This is my friend Ali. She, like me, has been in MTB rehab for the last couple of months. Yesterday we swapped considered medical advice and playing the long game for playing outside.
This should not be confused for proper mountain biking – whatever that is. It isn’t this, a yomp of our local woods shunning entries of proper trails and staring jealously at their exits. Strictly green lanes interspersed with ribbons of sun dried dirt featuring no features at all.
And that’s just fine. After 11 weeks sweating on the thin edge of riding bikes, today I broke free from the stifling statelessness of cartoon graphics and static trainers to ride in some real landscape. Pedalling up a familiar hill*, it was obvious this was the right thing to do. After nearly three months of trusting the sage advice of confident medical professionals, it was time stop dithering and place my own agency firmly in the driving seat.
Zoom out from individual appointments at busy fracture clinics and performative consultants wearily spelling out advice that’s most Google Evo. And what you get is a multi sphered Venn diagram with lots of forthright opinions and not much shared best practice. It’s really not their fault, it’s mine for failing to remember I know my body best and what it can and can’t do.
What it couldn’t do for a couple of weeks was pretty much anything involving my left AC shoulder joint. No idea why but Gods it was painful. I imbibed a maximum dose of anti-inflammatories and backed off the Physio. As this coincided with an x-ray showing bone growing progress but no join, that driving seat was occupied by Mr Grumpy and his extensive selection of liquid self medication.
Left hand image: Splatterday. Right hand image: 7 weeks in. Good but not great
Original break on the left, 7 week x-ray on the right. What’s hard to see is the shadow between the break showing a healthy growth of new bone. Just not quick enough for Mr Impatient here. Not even close.
Riding was still verboten with a side order of finger wagging re: heavy lifting, shoulder loading and anything interesting you might want to be doing requiring mobility greater than picking up a book. This was somewhat at odds with a previous appointment which fully triggered my “fuck this” gland. Time to forge my own path.
Not some steep path dropping into a world of Gnar. I need this bone to heal because the alternative is metal and another 12 weeks. But it was time to tear up those scripts carefully narrated to tell you not very much at all, and move beyond nuanced advice frustratingly based on age not ability.
So riding then. The second outing of the “Beige Adventurer” after a loop of the FoD family trail. Which was both fine and deeply unsatisfying. Great to be out on a bike, but not riding stuff that makes riding bikes so bloody brilliant. Roll on a week and a Friday night meeting of the Bikeaholics had us plotting a loop heavy on bimble but light on fire roads.
Which is where we came in. Less than two hours later we were out- me with a slightly achy shoulder, Ali with a sore hand but both of us grinning like the idiots we are. I didn’t feel we’d been released from boring indoor rehab, more escaped into a world we’d previously taken entirely for granted.
Not today – I was 100% aware this was a stunning day to ride a bike. Trees heavy in summer leaf, vegetation bulked by endless sunshine**, seasonal smells reeking of desperate pollination. Solar burnished dirt stretching out endlessly between deep green boundaries. This is my world, and it’s best experienced on a mountain bike.
Even when the rider of that bike is biblically nervous. No knee pads, no attempts to be fast***, the whole hill is a no crash zone. My collarbone might be healed, it might not, but blunt force trauma at the site of the original injury will end in an outcome all those professionals can agree on and summarise with a patronising “I told you so“.
My new gravel bike. It’s like cheating up hill.
So go steady, lean on the brakes, lean into the turns, un-stiffen nervous limbs, look around, look up, put muscle memory in that driving seat, feel the tyres load up just a little bit and bloody well rejoice in how that feels. It isn’t much but it’s more than enough.
It’s only a short ride but my legs are wobbling when we’re done. It feels a long way from those 6okm/1200m+ days of May. I know some muscle strength has gone and hooked my cardio fitness on the way out. Thats okay – I can get those back, even if those three months of brilliant riding have gone for ever. Got to make my peace with that. And then there is something else.
I shared my dirty secret with Ali and Dave. I’ve not missed riding as much as I thought I would. Right up to the point when a flow-y trail pointed downhill and I found what I’d been missing. I don’t know exactly what that is. I wish I could bottle it, but right now I’ll settle for riding it instead.
We’re not out of the woods yet, but it was bloody great to be back in them. I’m still a recovering Bikeaholic. And that feels bloody fantastic.
Not sure I earned this beer, but I very much enjoyed it anyway 🙂
*but not on a familiar bike. That’s a whole post waiting to be written.
**I just need put on record the God level trolling this summer has been. It feels personal 😉
***no change there then. Well I have attempted it, but it’s rarely happened.
Bike Packing. Something I wanted to like and do more of. Neither of those things has come to pass. Reasons for which may soon become apparent. Read on for the thrilling narrative of why it’s not me, it’s the bike.
However, I’m making probably dangerous assumptions about the level of interest that whinging interspersed with facile route observations* can sustain, but hey if nothing else there are plenty of pictures.
Because as soon as Guy “Beeeeaaauuutiful” Kestevan uploaded his YT tour of this route, I was in.Even tho my only previous bike packing experience was the Lon Las Cymru back in July 2019.
I do look quite a lot younger there. And a bit thinner 🙂
Having sacked off the King Alfreds Way about three times due to illness, injury and inclement weather, the planets finally aligned for this trip. Sadly my LLC buddy Adam could only make one day, but happily first reserve Nige stepped up. He doesn’t have a gravel bike so ‘adapted‘ his Santa Cruz Hightower by adding a bit of air in the shock, some slightly less sticky tyres and the brilliant Tailfn rack.
I was on my 2022 NukeProof Digger- stock except for some wider Richey bars and an 11 speed mech that went up to 51. At no point was “camping” on anyones agenda**, so it was three excellent Hotel/Pubs on route, a kit list pared back to the encouraging forecast and absolutely no idea how things would go. Both Nige and I are pretty fit, do quite a lot of long rides but are more winter than spring chickens 😉
Also the longest ride I’d ever done on the digger was about 50km.
