanks very much. Flat corner of 30 degrees or more with an apex perpendicular to a tree? Pass me some logs and I’ll portage my way round. It’ll be quicker.

It doesn’t stop me loving riding mountain bikes, but it is a bit bloody irritating. Watching other riders, apparently unconcerned by the prospect of a tyre offering slightly less grip than they expected, or the trail failing to deliver an apex where they were expecting it makes me wonder if I’m just a bit nesh.

Well I am. But I know what bravery feels like. It’s being shit scared and doing it anyway. Done loads of that and surfed long on the dopamine rewards. There’s just something about long corners that messes with my head and no amount of skills courses, givingmyself a good talking too or following those lacking the fear can really fix.

I shall go and practice. And that’ll be fine. On my own with no peer pressure there will be a complicit pretence I’ve cracked it, only for muscle memory and latent fear to rear their ugly heads in a parody of Medusa. Snakes on the trail and all that.

This isn’t about being as quick as someone else. I’ve lost that urge at the same time as most of my body fat. I can beat more than a few uphill but that’snot ametric I’m measuring myself against. I can get fitter still, but can I get braver? Not sure.

Cwmcarn a fwqweekends ago was great. Except for the bits when I watched Matt and Cez dive through the bends in a way I cannot. That bothers me far more than it should. I’ve ridden a million corners and crashed on only a few. Unfortunately those incidents have left me physically and mentally scared.

Only one of those has healed. I’m stupidly lucky to be able to ride Mountain Bikes whenever I want on fantastic trails with people who are my greatest friends. And yet, there’s something missing. Something not quite right. Two choices; go ride with those for whom getting down uninjured is as good as it gets, or stop obsessing about something that broke me overseven years ago.

Looking through the corner is one thing. Chasing the crash images out of my mind is something else entirely.

Real life choices

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Most of Cwmcarn.. the bits they weren't logging

There’s an apocryphal tale telling the story of buttoned up IBM suits arriving for an interview with Gary Kindell, who’d single handedly written a PC operating system. Hethen decided the most appropriate response wastoslack off for the day rather than entertaining a squillion dollar contract with the man.

Here was single individual presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to harness his shonky wagon to a corporate monolith, ready to ship twenty million personal computers. Instead he flew his aeroplane, leaving the suits to throw their lot in with Bill Gates. The rest is recent history. I always though the bloke was an idiot, but now I’m not not so sure.

Kindell’s action stand as a metaphor for slacking off when the real world demands commitment. I’ve always enjoyed deadlines – mainly the sound of them whooshing above my head, while I’m buried in something far more important. This feels as close to anarchy as a bloke who slavishly followed corporatehours in a monkey suit could evergo.

Today we rode mountain bikes. That’s pretty much the default state for a Sunday. Tomorrow I’ll go ride some more, which really isn’t how you should spend a Monday.The joy of being paid by outputsnot inputsmeans you get to pick the times to work and those to slack. It’s easy in winter when sideways rain slashes at the window, somewhat harder when the trails are dry and there’s a freshly lubed bike giving you the full Labrador.

I should be better at this. I’ve been at it for twenty + years,, and still there are too many moments regressing into a Risky Business ‘somedays you just have to say what the fuck’. And here’s why; it’s not simple displacement activityor cognitive dissidence – no what we’re mining here is the tired ‘no man ever went to his grave wishing he’d spent more time in the office’

Obviously not. As he’d be spending it with his family. Or his Church. In my case the latter lacks rote, hymns and timid stupidity, but is full of trees, trails and epiphanies. I know what desperate repetition feels like, and I know better what tortured tires soundlike sothere’s nothing that’s going to make me spend a Sunday under the pretence that somehow Christian values are a conduit to a better place. I’ll risk the here and now, thanksfor asking.

And not family either. Well not entirely. There’s a line of excuses mirrored by pretending that riding bikes makes me a better person. Send out grumpy, get back normal, caring human being. Yes, and indeed not really. Sometimes I’d rather than play with my bikes than play with my kids. Does that make me a rubbish parent? Probably. Am I alone? Probably not.

Two weeks ago I received multiple texts from good people who had the misfortune to work for me. They told me one of our team had died suddenly while sitting in a meeting. 150 miles from his wife and two kids. Working his arse off to provide forthat family. Four minutes between a massive heart attack and the world going black.

He was two years older than me. and I’m pretty venerable. He was the perfect contractor, skilled, hard-working and interesting. Taught me a lot. Put more into his community than I could ever be arsed to. Told me a great joke howhis clan would rather put a Mercedes on thedrive than food in the kids mouths. Funny, clever and extremely competent. Taken way before his time.

Today was great. Riding with my friends and trying to keep up with them. Feeling fit and warm in the occasional sunshine. Looking into distant valleys and not wanting to be anywhere else. Taking the piss and getting it back in spades. Pushing it a bit and caching in on dopamine. Having a beer and wondering why the real world isn’t like this.

