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.

That’s just wrong.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

Pretty much sums up my thinking, as I solved the mystery of why the British Army can’t source sufficient body armour for the front line troops. Because we’ve nicked it all, and were variously unpacking it, dusting it down and strapping it on at a trail centre car park.

When I say we, I am referring to weekend biking warriors in general and not me specifically. Because after giving my knee a repeated percussive workout at CLIC 2008, it became clear that my body was pretty well healed, and any perceived protection was addressing the wrong organ. The mountain biking part of my brain needed armouring up and a bit of a cuddle, while acting Mr. Plastic Fantastic was merely other limb placebo.

There’s a good argument for body armour, but it’s not the lame one trotted by those who confuse adrenalin with danger. And we’ll be back to that, but first this – the right time to strap yourself in a shock proof cocoon is when you think you’re going to hurt yourself. Back at Chicksands when multiple feet of whistling air separated squidy organs from hard ground is a good example. As was giving it some humpy on the downhill course at CwmCarn.

Here the body untalented – into which I absolutely place myself – quite rightly try and balance the risk/reward gig by piling plastic on the “staying alive” side of the seesaw. I crashed so many times back at Chicky which that was fine because I left my comfort zone in the car, and forced myself to try stuff that was beyond my meagre ability. That armour has the scars of those rough campaigns – full face helmet dented, leg pads in natty lion-savaged motif, pressure suit compressed where otherwise my spine would have been.

But trail centres are purpose built to roll out thrills without any spills. There are no walkers to cross your path with danger, no unseen obstacles to pitch you eyeball first onto a pointy rock, no trails apparently hewn by spiteful Gods trying to kill you. In short, much fun, bugger all risk. And the facile argument which runs “I can’t afford to hurt myself, I have to go to work on Monday, I have a family” misses the point completely.

Points really. Here’s the first; Mountain Biking is dangerous, Christ I should know having been hospitalised twice, and bruised a million times*. But if it wasn’t a bit spicy, we just wouldn’t do it. Sorry but we just wouldn’t – we’d ride the Sustrans, head out onto broad leafy cycle paths, squeeze into roadie tops and pound out the miles, but we would not risk possible and permanent injury whizzing between trees and banging over rocks.

So if you don’t want to get hurt, the solution seems to be body armour. But it’s not a solution, well it is but it is looking for a problem that doesn’t exist. I found the best way to avoid crashing was to slow down a bit. Radical I know, but riding at 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of whatever ability you have has many benefits, some subtle, some less so.

You don’t crash for a start – that’s a big one. You’ll still take risks but they’re calculated and the important part is you don’t think you’re going to crash. And when you back off, interesting stuff starts to happen as panic braking and desperate pedalling give way to looking further ahead and using the trail. And with that comes smoothness, and with smoothness comes speed.

It’s a beautiful thing, man. Seriously this became clear I was chasing a super smooth friend of mine at CwmCarn a few months ago. There’s a section before the last climb which has little gradient but more than compensates with a river of flowing left-right-left bends. I’ve always enjoyed it, but following someone who can clearly ride a bit, you begin to realise that to be fast, the most important skill is to think fast.

And when you’re thinking of better lines with faster choices, there is no time left to think of crashing. You don’t need body armour because it’s going to slow you down, both in thoughts and in deeds. Don’t get me wrong, it absolutely has its place, but trail centres aren’t any of those.

And last night, riding with the same friend, we were ragging down some local cheeky trails into the deepening gloom. These are MY trails, and I know them well enough to take a few risks, but not too many. Only twice did I open the taps and go beyond 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}, and both of those shot me full of adrenalin and full on fear.

The rest of the time, we were having a bloody fantastic time, by not crashing. And by not thinking about crashing. That’s my problem with body armour – it’s not an ego thing, or a macho thing, or an image thing, It’s an attitude thing.

I could be wrong. But – let’s face it – that’s pretty unlikely 🙂

* This could be because I’m rubbish. I concede that point. Before you make it!

