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.

Beacon Run

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

There is significant pointy geography jutting ever upwards in my riding life. Look over there to Wales with seemingly endless ranges of sharp peaks “ proper mountains – looming over deep valleys. Closer to home are the muscular Malvern Hills, reaching not so high but still at a straining gradient.

Largely free of mud regardless of season, packed full of rocky, open descents and cheeky hidden singletrack this compact range of lumpy loveliness has much to offer the keen mountain biker.

But it hides a dirty secret. While the South and North ends are stuffed with trail nuggets, the middle is “ let’s be honest here “ a bit dull. Hilly, Yes; Interesting, Not really. Which explains why it’s a bit of a mission to summit the Beacon on the North when starting from the other end.

That and it’s a bloody long way. Not in miles, not even in my newly chosen ego stroking kilometres. Horizontally it’s nothing, vertically however it’s a bit of a monster. The hills are canted to the North so four grunty climbs are not rewarded with a similar amount of descending. But those four are the quickest way across.*

Quick being a relative term. Quick for me with a level of riding fitness someway below my Winter peak. As I wondered if my lungs were blowing out of my arse, or had already been abandoned on a previous climb I couldn’t help also wondering if a bit less biscuit tin/cheese board/wine bottle action might aid my ascending prowess.**

The descending on offer did more than take a little edge off the gurning glumness even after sufficient rain to make Mayhem more of a nightmare this weekend*** The elbow of increasing articulation may be finally healing but still ignites the mental bushfire on the scary bits. Comes and goes, better bloody go soon tho otherwise I’ll be chopping out the cowardly gland with a blunt spoon.

We’d dragged the Beacon closer through application of pedal on gradient, the peak showing itself from various angles. First we’re left of it, then right but always below. Highest point in Worcestershire, made higher by my riding bud’s choice to first descend rather than take the easy way up.

Which provided an opportunity to heckle two slower riders who didn’t seem to find our tailgating inspirational. The Irony card was played once a freak mechanical sidelined me to the side of the trail leaving them to huff past. At which point, Jezz “ who is consumed by a Labrador fetch mentality “ hunted them down on the next climb.

By the time I finally made it up there, the same two riders were looking seriously pissed off. Which “ in my experience “ is generally triggered by a large man on an even larger bicycle racing by. A hypothesis confirmed by said rider, sat a little further up the trail, with the subtle manifestations of a man seeing only black spots in front of his eyes.

We scooted off ever upwards in the fading daylight for the traditional lean the bike against the trig point which is really bikey sign language for Thank Christ that’s over, I’m having a proper rest now.

Even close to the Solstice, our light abandoning decision was beginning to look somewhere between ambitious and foolhardy. Time to go. The Beacon Run is a proper man’s descent. Fast, rocky, occasionally rutted, enlivened by big holes torn out of the track and a level of exposure that would still induce vertigo in blinkers.

Good, fast run down, too late for random walkers diving for cover under the barrage of chain slap ordinance. Hero line over the big drop, sketchy on the marbles, hold it together and chase that setting sun. All that climbing? Worth every pedal revolution.

Quick conference, time for the long way home we think. Drop back into the valley before climbing back onto the ridge, but missing a couple of pointless hills. Flat out down the next one, where a quick glance at the GPS shows nearly 60k, and a look out front shows we’re going to beat the fast incoming dark.

Until Jez cases a drop and sacrifices a tube. Still nice place for a sit while he fixes it. Had it been Winter, I’d have left the bugger 😉 Tired legs propel us gently up the last proper climb opening up my favourite jump followed by my least favourite steps. Survived those, railed the following berm with reactions now perfectly tuned to trail pitch.

Into Narnia and into the dark. Proper dark with the sun setting, we make adequate progress only though trail memory and a sudden desperate belief in ESP. We hit the only really mud on the final trail link home which is fine because now we really can’t see anything at all, and it’s some manifestation we’re not riding in a cave.

It’s way past 11pm as I wearily roll the bike back into the workshop. I’m a shower and some faffing behind a much needed bed. And in just over five hours the alarm is going to be all loud and spiteful.

Who Cares?

* Unless you choose to ride along the ridge. Which would mark you out as some kind of lithuanism lesbian.

** Probably. But what’s the option? Lettuce? If the day has come that dinner is essentially crinkly water, I’ll need to up my alcohol content somewhat mitigating a salad day.

