… is worth two in the shed. As observedby that rather hackyned old proverb, now cheekily repurposed for what passes as rationale fromthis side of the keyboard. From here I can imagine the gasps of amazement and expressionsof disbelief fromthose hearing of this unforeseen event.

Yeah okay that’s not imagination, it’sdeluded fantasy. I expect exactly no one to be even mildly astonished on the big reveal merely shuffling innocent trinkets in the shedofdreams(tm). A bedrock of my relationship with the good lady, her indoors is that I pretend to have a brilliantly nuanced trail-map from today to a fixed point in time*, where fiscal probity and asset sanity finally replaces the revolving door of bike replacement. And she pretends to believe me.

It goes something like this; there’s some traditional dogma surrounding multiple bike ownership – plant the shed with the latest crop of shiny new things as defined by Mr. Marketing, and harvest the one most appropriate for the prevailing ground conditions. Crappy old winters day or quick woody hack, take the hardtaill. Uplift truck or big rocky day out, drag the big bike from the shadows. Anything in between, grab the one that’s pretty damn good at everything else.

There’s the thread of a compelling narrative there. Save the good bikes for best- every ‘proper‘ rider must tella petrolhead-Alfa hardtail story, the full face needs a worthy companion so there’s no situation for which I’m under-equipped or poorly matched. Dig a little deeper tho and a couple of rather important points are uncovered; firstly cumulative isn’t the same as appropriate, and two thirds of your bikes hardly getridden.

Examples abound; myhardtailis a lovely incarnation of the breed – big wheels, a steel heart and corner-chasing handling. Thepseudo big bike has an effortless brilliance accompanying it’s less accomplished rider from the back of an uplift trailer or swinging on a chairlift. Both are fantastic,butneither has even 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the miles clocked on the middle of the road unsung hero.

The Pyga is a great bike. I’ve actually worn stuff out before upgradingit. 3200 kilometres, two drivetrains, one full set of bearings, two suspension services, one brake bleed, endless pads, multiple tyres and scratches from rim to rim document 18 months of multiple weekly interactions leaving me with a big grin and a nagging worrryover all the unriddenbikes with their drying seals, deflating tyres and dusty countenances.

Bikes at the heart of the periphery are outliers. They are essentially wall art, occasionally wheeled out to justify their existence. What they do better than your ‘daily driver’ feels strange and alien. Behind their bars is not a familiar place, sohalf the ride is relearning their foibles. It doesn’t make them bad bikes, but it does make the bike per genre thinking somewhat flawed.

The solution seems obvious. Just keep that one and use technique, bravery and bloody-mindedness to ride around perceived shortcomings on the margins of trail riding. It’s an interesting idea, but garners no traction for a man who genuinely believes he is one bike from unleashing some hidden potential – regardless of owning similar brilliant examples.

And yes there’s the shiny new bike thing. I’d be fibbing off the scale if that wasn’t factored into solving the complex equation of N+1-2. It’s another manufacturer almost no one has heard of, paid for way before it arrives and purchased entirely on the basis that ‘it looks about right’plus a nod tothe designers who seem like decent blokes.

So my plan** is two bikes almost the same. Small Hammer and Big Hammer if you will. For a man who sees the world pretty much as a nail, every bike is merely graduated percussion.You can keep your finesse, lightweight components, extreme compromises and ridiculous reinventing of what a bike should look like. I don’t want fat, thin, exotic or niche. Rather give me two bikes someway beyond my capability to test them, and I’m pretty much done and dusty.

Riding the Mega always made me feel a little bit special and quite a lot rubbish. Slinging a leg over the Solaris for the first time in six months gave me little joy and an unshakeable feeling of beingold and lumbered by a degrading spine. Both can go to people and places where they will be the bike of choice, primarily selected whatever the trail, dragged out in all conditions and slung back ready for another adventure just around the corner.

I’ll be sorry to see them go, but not as sorry as seeing them hanging purposelessly in a heated shed with so much to give and nowhere to go. This might – and probaly is – pretentious wankerage merely displacing guilt for buying into the latest wheel size and geometry, all of which is entirely irrelavent to having fun riding bikes.

There’s a reason bikes are called cycles, because the curators of a shed-full will spin up the sign wave between ‘one of each‘ and ‘more of the same‘. It’ll go around and come around always with some veneer thin rationale to why, this time, the deckchairs on this Titanic have finally assumed their final positions.

Until then, I get to ride new bikes that’ll blow me away in new places, make old places somehow even better and never hang unwanted in something that started as a bike store but ended up looking like a shrine.

A sane person looking into my word mayquestion why anyone could possibly need so many bikes. And they’d be missing the point. It’s not the quantity, it’s the mix. If I ride the Pyga and the Bird equally over the next year, I’ll be proved absolutely right. And if not, guess what happens next? 🙂

* at no timewould I put a date on that. There’s no point in both of us being disappointed.