Margins

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

Of all the senses, smell short circuits synapses with such breathtaking speed it sometimes does just that – rewinding the minds eye to a vision of something so joltingly real it pushes the physical world away. For some fresh cut grass triggers a memory of long – and long ago – carefree summers, others will walk into their kids’ classroom, and be instantly transported back thirty years into a world of short trousers and tall teachers.

For me it’s the smell of warm gravel. Rubbish you say, gravel doesn’t have a smell – ah but it does if you’ve ever given it a proper nasal examination from close quarters. My approach was a high velocity, low level pass- ramming gravel up a nostril until it was piled sufficiently high to create a never-to-be-forgotten mental bookmark.

It didn’t really register at the time, because all my organic processing was being diverted to having a large accident. And while the memory of flint slicing my knee directed my riding bravery for far too long, that was much more about a sense of fear rather than the smell of it.

Until now. The weekly night ride split my brain neatly between then and now with a sensory throwback of scrabbling tyres hunting for grip on smooth granite marbles. The malevolent sound these mini Grim Reapers hissed sat somewhere between an analytical explanation of fat tyres on loose rock, and an imagined disaster movie with me being nothing more than a painful passenger.

You see the thing that pissed me off more than anything back in 2006 was my stupidity in ignoring a stand-out warning of what was to come. I’d had some proper wiggly feedback through the bars on the corner before, but I pushed it just as hard anyway into the subsequent gravelly arc.

And paid for such bravery with first a month off the bike, and then two years when riding became so much of a chore I so nearly packed it up for good. So last night put the Vu back in Deja after I’d spent most of the ride letting air of the tyres so carefully inflated some time earlier hunting for some grip. I was riding the big bike for a change, and that change made for so much silly fun, so much more downhill speed, and so little purchase on big fat 2.5inch tyres better suited for proper sized rocks in the Peak District.

The start of an accident inevitably comes near the end of the ride when reflexes are not quite as sharp as confidence is high. We ride a fantastic ridge which funnels into a steep, loose gulley, guarded by a natural berm that shoots you wide of the tyre sucking danger of the eroded centre. Instead you stay high, stay off the brakes, push out over a tree root before committing to a properly shaley left hander.

Fail to make it and you’re in the quarry, get it wrong and rapid, full body exfoliation awaits. Get it right though and you’re pumped out at high speed, grab a chunk of usefully located bank and ping off into something a little flatter and safer. It’s ace, but loose and looser than ever with weeks of nothing falling in there other than the occasional mountain biker.

I entered that berm at a speed entirely inappropriate for a man of my limited skill, which unsurprisingly compressed the next few seconds into a mental riot of terror, acceptance, amazement and relief. I avoided the root by simple dint of ploughing into the gulley. My tyres felt it was important to bring the absolute abscence of any grip whatsoever to my attention by starting to slide in a manner worrying reminisant of a long stay in hospital.

I caught the first slide with stiffly frightened muscle memory, but by now the only manner by which I could be classed as “in control” was still being on the bike. While this was going on, that left hander loomed tight and fast and my options narrowed to nothing. Had to stuff it in, had to push the bar, had to find time to pray it wasn’t going down.

The slide was properly mental. In so many ways of that word, as I could hear the echo of a bike crashing groundwards, the shhhhhsssshing noise of fast gravel at ear level and the sound of body bounce. Yet it didn’t happen, and I still don’t know why. In the same way I still cannot understand how I lost a different bike in a similar corner, but with a younger God of Fate looking on.

Margins. That’s what this is about. Two situations, starting the same, finishing entirely differently. It’s made me think about the accident again but in a good way. Because for every crash that smashes you up and leaves you wondering if it’s bloody well worth it, there are a hundred mirrors that you don’t hold up for proper examination.

So I know this time I got lucky. But what I’ve worked out is that I’ve been sodding lucky so many times before. Only when you understand the margins do you finally comprehend the massive deficit of risk to reward than mountain biking serves up every time you go out and ride.

I’m feeling pretty damn good about that.

Compassion Fatigue

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

The Eighties were dreadful for so many reasons*, but even in that decade of pompous absurdity that phrase shines like a beacon of stupidity. Some quiff in a sleeve-rolled suit would wring their hands to a backdrop of starving African kids, and piously declare that the country had “compassion fatigue“.