*** For those racing. Not for those turning up in wellies, grabbing a beer while pointing and laughing.

Funny that.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Remember Winter? Cold, wet, dark and miserable?. The four seasonal horsemen of the apocalypse ride out from November through March before hibernating for the summer. Which is why we ride when it’s warm. dry, sunny and lovely. Yes?

No. I reckon those four cloak-billowing mounted dementers have their eye on summer. And like the fifth Beatle, someone forgot to tell “Windy” he’s not welcome. And not just because of the smell*

In about two weeks, I’ll be hauling my non-spent-much-time-on-a-saddle arse around and over this. Not the proper Man’s event to be fair, but still 120ks of hills, more hills, occasional cake, cocks on road bikes, rain and – of course, wind.

Headwind, chest-wind, toe-wind, all over wind experience. The bastard mix of a sprinkler powered by a Saturn-V rocket. For approximately ever. But this wind is not my excuse for doing absolutely no training whatsoever. My other excuse is generally I was too busy riding mountain bikes to waste time on tarmac, but no that’s not right either.

All winter I rode. Looked out of the window in the dark and calculated – from the sound of wet trees being smashed against car roofs – exactly what riding apparel would be appropriate for two hours battling my least favourite season. Then, ignoring all that, just wore everything I owned. Including a lifejacket.

But I still went. Most of the time it was fine, occasionally it was shit, but off-season fitness has a smug rating that’ll carry you past those who’ve given up, got fat, pre-moaned how hard it’ll be come BST. You plan for the worst and hope for the best. It’s an excellent strategy and has served me well.

Until April when all was lovely, dry and even sometimes light in the evening. Remember April? Part of a new summer that starts end of March, goes for six weeks before plunging into Autumn. You want proof? CLiC24, 2am, 2 degrees, 40 knot wind, May 16. It’s enough to encourage emigration. Not to France tho, it’s not that bad. Yet.

And since then, troughs of Atlantic lows have swept our unprotected Island with some rain, much wind and and a daily precipitation of can’t be arsed. “Bit Windy? Nah, don’t think I’ll bother” “Chance of Rain? Fuck that, it’s summer”, “Trip away? In June? Are you mad? Is drowning something you’re keen to experience?”

Stupid really. I’ve missed too many midweek rides with great excuses wrapped up in better lies. I don’t think it’s the dodgy elbow, it certainly isn’t a lack of fabulous trails to ride, nor is it my standard “can I be arsed lament” that gets blown away every time I actually can.

It’s none of those things. It isn’t even about bikes. Needs working out tho until which riding seems a bit less important that it was. That’s not funny, but it’s odd and it needs dealing with.

I am plotting with such vigour, I shall be purchasing a fluffy, white cat to stroke.

* Clearly re-incarnated from a wet Labrador.

Elbow

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

FoD - June 2011

Heard one song. Bought the album, refusing to get involved with some new-fangled “listen before buying” nonsense. Listened to the other eleven songs. Confused. Quite Northern. Otherwise, properly odd. Anyway moving on, the elbow under discussion is the right one that’s still wrong.

It sort of works which places in firmly in the category of “the remaining vaguely articulating bits of Al’s battered body“. I’ve learned to manage around always-sore ankle (casing jumps at chicksands), clicky shoulder (over the bars @ Swinley Forest followed by beating it for a week in the Atlas Mountains under pain relief called “Denial“), Dodgy Knee (opened up on Chiltern Flint and about 2mm from long term crutch use) and unrotating neck muscles (age, decrepitude, posture, computers and beating it repeatedly on the ground).

But having an elbow that – at full deflection – signals the brain to “stop the fuck with that right now” is getting almost as old as the rest of me. Regardless of that litany of injuries, mostly I’m a fast healer going from scar tissue to occasional whinge in a week or less. Pretty much the operating model for lumpy middle arm, but after starting well and getting 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} better, the last 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} remains stubbornly unfixed.

So closing doors, carrying buckets, reaching on top shelves* – you know sort of life stuff is immediately followed by a whispered “fuck that hurts“. Spotted by my long suffering and hypochondria abused wife, a quick examination revealed a lump that’s probably a chunk of grit I’ve illegally nicked from the Malvern Hills. Smart money is back to the Docs for some x-ray and remedial proddage. Al’s threepence is on further denial and stellarising the wound.***

Still three rides this weekend have left the joint sore, but the owner pretty chilled. Firstly out with my never-stop-improving youngest daughter who is starting to show a worrying velocity in the singletrack. Luckily I can still cheat enough to catch her, but she’s going to have the beating of me before too long. She does crash a lot though, but refuses to blub or blame afterwards. I’m starting to think she may be adopted.

