There are days when vigorously slapping myself is the only rationale response to some lament regarding life, and how difficult it is. Only this sting of self flagellation reminds me how incredibly lucky I am compared to those poor buggers who didn’t get the breaks afforded to me. For a start, I’m a northerner and that’s already starts you ahead in any race prefixed with ‘Human‘*

For the last three weeks, we’ve been riding bikes in conditions best whispered as summer. Ironically the turning of the seasonal ratchet to Spring has brought with it somewhat more wintry conditions and the return of the rain, but it’s still about a zillion times better than it was at the start of March.

When researching trenchfoot remedies held more interest than going outside. Everything creaked – bearing, chains, brakes and knees. Two events around this time hove into view and while my winter fitness suggested I’d easily finish them, I found it far simpler not even to get started. Which is a bit rubbish when you’ve signed up with friends who put in outstanding efforts – while I was more interested in riding what was in front of me, rather than something inked in when the dark and cold was endless, and motivation needed a firm prod.

So there’s a bit of guilt but a whole lot of joy. That’s the only word that gets close to flying on trails that a month ago afforded nothing but mud sucking slog which saps your power and your will to ride in about equal amounts. Now riding is less about damage limitation and more about revelling in the efficacy of legs and lungs campaigned through a grim winter. And giggling. And pointing at dust. And drinking cold beer in the sunshine.

Until today, my last five rides have been a rediscovery of why the PYGA is such a damn fine bicycle. Once in the Malverns, the rest of the time in the Forest including a night ride which had me wondering if these were entirely different trails. I’m sure at night there must be more trees. And less obvious lines. I responded magnificently by ignoring any faint trace of a trail, instead bouncing first lights and then body parts off innocent timber. Still nothing got broken and we had beer later so honours even I think.

After weather more appropriate for this time of year, I swept the sleet of the Purple Minion and explained to anyone who was interested that a 32lb bike of extreme stoutness adorned with a tacky 2.5in front tyre would be absolutely ideal for road riding. 10km of that in cold air, and under threatening skies had us rendezvous with the hardcore trail pixies who apparently enjoy lobbing themselves into space with no thoughts of the potentially bruising effects of gravity.

I took photos while they did their stuff. My bike is perfect for that kind of thing, and I am so clearly not. This kind of difficult juxtaposition worries me not a jot nowadays. Instead I revelled in the next trail far more suitable to my pay grade – winding between trees and without any obvious 20 foot gaps where I’d expect the trail to be. We enjoyed it so much, they found us another one which dropped into a gully full of baby head rocks lightly polished with damp moss. The mega is, er, mega here. It is so composed, so suited to this terrain, so effortlessly competent regardless or rider input, I cannot wait to ride this stuff all day in the Alps.

That starts three months from today. Between now and then will hopefully be filled with much more riding like this. But for the next 10 days, it’ll take a back seat to actually reminding myself there are other things more significant than mountain bikes in my life. The most important of all shall be sat next to me on a plans heading to extremely foreign places where we’ll spend the first few hours wondering where the kids are.

At home 🙂

* this may not be a universally shared view. But I’m from Yorkshire and we not terribly interested in what those birthed in lesser counties might think.

Until about 1:53pm this afternoon, a post was in the virtual exit tube awaiting prose peristalsis to push it into my socially connected world. Where almost no one would read it. Which was a shame as much thought had been expended over the last two weeks in an attempt to make daily flooding mildly amusing. Tales of sleet laden trudges over high Welsh mountains jostled, with similar epic death marches through a Flanders-themed Forest. All linked by motivational reserve eroded by endless rain.

And if that wasn’t enough I’d worked in the term ‘arboreal‘ quite a number of times interspersed with a bucket load of moist similes, all finished with a mildly pretentious polemic on political blindness in a dying world. There’s a feeling here that maybe the read wasn’t as interesting in the write but no matter, it’s all raging water under crumbling bridges now.

Because of 1:53pm.

