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.

Gym Membership.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

I’ve written often, tediously – and some would say tediously often – on the subject of exercise/gym membership and the indisputable fact that the world is not merely going mad, it’s doing so with with big trousers and an apparent glandular problem. Earlier this summer, the planets almost aligned with a fatist agenda meeting vanity publishing, but – passionate as I am about such things – I really couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it.

So let us change tack a little and consider the rather wobbly backside of the problem. A fella at work has seen Jabba The Hut staring back at him on too many mornings, and decided the answer is to join a Gym. He proudly announced this to a hardcore audience, all bitterly cynical and wondering how their dreams of becoming an astronaut had not properly been realised while working in an office shouting at computers, and frankly they weren’t impressed.

Twp reasons; firstly we all know that Gym’s have a cunning business model based on 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of their customers not turning up after the first two weeks, and secondly because this 14 day usage had extracted£480 UP FRONT from his trousered funds. Okay it’s London and everything inside that alien planet has many shades of wrong, but the thick end of five hundred smackeroons in order to wobble sweatily in front of mirrors and watch Jeremy Kyle?

And they say Mountain Bikers are mad. We’re barely borderline psychotic compared to Mr. Fat Fuckwit and his body issues. Really, two types of people go to gyms, those who have genetically fast fingers, eyes and mouths wrapped in lazy blubber, and those who don’t need to go at all, but enjoy waxing themselves up with whale jism while admiring the results. Most of them seem to work in sales or marketing. You never know, outside chance of a heart attack and they’re not anywhere near me, so hey fill your boots/boobs/whatever.

That picture represents about£480 and it’s my unimpeachable counter-argument to gym membership. Ah, but you don’t have a bike in there I hear you wheeze. Well fatty, here’s how it goes, the bike is a given, riding through the seemingly unending winter is quite something else. Because like the gym run, slogging through four months of the grim is almost entirely based on guilt. No rider wants to get fat and sloth like over winter, but many do because the trails are under the water table, and it’s easier to change channels than change clothes.

So this is what you do, turn that guilt into opportunity. Go out and spend proper money on wet and cold weather gear that makes riding for hours in those conditions, which has most ordinary people worrying about the roof, in almost complete comfort. Okay it is not sofa comfort, the wind still bites, exposed bits are apparently unattached and there are times when the “what the fuck am I doing ?” gene is straining to overwhelm your commitment gland. But that’s not a reason to stop, it’s nothing more than an excuse – between which is the gap between keeping the faith and keeping a larger winter wardrobe.

Last night was another great example. For the first time in weeks, it wasn’t pissing down. But the ground was sodden from a month of rain, the tops were ice cold and freezing, lower down the mud sported the thinnest of frozen crust easily breached by knobbly tyre. The windchill was epic, and we had one of those rides where everyone has a mechanical or a puncture or both. But the visibility was unlimited, the sparkly views warmth for the soul and the temporary ownership of the hills absolute. And while you’re feeling pretty damn privileged to have unlimited access to wide open spaces and big hills, all that stuff is just getting on with making sure you have the best time possible.

It’s so different to even a few years ago. Suspension forks don’t need nightly rebuilds, tyres grip on almost anything, gears work well and brakes better, lights no longer shake themselves to death, waterproof shorts are, breathable jackets do and leak proof shoes don’t. Whenever someone asked – generally with a look of incredulation – why you would “want to go out in THAT”, I sort of feel sorry for them.

Because they’re going to the Gym. And worse still, they seem to think they’ve got the better half of the bargain.

Bless.

Moist

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Not the photo. Not my model either. This was the first flight of my friends’ glider spanning 4 metres, and quite a few days to get it ready to chuck. It all went very well until he accidentally activated the airbrakes, wherein the glider changed from wind-riding, effortless flight to soil-guided bomb.

It missed the tree, but still hit the ground. And then broke in half. Still apparently repairable, although such alchemy is beyond a simple man like me who looks at broken stuff and thinks “firewood”.