Jessie Haugh Woods June 2011 (6 of 15)

Then a tour of local riding for my good mate Jason who- despite being a Kiwi and therefore quite odd/a worry to sheep – is an all round good egg in the don’t whinge/get on with it mould. So even after lunching himself on a rather tasty cheeky trail in the FoD, he was still keen for an 8am appointment with some Malvern Pointiness the following day.

FoD - June 2011

Ace it was, dodged the showers both days, rode some silly trails, talked a load of old bollox, had the occasional moment of blind terror and many more of “did you see that? that hip jump? you saw that right? that was awesome?…. you didn’t see it? right. Fucker“. Fired up warm things on the BBQ and cold things from the fridge which has made Monday Morning come round far too bloody quickly.

Reminded me of one thing though. Why we live here. It’s bloody fantastic. Even with a dodgy elbow. I might have mentioned that already.

* not that kind of shelf. We’ve the Internet for that kind of thing.

** A spoonerism devised under medically challenging condition during a Scotland Roadtrip. Don’t remember much about it, remember having to explain to the landlady why the bedsheets had the appearance of a double-bloody homicide. Went with “goat sacrifice” as it was less embarrassing.

Perfect Timing

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

Matt - Symmonds Yat.

Which is pretty damn impressive – considering the processing delay between shutter depression and image capture on my ickle trail camera is such that it’s best to click way before the rider is even in sight. Or born.

That’s Matt making a mockery that 40lb freeride bikes aren’t perfectly fine for 50k forest bashes. The trail is one of many built but the Dirt boys out of Monmouth, and the jump is where my riding pal David first came up short and then ended up in hospital with a nasty back injury. He’s back riding well now, but as a reminder that these trails are a step up it’s compelling.

It’s as if a bunch of naughty boys have taken the rather lovely – if safe – Forest Of Dean, roughed her up a bit, stuck a ball under her jumper, given her an aggressive haircut and a hint of menace before sitting back and asking “right then, fancy taking this on do you” to a bunch of nervous fifth formers.

As a metaphor, I accept it needs some work. Steeper and deeper here, bigger climbs, increasing gradients, bigger obstacles, fast flow then slow’n’techy, surprisingly rocky and often loose- it’s a patchwork of outstanding trails where confusing confidence with ability will end in a proper accident.

It is a place – as our American Cousins would label – to bring your A game. I don’t have an “A” game and having failed to shaken a bastard cold this week and some unreconciled crashing concerns from the elbow smash a month go, an entire new alphabet would be needed to position exactly how rubbish I was going to be.

Game tho I was. Started a bit wheezily on a 15k jaunt from Ross ensuing the car for some old-school tarmac/dismantled railway bashing. Surprisingly enjoyable because of the unending beauty of the Wye Valley, and there’s something simply right about not driving to ride.

It’s all a bit winch and plummet once you’ve hit the heights of the trails proper. Three iterations demanded the thick end of a thousand metres climbing from your legs, and some level of skill and commitment when it all went grinningly vertical.

I was reminded a bit of the Climax black run, not because of terrain or surface but more because these are trails built by people who can ride a bit and they demand that you do too. Nothing insanely dangerous* but superbly flowly if you’re pushing on a bit, frustratingly difficult if not. But anyone who builds not one but TWO dry stone wall jump/drops into a single trail is a bloody genius, and deserves a tip of my virtual hat.

Most of the stuff was new and riding unsighted – chasing a vanishing Matt – had me thinking back to when I started riding. Everything was fresh, nothing was recalled, experience turned into joy and then into memories. It got me gabbling, pointing and a little bit frightened. There’s a single world for that: Alive.

Happy to be so after a final trail off the ridge which saw Matt roosting* swathes of red dirt sliding his back tyre. Seemed a good time to finish the singletrack if not the ride. No first we had to find a pub not full of bank holiday angst and barfing kids. And our joy of riding into such as establishment was hardly metered by the shock of two pints costing nearly a tenner. Mainly as that was Matt’s round 😉

I rode to work with a stinking cold last Monday and that was good. I rode in the Malverns with the arse end of that cold in the wet, damp and single digit temperatures on Thursday and that was great. I rode today on about 70{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} lung and 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} competence and that was bloody outstanding.

This seems unanswerable evidence I just love riding bikes. Long may it continue.