No it bloody had not. The ones who could see further than their own self-importance measured by cars, cash, being a fuckwit that kind of thing continued to give what they could, while everyone else – from governments down to those believing AIDS was a solution made excuses.

The problem wasn’t people not caring, it was the explosion of the global coverage of dreadful poverty set against a pot that wasn’t getting any bigger. None of this was helped by a Western approach that patronised rather than listened, gave the money to the wrong people, and were somehow surprised when the misery continued after the cameras left.

I remember this making me quite angry at the time, and – even nearly twenty years on – the dying embers of when the world was black and white still burn a little. Good job as it was about the only thing keeping me going, as the rain charged in one way and my motivation slunk off in the other.

Neil (Organiser, all round top man, poor bugger whose wife died last year from Cancer) told me that while all the entries had been sold, only around 2/3rds of the riders had turned up. I have no issue with serious athletes using the CLIC24 as perfect training for the upcoming 24 hour race season. But what does piss me off is when they can’t be bothered to earn their sponsorship** because the weather is a bit shit.

And shit it was. I arrived early enough to sound out the perfect pitch at the foot of the big camping field. Perfect in terms of being well drained and flat, also geographically spot on for funnelling freezing winds into the nether regions of team “hardcore loafing“. After Nig and I had done our damnest to be fatter piggies than the hog roast, the temperature had dropped to the point of “is it me or is it fucking winter?”

We gave up with outside and cracked a middle aged bottle inside the back of my truck. A truck full of many things, which now included red wine stains. but sadly not my lights***. At least it was warm although I cannot imagine what our neighbours thought of a ton and a half of metal rocking in the stiffening wind. Honestly it was nothing more than “to you, to me, can I just stretch that leg out,? okay Dave you can come in now but you’ll need to leave at least one arm outside”

Last year Dave cleverly avoided the first lap by inflicting£200 work of crank based damage on his bike. We all joked that this time around no one could possibly trump that. But come a morning punctuated by squally showers and clamped in ball freezing cold, Jason put the Hardcore into Loafing by completely failing to turn up AT ALL.

CLIC24 - 2009 (9 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (7 of 26)

Dave was so stunned by this ballsy race craft, he barely objected to being sent out first although – in the spirit of loafers everywhere – we turned up ten minutes late for the start, even after arriving some sixteen hours before. We’re all understandably proud of that.

CLIC24 - 2009 (2 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (11 of 26)

The clock ticked on, the rain sheeted down, blue sky occasionally appeared before being distainfully swept away by a stormy wind in league with the God of Precipitation. Dave’s course report was largely irrelevant since Nig and I were instead checking out the state of his bike. Brown and Wet were the key indicators of trail condiitons and that’s never a good combination in almost any life experience.

CLIC24 - 2009 (14 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (20 of 26)

Jason joined us half way through the next lap, showing a worrying confidence in the future performance of his lovely new Titanium hardtail. Worrying as I’d built it three days before utilising the experimental technique of fitting everything with the largest hammer. Still it looked okay and with 14k of mud, rocks, stream crossings, fast descents and gurning climbs, what could go wrong eh?

I worried a bit for him as a displacement activity during my first lap. Because as quick as the course was drying out, fat rainclouds threatened to submerse it under the water table. And when those clouds did explode, the next fifteen minutes of my life were the ideal preparation for reincarnation as a trout. I was beyond wet and had entered that transcendental state known to riders everywhere as “four quick beers, a warm shower, B&B and a hot meal and I may live”

My team mates were waiting for me in the transition area. Well waiting to laugh anyway, which is the kind of team spirit that sustains us during the bad times. Of which , we were about to have another as a fierce gust dispatched the gazebo in a scream of tortured metal and extreme flappage. I watched Nig and Jas embodying this extreme flappage from the inside of the truck.

CLIC24 - 2009 (3 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (17 of 26)

Revenge is a wonderful thing. Still to ensure that team spirit wasn’t affected I made sure my laughing and pointing were delivered in a motivating and positive manner. From there until enough was more than enough, we greased our way round an every more comedic course, between hiding from the wind in any location pedalling food and beer.