** I’ve just reacquainted myself with the OED definition of ‘Plan‘ sofeel substituting that for the phrase ‘random stream of unconnected activities’ would be more appropriate.

I’m not overlyfamiliar with the canon of Ms Zellweger’s work, nor the Bridget Jones extended franchise, but neither of these potential cultural oversights stayed the ‘Edge Of Reason‘ flash-sideways sliding into my frontal lobe during a mildly trying period best thought of as ‘man versus tree’.

Sideways and Sliding are a rare adjectival/verb crossover combination perfectly describing a descent into wooded singletrack and mild terror. One minute I’m drinking in the earths’ curvature from high places painted deep in winters azure clarity, and the next it’s all gone dusky dark, slithering mud and arborealaggressiveness.

My passion for forests is only topped by their taller mountain brethren, except when individual trees are throwing themselves at my increasingly brittle frame. Switching from the rather trite ‘lungs of the planet‘ to ‘bone crushing monoliths’ in all the time it takes to wonder where all the traction went.

‘More grip that you think, just a bit less than you need‘ is the watch-phrase here. It was preceded by a need to ride under perfect blue skies, with a less than perfect right knee and sodden geography recovering slowly from the first winter storms. Late year sunlight brings even the troglodytes from their crypts, sothe hills were alive with the sound of walking sticks, bored families and the occasional joy sponge composing their next militantmissive to the Malvern Gazette*

We dropped out of sight onto trails so cheeky they should have their bottom smacked, immediately encountering the kind of tyre filling mud leaving anyone perched atop with the option of risking a dab of brake or a hint or steering. Certainly not both. That way lies an individual consultation with thestump of your choice.

God it’s fun tho. There’s something about this time of year where the trails have basically turned to shit, but there’s still enjoyment to be found at half the traction, three quarters of the speed and twice the commitment. Two wheel drifts are amusing at 10mph, less so at twice that, and solving the weight-placement, braking, cornering angles on a per-second basis is physically and mentally satisfying.

Mountain biking in the real world if you like. Nothing is buffed other than your head with that particular brand insulating a deficient thatch. There’s no hero dirt here, no sun-sparkled dust long-framed in lens flare, no guns out in the sun, no easy options, no limitless traction, no endless light filleddays.

Proper four season sport. Layer up, get out thereand appreciate the vignettes of saving a desperate slide, warming extremities by vigorous stamping, conquering a greasy climb through torque and technique, hitting jumps already sideways, and always riding, riding, riding through a landscape devoid of life and often clamped in grey.

We hardly had a run at any descent because the hills were peopled with those asdesperate to walk shadow tall under cloudless skies. And that’s absolutely fine because just reeling in the horizon at any speed at times like this is enough. Not quite enough though, because today we sallied forth again under those much hated grey skies to slither about in the woods above Ross.

Bits were great. Fast, grippy, devoid of mud. Other bits were slick, difficult and often full of unwanted trunk**. Which brings me back full circle to the brittle bones bit; riding at this time of year requires more skill – and probably less bravery – than an amalgam of spring, summer and autumn. Which is fine and everything until someone loses aline, the plot, and possibly an eye.

Post ride, beers were pulled as those self-classified as the worthy sat in the warmth and talked of deeds to be done and more to be catalogued. I have some of the greatest friendswho, regardless of their circumstances, prioritise riding mountain bikes in all seasons and weathers.

We talk like children, excited by the possibilities of the new but we’re not young. The first flush of youth has long gone. We’ve got scars, broken bits, sore limbs and a clock countingthe minutes until all this stops. And it’s the thought of those missing months you can never get back which deprecates your bravery. Hurting myself isn’t the issue, being off the bike absolutely is. Riding tomorrow is far more important than riding the thing in front of you.

Mountain Biking is so much a part of what I am, and yet it’s also a perfect juxtaposition between cravingthe adrenaline hit and not hitting something that’ll put you off the bike for a while. Possibly for ever. Now there’s a dark place too scary to visit. Until there are no other choices.

My dad is getting on a bit. He’s flown gliders and light aircraft almost every weekend for nearly sixty years. Soon – so very soon – age and certification become incompatible. He is understandably worried about what to fill that hole with, and while it’s impossible not to sympathisewith position, I’m beyond bloody glad it’s not me facing that decision.

Ride bikes for fun. Don’t crash hard. Ride bikes again. That’s as close to a Christmas message as I’m going to get.

* ‘Dear Sir, I suggest in the strongest possible terms Mountain Bikers are reclassified as game birds so open season can be declared on August 12th. Yours, an old bloke pining for days that never were‘

** Trees not elephants. There’s a lot of weird stuff that goes on in Herefordshire, but herds of massive mammals*** striding across the Wye valley isn’t one of them

*** Except for MAMILs. We get loads of those. Fat mountain bikers I get. We drink loads of beer. Fat Roadies? Help me out here.