Yeah that’s a bit longer than 50km.
Still no point dying wondering eh?
Day 1: Knighton to Montgomery : 70km/1150m climbing.
I am clearly attempting to look fit and ready. But instead I just appear to be constipated 🙂
The route starts in Shrewsbury town centre. We didn’t because Knighton is way closer to home and I had a sneaking suspicion that this would be a ride of two halves. Or two hards as it turned out.
End April can be – and regularly is – banked gray cloud, 12 degrees, grim headwinds frequently punctuated with savage rainstorms. Not today, wall to wall blue skies and summer temps. A good way to start a route that is both brilliantly planned and brutally sadistic. Often at the same time. Let me furnish an example- first proper climb after 10km meandering up the valley on quiet lanes.
Doesn’t look like much, but loose gravel at 14% grade on loaded bikes is no gimmee. Definitely had to pause for thought half way up. Once up there though, there’s an ancient long ridge (“Kerry Ridgeway”) – somehow still puddle filled after weeks of dry weather – but easy mlles after I’d been forced to stab the front tyre with an anchovy. Not a great start for the “Road+” Senderos, but the repair held and amazingly this was the only mechanical we had the whole trip. Other than my knees and I don’t think they count.
Two tumps, many hills
There’s a lot of gravel on this part of the route. Most of it is perfect for the digger, but some was more rock than gravel with a few steepish descents. My 160mm rotors – previously fine – seemed to be struggling to slow me down as much as I’d have liked. Views were amazing tho.. this is at the ‘two tumps’ viewpoint.
Along with the views were many and varied steep climbs. I regularly saw 15% on the Garmin and up to 25% at one point! 40-51 loaded up is still a struggle up there – for me anyway. There’s also not a great deal of resupply on the route. We had a quick bar/bottle fill at Clun after the 2 mile descent off the ridge. After that not much until Newtown. We experienced Newtown as any experienced tourist would- straight through without stopping and onto the canal path 🙂
Leaving us just the joy of a steep road climb to Montgomery. Sure there’s the valley road but it’s fast and open and no fun on a bike. This is the joy/pain of the route, you absolutely attack every major town in some kind of hilltop pincer movement. Often finding yourself meandering up some random hill in apparently the wrong location. Pretty sure there are at least four Church Stretton’s in Shropshire for example.
Anyway got that done, I was feeling pretty good. Nige had it harder on the MTB on the road climbs, but he absolutely smashed the next two days, in the same way they smashed me up. We even had time for a mooch round Montgomery castle. Our first one of the tour. Very impressive it was too.
Once we’d run out of things to point phones at, it was down into the one horse town that Montgomery is (and the horse appears to have left!) and into the bar for a well earned beer.
Quite a tough day. It was blooming hot and there wasn’t much shade or cover. Would have been approx 100 times worse if it was wet as it had been only a few weeks ago when a friend rode it. Still we’d enjoyed the variety of the route across a good balance of trail types.
Tomorrow though was our hardest day, I’d always planned this to get the three biggies from here to far side of Church Stretton over the Stiperstones and Long Mynd done in one hit.
On reflection, possibly a bit ambitious.
Day 2: Montgomery to Upton Magna: 81km, 1815m of climbing
After an excellent stay in the Dragon Hotel, Thursday dawned hot and it was only going to get hotter. 25 degrees, maybe more. Couple of salient points here- firstly there is bog all cover on the hardest three climbs, which you spend longer on than expected because RideWithGPS uses spot heights and the Garmin uses, well, GPS (that’s my guess about RWGPS). So what I thought was a 1600m climbing day was over 10% more than that. And 1600m is hardly an easy day!
The three big climbs- Stiperstones, Mynd, Stretton were all properly steep in places, lots of grass, gravel and rock. Some tarmac but I’d have been happy with more 😉 1100m of climbing in less than 30km. I was nearly 100% on the hoods climbing up and on the drops going down. My lack of proper gravel riding was probably the reason by the end of the day my palms were blistering. The digger is quite short as well, it’s a fun bike but maybe not ideal for this type or route. Or I’m a wuss. That’s certainly a possibility;)
Nig on proper bars and proper gears!Are we.. no we’re not there yet
Photos never show the gradient! Tough climb, but amazing views and I live in the Wye valley so I’m used to big skies and rolling hills. This though was something else. Really hard to take your eyes off it, which when descending at my level of gravel bike skill came very close to consequential a few times!
Still not there. We’re somewhere but not at the top. And this is the first big climb of 3
Climb to the Stiperstones done- didn’t bother to go actually climb the stones, done that before, so instead dropped down in the next valley which I’ve ridden up on a MTB. It’s a pretty good surface and blooming fast off the brakes. Not sure my heart rate came down much after the climb.
Yes we’re definitely there at at last!Stiperstones in the distance.
That’s Nige pointing back with a “I’m bloody glad that’s over” expression. Sadly this was merely the aperitif. On that note time for a spot of lunch.
Stopped at The Bridges for an ice cold Lime and Soda and a generously filled bap. Too soon after we’re were back climbing, this time over the Long Mynd, a mere 375m above the pub.
Making use of the 32inch gear 🙂
First time pushing. That was a steep and loose climb and I really couldn’t be arsed. Nig got up it I think but Ads and I engaged the 32inch gear 🙂
The descent into Carding Mill Valley/Church Stretton was pretty full on. Pretty sure I’ve ridden it on a MTB and Nige dispatched the tech sections with aplomb. Ads and I walked down and there’s no shame in that- odd tho the only 1km section on the route needing either proper skills or a walk. Seemed very out of character with the other 99+%. Still did get to ride some lovely singletrack on the digger and it’s more than capable. I still kind of wanted my MTB at this point. In fact that was my feeling across the whole day.