Of which, I moved about half a ton today from one side of the garden to another. Reasons unknown. It has tweaked my bad knee – when I attempted an Irish leggy rotational pummeling twirl on a wet, spherical log – to the point that I disappointed the mutt by curtailing the evening walk on medical grounds.

A ground that was both saturated and getting more so. The dog showed every outward visible sign of enjoyment while I limped along, grumbling into a facefull of almost sleet and wondering at what point it may stop raining.

That was some time ago, and yet there is nothing outside that suggest we’ll not be rowing to the gate in the morning. A morning where I should be riding, but I’ve already made my excuses. I know I was giving it the big one about how riding in the shit, and the grim was fantastic, but I’ve come to my senses.

Wet, Cold, Dark. Pick two. Otherwise, pick up a bottle and the remote control. That’s where it’s at in Winter ’09.

“How was your ride?”

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

A question somewhat superfluous if you consider the physical evidence. Since I bought these waterproof shorts, less than one month ago, they accompanied me in a dry arse capacity for the next six rides. That sequence remained unbroken today.

And while we’re covering off pointless questions and phrases, Tim’s “Weather looks good, fancy a ride? ” text at 11am has at least two things I’d like to take issue with. Firstly, Tim and I have ridden together lots over the years, he’s younger, quicker, braver and technically way more skilled than I, but nevertheless I still enjoy riding with him. Because for all those annoying attributes, he’s a man who can string together trails just far enough outside my comfort zone that every ride is always a belter. And yet, experienced MTB’r as he is, he still MADE A POSITIVE COMMENT ABOUT THE WEATHER.

That’s the mocker on the ride weather then, and my second issue is the accuracy of his forecast was somewhat at odds with the sheeting rain smashing against the windows of our house. As it had been for about a week. Still riding is always better than not riding, so off we went into a cheeky rain shower that followed us round most of the loop, joined by some finger numbing chilly winds, and the day fading away at the speed of night.

Better get our skates on then. The Malvern ridgetops are beguiling in this weather because the superb – for Mountain Bikers – sponge like geology guarantees hard packed trails. But the wind on top today essentially took your already boat like bike and attempted to add a sail to it. So we stuck on the muddy margins, climbing through the murk and descending on slippy edges with 6 inches of greasy path between you and a short – yet eventful – plunge into the valley bottom.

The last of which was superb. Having the hills to ourselves, we briefly took our bikes for a nice walk in the rain as nobody was looking, before remounting with a sackful of gravity desperate to be unleashed. Tim picked an exposed trail, clinging on the lee side of the hill offering occasional grip, significant rock and the aforementioned fall line plummet for any rider showing a lack of commitment. In the dry, it’s just fast, silly and too damned busy on a hot, summers day. Now it was a study in concentration, body position, real care with the brakes, and one second choices for the only ridable line.

Proper mountain biking then we decided some ten minutes later as we hit valley bottom, gloves sodden, feet moist and – in Tim’s case – a rather wet arse from the look of things. I tried hard not to gloat on the properties of Endura’s finest plastic pants, but I may have gone on about it. A bit.

Anyway, the bike is washed and lubed, the horrid stuff is in the washing machine, the rest of it is steaming gently in the workshop and I’m off to see exactly how much pie a honed athlete such as myself can consume in one sitting.

Riding in the dry and warm is fab. It really is, but this last few weeks have convinced me that proper mountain biking happens in the less popular seasons. All good I’d say.

In The Grim.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road Riding2 Comments

I may have mentioned before how I quite like riding bikes, but always struggled to distill the why from the how. Take this morning, I haul weary arse from warm bed before the cock* has struck six, peer out into the gloomy, wet and general filthy conditions thinking “Yup, looks perfect conditions for a ride”

A sidebar here: At work, I castigate all and sundry for over-designing stuff, building in layers of redundancy and pointless planning for the extremely unlikely. And yet, so terrified of missing my train, I buffer 20 minutes when I should still be sleeping in case of punctures, mechanical disasters or badger attack. Which in eighteen months of commuting has happened exactly once**, and I still missed my train. Meaning I had to wait almost twenty minutes for the next one. Bonkers.

