Two blokes we met while riding up and over these steep sided and overly managed hills. The first took exception to our polite entreaties to get past, by denouncing all cyclists as trail eroding scum who’d serve the country better by throwing themselves under the nearest lorry. Or something like that; I must confess to stopping listening when I realised he wasn’t either.

The second was an old boy who very gently chastised us for riding on a path we probably shouldn’t have ,been but finished up with “I wouldn’t worry about it, nobody will care really”. And for the remaining 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of our ride, he was absolutely right. I have no intention of getting into the access issues around these closely guarded nuggets of great trails*, other than to say, there seems to be enough for everyone and much of it is fun on a mountain bike.

We did seem to climb alot tho. My GPS sprouted** some nonsense about 3000 feet of uppage with some corresponding smile cracking trails heading back into Malvern. However, the first one we found could have been named “extreme exposure” although I felt my alternate title of “aarrgghh I have fallen down a 45 degree slope” was a little more accurate. Two rolls and a suicidal grab of a passing – and accelerating – bike generated more than enough interest for one set of pants I can tell you.

And the fall wasn’t because I was all rubbish and clipped in; no, rather I was checking out the view, and congratulating myself on all things West of the South East. One of those things was the lush rolling landscape into which I plunged – head first – to better investigate the phrase “terminal velocity“.

It’s not just the stuff you can see that is different here. There are other clues as well; the non ironic Wurzels tribute band at the School Fete, the strange popularity of Welly Throwing and the complete lack of any justification required to tuck into a barrel of Cider. At the local pub, there is one bloke who doesn’t seem to have moved during the three times we’ve been in there. Either he’s dead or very, very drunk.

Tomorrow I start commuting again using a proper vehicle to sandwich the train journey. Which means, according to my personal rainometer(tm), I’d better go and harvest the waterproofs.

* Because I didn’t sign up to any charter and I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. What’s wrong with: ne polite, be sensible, be sensitive to other trail users and get on with it?

** And as part of my new found sensitivity, other vegetables are available. I’ve no problem with the concept of Broccoli taking on some verb action. Just as long as I am not required to eat any of the Devil’s testicles.

.. so am I. More when I’m less distracted by beer and food. In summary:

Weather: Damn Hot. A bit too damn hot really.
Course: Last descent and singletrack great. Rest of it made up of mainly grass – both upwards and downwards. Plus some road. So, erm…
Organisation: Fantastic.
Post Ride Food: Rubbish. Veg Curry? I WANT THE BACK END OF A RECENTLY DEAD COW IN A BUN!
74k course details: No idea, sloped off, like the wuss I am, and did 48k variant.
Other riders: Occasionally amusing, generally pedestrian downhill. I’m not quick but they were glacial.
Doing it again: No.

An odd way to join the first person singluar of ‘to be’ to a windy noun but sense shall be made, read on. Trumpet is a real place as well as an instrument, although this morning it swung between the two, hiding between rolling hills and mocking me as an instrument of navigational trickery.

In two hours, I visited it a total of four times, adding it a collection of random small villages (Much Marcle: Twice, Pixley: three times, Aylton: never saw it but attacked it from the West, East and South in a one man pincer movement) on my explorations for some local singletrack.

I had most of the map and half a GPS. Add that to my imperfect sense of direction and dodgy internal gyroscopes and what could go wrong? Well I did find two ends of an interesting looking bridleway, but never the join, I also discovered many friendly people to orientate my map, before kindly sending me back from whence I’d come. I also lost 45 increasingly worrying minutes crashing about in a small wood, trying not to fall into a stream.

Eventually I arrived home, one hour later than planned, nettle stung to buggery, slightly more knackered than a man attempting to summit 7000 feet of nearly Welsh climbing probably should be, and in need of a medicinal beer. Since it was only 10:30am, I settled for bumper mug of Guatemalan Elephant* and a satisfied expression.

Because when I finally found the woods, there was more untrod singletrack in there that you could shake a stick at. Although, quite a muddy stick it must be said. Possibly not all legal for cycling but with no evidence of any other human activity, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Unless I get lost again when I might possibly starve and have my eyes pecked out. Not that such a mental image was glued to my inner eye while my outer eye could see nothing but trees – oh no.

This is mere displacement activity for the horror of tomorrow. Nige, Frank and Andy Tracklogs are converging on the log later and we’re off to the Cider Press for a couple of sharpeners before dinner. I ask again, what could possibly go wrong?

If I were a betting man, I’d wager a kidney on the next entry including the phrases “Never Again” “Reamed Arse” and “Writing this from the Hospital“.

* this is a blend of coffee. Although Random does a pretty good impression when attempting to quietly cross a room.

John McEnroe was the angriest young man in the world back then. Watching my own kids arguing – through the medium of chucking stuff at each other – makes me wonder if they’ve secretly been watching Wimbledon DVD’s from the 1980s. But, of course, this isn’t about them, it’s all about me and my never ending faith in bullshit over ability.

It all started when Andy “Tracklogs” Shelley* cluster bombed my Inbox with exploding text shrapnel. When the debris settled, words such as “Marin Rough Ride“, “Next Weekend“, “Not far from you” and “Fancy it?” were left as collateral damage. I immediately emailed fellow survivors of our 2004 lucky to be alive escape to remind me of the horror and suffering that a 72k/7000feet of climbing course can inflict on a non alien.

However, I failed to add the rider that their replies should be couched in terms of “ARE YOU ON CRACK? STRIKE DOWN THE HEATHEN SHELLEY OR AT LEAST MARK HIM AS SPAM“. They have both cautiously considered attending themselves. What madness is this? Don’t you remember? Here’s an extract from 2004:

“I’m hoping the worst is over. It’s not. The next climb refracts riders as light through a prism and it’s clear I’m in serious trouble. There’s just two of us at the back now and I’m coveting Nigel’s full suss because every rut is a Hobson’s choice of an energy-sapping out of the saddle move or a seatpost up the arse. We’re 42km in on a grassy climb and I’m starting to hate it but it’s about to get much worse. Twenty minutes later, I’m all on my own, one broken chain, two punctures, three sense of humour failures. I finally free the chain from behind the cassette by dint of jamming my bloodied hand in there for the twentieth time. Streams of riders come past before I finally get back on the bike, then my hamstring cramps up **”

There’s so much more of the same here and the picture propping up this post was my pre-40 self looking totally knackered. I am probably no fitter, certainly quite alot older, definitely less motivated and generally more rained on. The upside is that my extensive bike collection includes a perfect foil for such madness. I speak of the legend that is Roger the Pink*** Hedgehog. But I’d hate it. I sit here and think it’s doable, but secretly I’ll admit it’s going to hurt. Alot and for a long time.

And yet, and yet… It’s only 30 miles away, there’s a blouse-out option at 48k, I cannot do worse than the trauma 7hr20 minutes back in 2004. It’s a great course.

I am not serious, but I’m sort of tempted.

* A man so fit he refuses to accept that any MTB ride can be less than eight hours long. In the Peak District. In Winter. He may not be of this planet.

** It’s true you see. I have actually curbed my rambling style since then. No honestly, read the rest if you don’t believe me/have half a weekend to spare.

*** Lively Purple. Just didn’t scan as well.