It may not look much but it was bloody terrifying on drop bars!Not lost 🙂
Full fat Coke and double espresso in Church Stretton represented my desperate approach to refuelling. Ads – suffering from a painful neck injury from a previous ride – left us to find his way back to his van. That’s a whole other post in itself- fair to say it wasn’t straightforward! Nige and I had *only *450* metres to climb according to my route plan. But somehow spread across 50km. That didn’t seem right but neither was I at this point. Hot, bothered and a bit knackered.
Terminator Nige powered by cake headed up the absolute shit of a climb from Church Stretton which appeared to hump us up 150m only to drop us back on the flat road out of town. I was a bit grumpy at this point. About the only time when the dial cranked from Fun to Type-2 fun. If the weather was rubbish, it would have smashed against the “no fun at all” stop.
We’d mostly swapped gravel for dirt which would normally be absolutely fine. But hanging on for grim death had every bone from ankle to shoulder queuing up to write a strong letter of complaint about their treatment.
Misery not shown
Looks fab eh? And it was mostly except the roots, big dips and tractor ruts not shown. The final climb flipped tarmac for another – for me – impossible off road singletrack climb. Not so much a sting in the tail, more a hoof in the slats. Still having met a quite elderly gentleman riding the route on a 60lb fat bike festooned with sufficient kit to sustain him for, I dunno, maybe a nuclear winter, I felt significantly less heroic, so gave myself a talking to and just got on with it.
A navigational triumph had us route south of Shrewsbury, ignoring the official directions, instead loping 10km off an already long day heading fast into a weather front that had extreme wet and misery written all over it. Arriving at the very welcoming Haughmond Inn in Upper Magna, the lovely staff were keen to show us to our room. I countermanded that with a polite but firm priority involving their bar, their beer and my immediate requirements.
I even got to mutter my favourite pre-first-sup axiom “if I told you how much I needed this, I wouldn’t have time to drink it“. Thanks Zaphod.
Another tough day, properly tough. We regularly ride 60km/1200m+ on a summer MTB ride. But this felt so much harder. On the upside brilliant weather, great company, lots of laughs, stunning scenery that just keeps on rolling out amazing views and a post shower feed ensconced in a snug bar while the rain rattled the windows outside.
Pleased to have done it. Probably wouldn’t rush to do it again without a change of bike. Or knees.
Day 3: Upper Magna to Neeton. 60km, 1180m climbing.
A bridge too far?
Back in Jan when the route planning was mostly in my head, the idea was go hard first two days, then easy the second two. That’s exactly the opposite of the official route where you roll out of Shrewsbury on road and easy gravel, climbing easier gradients all while making good progress. I kind of get it as chucking people at the second half first up might be a bit dispiriting, but I’d still back my route over theirs.
It is a route of two halves. Now we were into more rolling countryside- switching between Wales, Shropshire and Herefordshire was barely noticeable other than road signs and speed limits. But this felt more like “home” to me.
Riding into a Turner painting 🙂
There was a lot of this kind of thing. Early on we met the fella prepping for the end of the world. He’d been caught high up in the rainstorm and had had quite the night setting up his tent in a storm. Still fairly sure he’d dispatched some local wildlife with whatever hidden weapons were in one of his many packs.
This was a day less of ancient landscapes lightly touched by humans to very obvious industrial heritage. Nowhere more obvious that Ironbridge where we marvelled for a while at 300 year old engineering, gave it a respectful nod and then headed off to eat some cake.
That cake lay heavy on the next climb. And the one after that.
The route now flicked between grass-up-the-middle tiny roads, old railroad tracks and rock hard dirt bridleways. Garlic and bluebells signposted the way and everything was pretty good in the world. Until we hit a bumpy field when all my yesterdays became very much todays problem. Still nice place to stop to take in the view while various body parts grudgingly shuffled back into recognisable human biomechanics order.
This definitely reminded me of the Wye Valley. It’s such a good way to cover distance – keeping the speed up but not road’y-ing on tarmac. Good fun on the gravel bike as well as it’s so quick to change direction and easy to loft over roots with a bit of speed. Sun was out, everyone we met seemed to be having a good day, no trail conflict, no grumpiness just the joy of riding your bike with no real purpose other than than a pint a bit later on.
Wild garlic and a pint a few hours away. Hard to beat that.
The last climb was a chewy 200m but I was wise to the elevation vagaries of the route now. It wasn’t especially steep so dispatched with a gear or so to spare. The rock hard descents were still taking names, mostly of my crumbling spine but still a bit of a rush with line choices treading the line between “brave” and “catastrophic”
Never go “full gravel” 🙂Last climb of the day is DONE!Very late lunch of champions 🙂
We arrived at our final night’s accommodation with 3 minutes to spare before it closed until 6pm. Our impeccable timing was rewarded with a room key and a couple of beers to enjoy the garden with. Beer, Shower, PowerNap, back in the bar for 6pm ready to order most things on the menu. Sometimes twice. We didn’t really do lunch, but by jove we certainly did dinner 🙂
One day to go and it was a bit of a cop out. For which there are reasons. Some of them possibly valid.
Coffee and Cake. With our reputation? 🙂
Day 4: Neeton to Wigpole. 37km, 715m climbing.
Somewhat belated but still relevant – there is so much history lightly buried on this route. Often not buried at all, remnants of castles, fortification and long lost towns act as crumbling waypoints and signifiers of long forgotten battles. It’s a rich and violent history with the Marcher Lords brutally suppressing anyone who defied them, or whom the King wasn’t very fond of. So mostly the Welsh.