Three things stand out; the brilliant organisation, the fantastic atmosphere even when it’s pretty miserable, and a whole bunch of riders on the course trying their first event. I lost count of the number of low cost bikes with nervous riders trying their best to stay onboard in increasingly difficult conditions. And when I came out in admiration they were giving it their all, that’s where we came in with compassion fatigue.

Everyone out on that course had a story to tell, a scary moment, a grin at the silly mud, a determined expression on the never ending fire road, a look of satisfaction on completing the lap and a smile at the shared sillyness of what we were doing. Oh sure, there are those occasional aliens who enjoy this kind of thing, but I’m not one of them and neither were any of the people I spoke too.

CLIC24 - 2009 (18 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (19 of 26)

But they carried on because they’d promised to earn sponsorship for CLIC Sargent, and I was very proud to be riding with them. It was hard enough when you’ve ridden a bit, it must have been bloody dreadful if this was one of your first experiences trying proper MTB off road. But I couldn’t help thinking about those who couldn’t be arsed, who decided being dry and war was better than being co-located with a moral conscience

Sorry if I’m going on a bit, I didn’t realise how much it pissed me off until I sat down to write this. It is not as if we did a million laps like the hero soloists or serious teams. But we gave it a good go, and while it wasn’t really fun, the worse times were not while you were out on the course. I quit after a dawn lap as I really wanted to be there when Verbal opened her presents, and the morning downpour doused what little motivational fire I had left.

Not Nig tho, he was kitted up and ready to go as I squelshed back in. And one lap in the seemingly unending rain and cold deterred him not at all. As we were herding flywaway tents into wet cars, he set off on a seconds lap clearly having imbued madness by a process of trail based osmosis. Although when he finally gave up, my suspicion is his tactic had been merely to lie face down in the mud for an hour before riding back to the start.

CLIC24 - 2009 (23 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (22 of 26)

He denies it, but I think the pictures tell the true story.

So that was CLIC24:2009. Bottom line is it’s upwards of£30,000 to a charity that clearly invests every penny it receives in making tragically shortened young lives as good as they can be. And somehow giving parents who are doomed to outlive their children, a reason to go on. I cannot imagine what that must be like, but while I can still turn a pedal, I’m bloody determined to make sure they have my support.

Talk to those people about compassion fatigue. I have a feeling they might not get it.

* if you were there, you’ll know what I mean. If not google “puffball skirts”, “Athena posters” and “everyone being a dickhead”

** Assuming they had any. And assuming they didn’t just collect it whether they rode it or not. I know this isn’t a perfect argument. but I was having it at 5am in the freezing bloody cold, and I wasn’t thinking entirely straight.

*** Or so I thought. I found them in the muddy sweepings of a forgotten spares box this evening. A serving of double numpty with a side order of dimwit for Mr. Leigh please.

CLIC24: 2009 – 24 hours of wet.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments

That is a picture of the 15:35 unscheduled departure of the “Team Hardcore Loafing” Gazebo. It was last seen heading towards Bridgwater, traveling at thirty knots and still accelerating.

More on this, and many other references to “cold”, “windy”, “Muddy” and “generally unpleasant” when I can properly use my fingers again. Chill Blains in mid May? You betcha!

Let us not forget what this is all about though. CLIC24 supports CLIC-Sargent and that makes a weekend of extended misery absolutely worthwhile. And, for the first time ever, my fitness outstripped my motivation – so setting the high water mark for my ability to go back out again onto the storm tossed course.

The organisation was superb, the food and beer tent fantastic, the number of “recreational” riders a real joy to see – let’s hope the conditions don’t put them off cycling forever – and the general ‘vibe’ properly not racey laid back.

Sure the weather was shit, and waiting around for the next lap became a study of chilly tedium, but my team mates were – again – properly ace, and the course held up remarkably well until the last few hours. At which point, islands of trail would occasionally protrude into the fast flowing, ten mile stream.