That’s when a maelstrom of want, guilt, delusion and displacement created a perfect storm marked ‘Confirm Order‘. Notice words such as ‘logic‘, ‘reason‘, ‘rationale‘ and ‘permission‘ are pointedly missing adjectives from the previous sentence. Notice also that the newest entrant into the Shed Of Dreams has the meme of something not long ejected on the grounds of misalignment due to my now firm bicycle requirements.

In my defence it was cheap. There are definitely additional strong and sound arguments on to exactly why I bought it. I just don’t have them to hand right now. Essentially I’ve aquired a relic of an unloved wheel size that I won’t use 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the time, and when I do it’s going to be an experience starting with ‘why is that front wheel so small and why is it so far away?‘

We’ve been here before. Many times. I’m a buying windsock when breathed on by the zephyrs of marketing and perceived betterness. So I hated to see the Rocket sat unloved in a corner of the shed, shunted behind a brace of 29ers that rocked my UK riding world. Which made selling it pretty easy especially as the speed and bravery needed to bring it to life were pretty much beyond me.

Roll forward six months. In four more we’ll be back in the Alps riding* stuff like the Swiss Downhill Course** in betwixt chairlift winching and plummeting down more handy mountains. And now I have a bike almost the same as the one recently discarded to ride it on. Only it’s worse than even that. Whereas the Rocket was a superbly engineered, hand crafted frame from a Cy’s much respected emporium, the Mega up there appears be the bastard love child of a amp-crazed welder abandoned in a dark room with a handful of aluminium lintels.

Pretty it isn’t. Whereas the Rocket was all composite curves and almost OCD attention to detail, the Mega has the look of something brought to life by a million volts and the frightened cry of ‘The Monster is Alive‘. When the delivery van arrives, I expect it to punch through the rear door, bludgeon the innocent driver to death before smashing into the house, eating a family pet then presenting itself at my feet – possibly on fire – demanding whether I’m man enough to do anything other than quiver in its presence.

I think we can all agree the answer to that is a firm no. And then we have to build it. First tho I have to lift it which might be a job for at me and a couple of friends. It appears the FEA analysis was junked for ‘screw it, do those girders come in a bigger size‘. Once I’ve added stuff to make it go forward, up and down and hopefully stop, it’s going to weigh about the same as me. Still since most of its life will be spent on an uplift truck or a chairlift, this is unlikely to be a problem. And I’ve become pretty accomplished at pushing if not.

Let’s get the questions out of the way shall we. An FAQ prepared by the deranged if you will:

Will it be better than the Rocket? Of course not.Will it cost as much to build? Absolutely not*** Will those 26 inch wheels hold me back? It’s me we’re talking about, of course not. How much riding in the UK will it get? Exactly as much time as when there’s a bike trailer, some terrifying trails and sufficient armour to play a major part in a medieval battle. Aren’t I a bit old for this kind of thing? I dunno, if with great age comes great responsibility and great wisdom, then clearly bloody not.

Is it going to be a monster? Oh Yes. Am I an idiot? Again, Oh Yes.

So it turns up later this week. And through a process of eBay osmosis shall I restock my 26inch spares box before hanging it all off the monster. Yes, this is exactly the same stuff I sold not so long ago declaring ‘Pah 26inch bikes, who’d have one of those, talk about old technology‘. And once built, we’ll be off to Bike Park Wales where I expect any acts of cavalier bravery shall be more horse than rider. Get through that unscathed and then it’s all about surviving a long week in the Alps. Might happen.

Still no point dying wondering eh. Rationale and Logic are over-rated. Idiocy and Delusion is where it’s at in 2014.

* or in my case mincing. Having the Rocket last year in no way imbued downhill skills which in no way should invalidate buying another bike to do pretty much the same on.

** which I’ve subsequently discovered my mate Dan rode on a hardtail. Best to gloss over that for now I think.

*** Because I shall be long in the second hand market. As promised to Carol who took about 2 seconds to deconstruct my arguments for new shiny thing ownership before explaining to the children, that yes she had married an idiot.