Nowhere is this better rooted in the modern day than Ludlow with a good chunk of its castle still dominating the high ground. We had to get there first with a couple of minor obstacles in the shape of pointy hills blocking the way. Leaving the Pheasant pub (another recommendation, have the pie or the fish, or the cheese, or in our case all three!) we spent 10 minutes on a busy B road to reacquire the route. It was the kind of crap experience that puts sane people off cycling. It also highlighted how well the CtC route is planned, so we were grateful for that gravelling our way though some massive estate apparently all belonging to a single person. Maybe some history hangs around.
To complete the loop we needed to feed our legs into the hilly grinder of another 60km and 1200m of climbing, Was never going to happen. I’d planned the pick up as close to home as possible, and – having been at it for three days – didn’t feel the need to be a completist in terms of hills and kilometres. Even when my legs still felt pretty good and my back was given the day off as much of the route was road. Not sure if this was part of easing people in who started from Shrewsbury, or just a lack of bridleways.
We rolled into Ludlow after a couple of hours and paused for caffeine and a marvel at how busy everything was. Anyone would have thought it was a bank holiday weekend. Having seen almost no one for three days, it was quite the shock! As was the weather, which while still sunny, realised it was not high summer and reverted to late Spring with a chilly northerly cutting through not enough layers.
I signalled the retrieval vehicle promising a slap up lunch just in time for Nige and I to send those weary legs up one final sharp pull from Ludlow through Mortimer forest. I know there are loads of official and non official off road routes through here but the GPS resolutely pointed to the road and I was absolutely fine with that.
The climbing really never stops!We’re done. All downhill to the pub from here!Loads of great trails that way. But not for the gravel bike!
There are some great MTB trails up there***
All that was left was a fast road descent, where I properly scared myself with a butt clenching speed wobble and a final meander through windy country lanes to Wigmore when the day was called, and beer and medals were awarded.
Well done bicycles. You continue to be amazing.Worthy? Oh yes 🙂
So yeah a bit of a cop out. And I’m fine with that.
Scores on the doors: 3 1/2 days, 252km. 5025m of climbing. That’s the same climbing as my previous tour but in HALF the distance. Oof, it’s a hilly bugger all right.
Life behind bars
So would I recommend the route. Absolutely. Variety, views and vast amounts of elevation. Would I ride it again? Yep, now I know what’s coming I might have one less beer on day one 🙂 Same bike? Nope, I think I’m done with long gravel bike rides.****
A perfect bike for me for this route would be a lightweight steel hardtail – something like the Cotic Solaris – spec’d with a 120mm SID, dropper post, light wheels, XC type 2.2ish tyres. That would be way more fun down and better – for me – on the off road climbs.
It’d be less good on the road but a good trade off for me. Nige and I reckoned two days were better on the MTB, two on the gravel bike in terms of terrain. Even so, hardtail for me. Might need to go shopping 🙂
Kit wise, used everything except my rain jacket. Took way too much stuff last time out.
Next trip? Two day “Lightening” tours I think. Maybe a couple of train stations to make it more than an out of back. Pack super light, wait for good weather and just go. Camping tho? Absolutely not. Like I say, I’m not that kind of idiot.
Great experience tho. Packed with a whole load of fantastic memories.
*we climbed a hill. then another hill. Then another ****** hill.
**because while I accept I am an idiot, I’m not that type of idiot.
***We rode them last week. And yep, fantastic fun on the right bike.
****This has come to pass. Another blameless bike punted out of the ShedOfDreams. A post shall follow with what passes for a reason but more importantly how I intend to balance N from the current N-1 🙂
Seeing out 2024 sees me – through the medium of detailed statistics – stuffing the tragedy into tradition. Or not. I’ve covered about the same ground although ridden a bit less and run a whole lot more. Strava – through it’s black box of dodgy metrics – tells me my fitness is good and even improving. Some days I feel like that, others I just feel my age.
Still as my friend Si is fond of saying “at our age, every day is a gift‘ so we shall enjoy it while we can, and reflect on the qualitative not the quantitative. I certainly enjoyed completing* the “100 days of exercise“, so much so that it’s continued to be my annoying daily partner (ADP) even after limping over the line on Christmas Eve.
Again a delve into the murky statistical world of activity recordings correlates good things going up and bad things going down. However, having set myself a goal of running a10km outside in 57 minutes or less by end March, some kind of training plan accelerating the withered frame to flank speed is the only bulwark against a misplaced confidence that running that distance inside counts for anything.
So that starts tomorrow with the Garmin helming the coaching ADP role. I’ve given it a target date and speed, and it’s spilled out a training plan that appears to be entirely disconnected from 10 years of data that same company holds on what it laughingly calls my “athletic performance“. We shall see. And suffer I expect. Still with dry January barely a day away, 2025 is setting itself up for enjoyment antonyms, so let’s instead pretend none of that is happening and wallow in all that my 2024 picture library can offer.
January
A month of endless filth. Even by the UK standards of winter misery, this felt like at least 100 days of rain, wind, cloud, more rain and storms. That ride was mid month and is a fair and accurate representation of exactly how shit it was.
Still Carol and I did escape to Madeira for a week successfully chasing the sun and its warmth.
February
(c) Steve Trust
A return to Bike Park Wales after a few years away. Steve, Em and I had a fab time even though it was raining all day. Only stopping when temperatures dropped enough for sleet to be our dampness of choice.
Matt and I found about the one dry day to clear a trail lost to forest harvesting. That was hard graft!
March
Winter failed to get the Spring memo. Reluctant to crank the season ratchet, it first froze then snowed. The white stuff covered up the filth for a bit, but it endured and we were all getting properly sick of the mud and the slop.