As you were, anyway there is something righteous about riding this time of the year, as so many treat cycling as a three season activity. Instead of keeping calm and carrying on , they worry away at escalating girth, nibble on ugly looking food and – most of all – miss the hidden joy of two wheels always good.

I see them – more so in London – choosing a commuting alternative which includes compression tubes, grimy pavements, multiple delays and frustrations all to be borne in a suit. Then these very same people disappear into the Gym at lunchtime oblivious to the superb cycling facilities right next door. I can’t quite work that out.

I don’t miss riding in London though, except for the odd bout of commuter racing. Too bloody dangerous – whereas now I have the roads to myself and some rather fetching moving pictures as the sun struggles over the horizon. This does not appear to be the happy experience of uber-obsessive cyclist Samuri who seems to be conducting his own daily “DeathWish“ survey.

And while the weather may be filthy, I am dry in breathable fabric, layered in warmth and driven on by the shuffle of a thousand tunes. I arrive at the station, smiling and ready to cash in some hard yards at the bank of the Bacon Butty, while my fellow commuters shiver, snivel and stamp. They are adding clothes as I’m stripping off, breathing in big lungfuls and assuming this is the best part of my day.

It’s always a bit less enthralling heading home, tired, lacking the energy of twelve hours before, but still content to be sandwiching my day doing the stuff I love. Even when bits of that stuff are attempting to blow me off my bike, rip traction from my wheels and blow hard rain into my face. Most of the time, I find myself laughing, I’ve no idea why. Probably early onset dementia.

Tomorrow we’re nightriding in conditions that trigger multiple weather warnings depicting diaster and travel chaos. Not for me, no roads where I’m going. Saturday and Sunday I’ll be out again under thunderous skies and lashing rain although that has more to do with the onset of multiple in-laws. And today was a marker for at least one commute a week until the onset of BST.

I’m starting to think November is the new July.

* Lazy sod seems to be having a lie in. I’m going to get him a new watch.
** Those Badgers are nasty bastards. Lie in wait and then “mwwwaaaaah, eat the human“

Rumination.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Road Riding5 Comments

It’s quite a collection isn’t it? Of the eight bikes on that wall over half of them are mine. And while that’s a ratio tending to the static over the last few years, two things have recently changed. Firstly, I’ve singularly failed to add to the collection in over a year, and I’ve started to worry I may still have too many. Because at least three have become nothing more than wall art. Maybe I should frame my un-ridden frames.

The problem is somewhat mental but largely fiscal. A terrified peep from behind clasped hands worried out a figure barely short of six more – committed and mostly spent on this Dragons’ Horde of a house. I can only assume we have some fire breathing scaly pet in the cellar because – while there have been some big ticket items – It’s beyond my grasp to understand how we’ve spend so much.

Okay we’ve installed a satisfyingly fuck-off oak clad RSJ in one room, chased out every ground floor lintel and raised it four inches, ripped out the entire shell from the base of the house and re-stacked it with insulation, under floor heating and an oak floor so eye wateringly expensive I barely dare stand on it. And we’ve skipped a heating system based entirely on fire-bricks, and replaced it with a room full of stuff that converts cold to hot through a process of elven magic.

And yes, those elves run amok in 400 metres of garden buried pipes, atop of which a garden has crystallised from a car park and a couple of eneveloped drawings. Labour is a big part of this cost* because I am far too lazy/busy/useless to shovel/paint/nail – although the breathtaking scope creep of the bloke whose spent most of the last four months doing stuff I cannot begin to understand reminds me of being back at work. He came to build a dry stone wall for three days in June and has yet to leave.

Other men have drunk deeply at the bucket of of our disposable income fitting, grinding, plastering, wiring and painting. Which means we should be finished, right? Wrong, wander outside for a breath of fresh air and stand in a place where a porch may be, look through a 30 foot wall of shit windows that all need replacing and revel in half the garden barely retrieved from the triffids. And don’t get me started on upstairs. Mainly, because we haven’t either.