I know I know, I do that a lot. Today though we’re more about the correct use of the verb as championed by at least a thousand walkers in the Malvern Hills. Sunshine lights their way and winter hibernation is in full retreat. Every evolutionary branch was represented – the double-poler striding out in grim determination, the full-rucksackers Sherpa-ing sandwiches, tea and random paraphilia to the highest point, the sweat-panted sweaty on a post-Xmas guilt trip and the family outing rounded out by bored children and perambulating dogs.

And a few mountain bikers. It’s a source of constant amazement to me that the Brownian motion of all these tribes, squeezed into a narrow range of hills, rarely sparks the tinderbox of frustration. That’s probably because 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} or more of trail users work extremely hard to respect each others space, and do not believe in a hegemony where they are first.

A few do tho. Walkers who wouldn’t dream of blocking another of their kind, but make a literal stand when faced with approaching wheels. Or MTB’rs slicing through family groups on some kind of pointless Strava mission. Cross the streams of these groups and it’s all finger pointing, two finger waving and ‘Outraged of Malvern‘ furiously typing an extreme tirade to the long suffering local rag.

The Malverns have an odd dynamic with half being entirely MTB legal and the other half not*, the ownership model where Conservators steward the land and endless committee’s and steering groups looking to square circles. Or possibly remove them as MTBing has long been the black poster child most darted at by those who a) speak loudest and b) ride not at all. It’s a lazy and sweeping generalisation to point accusing fingers as ‘those who don’t understand us’, but it’s also rationally obtuse to suggest Paragliders, Mountain Bikers, Model Flyers, etc somehow have less ‘rights‘ because the walkers were here first.

So we knew that departing the busiest part of the hills at 10:30 was going to be one of those smile/nod/don’t get irritated experiences. The sheer number of people wasn’t really our prime concern – no it was more the total lack of any grip that had my full attention. Conditions were a cross between riding in the world’s biggest Teflon pan and a re-imaging** of Rollerball. Both Martin and I experienced awesome tail slides – the back end breaking away and heading sideways that is always fun if a) it doesn’t plant you face first in the mud and b) the front wheel doesn’t decide to get involved in the action.

Martin did have an off which he considered a ‘dab‘. The Dab committee ruled that lying supine in the dirt and in no way connected to the bike does not constitute a dab! We also felt need to investigate the Tank Quarry for amusement/terror/pre A&E action. This descent represents the steepest and rockiest trail in the hills. Rocks that initially poke up between slick grass before monstering the whole trail with increasing size and jaggedness.

It was bloody terrifying. Never ridden it so cautiously or with such a high heart rate. Sufficient speed to carry the rock garden felt way too fast, but the thought of sacrificing grip through brake application countermanded any idea of slowing down. A washed out bottom section surfaced rocks like little gravestones, and a fetid step section nearly claimed me close to the end. Even my favourite jump was slick with flowing water, but encouragement from two walkers who clearly enjoy bloodsports saw me take a deep breath and get it done.

Mainly as Martin had already flown off it thereby fulfilling his role of ‘grip tester‘. Back at the pointy end of the hills, the hoards were fully sandwiched and adjusting focal lengths by walking blindly backwards. We did our best to nod and smile although Martin’s response to my pleading ‘what now‘ query as we faced a flange of walkers on the trail was ‘Charge‘. We didn’t really although a few rounds of ‘Rambler-Polo‘ may have been played, and the final steps were negotiated through a Tour De France like lined route, but nobody appeared to be aggrieved.

Not that we hung about to ask. So he hills may be alive with the sound of whinging. Though not from us. Conditions may be grim, our favourite trails unrecognisable and theforecasted weather has no real winter in it, but we’re outside in the sunshine and more than half way out of the dark. For a man of limited ambitions, that’ll do.

* Unless it’s dark. In which case the ‘evening bridleway’ clause comes into full effect.