(c) Steve Trust
So heading off to Spain was the perfect antidote. Four days of partially uplifted dry trails. In my case mostly with just the one brake. Lots more of that and other nonsense here: Malaga YouTube Playlist
April
Returning from Spain, Spring finally kicked off. With a great bluebell season and dry – nay dusty – trails to play on. The hardtail was finally retired from its winter campaign leaving the RipMo and Digger dug out for these pined for conditions.
And we added Roxie “the carpet of chaos” to our family. She’s now the size of a small snub nosed furry elephant, and has massively enriched all our lives. Apart from maybe Lola’s who’s still wondering if she’s ever going home. A post on Bitey-Von-Fluffle and the convoluted way we ended up with a second dog only I wanted shall follow at some point.
May
Oh what’s this? A new bike? Surely not? On yes Shirley, a pre-loved** 2019 Yeti SB130LR. Always wanted one but could never face paying the eye watering RRP. This might be my most favourite bike since my first Ibis Mojo 3. Took it to Porlock to ride with Debs and Martin and was rewarded with blue skies, fantastic trails and good humans to spend a long weekend with. We’ll be doing that again in 2025 I hope.
Martin and Debs were then in town for Annie’s birthday. Matt fired up his outdoor Pizza oven and a fine time was had by all. At least one of which did not have a fine time the following morning 😉
June
This is my favourite time of year to ride in the Forest. It just explodes with growth and every plant is a shade of ‘that must be crap CGI‘ bright green. Here Matt, Cez, me and Johnnie are dropping off a fun little rock. Well three of us are 🙂
Went on hols with the family. First time for all of us since 2018. No familicide was committed so we might try it again 🙂 The Algarve was surprisingly lovely once away from the strip, but a tad warm for ‘blue to angry lobster in 30 minutes’ here. Still it did marginally prepare me for July.
July
Madeira gets three images. Which entirely fail to narrate the experience of 12 riders descending on a tiny island criss-crossed with epic landscapes, superbly built and maintained trails and dust. So much dust. Until the last day when us Muddy Fodders found conditions very similar to winter in our own valley. Other than being about 25 degrees warmer.
One of my favourite idiots, “Leaky” Lewis coming in waaaaaay too hot on the steeps nestling under the Kymin. Such a fun night ending in the Boat at Redbrook before a wobble home on the old railway. Only slightly tinged by the encroaching darkness signalling Summer was over halfway done.
Walked the four waterfalls starting at Aberdare for my birthday with the family. Quite a tough day out that, but we were fortified with ice creams on the way back. Great to have the whole fam there. Even if they did insist I carried ALL the kit!
September
Back to Molini in the Ligurian alps for the third time. It was as fantastic as ever even tho my elbow was not. We rode our favourite trails and explored a few new ones. Mostly in sunshine, once in world ending hail that had us running for the bar in Molini and wondering how we’d escaped drowning.
Arriving home, we met all of Roxie’s family. None of them were that colour by the end of the walk. Took Roxie to the the dog groomers. Based on the state she was in, not sure we’ll ever be allowed back 🙂
October
Steve’s birthday ride. Deep into Autumn. Leaves are browning out and carpeting the trails. Still dry tho and we had a fab day out.
Back into full lights night riding season. Still pretty dry and warm tho. That didn’t last for long!
November
A 3 day trip to North Wales was a huge success. Great accommodation in a tiny village that somehow hosted an amazing deli and a gourmet restaurant! Had a very big day riding the Gwydr trail and some ‘accoutrements‘ totalling 1200m of climbing. So much fun was had, we’ve rebooked for May.
Early snow. Roxie was pretty well camouflaged. Didn’t last long but long enough to remind me why WFH 4 days a week is definitely a good thing!
December
Going out the way we came in. The opening image was from our last 2024 MTB ride. Conditions remarkably good until they weren’t. When skills, grip and tyres are not enough, time to deploy the emergency tripod!
It seems apposite to finish on the people under the helmets (in so many ways this is both funny and true 🙂 ). Here’s Matt and Jimmy working up an appetite for the riders end of year curry. Again a fine evening and a slightly less fine morning after.
So that’s 2024 mostly wrapped. The stats don’t tell the story and I’m not sure the images do either. But they remind me how lucky I am to be healthy and fit to do the things that make me happy, mostly because I do it with a tribe of friends who make the whole thing just so damn life affirming.
I used to write “the joy of riding mountain bikes is 50% where you are riding and 50% who you are riding with”. I’m not sure that ratio is quite right.
The New Year storms are raging outside. Rain and snow in the forecast. They can do their worst, I’m ready for 2025 and all the adventures it will hold.
See you on the other side.
*to be absolutely clear- the enjoyment was finishing not participating.
**only not much based on the condition it turned up in.
Today’s offering very much reheated yesterday’s leftovers. Not posting much and yet posting pretty much the same thing. It’s probably a disappointment but unlikely a surprise. So here’s Al dropping off a very little thing, and yet still making a meal of it. Sod YouTube and TikTok, THIS is the kind of content the Internet was waiting for.
Let’s pretend it’s something else. A celebration of sixteen years of riding in and around the Forest of Dean. Early on, my riding was split between these trails and the rather more pointy versions nestled in the Malvern hills. Those hills are grafted from sponge like geology mostly presenting a few mud free routes all year round**
The Forest isn’t like that. My first ever night ride on a filthy March evening penned a shopping list urgently presented the next day with ‘tyres and lights‘ up front and heavily underlined, closely followed by a litany of ruined transmission components pushed way beyond reasonable use. **
Over 1500 rides split the time between then and now. Rarely do I head north to the Malverns’ nowadays- too many people, but not so many to ride with, most of whom have eBikes, and while the views are pretty epic on the right summit in the right weather, I miss the trees even when they are bare and leafless.