* Well there are a couple of things. Walking works well at this point. It’s a case of “how brave am I feeling? Quite Brave, Very Brave, No not that Brave actually on reflection”

** I know. I know. But honestly, it’s the perfect word. It was ground zero at at a roostage convention.

Trigger’s broom

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Triggers Broom

A milestone has passed. Or – now I’ve gone metric to create the illusion of travelling further – a kilometre stone. 1250 of them to be precise. That was the point at which the previous ST4 waggled its twangy arse for the last time, and collapsed into a heap of iron fillings. The horror of finding the bottom bracket had destroyed the frame by ripping through the internal threads stayed with me right up until Orange admitted it was a bit rubbish and sent me a new one.

The plan for the original bike was to replace my Cove Hardtail so saving the cost of procuring a whole flange of expensive and shiny new parts. This was not entirely successful; within six months everything but the seatpost and saddle had been replaced by the aforementioned new and shiny, and the Cove was brought back from the shed.

Now I’ve replaced the seatpost and saddle. Fiscal irresponsibility sprayed faintly with lazy logic is a dangerous way to approach a web browser. Undeterred that such a part was unavailable from any UK reseller, I went all free market and ordered directly from the Fatherland. Two days later after various helpful emails including “Ihr aktueller Bestellstatus: In Bearbeitung“*, a box bearing clever hydraulics and an fairly eye watering invoice was swiftly transferred onto old trigger up there.

And it’s ace. Being a serial seat dropper, it’s removed the tedious need to dismount and dick about with QRs for a 30 second descent before trying to find the right pedalling position again to prevent ones knees exploding. So most of the time you don’t do it, and that is an exercise in joy limitation. I remember from my skills course Tony pushing the idea of moving down not back, with all the benefits having a low CofG can bring.

So it’s clever. Don’t ask me how it works I’ve no idea. First ride, this was clearly the case with my incessant fiddling taking twice as much time compared to dismount/sigh/adjust seat/get back on. And the marketing boys have missed a trick here – “X Fusion HiLo”? Sounds like a second rate cartoon character. Since to operate the “drop“, one must reach down and tickle ones’ wedding vegetables before releasing the lever, surely there is scope here for something more manly.

I’m going with “gruntbuster tacklegrabber” which is pretty unbeatable. The rest of the bike is pretty damn good as well. Which considering that most of the time I’m at the business end of the spanners, and it’s been thrown roughly to the ground on a number of occasions is a testament to the robustness of the new frame.

Sure it’s not exactly light for a four inch travel bike. And it’s probably a little bit slack for jedi-speeder wiggly tree action, but the limiting factor by some horizon stretching distance is the rider. As it is in 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of cases, which is why magazine reviews are informative, generally well written and almost entirely useless. For me, the only thing about a bike that matters is does it put a big grin on your face every time you ride it.

Certainly does. And with the “tacklegrabber” installed, that grin’s going to get even bigger 🙂

* Which I translated as “Congratulation, we’ve shipped your product” or “For information: We’ve annexed the Sudenland”

Done and Dusty.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24Leave a comment

10th anniversary of the CLiC24 event is done. I am back and still fully capable of independent movement. I am also very, very tired. So here’s a summary of the good, the not so good and the occasionally amusing.

Things that rocked:

1) Atmosphere. Chilled out but superbly organised. It’s a million miles from Mayhem and a million times better for it. Full of happy people having an ace time.

2) Organisation. Astounding – great food, top beers at the bar, ever cheerful marshalls, warm showers, unsmelly loos, great marque playing top tunes.

3) Course. 30{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} different and extended. Tougher but better. Fantastic yomp across the moor to finish. Fast, rocky singletrack to start. Engaging twiddly bits in between. Hard on the legs, good for the soul.

4) Charity. Probably should be no#’1. CLiC24 is the only endurance event I’ll ever ride now. Because they’re worth it 😉

5) Team Hardcore Loafing (or Lardcore Huffing as we became) putting in an outstanding first twelve hours before tapering off a bit. I blame the wine.

6) Fitness. Having some. First two laps had a feeling of what being properly fit might feel like. Was reminded how far away from that I am by soloists cheerily passing me this morning having nearly doubled the laps I’d completed.

7) Having an awesome team mate in Nig. Top man, entirely unflappable, strong rider, brings excellent wine which we decanted into plastic glasses. Class.

8) It didn’t rain. OTHANKYOUGOD.