** As I believe remakes are called now. That’s a terrible thing to do to a verb.

An awesome moniker for the villain in a fantasy extravagancer, and if one substitutes ‘villain‘ for ‘idiot‘ and ‘fantasy‘ for ‘mud-slick‘ you’ve matched a simile to my riding experience over the last few days. Back the world up one rotation, and the anything north of Madrid is ice locked and cheerlessly cold. The trails were rock hard whilst the roads were endless slippy death. A reversal of what we have right now. And that’s a problem.

Winter Mountain biking has a rhythm. A heartbeat marking out Wednesday and Sundays as riding pulses whatever the prevailing weather conditions. Come summer it’s all a bit fibrolated with endless light and easy rainchecks with sun promised the next day. The dark season offers none of this – the weather will either be wet, cold, snowy or icy. If you’re extremely lucky possibly all 4. That’s a good number heralding the drawing of the darkness curtain, when the tedium of multiple layers and on time charging become part of our cylical world.

As do military style logistics mitigating dirty protests being campaigned through clean kitchens. Spare clothes and towels for the rider, bedsheets and seat covers for the transport, hosepipe readiness and preparations for draining the European lube mountain. Weekly brake pads and monthly pivot services. Transmission whittled by day and bank accounts by night. Such activities can be considered as a three month trauma clinic or a sacrifice to the goddess of Spring.

The rhythmic harmony of the Flipperati has suffered a discord this winter. One member* has largely abandoned ‘playing outside’ with a fetish for indoor training be that mating with the unholy Turbo, or racing round banked tracks in heated velodromes. The other two have been slacking off in admirable style; firstly to ride in an entirely different country and then stealing daytime rides when their vocational calling wasn’t looking.

Wednesday last though the Flipperati rode out again. For the first time in over a month – for which we were appropriately punished. My early arrival under threatening but dry skies gave me ample time to search the ride-bag, the car and my fading memory for an essential clothing component. Sadly drew a zero on all counts leaving me with a PE ‘playing in your pants’ approach to lycra shorts. Delivery of gritty arse crack to the terminally forgetful? Sure, where do I sign.

Faffing done, the rain came, stayed and hardened. Specifically at the point when Martin declared confidently ‘it’s slowing down’ which triggered the inevitable downpour. This felt like proper mountain biking as we used to do before getting soft and weather apps. Slogging through uphill mud, sliding sideways through downhill mud, exiting the trail in comedic fashion and wondering if there would be some kind of medal ceremony for any survivors.

Mud-Mesiter Martin was in his element. Or elements – those being slick mud, a cheating front tyre and a lack of imagination concerning tree based impact analysis. Jez and I were more sensible/conservative/nesh chowing down on mud cocktails and wondering whether to crash now to avoid the rush later. The aftermath was interesting; a ‘bucket of doom’ has been introduced in the Leigh Household where exterior MTB clothing must first pass before being stamped approved for the washing machine. The inside of my car appears to have been the victim of a flood event, and my unpadded arse had another feeling – that of having spent the evening in D wing bending over in the shower.

Any sport where the consequences double the time of the actual activity is clearly bonkers, as was I for repeating it two days later in the Forest. Which the previous week had been fantastic fun mainly because I had one of those bike-plus-rider-as-one epiphanies. Not last night. Oh fuck no. It’d have been quicker/safer/far less embarrassing/about the same speed to leave the bike boot-bound and run around the trails.

No one else appeared to be having similar problems. As their lights danced in the increasing distance, I was bouncing off trees, braking inappropriately and just generally riding like a twat. Every time I tried to anti-twat myself, Bad Things Happened. Be that a sashay off a jump leaving me with the option of ‘braking by fencepost‘ or slide into tree, or ‘root-grinding‘ a front wheel which is six inches of compressed terror followed by fetching oneself out of moist shrubbery.

20k of that was more than enough. From about 2k my entire thought process was mainly on staying alive at any speed and wondering – out loud – if it was time for beer yet. If you ride like a chump, ensure you drink like a champ. You’ll be unsurprised to hear I hit both those marks with equal committment.