More soonish… until then I’m just glad to be unbroken, dry, warm and having full use of my legs. Oh and relaxing in the glorious knowledge I’ve turned down Mayhem, Bristol Bikefest and SITS again this year 🙂

The TOOL WALL is BACK!

On By AlexIn Bikes, PhotographyLeave a comment

Oh yes. It’s back. Having installed this and the vice, I am now ready to break things in a far more controlled and well ordered environment. It really cramps your style when you have to climb over fourteen boxes, two cabinets and the dog to get to your biggest hammer. Now it’s merely a stretch and a swear away.

You may notice how clean and tidy my tools are. I’ve been polishing them. Nothing wrong with that in the privacy of your own shed. Sadly I now have more tools that wall so only “A List” stuff gets put up there, the rest is relegated to the bottom of the toolbox.

Hang 'em high Office

I’ve yet to add two more storage containers, lots and lots of shelves, the rest of the bike hooks and – of course, how could we forget – the beer fridge. The design of this bespoke building works perfectly for bikes and associated stuff. Shame I’ve added six gliders and two proper engine-y planes. Might have to throw the kids bikes out.

But it seems churlish to complain about a lack of space, as most people manage with a shed/spare room/kitchen table/annoyed spouse. And I’d better not even offer up a whiff of discontent, because this building has made a sizable dent in the budget. So we may not have new bathrooms, but at least I can now furtively fettle my many unfinished projects.

By the time you read this, I may – however – have burned all my bikes and be found rocking under the table murmuring “the mud, you can’t imagine it, God I can’t get it out of my head (or eyes, fingers, toes, etc), you can’t know what it was like, YOU WEREN’T THERE“.

I think my next purchase may be an angle grinder in case any of them survive the funeral pyre 😉

Firsts

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Thursday’s ride was had more firsts than a swotty set of University finalists holding incriminating pictures of their examiner pleasuring frisky llamas* Most of them were good, taking this long to find time to write something less so. When I get a spare moment, I’ll be off to the shed with this scribbled drawing and an illicit feed from the substation, so getting started on the time machine.

First of firsts was a ride that started and finished without lights. That’s not to say it was actually still daylight as we peered through technical dark around 9pm. One of the lesser known side effects of testosterone is “Carrot Vision” enabling those of the dangly genitalia to dismiss artificial trail illumination as “something that a girl might need” until the first victim fails to distinguish between dark space and dark tree.

It’s worth stating here that Carrot Vision works only at top speed, and the gift of organic night vision shall be dispelled with the briefest grab of the “scared-now” bar mounted levers. Second first was a dab-less climb of “THE BASTARD“. A hill that is thought by some to be the stiffest lung buster in all the Malverns. I don’t know about that, but for me it’s the first time I’ve managed the fifteen minute nose-stem gurn without finding an excuse to lie on the trailside until I can remember my name.

I shall be returning to the subject of the Bastard in a post all of it’s own. Fully deserved and guaranteed to get a sympathetic nod from any rider whose looked at the distance between their current location and an apparently unscalable peak and cried “Oh Fuck, you are joking aren’t you?”

First amongst equals was a brakeless descent of the old** defensive ditch which has both vertiginous drops and a flat out gully. It’s always a tad moist, ready to wash away your front wheel and leave you wondering what to do with quite a lot of speed mostly being scrubbed off by your face.

But flat out is so much fun, we had to go and try it again, passing the local unsmiling cycling club who seemed to have forgotten how bloody lucky we are to have this kind of riding on our doorstep. Apparently they don’t “do” this descent because it loses too much height. What? Isn’t that why you climb in the first place?

Anyway we left these aliens, and I was staggered that I was able to do so, since I’ve done not to much riding in the last month what with every decreasing slices of spare time, and the dodgy knee to boot. I’m giving up healthy eating – instead just going for the rubbish vacuum packed “Big Breakfast” sandwich which sustained me the whole way round.

Last of the firsts was the realisation that it’s barely a month to the longest day. How can this be? The police should stop investigating whether the Daily Torygraph can categorise all MP’s as “self important twats fiddling their expenses“*** and go after the big crimes. I’ll be onto the local station first thing tomorrow asking them to find out EXACTLY who has stolen the first half of 2009.