So back to the Forest- specifically the east side poking up both sides of the river at Symonds Yat. I know almost all of the trails here, but not with the kind of familiarity which breeds contempt. If there is any kind of sense of being home then this is it. Ridden these ribbons of singletrack in all conditions, from frozen solid to baked hard with everything in between- that mostly being the gripless slop we like to think of as ‘skills enhancing’ or ‘greasy snot death‘ when not reaching for a positive spin.
Even in winter it looks magnificent. Trails barely discernible indents hidden under a leaf rug. Long trammelled memory and – failing that – divination skills help a bit, but it’s not unusual for a train of riders to start together and exit separately. Sometimes having fallen for the siren call of drying trails before deep leaf litter reintroduces them to the teflon properties of dead vegetation.
And what a bike to be riding them on. Since the Yeti was introduced on the Hedgehog, the ‘spares and repairs‘ build has seen upgrades worthy of a skunkworks project. The latest trinket worshipping at the altar of “the shiny” are a set of forks EXACTLY the same as the ones I bought it with. They are newer tho, and a lot shinier, so you know better. On a scale of 1 to better, let’s give them a solid 8. No, I will not be sharing my working at this time.
In conditions not primarily categorised by winter crapness, this bike is just brilliant. Reminds me of my first ever Ibis- the equally fantastic and as flawed Mojo3. They share that same ‘make me want to go out and ride’ vibe and ‘bike’s got your back, it’s going to be fine. Probably’***’
And because of that, I nearly took it to Molini. Instead I packed the trusty RipMo which cannot be held in any way accountable for some very cautious elbow-worried riding, but there’s a lingering doubt that maybe the Yeti would have been – well – a bit more fun.
Not better, but different. There’s something going on with that bike which bypasses a chunk of my riding neurosis’s. Take this little drop for example which Steve is confidently bossing with narry a worry.
I bottled it for ages. Habitually swerve drops requiring any kind of well-timed front end hoof. I either panic and go early, so perfectly executing a manoeuvre predicated to slam the front wheel directly into ground at a less than ideal angle. Or too late, which has similar consequences yet somehow looks even more stupid.
Room for improvement then. First go, put Newton in the pilots console and just ride off the bugger as fast as I dare. Momentum beats gravity in a rock, roll and crash contest. Thanks Physics, done me a solid there. Second up, slow up, spot the gap between rock and ground, do the chuck the bike away thing there, land safely, call it done so next time it’ll not be a ‘thing’.
I’d risk the speed is your friend thing on most of my bikes, but doing it properly needs something a bit special. Something I can place exactly where I want with absolute trust that if I’m 50% good, it’s 50% better to close the skills gap. The Yeti is that bike but I have no idea why that is. And this is not the time to find out.
We’re not halfway out of the dark yet tho. So at least three more months of conditions 100% not suited for a bike flush with eye watering expensive parts, beautifully engineered, to munch on gritty detritus flung from the rear tyre. But on every dry-ish day, I know which bike is going out clean and bringing me home big smiled and filthy.
Makes me wonder if I need all the others. A topic for another time. Sure I’ve been there before but at least it’ll stop me posting videos like these 🙂
*”mostly” is doing some heavy lifting here. The steepness and slickness of some of these trails had me throwing shapes, mostly off the bike on many sloppy winter days.
**I expect any warranty claim including “drivetrain” and “Forest of Dean” was autofiled into the “denied” folder.
***No bike is every going to be able to mitigate all my hang ups 🙂
This is probably the longest gap ever between posts, making you* hopeful of entertaining, humorous and even possibly uplifting content. All killer and no filler as those youthful creators mostly lie about.
And indeed lots has been happening, none of which I intend to spend hardly any time wibbling about. Mostly because wibbling evo is available for your viewing pleasure on my “MoobTube” channel. Feel free to subscribe, you’ll be with at least two other friends victims.
Really though, it’s because I’m keen to return to a couple of old tropes; namely age and injury – often unhappy bedfellows and always unwelcome squatters in my increasingly optimistic landscape where one is just a number and the other can be easily managed.
Before that exciting update, here’s a long weekend of Spanish riding with a few good friends and one less brake than would be deemed the safe minimum. We’re already booked to return next March, and my strategic plan to avoid similar maintenance issues are mostly new bikes shaped. But more on that, somewhen.
Anyway after watching those, if your appetite for barely edited, randomly captioned and bang average riding has yet to be sated, then the Madeira edit is for you. If nothing else the scenery is stunning and the trails magnificent. It’s a hell of a place to ride a mountain bike**
I think that’s us all caught up. Other than some bastard sneaking in another birthday that has me pining for the angst of turning 50, and a couple of annoying injuries which leave me less than ideally configured for six days uplifted riding in and on the trails of Molini, starting in less than week.
Yeah that Molini. Third time in two years because it’s the first place I’d want to ride when given the choice. The choice this year was not as clear cut with it being the third time I’ve done my planet-ruining bit by jumping on a plane to go play in fantastic scenery. There’s only so many times leading with the ‘not sure how many of these I have left’ excuse ends with a race for cheap flights at local airports***
Before worrying about the bits of an arm genuinely useful for holding onto the right grip, I was gripped (ahem) by an existential bike quandary. I’ll spare you the details – others have suffered so you don’t have to – other than to conclude the Big Bruiser has been stood down for this one to be replaced by Mighty RipMo. Already done two trips with this bike, and Matt’s given it a good seeing too so any riding issues are going to be 100% rider related.
A rider who is in around 80% – age compensated – average condition. The other 20% represents a shoulder still a long way from right after it all went wrong back in late April and an Tendonitis inflicted elbow begat by….. painting 🙁
Shoulder first. Exiting a trail I’ve ridden only about a 100 times, another of those bastards cited earlier – in this case the inestimably obscure Forestry England**** – dug a great bloody trench between trail end and rock hard fireroad. A fireroad I impacted with all the force induced by being forcibly ejected from a previously speeding mountain bike.