Today there was much to rinse, wash and clean. And this brief period of unsulliment shall last exactly four seconds into the next ride. Which of course will be tomorrow in line with the winter heartbeat. Come Spring we’ll be Gods of the trail, winter hardened, sideways skilled and seasonally adjusted.

Until then, it’s snorkel, credit card and washing machine research. And wondering how hard it would be to learn Spanish.

* I love the English language. The nuances of a single word are there for everyone to snigger at.

And that is, of course, arse. Up there is the result of the ‘sacrificial‘ mech hanger letting go on yesterdays’ ride. This lump of engineering genius is carefully designed to shear under extreme load, thereby saving the more expensive things it bridges between. Those things being the rear mech and the frame, so a sensible solution to the real world problem of rotational torque being transferred in potentially damaging directions. Splendid idea. Well done.

The OED tells us that sacrificial can best be defined as ‘an act of giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy‘. In this case a£500 frame and a£60 mech. Definitely more worthy and important than a fivers worth of pressed aluminium. However brilliant the idea, functionally the mech hanger has some shortfalls, namely 1) the mech was twisted beyond use and 2) it attempted to eat the frame during the snapping process.

I discovered this only today after removing around a metric tonne of Forest Mud from the bike. At the time, my mighty-thighs(tm) were attempting to generate sufficient momentum to propel rider and bike through yet another sticky mess on the trail*. There was the briefest noise of tortured metal giving up followed by a lose of drive and a feeling of flappage out back.

I can only assume the volume of mud and grit in the mech had created some kind of sideways load best thought of as catastrophic. The sheared hanger split took the easiest path the freedom which was sadly through the back of the dropout. However, my initial concern was the exact whereabouts of the spare. That was closely followed by the realisation that I have never purchased a spare in the first place.

Helpful suggestions from my riding buddies included creating a bastard single speed of the remaining working parts. This feels similar to suggesting a man with a sprained ankle could best manage the pain by hacking his entire leg off. Before I was able to articulate my hatred of all things one geared, Haydn magnificently brought forth his own perfectly fitting spare. Sometimes it’s good to ride the same bike as your mates. Especially if they’ve got some concept of what useful spares might actually be worth carrying.

A quick swap and we were on our way with most of the gears sort of engaging in a non indexing manner. After a fabulous downhill run to Coffee and Cake, an emergency fettle, involving the lost art of mech bending, restored shifting harmony. That lost art by the way involves chanting the mantra ‘please, please don’t break the mech‘ while shutting your eyes and leaning heavily on the innocent component. All good, another 30k of mud and fun before a quick beer nearly benighted us.

Until this morning. Much grumpiness. Mech is beyond help and has been thrown into the overflowing ‘drawer of expensive broken metal things that might one day magically fix themselves‘, frame has been photographed, prodded and poked and is waiting for Cy from Cotic to come back off hols to give his professional opinion. Less professional opinions suggest ‘it’ll be fine‘, ‘hit it with a hammer‘ and ‘hand it over to a man with a welding torch’. All of these these things may come to pass, but for the moment I’ve bolted on a new mech and left well alone.

In the last ten days since my miraculous recovery from plague**, I’ve rediscovered a few things. My Cross Bike is fab, there is much singletrack to find and link up within the radius of this confused bicycle, I really don’t like trail centres much and riding in the slop can be good fun. If only as an appetiser to Spring.

Tomorrow will probably be the last ride of the year. Just short of 4000 kilometres on the mountain bike. Just short of 150km on the road bike 😉 That feels about right.

* not THAT kind of sticky mess. I always find the best way to get through that is to store it on my shoe.