CLIC next weekend. I’m not scared. Much.

* Worked for me 🙂

** Proper old. Iron age. Men wearing furry dresses, women sporting latest “Bone Hair” quiff and decent chance of being killed in all manner of interesting ways on a daily basis.

*** I’m summarising here, but that seems pretty much the conclusion you have to come to.

Who said the Germans don’t have a sense of fun?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments

From Big-Col’s blogspot. Worth a look for some fantastic MTB images.

I do like the way he’s decided to ratchet up the danger by performing this nose wheelie right on the outside of the trail. A trail that clearly has breached the risk/reward barrier in the direction of certain death.

I wouldn’t even want to walk that trail. Never mind ride it. And the prospect of grabbing a whole handful of front brake with the likely result of pitching you headlong into space just makes me go “arrrrrghhhhhh”

Germans you see. Not the full pound. Or possibly Euro.

Waiting for the bus

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

You can keep your fancy GPS’s, chuck your heart rate monitors in the hedge and worry away at your statistics spreadsheet, because while you are working out where you lost that time, I am waiting for a bus. I know it was only last month my witterings on targets had me chasing virtual training partners all the way to work, and then spending the remainder of the day lying down.

But it became clear I must apply Al’s rule of achievement* to my heavy legged pursuit of stupidity. So now I’m measuring my progress by playing chicken with the “Bromsgrove Omnibus”. The first time I met this bus was nearly the last, as it aurally indicated a desire to pass on a road that I’d always assumed was adequately sized for only single file cows and possibly a MP3 driven bicycle.

He passed with inches to spare and a “I’ll get you butler” gesture expression which I deigned unworthy of a reply** and gave it scant thought until it became obvious this wasn’t just any bus, this was my PACE BUS. And if I could squeeze in front before a singletrack road some five miles from home, I could keep the miserable bugger behind me for a good couple of minutes. Now that’s sport right there.

So now I’m off the Hereford train at 18:37 clipped in and heading out via the squashy slalom of random pedestrianisation, immediately looking for ways to cheat the God of Time. First up is a cheeky trail through ledbury, much wooded, significantly dog walked and offering lippy roots to straight line difficult line choices.

Then out of the town and chasing nothing but my hedge painted shadow, gagging a bit on dusty clay vectored off busy tractor ploughs, loving the sunshine, feeling way stronger in my knee and lungs that three virtually bike free weeks could possibly allow.

But this is merely a pleasant aperitif before a meaty main course of Omnibus and tarmac that’s coming up in four miles if I can turn these pedals a bit harder. That’s the distilled and beautiful clarity of riding a bike – it’s the simple joy of smooth circles driving you on, the grin of sweeping bends, the whum of hard tyres on baking tarmac, the just-bloody-nobody-gets-why-bikes-are-so-fucking-fantastic that justifies an obsession.

And that bus that’s going to be hitting that junction at 19:01, so I need to be there first. By a quirk of geography, the cross in the road is visible from 45 seconds upstream, meaning if I’m not hitting that crest at seven o’clock or better, the bus ain’t waiting for me. So it’s back to standing up and clicking a gear combination that shoots staccato breath from an open mouth, burns muscles from ankles to hip and strains arms dumping sweat onto the bars.

6:58, big sodding river bridge coming up, can’t slow down, feel the tyre squirm into the tarmac, feel legs slowing down, feel lungs desperately screaming for more air, feel… feel… feel, this is the stuff of life isn’t it? This is why we do this, this is what makes us different to the bloke next door with his paintbrush and his paunch. This is what makes us a little smug, a little bonkers, a little more obsessed. Because this feeling needs bottling and selling.

I can see the junction, and I can see the bus lumbering up the hill heading for the turn and I can’t see anything else. Now it’s a straight run – slightly downhill – four clicks on the shifter, big gear, out of the saddle, ignore the cacophony of body complaint and charge down the tunnel of vision that displays just a short tarmac ribbon, an onrushing junction and a big red bus.