As a blokey bloke – unreconstructed or not – there’s a certain amount of sacramental reverence around skills and abilities way beyond castigation. Lines over which even banter ‘shall not pass’. Clickbait lists are generally required at times like this, so let’s start with: driving, sexual performance, quaffage coefficient and being able to ride a bicycle.

It’s an interesting list because we are taught to drive, sex is something we learn through experimentation or repetition, alcohol poisoning about the same but remaining upright whilst mostly in charge of a bicycle draws a straight line between skinned knees and useful manifestations of centrifugal physics.

Which, when you consider the importance of grasping the basics, and a bit more when accelerating through hard edgedgeography, feels like an educational oversight. But being chromosomically doubled*, we’re not interested in making the best use of our tiny talent when going harder, going faster**, going to be braver, going to end up hospital is somehow more highly rated on the achievement scale.

Over four years ago, I had a riding reboot which rocked my little mountain biking world, right up until the point I forgotalmost everything.Since then I’ve mostly survived, dodged the occasional bullet while more frequentlyadding to my extensive legions of scar tissue. I’ve ridden too many crap lines, watched too many expert videos and read too much nonsense on the web.

So now my approach to any kind of riding difficulty is a multi-tasking mashup of many techniques, none of which I can reasonably execute. There’s so much going on in my head, the obstacle has long passed before any mitigation plan has been enacted. Result of which is mostly me viewing that trail difficultly upside down and long separated from my blameless bicycle.

Twice in the week before a return to the skills shrine of Tony, I’d crashed hard and painfully on dry trails with limitless grip. Bring on the winter and my riding gear would probably be a body-bag unless something changes quickly. An adverbthat’s pretty much exited stage left from my riding world, with people I used to easily chase only becoming visible waiting at the end of the trail.

Time to man down and accept scratching my riding itch isn’t going to make it any better.

Tony’s upgraded his training facilities quite a bit since my last time in his care. Now he’s snaked trails between the frankly terrifying North Shore planks elevated halfway to the moon, withlines of jumps angled to propelyou there. He’s paired back his coaching as well to about three physical moves and four mental ones. The coffee remains both strong and most welcome after more than a three hour drive.

I like Tony. He’s got a interesting view on life , and lives itlike an amped Hippie with no off switch. I may not always agree with him, but any conversations are anything but dull whether it be bikes or absolutely anything else. And from a coaching perspective, he is a bloody genius.

Two minutes in, he’s nailed my inability to commit to left hand turns (large scar on knee to be taken into consideration), Hadyn’s slightly odd body positioning and Rob’s rearward stance. And that’s just riding round a couple of logs. Soon we’re lobbing ourselves off little drops, and giggling through elbow low carved turns. After that it’s berms, singletrack, drops, tabletops and gaps jumps.

All of which we dispatched. Six foot gap jumps with hardly any effort. Corners railed like you’ve failed to match on a million MTB videos. Berms accelerated out of and drops nailed without the excessive body movement and bar wrenching that passes as a big part of my MTB repertoire.

I even re-learned how to bunny-hop. Hadyn launcheda 12 foot gap jump, and Tonyturned Rob from an XC scardycat into a gap jumping monster. And that’s all you’re getting in terms of the process because unless you go through it, describing words are merely going to confuse.

What’s more important is can you translate a single days epiphany into a trail vocabulary writing extra speed, more smoothness, some safety into your every day riding?. That’s a firm yes and a more than occasional no, Once cut free from the cord of what feels right, you can practice, embed muscle memory and even switch back to flats but when things get scary, the inevitable happens.

You regress. You seek solace in the habits that somehow kept you safe when the going got tough. And these are bad habits, dangerous ones, dropping a shoulder to the inside, moving your head back from the scary, forgetting your feet have a part to play riding downhill. The difference is you know it’s wrong, it feels horrible and forced, slow and difficult, desperate and daunting. So you back offa littletotry andfix it. With some but not unlimited success.

So is a day’s course going to turn you into some kind of riding deity? Well, no clearly because there’s only so much skill than can be squeezed from very little talent. A better question is does it provide a simple set of physical and mental techniques that – when combined – have you riding old trails in an entirely new way. Yeah, pretty much.

There’s a tiny five foot gap on a trail we ride almost every week. And I avoided it for two years on the reasonable grounds of it having not much ground between entry and exit. Three days after spending one with Tony, Rob and I sailed over it without a care. We avoided the ten and fifteen foot gaps further up the trail but you have to start somewhere. And – in my case – work down.

It was a fantastic day with Tony. Rebooted my Mojo, Gave me a go-to place for doing to the right thing. Reinforced the delusion that I can keep getting better. Provided the confidence to ditch my SPD’s and let the flat-earthed fella out. Made me smile, grin, giggle and laugh remembering how bloody lucky we are to ride mountain bikes.

For that alone, it was more than worth the money. And I’ll be back because backsliding is pretty much my modus operandi. I won’t be leaving it as long this time.