** Self diagnosed. Pretty sure I was close to death on occasion. Not a widely shared opinion in the Leigh household.

Although the difference from Keanu’s experience is there was at least once a spoon. The remains of that saddle once sat proudly displayed in a bike shop gleaming all new and shiny under the brand name ‘Charge Spoon‘. After Martin finished with it, what we have here is something rather less spoon like. I accept it didn’t look much like a traditional spoon in the first place. But now the closest cookery-based cipher we came up with was ‘the cruet’

Industrial Design is a complicated and difficult thing requiring much in the way of creative individuals, mood rooms, coloured plastics and crayons. I know this to be true because many designers have told me so. It’s not just web plagiarising, a quick email exchange with a Chinese factory followed by a decent lunch while the junior designer knocks out some stoner graphics.

For balance though, that’s how every non designer has described the process. Nobody has every tried to convince me that the simple way to repurpose one thing to another is by throwing it at the Malvern Hills through the power of crashing. And yet the camera doesn’t lie – this is exactly how Martin took a solid if unspectacular product and imbued it with something of his own. Possibly a bit of thigh.

If you weren’t there it probably doesn’t make any sense. It didn’t make much sense to me either and I was there. For the bit where Martin was sheepishly mudsting* himself down in front of a few random MTBr’s who were clearly pissing themselves laughing. While Martin was unharmed other than further blows to his dignity, the saddle was not so fortunate. The entire weight of Martin’s Orange 5 – which for mathematical calculations can be considered similar to that of a small moon – had piledriven the poor perch directly into unforgiving ground. From a quite spectacular height as well.

Martin had missed a ditch you see. Only not really, he’d hit it quite hard having found it inconveniently positioned below a hidden drop. His attempt to ride it out soon became an attempt to escape the accident completely by rolling off the side and then gently down the hill. The 5 – now unencumbered by any pilot input ** – reared up before plunging into the hillside saddle side down.

I’m surprised we didn’t have to dig it out with a JCB.

It was one of those ‘take it easy rides’ because we’re off to Spain in a week, so the entire hills are a ‘no mong zone’. I’d missed that memo demonstrated by falling off on a flat bit of trail for reasons best thought of as ‘there is no talent’. I’d then ridden a nasty rock step I’ve been avoiding for about three yearsand desperately hung onto the back of a Orange-Powered Martin on most of the descents.

Both of us were quite relieved to return to the cars without any further incident. I blame Martin’s bike. It’s like bloody Carrie. And now it’s coming to Spain next week. I’m not leaving it in the same shed as my lovely PYGA. There would be nothing left but Swarf and some slightly fatter tubes.

* the well known MTB process of scraping slick mud from clothing, shoes and ears.

** which on a five is generally to point it downhill and wait for a) the end of the trail or b) the arrival of the ambulance.

Racers. You know the type. Defined by an engorged competitive gland fused with unbreachable self belief. Scarily focused and endlessly driven. Success boxed by results and targets. Sure, you know the type. I’m not that type at all as my blotted copybook of event based ineptitude confirms.

Which doesn’t stop a Wolverine like snap of pointy elbows under entirely appropriate contextual circumstances. To whit the temerity of a good mate believing there’s a line his pace and skill can lace between me and that tree. Oh there’s a line alright and he just crossed it. Catching is one thing, passing quite something else.

We’re not talking rock hard race courses here, buttressed by striped tape and peopled by those who’ve confused pain with pleasure. Nor seasonally race-boarded chubby weekend warriors gurning out mid pack mediocracy. No this is something entirely different and rather more configured for fun. It’s a cheeky singletrack nestling below the much travelled ridges of the Malvern hills. It was first an animal track and latterly exactly a minute of tree carving joy in the summer months.

Which have been and gone leaving us with sheep trampled mud, a moistness of dirt running infinitely deep and grip occasionally found but mostly lost. Martin built most of this trail and claims first-down blagging rights in conditions from dusty to disastrous. Except tonight when the tyres were slicked with a mud pack, and direction was 5{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} rider input and 95{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} the current direction of travel.

I slipped by as he slipped off and gently pointed my slithering steed in the direction of any local geography not entirely filled with hurty trees. Luckily – and I use this word with some charity – the sheer volume of mud ensured velocity was restrained almost sufficiently for brakes not to be required. Careful use of the word ‘almost‘ there as a brief caress of the rear* slowed me only as a direct consequence of the tyre breaking away and attempting to overtake the front.