Briefly considering – and calculating it’s a reward that far outstrips the risk – that traffic may be steaming past the junction, I slow not even a little bit, swerve right as the bus turns left and give it a few final desperate pedal stamps to nip in front.

And then – pretty well spent – have a nice minute or two finding some breath for my lungs and oxygen for my legs while a frustrated man in a dodgy cap impotently guns his engine behind my serene form. There is a perfect symmetry there – people wait for a bus, and now the bus waits for me.

Look I know what you’re thinking. But honestly with my legendary limbo boredom threshold, I need something to keep me amused on the commute. It’s that or getting off the bike and jumping in with all those lovely lambs 🙂

* If at first you don’t succeed, redefine exactly what you mean by the word “Success”

** Mainly because I was having a rather trying time extricating myself from a drainage ditch much inconvinienced by a bicycle.

Kneed For Speed

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding2 Comments

The rehabitilitation of the knee was fully tested by three rides in four days over the Easter weekend. After which my real holiday and the rain started, and much of the fun stopped. I am now a man tediously schooled in the art of plasterboarding. A skill normally abrogated to those with limitless boredom thresholds and ‘ave your arm off powertools. Sadly, the budget spreadsheet said no, and I inadvertently said yes.

Ride one was with my not-ridden-with-much-lately pal Ian who runs, walks and cycles in the Forest of Dean. Not all at the same time because a) that would be silly and b) I was already doing it. On my third unscheduled dismount, I lamented my choice of rubbish tyres, soggy fork and threadbare brakepads. This verbal lambastation went unheard by Ian, who had cleared off into the distance with his ten year old alu frame, one gear, venerable forks, v-brakes and a set of Panaracer Suicides*

We returned muddy but happy, and I’d committed to memory a choice selection of fantastic trails for an Easter ride with some friends who were scheduled to eat our food, drink the beer, ride some bikes and build a plasterboard ceiling. Obviously I was instantly lost on our return to the forest and never found ANY of the trails so carefully mentally waymarked.

But the great thing about this huge area of woodland is finding buff singletrack is akin to throwing a hedgehog at a dartboard**. This – and the happy navigational wild guess that deposited us back at the cafe – not only saved my bacon but made sure we were ready for some on returning home. Having ridden Jason’s fat almost-downhill bike most of the day, while watching him zoom off on my lovely light hardtail, made my need for food sit slightly behind that of a strong desire to lie down and not be disturbed for many hours.

The following day the boys then ceiling’d the big shed in double quick time, while I played to my strengths fetching tea and pointing our where things could be done better. As this wasn’t really adding much to “Team Plasterboard“, I dispatched myself to Morrison’s to clear the shelves of anything remotely BBQ’able. On my return, the roof was done, and the fellas were demanding more riding under sunny skies.

A quick mooch up to Haugh woods had us up to giggly armpits in rooty woodland singletrack. We rode everything I knew and found quite a lot more, all of which was dry, fast and extremely twisty. Again I was shorn of my proper bike, and instead rode the fully rigid Kona. A decision that had immediate consequences of loosening a brake pad, most of my teeth and a full re-organisation of my internal organs.

But sunshine, a working knee and a bit more speed brought the experience round to extremely satisfying. The prospect of finding the other 30k of Singletrack in these woods through a hot, dry summer could make even a trip to the FoD seem a bit pointless.

We returned and approached the shrine of the sizzling BBQ with revered silence. Before falling upon it and devouring the lot, much to the disappointment of an under the table based disposal unit. Murf looked particularly miffed at Al “three burger” Leigh who couldn’t find it in his stoney heart to even allow the smallest grain of sizzled beef to fall to nose height.

Top weekend. Fantastic weather. Non hurty knee. And because Yang must follow Ying, I am now putting the bored into plasterboard.

* The “Trailblaster” – a tyre that has as it’s unique selling point, a complete lack of grip in any conditions. Damp Roots?-certain death. Mud – uncontrolled slide into something pointy. Hardpack – from vertical to horizontal in all the time it takes to ask “any warning when these tyres go?”

** You know you’ll score big, just not quite sure what.