* this is typical man. We have more than women. And more is better, yes? Well not really as it clearly blocks any ability to multitask, or garner sufficient empathy to understand not everyone thinks breasts are the most important aspect of those with just an ‘X’.

** Except you’re not. You’re more frightened. That’s something entirely different.

Mountain Biking is just not cricket. Although some trappings and traditions do cross over such as stopping for a nice lunch, and being inconvenienced by the occasional stump impact. Anyway, before the somewhat deceitful portrayal of my latest riding heroism, it’s worth a brief synopsis of what I’m calling ‘The Silence Of The Hedgehog’

Holidays, apathy, inability to sort through 2000 digital images, another birthday*, blank screen staring with cursor blinking on ‘Chapter 1‘ – that kind of thing. surprisingly it wasn’t just me that noticed although comments such as ‘Oh God don’t encourage him to write anything else‘ have hardly helped jump-start my muse. So here we are six weeks on, a bit rusty and creaky but winding out that same old stream of consciousness. Except for the terribly pretentious drivel composed on the day – or more accurately night – of my birthday, having staggered back into the house on a float of Merlot.

I’ve saved you from that. I’m hope you’re grateful. Carol had to read it and is still pointing and laughing now.

So returning from holiday and currently retired** after unsurprisingly stinting on absolutely nothing with particular gluttony reserved for (many) local beers, BBQ’d ribs and ice cream. This lamentable lack of self control has left me re-tyred with a midriff storing a couple of the additional kilos and the rest rounding off a pair of man boobs. No problem thought I, being essentially unemployed, every day is a riding day. Within weeks I’ll be a tanned and toned whippet beasting my youngers and betters whilst living healthily on berries and leaves and other things that don’t taste like Stilton.

Well my friends it’s not quite worked out that way. Two main reasons; firstly after returning from a land with only cloudless blue skies, the UK is clearly harbouring every other countries wet making equipment and chucking out 17 degree horizontal rain on a daily basis. This is not motivating. Not motivating at all. Secondly I’m so bloody busy doing nothing. Well not nothing but not anything that pays any real hard cash. Instead I’ve thrown myself into an orgy of manual labour where a smarter cookie would have replaced 19th century agricultural engineering with something sporting a scoop, hydraulic rams and a big bloody engine. Instead it’s been me, a fork and a losing battle against a million bastard plants hell-bent on causing death by stinging.***

Bored of that and in somewhat physical distress, I hobbled to the shed of dreams to deploy some bicycling therapy. First off was a trip to the woods on the trusty hardtail. A woods normally ridden rather lumpily on my cross bike which I’ve had to conclude isn’t a lot of fun. The Solaris was better, but still some way off the dopamine hit of my normal riding. Some of this is because the trails are overgrown/a bit wet/not very interesting but more of it is my riding pals. Or lack of them. As the bastards have apparently better things to do than ride with their mate.

How selfish is that? ‘Sorry Al can’t come riding at 1pm. I’m at work‘. That’s not an excuse, that’s an insult. Total lack of ambition if you ask me. Which I did since there was nobody else to talk to. Oh we’ve been out weekends but that’s just normal stuff you fit round work. For them it’s a paycheck, for me it’s the prospect of two more hours with my new four pronged friend while dreaming of Napalm.

Twice I’ve ridden on the traditional Sunday. Twice it’s pissed down. The second time I was managing that disappointment with many additional issues to deal with – specifically a hangover sharp enough to shave with, a stomach keen to rid itself of last nights alcoholic poisoning, a brain that was a second slower than it needed to be and limbs another second behind that. I spent most of the morning alternatively trying not to crash or throw up.

Today I picked a perfect weather window – in that it was open to let the rain in – and motored off to another wood to try my luck at solo riding. It’s nearly as far as the Forest or the Malverns so been pretty well ignored for a few years. But taught my kids to ride off-road here so it has good memories. Sadly those fading memories fail to cartograph the trail network leading to much cursing and now familiar evisceration from moist waist high brambles.

Then I found an oft-ridden trail. From there a spiders-web of damp tracks came flooding back. And new trails built by others for whom this is clearly their local patch. Including that jump on a revived trail recently destroyed by logging. By this time it really was pissing it down and the ‘trousers of excuses‘ was fully upholstered with ‘no knee pads/slippy wood/damp landing patch/recently healed ribs‘ etc. And, of course, no mates to spur me on or capture my heroism/demise.

Ummed for a bit. Stood on the end. Convinced myself it was bloody tiny – which of course it was – gave it the ‘getting it done‘ nod to let the obstacle know a veteran of the mountain bike scene was about to grace it with his presence. Clipped in, pedaled – not hard enough – felt the tyres squirm a bit but carried on regardless if a little slowly. Sort of fell off the end in a manner most likely to break a collar bone. Somehow managed to convert not enough speed into just enough flight to land safely if rather heavily.