Probably best not to try that again. Instead hip steer the sliding bike onto a perpendicular bearing to a phalanx of glassy roots, take a deep breadth, unweight the now rather portly mud-transporter and breathe again as success is briefly declared when considering the alternative. I’ve always been a big advocate of the maxim that if ‘at first you don’t succeed, redefine exactly WHAT you mean by success’

All this dithering and procrastination has Martin line astern on my weaving tyre. In commentators parlance he’s ‘all over me like a rash’ and looking ‘fast and racy’. In my language he’s clearly cheating and that’s my speciality. All that separates us from trails end and bragging rights are two ninety degree bends that reward bravery and balance back in those halcyon summer days.

Try that now and earn a free mud pack with added twigs, stumps and surprised rabbits. I’m not really prepared to let Martin by, nor am I keen to splatter various important but squiggly body parts against a tree. So rather than make a decision, I curl my toes, worry a bit, run out of time and push oh-so-gently on the bar. Somehow we’re though the first and setting up for the second but Martin is now ‘all over me like a cheap suit’

Grr. Testosterone. Stupidity. Chuck it’ll in, it’ll be fine. Of course it will. Of course it wasn’t. Rear wheel slides are fun, front wheel slides are scary, both wheel slides are essentiality a finite period of time before brave face hits the dirt. This was a proper two wheel slide enacted at the exact time Martin made his dive for the inside line. Good luck with that.

I’d stopped worrying about being overtaken because any such thoughts were overtaken by hanging onto a bike that was rebounding between one axis and the next. The front and rear clearly had a proper strop with a refusal to agree on a common direction. Corner of one wide eye saw a bar to my left but by this time I was a passenger somewhere between ‘riding it out through awesome bike handling’ and ‘bracing for impact‘.

After a few more fishtails we regained control of the bucking bronco and stuffed it happily into the stile** declaring to almost nobody who was interested ‘that my friends is an entirely new race move. Forget that nonsense around tactics, strategy and pointy elbows. No, what we have here is a Nigel-Mansell-esque approach to trail ownership. You’ve just been privileged to witness is ‘the startled Turbot’

It only works if you’re riding with like minded individuals who really should be doing something rather more productive with their Friday nights, a trail at least tyre deep in tractionless mud, a configuration of perfect corners and a view that racing is really rather less serious than some will insist it is.

Lucky for us then that’s exactly what riding with your mates in November brings forth on every night ride. Don’t get me wrong, I’m already pining for Spring but until then I shall be ‘doing the Turbot’. It’s al whole load of fun and I’m fairly sure it’s legal 😉

* the brake in case you’ve lost the thread. And certainly not the front because that’s the hydraulic equivalent of penning a suicide note.

** Honestly, you’d never get a horse over there. I shall be writing to the footpaths officer 😉

Recently there’s been much in my life around the ball, specifically being it. Mostly while external events fetch ever bigger bats and punt me to ever more ridiculous locations; some physical but mostly mental. A year ago similar things were happening which has me considering if a better life tactic would be to retreat under a blanket at the end of August, and refuse to be roused until – let’s say – the following May.

The sporting analogy is of course exhorting you to become at one with the incoming spheric in order for the impact be it with bat/foot or something more American*. In mountain biking terms, lately I’ve been more the ‘trail‘ which sounds great until we unpick it a little to understand my connection with the trail was indeed a merger between man and land. Because of course it was man stuffed face down in the land.

None of these have been particularly painful unless one considers ‘dignity‘ a body hosted organ. Except for the last one which strongly suggested I was exactly one second from a proper ‘oooh that’s nasty, call an ambulance, I’ll fetch the spatula‘ when attempting a tricky and steep obstacle for the first time on my hardtail. ‘Be the Ball’ I thought, turn off the targetting computer, use the bloody force, whatever just don’t fuck it up”. Just downstram of fucking up is essentially a headlong plunge towards terminal velocity broken only by concrete fireroad.