Thinks that sucked a bit:

1) Not full. 100 entries under the 500 maximum. Everyone struggling to fill their events this year. Twice as many soloists than teams so clearly there’s a niche worth mining there for future events. Cannot understand how Mayhem/Sleepless get so many entries when – in my wildly uninformed opinion – this is a shit load better

2) Er, that’s about it. Pretty chilly for some of the event and bloody windy for all of it. That got a bit old but honestly I’m just whinging on the periphery now.

Al’s round up of stuff that was in chucking distance of funny:

1) Attempting the erection* of the famous Leigh Family Tent/Small fabric country in a 30mph wind in the fading light. Entertainment unbounded for the increasing amused watchers who seem to be pointing and hiding laughing behind their hands. At one point I felt the whole shebang was ready to ascend to the Heavens but we wrested back control providing us with more than adequate loafing space, bar area, sleeping compartments, stove and kettle. This time around we didn’t actually set fire to anything either. Bonus.

2) “Hmmm Beer“. Nig and Al on entering the marquee.

3 “H’mm Cake“. Same, two seconds later

4) “I bet Max Mosely paid more than five quid for this amount of pain“: Al on the massage bed being given a right seeing too by a no nonsense lady who repeatedly told me it was hurting her more than me. Not unless she was stabbing herself in the eye with a fork it bloody wasn’t.

5) “I rode so slowly, I nearly drowned in the watersplash” : Nig succinctly summarises the pace of his night lap.

6) “Those are six inch travel bikes, yes? That’s about the distance you’ve travelled in the last minute, get a bloody move on“: Al on the motivational trail in the best bit of singletrack.

7) “Hear my squeeky brakes? That’s a metaphor for YOU’RE NOT GOING FAST ENOUGH“: More motivational stuff from me. I think it helped. Helped me anyway.

8) “10 laps you say? Solo? Well done” followed by an urgent whisper “THE ALIENS ARE HERE, SOUND THE ALARM”

9) “I am the kind of racing machine that needs constant oiling… get the beers in” overheard in the bar

10) “The sweatiest thing in this tent is my helmet….” pause “I’ll be off for a shower then eh?” domestic bliss in the Parker/Leigh tented village.

I forgot my camera, but many others didn’t even taking time to get a photo of yours mugly. But we were worthy, you can be assured of that. Significantly more worthy in the first twelve hours than the second twelve, but worthy nevertheless.

Thanks for those who sponsored me for CLiC Sargent. You’ve made a happy man very old.

* I believe the correct camping term is “Pitch” but where’s the fun in that?

Pack it in.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24Leave a comment

Waterproof Jacket. Waterproof Socks. Waterproof Shorts*. Waterproof Socks. Winter Boots. Vast Tent (waterproof). Flippers. Goggles. Canoe. Beer. More Beer. Will To Live.

Maybe a bike.

Maybe not.

Fairly standard packing list for any event caught in the crossfire of English weather, riding bicycles for indeterminable hours and me. Plan for snow and hope for the best is a tactic that served me well especially during the biblical horror of 2009. If evolution could be morphed with always-on modernity, a new homo-wetian cluster would have emerged from the flooded bog of the West Mendips. Equipped with gills.

Raining outside now. Sky as black as a man with his head in a mucky bucket. Something I’d normally be considering channelling my Ostrich coping strategies. And yet a peek of the fickle forecasting interweb returns only patchy rain, a brisk wind and a little chill. Receiving extreme sunburn is unlikely, but then again so is drowning. I’ve chosen not to believe a bloody word of it. Considering a wetsuit.

Packing has not gone well so far if I’m honest. Last night? Ideal, write a list, locate items, wonder if “amusing elephant” has been added to list by not so amusing child. Fail to locate key items that have clearly been hidden. Will To Live on top of that particular list. Open tailgate, and – with a berserker cry – launch multiple wheelbarrows of useless stuff into the back. Adjust fit with handy sledgehammer, job done.

Went riding instead. Dusted off the Cove with crazy notion of deploying it as a spare bike at the CLiC-24. A second rider would be better. And a third come to that. It repaid my negligence and abandonment with a reminder that disc brakes only work when BOTH pads and disks are available to the caliper. Rear ones on the backing, front ones in there somewhere but insufficiently motivated to prevent lever banging against the bar, while arresting no motion of the front wheel.

Good brakes make you go faster apparently. I sort of get that. But let me expand the theory – no brakes AT ALL make you go very fast indeed. The last descent from the Worcester Beacon shall live long between me and my therapist. I’m sure it’s all fixable although chucking the thing on the trailer and assuming it’ll somehow self heal is unlikely to be a successful approach.