Lost some skin, a bit of mobility most of which has come back. The strange clicks and graunches continue through gritted teeth stretching and what, from a distance and a mighty squint, passes for simple Yoga. Every time I stand in front of a perfectly formed YouTube human casually rotating a toned hip with 30% more articulation that these old bones can manage, I wonder if I came to this about 30 years too late.
The elbow tho. Not so peachy. Keeping the faith with that Holy Trinity of Ice, Ibuprofen and ultrasound. Apparently giving up alcohol would help, but there are limits to my commitment to rehab. Spending two days painting freshly sawn boards with multiple coats of Ducksback left my elbow hot and swollen. Yes, I know this merely confirms my unfitness for any proper work, and the irony that I’ve injured myself protecting the contents of a shed currently unavailable for use is not lost on me.
This was a month ago. So in the best traditions of man-medicine, a therapeutic approach based around smashing that sore joint down dry and dusty trails interspersed with some extreme gardening seemed sensible. Until a ride last week was so painful, I had to accept Plan A was a dud, Plan B to ignore it and hope it’d go away didn’t play well with departure dates, so we skipped immediately to Plan C – invoke the help of a proper medical professional and diligently follow her advice.
Hence the frozen peas multiple times a day. A side benefit is this has definitely upped my vegetable consumption if only by osmosis. Improvements are evidenced by right handed door opening now back on the elbow menu, whether this translates to hours and hours of fab but tricky trail riding is still a concern.
Still this has stopped me incessantly checking the weather, or worrying about other trivialities. I guess we’ll strap it up and send it off with the rest of the withered frame and see how we get on. Last year was one of the best trips we’ve ever done so the bar is set high.
I do like a high bar. Any bar really. As long as it’s not a bar to riding late summer trails to the best of my limited ability. Right, where did I leave those peas?
*not regular readers, obviously.
**and visit. Lovely in Feb as Carol and I discovered taking a break from what felt like a very long and wet UK winter.
***There is little intersection in the Venn of Cheap, Local and Not the middle of the sodding night when attempting to travel by air. Hence Luton at about 3am next week.
****performing seemingly random and pointless destruction on innocent forests since 1919
Top Gun* is a trove of oft mined bastardized lines; for example “I feel the need, the need the cheese” being deployed on an almost weekly basis. And whenever a car park is offering up exactly zero spaces, the negative ghostwriter reference is instinctively grumbled out**
Recently though the ShedofDreams(tm) has been similarly hash tagged. Short of digging down Bat-cave style, we’re pretty much at maximum capacity. At least some of this isn’t my fault, what with Carols’ and the offsprings bikes squatting on three prime spaces.
I suppose there’s room for an argument that the shed isn’t merely a repository for my increasingly unhinged bike buying strategy*** and five for me versus three for the entire quorum of other family members is not an unreasonable split. Slippery slope that, best quickly deflect by foregrounding the latest frame crowbarred through its revolving doors.
Firstly nothing has left. Hence the head scratching problem of additive bicycles. Secondly no desperate new niche is being funded here- no, what we’re looking at is a 2019 frame visually distanced from anything I own, but virtually similar travel and angles as the mighty RipMo. Yes, you know the bike triggering so much angst when selling it, I happily bought another one last year.
Before moving on, probably worth a quick recap of the current shed inventory. Cotic Hardtail brutally slopped through the endless winter, Nukeproof gravel bike that is both fab and mostly ignored, the aforementioned mighty RipMo proudly sporting dust from a long weekend Spanish Raid (we’ll defo be back to that) and the Big Dog Nukeproof Giga ready to save my wibbling arse from all sorts of undesirable outcomes come trips to scary places.
Oh and the electric Vibe. But that doesn’t really count. Not in my world anyway. Even so, I can see there is no canonical model where ramming a new bike into a non existent space makes any sense. Like that’s ever stopped me. The Yeti SB130 “Lunch Ride” is nothing more than a want, and nothing less than a perfect storm of selling a frame, idly browsing Pinkbike classifieds and a lowball offer I fully expected to be ghosted.
Fast forward a week or so, and an amicable pickup quickly turned into a stripdown and assessment of a maintenance sparse five year ownership. It’s had a life this frame, but still looks fine sporting its new invisiframe jacket if the viewer is – say – 10 feet away and squinting. More importantly the ‘watched the video concluded its elven magic‘ switch link was recently replaced. Knowing its propensity for self destruction, not quite sure why I’ve bought yet another bike entirely useless in the ‘wet clods of dust‘ conditions characterising nine months of our riding year.
Matt spannered in – replacing all the bearings some of which were on the just about okay side of fine, others crying for the sweet release of death, strapped on some new wheels and my entire box of new spares to complete the ‘budget build‘. The shock was quite ill as well but a swift swapage – see having all those bikes make good sense sometimes**** – saw me soon navigating well known Yat trails on an unknown bike.
Firstly, it’s not very RipMo whatever the geometry comparison sites tell you. It’s a little sharper, a bit more focussed, a bit more you need to be on your game. End of ride one had me summarising the experience as 3Ps – Planted, Plush and Pointy. I’ve ridden some brilliant climbing bikes, but that switch link is sorcery. The Yeti stays taught and high in its’ travel, but is somehow super compliant, same over stutter bumps, downhill no idea but fun was being had with an alliterated F. Sure it’s a maintenance bomb waiting to financially explode, but what a thing.
It was dry enough to ride some of the harder trails and other than wanting a higher front end, the whole Yeti experience felt well worth paying the faff tax. It feels a bit special, a bit ‘oh hello been riding bikes for ever but there’s some special sauce here‘ However, in a departure to previous reviews, I’ve actually ridden it a whole lot more before declaring it ‘a keeper’.