I wasn’t the ball. I was instead the idiot missing the grooved line completely so travelling rather too briskly into a rocky steep that had the bike behaving in a manner suggesting it’d be far happier if I exited at any time of my choosing. I chose instead to close my eyes, hang on, somehow ride out a crossed wheel highside through the power of sheer terror to arrive at the bottom more than mildly perturbed.

“wooah that was a big one Al, we thought you were off there’ was the sweary-edited summary from my aghast riding pals. ‘Really, did you think so, completely had it under control, you should try that line, it’s gnarlllly…duuuuude’ / ‘Really they asked?’ / ‘No of course not fucking really. I’m never doing that again, not because I’m scared or anything – just don’t want you to have the trauma of you collecting my teeth and maybe a few stray but unidentifiable body parts while we wait for the blood wagon‘

My non ball like status has extended into vocational life with a far more appropriate similie being ‘be the inbox’ or ‘be the volunteered’. Somehow I’ve mostly managed to ‘be the eyeball‘ after Herefordshire county hospital finally dispatched me homeward without insisting on my company for a few weeks. The eyeball in question is mostly healthy and occasionally useful for seeing things, so on balance a better result than a few sleepless nights suggested.

In all of this, I felt being a parent might be a good thing. Jessie has outgrown that very bike we bought exactly a year ago. There’s definitely some beanstalk behaviour going on seeding the inevitable search for something a bit bigger. No sooner had the sad decision been made that the ‘Franken-Turner’ had to go, another one turned up on that vast Internet thing.

2004 Turner Burner. God I so wanted one of these. Just as I was about to buy one they stopped making them. But we have one now, after a ride on the rather splendid Yer Diz trail in Bristol where we met previous owner and all round nice fella Dave. The plan was only to buy if Jessie liked it, and if she really wanted to carry on riding and if it wasn’t an old nag, and, and, and… And since she threw it roughly to the ground about 300 yards in, this because a discussion full of moot.

It was pretty much perfect other than the scars foisted upon its innocent frame by my second-born. Money was exchanged and hands were shaken. The only issue – as defined by someone who is 12 and therefore pretty much unimpeachable in terms of breadth and depth of knowledge – was the rather dull frame colour and obvious lack of pink.

Fixed that today with the help of my friend Matt who did all the hard work while I attempted to find stuff in his garage. To say it’s messy does absolutely no justice to the word where one would walk into – say – a child’s bedroom and declare ‘pick up your clothes, put that stuff away, pass than sandwich to whatever branch of medical science deals with fungus, etc’. No what Matt has created is basically walled landfill. If you move anything, anything at all, there’s a better than evens chance the entire south of Herefordshire would be flattened in the ensuing rubbish tsunami.

Apparently Matt once threw something away. For this there is absolutely no corroborating evidence. You could get bloody Time Team in there. Well no actually you couldn’t unless a) they were all very small and b) didn’t mind hanging like bats off the ceiling.

Anyway regardless of his layered view of the world, this is a man who knows how to wield a powertool in a way I can only dream about – ‘right then we’ll just drill out these cable guides, should be fine‘. And it was. If I’d attempted that, it’d have been akin to aluminium mining. I did get to play with the impact driver tho which makes met think actually I’d quite like to ‘be the drill’.

So bike built. Daughter overjoyed. Considers it ‘just about pink enough’. We’ll go ride it when she wants to do that. But not before. She has many things going on in her life when compared to her rather mountain bike obsessed dad. And that’s absolutely fine. As long as she stops growing soon. Otherwise we’ll have to get the lintels raised.

Be the ball? Maybe not. Be the fall? Really try not to be. I’m good with getting through the day and having a giggle. Be the fool? Yeah, that works 😉

* I am happy with baseball. I really am. It goes on a bit but that isn’t my real problem with it. All would be good if they’d just ‘fess up and call it rounders.