Bah. Rubbish. Go back and do it again I said out loud to no-one. The whisper of the wind and the rain through the trees sounded like hissing. No, it really did. Riding on your own messes with your mind. I love trees and woods and forests. I’m a big old tree hugger. But today it was all bloody Heart of Darkness and brooding stumps. No matter, stop pissing about and get your aged carcass off that tiny jump with a bit of bloody committment.

So I did and it was fine. More than fine in fact. Bloody lovely. Until I landed onto a recently dampened earth-patch which had the frictional quality of glass. The next couple of seconds were far more exciting that I’d been hoping for. I wonder if a middle aged man makes a fool of himself in a Forest and there is no one there to see it, does he still feel like an idiot? I don’t wonder actually because the answer is absolutely he does.

I didn’t fancy a third attempt so drove home just as the sun came out. Sulked a bit until I found cake. Still beats working even if I’ve started talking to my front mech. That’s normal right?

* 47. Forty-Bloody-Seven. And what did I do? I went out and drank like a 19 year old only with a better wine selection. On being asked the following morning how I felt, the answer was either ‘every year of my age and then some‘ or ‘Chunderful‘. With great age comes great wisdom? Someone else has got mine.

** At some point I’ll find another contract. Probably at the point when we’ve started stealing and boiling the neighbours shoes for food.

*** I’ve started talking to plants as well. But not in the traditional encouraging manner. No it’s more of a John-Cleese inspired rant while stabbing them with sharpened garden tools ‘Right you bastard, I warned you, I bloody warned you, come back out of that freshly turned soil and you’ll be getting the rough end of my pitch fork’.

Today brings a real anddefinite need to recalibrate the irony meter. After a week of that ^^ sort of nonsense, I arrived back from the alps with a cemented and enduring love of the mountains, a noticeably 2nd hand mountain bike and – somewhat surprisingly – an entire body full of working limbs not disfigured with scar tissue. Riding the entire gamut of bike parks, walkers paths and unsighted trails on the cliff-edge of oblivion with nary a scratch.

And then today on local trails, I threw myself face first into the dirt off a rock step which conveniently bounced the bike into my shoulder and rib cage from a height best thought of as low earth orbit. An impact that has me taking shallow breaths, avoiding amusing joke punchlines and stabbing the speed-dial for my long suffering physio.

Funny eh? Possibly but I’m not laughing although that’s mostly bruised rib related. Fairly sure I haven’t cracked any as after a single sneeze earlier, I wasn’t immediately whisked into casualty screaming ‘the pain, make the pain go away‘*. Butyeah ride for seven days clocking up 220km and descending 20,000 metres of mind blowing trails with a side order of manslaughter,beforemonging oneself on a bit of singletrack dug out of a familiar forest does feel pretty stupid.

Howeveron a slighter deeper analysis, it’s not quite so simple. Start with this; the alps are big, steep and scary – from where you can draw a straight line to crashing which is equally big, probably for keeps and definitely scary. So the imaginative, fragile and often broken ring fence a safety zone around difficult obstacles by riding at 80{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of what passes for flat out. This may feel like cowardice or excuses and it could well be either or both. But I’ll take a little angst and a larger gap to the fast riders if it means riding the next day.

Whereas my local trails are slightly less scary, significantly more familiar and ridden sufficiently often to forgo that safety net. Except when it’s a brand new sculpted earth snaking through a dank forest environment. Caused by some rain while I’ve been away which partially excuses my inability to ride the first rocky obstacle on sight. A second successful attempt reminded me that commitment matters as much here as it does in the big mountains, and much as I like my 29er it’s nowhere near as focussed as the Mega on the scary stuff. Which means I needed to be.

I wasn’t. A rock step which can either be launched or rolled slid into my narrowing vision at about the same time as the previous rider let out a slightly startled ‘wahhhhaaaah‘ as he successfully dropped off the other side. Well it’s ridable then. It might well be launch-able. But even with a week of alpine silliness, there’s a big difference between blind optimism and blind takeoffs. Roll it then. Roll it I did. Land it I didn’t.

“The line is to the left” was the helpful comment delivered some five seconds after it would potentially made a difference. The line to the right finished in a deep hole – partially filled with stagnant mud and apparently infinite depth. I finished in the same place having collected the spiky bits of the bike in the left hand side of my ribcage while a handy rock dealty my shoulder a bloody parcel of impact trauma.

Sat there for a while wondering when breathing might become a little less painful. Cursed myself for both a) a lack of commitment and b) a lack of sanity for attempting it in the first place which is essentially debating both ends of an argument with yourself. Possibly fell on my head 😉

Rest of the ride was fine. The previous couple of hours were great as well. Transformed my riding world from being a bit grumpy on account of a serious lack of proper mountains and chairlifts to just being contentrolling on mostly dry trails with the prospect of beer in the sunshine. Nurafen for the soul.