Right, it seems I’m nearly out of time and all out of excuses. I’ll take a camera to record the misery which – obviously – I’ll share with you sometime next week. I wonder if it’s too late to book a B&B 😉

* Kinky. I’m not sure an explanation of “yes they may be plastic but who wants a heavy gritting up the arsecrack?” helps much.

I am calm.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Brean Down Sloping

And here’s a picture of a tree to remind myself how calm I am. Because there are a number of reasons that such mental nirvana may soon be transformed into a state best described as 30{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} tourettes, 30{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} head banging lunatic and 40{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} roof jumping depressive.

The major reason is that CLiC24 is just around the corner. Well 60 miles due south if today’s pedantry is geographically based. Now six weeks ago, this wasn’t a problem at all; some of my confidence was based on hard winter’s riding, some good early season form, the onset of BST and drying trails. Although it was the “six weeks away” that really swung it from terrifying to something even to look forward too.

Well it’s here now. Soon I’ll be looking back on it. Possibly from some kind of medical institution. I lost two weeks of riding to a leaky elbow and seemingly two more to work/holidays and – more worryingly – apathy. Should be out riding now but pretending I’m tapering for the weekend. Which sounds WAY better than “sitting in front of a ‘puter wonder what beer goes best with nachos”.

Been flying a lot instead. Been crashing a lot as well. One model needs some life saving surgery that will inevitably end well if Carol is involved or badly if powertools are. Obviously I’m keen to get to the core of the problem by the simple application of a motorized blade. Might consider that on the bike after this weekend.

So not ridden as much as I should. Going to manage a single ickle ride which – if we’re as lucky as last week – shall end first on a rooty downhill track with cheeky steps and latterly in the pub. Where I shall talk a good game about exactly how our now reduced team of two shall storm down the leaderboard through the ruthless execution of our race strategy.

It goes like this “ride a lap, have a beer“. I feel it’ll work well for four or five laps. After which it probably won’t work at all. And neither shall I if my previous performances are anything to go by. Yet, ever the deluded optimist, I’m treating a team mutiny leaving us exactly half staffed as something of a bonus. This way I have the opportunity to ride more laps at a leisurely pace. Assuming it’s not snowing.

Great charity tho remember: I shall make sure my best – however un-best that is – is hauled round the course as many times as possible. One final thing does worry me though, if I don’t really fancy riding at the moment, how the hell am I going to feel afterwards?

This. And That.

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

This:
Black Mountains Loop - April 2011

is one memory of a properly fantastic day in the mountains.

And that has just clocked a 1,000 kilometres without feeling the urge to tear itself apart like the previous incarnation.
Black Mountains Loop - April 2011

And, after beer and sleep. I shall try and write some more about how ace those two things allied with old friends and stunning weather has made my day/week/holiday 🙂

Lush

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

BlueSmell Ride

Not one of my favourite words. Especially when used to describe an everyday object and/or an attractive member of the opposite sex. Try as I might, it’s hard to improve upon “I tell thee what, tha scrubs up well for a plain lass”*. Honest, hint of northern romanticism and in snogging distance of affectionate. So Lush, rubbish word but entirely appropriate composite of Lust and Dust.

Actually it isn’t at all, that’d be, er, Lust. Or Dust. Never mind, we’ve got this far may as well plough on and ignore my inability to combine two four letter words. Two rides in the Forest this week – and one more to follow – have raised the bar high for perfect singletrack mountain-biking this year.

This time last year, the country was basically under snow and the bluebells were trapped below that wintry blanket. This Spring of sunshine and no showers has seen them cover acres of Forest, and already they’re wilting back. Best get some sustained viewing from the height of a bike then.

Last night the “Malvern’rs” were treated to a 25k of lust/lush/dust singletrack, most of which was perfectly framed by swaying columns of bluebells. Since I was mostly route-finding – simply achieved by asked David riding next to me where we were going – out on point with the fellas in close attendance was the default downhill configuration.

Which is all fine, except for the massive distractions of dust whipping off the tyres into eyes entirely focussed on the periphery leaving almost no visual assistance to a brain demanding a little help on the next muscle movement. Flowing, nose to tail, through singletrack is one of the absolutely emotions to explain to those not obsessed by bicycles.

Let’s go with Lush for the moment shall we?

* Not that I’ve ever tried it myself. a) because women are one of the few things on this planet that regularly render me speechless and b) because a hard-swung bit of 2×4 is unlikely to improve my day.