What has this to do with bikes then? Well my normal N+1* rationale suddenly feels profligate. Examine that photo and from the left we have the lovely, carefully restored Kona that’s been ridden twice since Christmas. Next to that is my happily deranged sidekick equipped with the shortest chainstays in the free world. I spent a lot of time throwing that off stuff but lately it’s just hung on the wall. Next up is the Cove and we’ll be back to that. Then Carol’s bike which I’d better not consider selling, tempting as it is.

Moving along, we’ve the fantastic Pace 405 a bike that needs more terrain, more commitment and more rider that I’ve been able to give it. Except possibly once. Then there is the faithful Jake, commuted like a demon, but rarely switched from tarmac to dirt.

Five bikes, and the only one that gets ridden a lot I want to swap for an ST4. Don’t ask for reasons, we’re way beyond that now. So I look, and I ponder and I think all I really need is a single MTB and a road bike. Something that is everything I am not, honed, fast and light and mostly carbon. Sell the rest, to hell with a second hand market which pays nothing for emotional value, go minimalist. Ride what you have, don’t leave it on the wall.

But, but, but one MTB isn’t enough. And if you’re going to have a spare, make it a good one. And that DMR has given me so much for so little, why sell it for buttons? And the Kona MTB is brilliant really, an icon, an anchor on what’s important about riding. But I still need an ST4 and one of these which has somewhat holed my rationalisation plan below the waterline.

I might sell the cross bike although even that feels like a betrayal, but it’ll free up a space on the bike wall for 18lbs of Carbon Ego Boost. And then, if that doesn’t feel too bad maybe the Kona. Or the DMR. Not the Pace though, that’d just be wrong. And even if the ST4 is as brilliant as I remember, I can’t get rid of the Cove.

So N+1 just became N+2. That’s not rationalisation, that’s bloody madness.

* Not the One Eyed Wonder’s Labour who merely find ever more innovative ways to cock stuff up on our behalf.

** Where “N” is the current number of bicycles owned.

That night ride was brought to you by…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

…

  • Zero visibility fog
  • Amusingly intermittent LED lights
  • Leaking Camelbaks
  • Cheeky rain showers
  • Tractionless wet leaves
  • Occasional mud, always in a place most likely to cause an accident
  • Bruised testicles
  • Vertical exposure

This rider would like to thank

  • The bloke who designed Avid Juicy disc brakes
  • New Zealand Merino Wool
  • Kenda Tyres
  • Giro Helmets
  • GroundEffect toasty socks
  • Endura waterproof shorts
  • Shimano boots

without which I’d be communicating from a hospital bed.

That was a PROPER night ride 🙂

Embrace the mudness.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t wait 🙂

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

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

A new bike and some proper riding.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

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

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

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

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

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

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

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

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

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

It’s not my fault – part 2

On By AlexIn Bikes1 Comment

Returning from Afan last weekend, my mind was made up that another bike needed to join the “happy shed” of existing lovelies. I’d even managed to meet my rule of “one in and one out” by selling Random’s little bike. Not sure this is entirely in the spirit of that rule either, since we are about to spend about half a bathroom refurb* on replacing it.

However, having reviewed the house budget, it seems we are in the eye of a debt storm that has all the signs of a Gordon Brown like approach of carrying on spending, even when you don’t have any cash. The difference is, we’re unlikely to have much success tapping up the IMF for a loan.

So I’d consoled myself that really spending over a grand on a new frame was going to go down about as well as a squelchy turd on a new sofa. I was going to press on with what I had, and merely invest in some lust and jealousy when my friend’s new one turned up.

I was lamenting this disastrous situation to Tim H who simply turned the tables by sending me a link to a bike site offering three years interest free credit. Thereby chopping my fiscally rationale off at the kneecaps.

Thanks Tim. I may as well go for a custom colour as well eh 😉

* This is the way you start to think about money when a) you don’t have any and b) you’re in the middle of a never ending project to rebuild your house.

I’ve st4rted so..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* A material I think of “face ripper”

** A comment that encompasses almost everything I try.

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