I expect tomorrow there will be some wincing, definitely some whinging, a whole load of ‘no honestly it was <——————–> big‘ hand gestures and perhaps a quiet moment wondering if it’s time to find out if DIY hammering your thumb is less painful than throwing oneself repeatedly to the ground. That’ll be a pretty short internal discussion and come Wednesday my focus will be on a mountain bike trail somewhere close.

My day job is all terribly rationale and logical. Evidential based decisions, carefully nuanced and packaged for the widest audience. That I can do with bruised ribs and a hurty shoulder. But it’s not real life is it?

* If you’ve ever cracked or broken one or more ribs, that’s pretty much your life for eight weeks.

Before we get to the riveting topic of holiday packing, I first need to share how our Cappuccino ownership ended. If you imagine a deleted scene from a budget parody of ‘Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels‘ you’d have about 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the content right there. In no particular order, the frame would be filled with a horse box, a woman touting a shotgun, a confused looking foreign gentleman, an envelope full of used notes, a man slumped – apparently dead – in his car and the comedic unroofing of the Suzuki by two people who showed no sign or aptitude of ever doing it before.

The shotgun was carried by the lovely Annabel who isfrom Liverpool. My brief yettraumatic experience of that city left me in no doubt that running round fully armed – potentially with some kind of Chuck Norris Backup – would be the only way to survive a day. However at 4pm in a windswept lay-by at the arse end of Herefordshire, my working assumption is Carol and I were soon to be bloodied bodies hidden in the horse box before being dumped into the uncaring Atlantic later that evening.

Explanations abounded for these strange circumstances, none of which made much sense to me but soon thethe envelope we’d marked ‘Canada Holiday Cash’ was handed over in return for keys, logbooks and a long explanation of the three card trick required to disarm the immobiliser. We left them attempting some kind of tiny-car feng shui – arranging shotguns, handbags and the confused looking fella into a space about the size of a well appointed bathroom cabinet. Not heard from them since – so either all is well or they’ve robbed the takings from Keele Servicesand are nowon the run in a Thelma and Louise style.

The unmoving fella in the car? Never got to the bottom of that. Annabel promised me she hadn’t shot him and since she was pretty well tooled up, I didn’t feel it was the right time to question her honesty 😉

Moving on and soon to be moving out. The random collection of detritus that’s fallen out of my bike gear store is definitely sending mixed messages. There’s lightweight summer tops buried under a collection of waterproof gear whichspeaks of a man unreconciled with alpine summers after last year. The glove collection is particularly telling – three meshed pairs designed for maximum ventilation rubbing fingers against full on winter gloves, coated with water repelling substances and designed specifically to retain all that lovely user created heat.

I’ve packed winter base layers, waterproof socks, three – THREE – waterproof jackets one of which can easily repel rain, snow and probably borders. I may be over-reacting to nearly freezing to death last year but would rather just put it down to experience. There’s a theme emerging as we segue into the extensive spares collection piling up in the back of Matt’s van. A van which is taking on more of an ‘A-Team’ motif every day with forks, brakes, wheels – so many wheels – tyres, chainsets, shifters and saddles, augmented by every tool known to man and some clearly stolen from aliens, more fluids than an A&E ward and strangely shaped objects the purpose of which entirely baffle me. Maybe it’s another shotgun.

It’ll probably all go in a bag. And maybe then fit into the back of the van. If not Matt’s got a tow bar and I’ve got a trailer. As for the pilot, well he’s reasonably fit for a specimen of such antiquity, and mostly uninjured. That was pretty much my plan on riding out the first day of 2014 and I’ve made good on promises to slog through many, many miles of shit and drudgery to get my withered body into the kind of state that might survive a week throwing it at mountains.

Preferably on the bike. If not, hidden in that clothing bundle, are knee pads, elbow pads and an armoured shirt best thought of as resembling a geeky man attending a TRON revival convention. All this pre-alps non-crash rhetoric failed to stop me wheeling the bike out for one more ride before our Tuesday departure. Longest day and all that* with the kind of perfect conditions entirleymissing for the last six weeks.

60{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} commitment on velcro-grippy trails passed a pleasant couple of hours and the Alps bike is running beautifully. I rode all the jumps and drops because it’s so damn good rocking off stumps and landing with barely a trail caress. And this is with me riding it. The man whose jumping technique was once memorably described as ‘drops like a feather…. attached to a rhino‘

Today I remembered my family might miss me a bit so we did lots of all that kind of stuff which probably fills the diary of those fathers not quite so obsessed, nowhere near as selfish and not desperately clinging onto something that’s probably long gone. Still as we’ve said many times before, no point dying wondering.

I am going out. I may be some Alp.

* That’s all I’m saying. If I even mention in our house ‘bah, the nights are drawing in already‘, my future existence hinges entirely on an abilityto dodge an angrily flailed rolling pin.

This is the ‘after‘ photo of my friends’ Jason’s mountain bike. I don’t have a ‘before‘ shot, and even so the medium of photography couldn’t begin to convey the horror that wobbled and graunched into Matt’s garage accompanied by a mildly injured Jason. He’d stuck a knife into his foot for reasons far too complicated to explain here, although it just about holds as a metaphor for what he’d previously done to the bike.