This isn’t about riding mountain bikes. It’s about working out what is important. It’s thinking abouta bloke tuning blue being desperately attended to by the designated first aider. It’s wondering if this is as good as it gets, and trying bloody hard to find out.

Life is about choices. You can vacillate but that’s still making a choice. The older you get the more important it is. Pretty sure that work deadline is going to slide.

Crash, Bang, Trollop

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment
MC "dropping the grellow"
Martin doing it right

I don’t find writing difficult. I accept you may find reading it a bit of a mission, but that’s far less interesting to Mr Self Absorbed here. Who suffers – literally – seconds of angst tocreate pithy titles summarising a thousand words of half baked ideas shotgunned by occasional punctuation.

That ^^ one is great – cram in a literary reference to man who, until his death in 1882, was knocking out Victorian bestsellers in a canon of work snappily entitled “Chronicles of Barsetshire,”*. And I can pretendTrollop translates, inthe Al-Babel-Fish universe, to ‘Amusing Idiot’. A quick google suggests a rather more established definition is that of a ‘A woman regarded as slovenly or unkempt’. I honestly thought it meant idiot. Which probably makes me one.

150 words in then, and it’s all going splendidly. Anyway this is merely asemantic sleight of hand displacing the simple truth that I got a bit cocky**, before fate handed down anappropriate punishment ofa bit of ground rush and quite a lot of pain.

Stupid really. That’s me in case you were searching for context. After three days of lobbing ourselves down steep Welsh hillsides and one actual mountain, I returned to my local trailslastingapproximately 500 yards before genuflecting at the shrine of Mr. Mong.

Confidence is a fragile thing. Bolstered by thosedays of dodging bullets on trails full of vertigous gradients and gravity travelling scree slopes, the combination of a great new bike and a not so great aged rider felt as ifthey should up their game a bit.

Hence crashing so early. Second attempt at an up and over rock obstacle, opened up a barely discernibletrail perpendicular to thenormal fireroad. Off camber and full of roots, this would be impossiblein anything but the dry and dusty conditions we rode throughtoday – and it finishedsimplywith a drop back to themain track.

Simple, except my peripheral vision identified a large mount of dog-poo right on the exit, so triggeringan instinct to make rubbish decisions. Grabbing a handful of front brake, which on this bike isessentially a personal wall ,is not the most consideredof responses whencantered over on a steep slope full of drifting dust andbugger all grip.

Inevitably fault follows form, and I’ve excited stage front shieldingmy internal organs through thesacrifice ofan unpadded elbow. It hurt a bit whichI mayhave mentioned it to Martin, who whippedout hiscamera to capture a repeateffort failing to result in a spectacular rider/bike/trail splattering. At least one of us felt this was the right result.

My normal response to having some sort of accident is to make it every type of excuse to why nothing vaguely difficult is rideable. Not today tho, the conditions were so perfect, that bike is so damn good and even the wobbly neurotic on top came together in a ride that had much throwing oneself off stuff, while laughing at Martin’s inability to capture anything other than the odd blurred wheel.

We moved on to a descent unique in being equally terrifying in winter and summer. During the season of dark and slop, the steepness and roots inevitably lead to abandoning the impossible task of a tight switchback in favour of a headlong plunge into a handy bush. In Spring, it’s pretty much the same except the speeds are higher and the bush has been upgraded to a tree.

Being understandably cautious of the front brake, switching to the rear merely locked that retarded wheel in an instant, and an instant later it was sashaying through all sorts of dance moves I came to think of a ‘The Tango‘, ‘The Jive‘ and ‘The Accident‘. I stuck a foot out, and leant hard enough on that for the rearto break away completely, leaving me both surprised and somehow facing in the right direction. At which point I left both stoppers well alone sonearly t-boning an unsuspecting car on the trail/road intersection. Failed to crash, but it wasn’t through lack of trying.

I don’t crash much nowadays. Because I’m getting a bit older and whole lot more careful. Less brave if you will. But rides like this remind why I should carry on pushing it a little bit. It’s not progression, it’s regression. It’s being eleven years old with your mates in the woods when you should be doing something rather more institutional. It’s knowing – for this day at least – you are not the same asthose valley full of people observed from these high places.

My elbow is sore. I expect a whole lot more will join intomorrow to remind me bouncing is a young mans game. But I shall ignore it through the power of delusional and nurafen, instead getting back on the bike and riding a whole lot more before the weather breaks.

Chronicles of Herefordshire isn’t likely to be much of a bestseller, but then old Tony T wasn’t much of a mountain biker 😉

* I’m not entirely ignorant. It’s Trollope of course. God I should know having suffered the pain of having his great works explained to me by a man masquerading as a teacher, while committing corporate manslaughter on one of the 19th century great novelists.

** not with the Trollop tho, Just so we’re absolutely clear.