It’d hold a whole lot better if he’s accidentallybeaten himself mostly to death with rocks and stumps before immersing his remains in five metres of gritty mud for a year or so. In Jason’s defence his small London flat is missing any kind of space for mechanical maintenance. It does however have a space, or to be more accurate a sort of sunken gimp hole, into which stuff can be carefully lowered and abandoned.

Which is exactly what happened after last years Alps trip. Jas broke himself rather impressively after a single handed attempt to remove an ancient stump with most of hisribs. Some days before – ON HIS FIRST RUN – the poor old Spesh made something between a cry for help and a suicide attempt once a buckled chain ring died tryingto saw through a tired frame. This was fixed with big bolts and the same hammer later applied to a burping tyre and a set of wobbly pivots.

Jason reckons he was entirely responsible for his accident. The rest of us genuinely believe the bike went a bit ‘Christine‘ to get even. I was amazed we didn’t find it on fire. What I’m telling you here is it was fairly knackered on the first day and lamentably fucked by the end of the week. At which point it became a forgottendeposit in the gimp hole- whence it stayed until last week. Do you think it might have somehow ‘fixed itself‘ while being down there? In an environment best thought of a cross between Alec Guiness in the Hotbox and Steve McQueen with his baseball glove.

No is the answer. Well it’s a partial answer. The real answer is somewhat more lengthy and goes something like this; everything that was meant to move, didn’t. Everything that should have been tight was loose. Anything normally filled with wet oil was dry. Almost everything else was sprayedwith the emulsified detritusfrom previously sealed units. It was beyond seized because that noun suggests a long lost time when some venerable and ancient sage remembered it working.

You want specifics? Right then; the cassette was laughably wobbly not because of a lack of tightness, no more a lack of thread in the hub which had been stripped by the elliptical rotation of the wheel. A total of 10 bearings were all removed through the kind of excessive percussion last seen at an Anthrax gig. When Matt fired up the blowtorch, I wasn’t sure if those bearings were getting the heat treatment, or the whole bike was being torched in a Viking Burial type of ceremony.

Three hours and a few beers went by before something emerged we could actually bolt some new bits too. Quite an extensive collection of ‘The Shiney‘ was waiting to go – an entirely pristine 2×10 drivetrain, big brakes with those new fangled working pistons, a right-on trend short stem and wide bar and the enduro-favourite dropper post*. Which proved to be a bit longer than Jason’s leg leaving Matt to scratch his stubble before working outthepossibly optional components to remove.

While all the clever stuff was going on, I stripped the remains of the broken stuff including a bottom bracket that, to absolutely no gasps of amazement, was seized solid, and a set of forks which -against conventional wisdom – had all the lubricating oil on the outside. By about 11:30, we’d scrawled a list of missing parts to be collected from the bike shop come morning, and an even longer list of jobs which – for me – had ‘go home, get another beer in‘ underlined as a priority.

The next morning – having triaged Jason’s bloodied toe – we motored back to Matt’s where he was happily fillingforks where oil had allegedly once been discovered. A quick damage report suggested the rear hub was toast, but everything else could be mostly hammered back into shape. Two further trips to the bike shop and the loan of a spare wheel had us pretty much at the photo up there. Eight hours work turned something totally, completely and entirely fucked into something super plush and bloody good fun to ride.

And here’s a thing; Jason’s bike was manufactured around 2007. It’s a beautifully engineered frame with 160mm of travel both ends, great geometry, decent angles and all the kit you need to go ride in the big mountains. My Mega is not beautifully engineered, but aside from that it’s pretty damn similar to a bike seven years its junior in almost everything including weight. Aside from the weight saving of carbon**boutique-ness, one could reasonably argue that progress hasbeen overstated by the marketing cock-wombles.

And so it proved when we took it for a ride. Everything worked, it climbed absolutely fine and descended with some alacrity. It missed not at all fat head tubes, tapered forks, funny sized wheels and all that other bollocks we’ve been mainlining on a yearly basis. And now it’s ready to go to the Alps in two weeks in the perfect configuration and without worries about things falling off. Except for Jason, but that’s pretty much normal behaviour.

Sadly when we return, it’ll be another long spell in the gimp hole. I have a feeling forcing it back down there might be similar to coaxing pit ponies into a sun-less coal mine after their two week holiday outside in the fields 😉

* Jason only bought this because of my intense lobbying. One ride in he couldn’t work out how he’d ridden so long without one. They really are the bollocks of the dog.

** I cannot ever think of the word ‘carbon‘ without thinking of the words ‘shards‘. I’ll stick to metal thanks.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper crash. Which considering the asymmetry of the stuff we ride against the skill of the rider, that’s quite a surprise. Examples abound – from avoiding gap jumps due to the apparent need for wires and rocket boosters to getting them done in the dark*, and lobbing myself off increasingly uppity rock steps at a dusty Afan last week. I became aware of quite how big the last one was after my good mate Ian behind me explained ‘I decided to give it a miss after you disappeared from view‘.

So much of this is riding lots on fantastically accomplished mountain bikes with bloody good riders on increasingly risk/reward trails. But this isn’t progression, it’s the confidence/ability circle. And if your riding skills are basically a bit shit then eventually you’ll breach the stack radius. Been close a few times lately, deluded myself that honed bike handling skills were saving me, before truth drove itself into my skull through the simple method of beating it with slimy dirt.

Ironically it wasn’t even a big jump. Historically that’s not a surprise, I’ve been throwing myself dangerouslyoff stuff for many years, and yet persist in thinking eventually I might get good at it. Stiffening muscles and burgeoning bruises suggest otherwise. In fact it was such a tiny obstaclethe puny height suggested it was candidate for some of that mild front wheel tweakage the bigger boys are good at. Tweak I did, untweak before landing I did not.

Onto dirt that had until this point been pleasantly surprising in its non horridness after much rain. The patch I landed on however had morphed into something best thought of as moistglass liberally sprayed with silicon. An ideal place then to plant a slightly skwiff front wheel, which immediately displaced its unhappiness to the rest of the frame in the manner of a bucking bronco. For half or second or so, I stayed with it before being unceremoniously unhorsed out front.

The bike wasn’t done with me yet. Further displeasure could be measured at impact points of elbow, hand and – as always seems to happen – groin where various spiky components took their opportunity to exact revenge. External contributions to bruised body parts came in the form of various bits of dirt viewed in a sky-ground-sky-ground kind of way and an exposed root which thankfully impacted my knee pads rather than the delicate and important limb underneath.

I lay there for a bit. Damage report called in without anything critical although my bollocks were keen to express pain at a level last felt when a vicious free kick on a wet football field was bravely stopped by the left back’s unsuspecting testicles**. Friends being friends immediately dispensed all their pallative care on the bike while treating my injuries with laughter and piss taking. Since no sympathy was being shown to the pilot, I hauled myself upright at which point it became clear I’d hurt the bike a bit more.

The left hand side of the bar had hit the ground hard, and then attempted to pivot a 30lb bike and a rather heavier 165lb rider up the nearest tree. It failed but not before failing itself via a rather natty bend and crease. Matt’s professional opinion was ‘it’d probably be fine…. but don’t do any more jumps’. No danger of that sunshine for twosimple reasons 1) attempting to execute such a skill has just left me with a Viz Comic Buster Gonad Parody and 2) landing a jump thenhoisting a shattered handlebar end in some kind of suggestion of surrender before smacking myself into an unyielding part of the forest wasn’t terribly fucking appealing.

But thanks. That’s the kind of advice much needed at times like this. I soldiered on, uncomplaining*** riding around all the jumps and generally riding in the manner of a blind man recently introduced to the pastime of leisure bicycling. It’s unlikely anyone else really noticed but – here’s the thing – I did and in a good way. Not barrelling into corners at high speed before bottling it, grabbing a handful of Shimano and blowing the apex**** was mildly cathartic and slightly interesting. You can be smooth and fast, but not the reverse. There might be something in this if I could be arsed to practice proper braking, body position, that kind of thing.

Sounds like hard work tho so I think we’ll continue with the ‘clench‘ technique starting with brain, passing down to every limb before finishing with arse. Strangely in our interconnected world there’s no instructive videos on this technique – I know mysaved search on ‘crouching hamster, hidden terror‘ hasyet to receive a hit. Other than the trail. That hit quite hard in case I haven’t mentioned it.

The more frustrating thing was mincing around these jumps and drops while really wanting to chuck myself off them even based on very recent historical experience. There’s still much that scares me on mountain bike trails, but this stuff isn’t any of them. Yet a few years ago, that’s EXACTLY how I used to ride. Had I no idea what the hell I’d been missing? Clearly not but I missed it now which made this whole episode a bit of ‘crash and learn’

Crashing I can do. Learning I’m less accomplished at. Except for this; even as middle age suggests brittle bones, long recovery times, sport ending injuries and all that grown up shit, I just want to ride my bike better than I did last week. Even if I’m just kidding myself. But there has to be a point at which you stop starting. When the risks heavily outweigh the rewards. It might be death by a thousand cuts – backing off more and more until you’re so filled with self-loathing you can’t face being undeniably shit on trails which previously raised you to adrenaline Valhalla.

That day will come. It wasn’t today. And it doesn’t feel close. It’s almost worth stacking to find that out.

* One tiny helmet light. Following someone with a better one. A manoeuvre clearly perched right on the line between bravery and stupidity.

** Must be twenty years ago. Still remember it like yesterday. Rather wish I didn’t.

*** Ish. For me anyway. I only mentioned it every 30 seconds or so.

**** Perfectly legal as long as no minors are watching.