Firstly we returned to Porlock for the first time in seven years which was, frankly, epic. One photo and two vids don’t come close to doing it justice.
Came home and rode it in the slop. Got a bit irritated how hard it is to clean. Looked at it afterwards and decided that was absolutely fine.
I need to start riding my Giga as we’re off to Mediera in a few weeks and other than refitting the serviced shock and pedaling up the lane, it’s been a shed queen for the best part of a year since the RipMo took my riding eye.
Mmm bit of an elephant in the shed there. While the SB130 and the RipMo really do ride differently, they fight for supremacy in the overlapping ‘what bike shall I ride all day on fantastic trails when the sun is out’ segment, where a single set of legs dictates a choice.
I’ll keep both whatever. Jury’s out on which one will get the nod most often. Tomorrow though, it’s Yeti time. Again.
At least I can’t fit anything else in the shed. Really, look straight, look up, look sideways, bikes everywhere. All close together. I’m sure I can hear the RipMo whispering “You can be my wingman anytime” and being rebutted with “Bullshit.. you can be mine”
These are problems I’m not desperate to solve 🙂
*the original. I mean the new one is fine and all that, but the original went full cheese and I love it for that.
**Mostly followed by “Butts, I want some butts” which you really need to watch the film to understand the narrative adjacency.
*** charitable use of the word. Wish fulfillment and craven shiny new thing syndrome closer to what’s actually happening.
This, dispatched lightly, from my good friend Matt, landed with more of a thud than expected. Equally unexpected was the thud as first my shoulder, rapidly followed by the remainder of my tumbling torso, smashed into a fire-road baked hard by a capricious sun long driven from the sky by endless rain.
Ironic that* I pontificated mightily a second before, as what proxied for an out of body experience was – in fact – a precursor to a full body slam experience. The rapidly shrinking distance from air to ground triggered some desperate dendrite-synapse action mostly focussed on a less than balletic twist to protect the drinking arm from the inevitable blunt force trauma,
How did we get here? Short answer, riding bikes in the sunshine in what felt like the first time for about ever**. Longer answer is our spring-lamb keenness to be released into the fields triggered an early start and a few extra trails before a gathering of those matriculated in the study of ‘bluebell day‘. The forest looked mighty fine; swathes of flowering garlic and bluebells slashed by petrichor drying dirt.
“Dryer than last week” was my pointless assertion to those who I share almost every ride with. Nods affirmed Spring – while not in the ascendancy – was striding through the trees, extracting moisture from our favourite trails and repurposing it to trunk tributaries. So a mostly green canopy shielded us from above and grip pulled hard at clean tyres from below.
Oh God we’ve waited so long for this. Sure there’s a skill and a dopamine hit of pitching the bike in on sodden trail and managing the slide, but dry trails hit different. Slam the front end in, know the back is following in an exact arc, smash an off camber root stack knowing you’re going nowhere but fast. It’s such a thrill and I’ve missed it. Even tho I didn’t feel I could fully trust it, as lying in wait were shaded puddles and sweating rock.
We were nearly late because fun beats promises 100% of the time. Finally fetching up with the rest of the crew, route faffage was at a minimum as we knew exactly where we were going. Bluebell day has many destinations but the first is the ‘main line’ when riding is secondary to experiencing.
Had to get there first. Up the notorious ‘middle climb‘ – a 150 metre pull from the river I’ve done 100s of times and it never gets easier. Making the ridge, we extended our out lap through a secret garlic trail presenting at its absolute best. Not massively exciting to ride, but what a thing to look at. But still not the main event.
To get there, we diverted just a bit to ride a couple of favourite trails at speeds not realistic even a couple of weeks ago. So enthused by the conditions, Matt and I abandoned the agreed route and pedalled hard back to the top for another full run. Great concept, terrible execution.
There’s that thing about ‘not dying in a ditch‘ over something. Never thought it had a literal quality, but as kinetic energy was converted to an airborne vector, that certainty took a bit of a hit. As did the bike falling into a recently dug trench someone inadvisably positioned at the end of a fast trail. The bike and I piled in. Only I came out. Mostly in a parody of a working human with flapping limbs akimbo.
“Impressive” was the comment from behind as I groaned my way through a full system reset. There was some bleeding, later there would be some bruising, later still my shoulder still isn’t quite right but considering the smash bang thud denoting things had gone a bit wrong, I’m taking that as a win.
Patched up***, we finally converged on the prime forest bluebells. Fifteen years of riding this trail when they’re at that absolute finest has in no way diminished the experience. It was as sensory-overload-y as ever and just remembering to do bike things is mashed into a tiny corner of your brain, while the rest attempts to catalogue those wide angled images for future retention.
No chance. it’s a confluence of people/place and time. It’s why we slog through winter. It’s why we lament the changing of the seasons. It’s why we watch the ground cover grumpily emerge from the slop. It’s why we celebrate the first flower. It’s just why we ride.
And then ride some more. Ended up with nearly 1400m of climbing on a 60k day. Those are big numbers even for us. Most I’ve done for a while. Life in the old bruised dog yet. That feels better than good. Excuses are easy, doing it is hard but I love that feeling of being totally finished, washed out, done in.
So that extra climb, that little bit more, that little nod when asked ‘shall we just ride one more trail as it’s so bloody great today?“, that ‘shut up legs’, that first taste of a cold beer, that talking shit with fellow travellers, that next 24 hours when stairs are a problem, that wishing it could happen again right now.
That. More of that.
Tired is for tomorrow.
*90s hit Alanis Morissette ‘isn’t it ironic’ is lyrically distanced from irony in a way that’s really bloody annoying. Just me then? Right, as you were.
**last week, was Neil’s “10 feature” birthday ride – made about 9 of them stuck somewhere between committed and Newtonian inevitability. Dry it was not.
***My friend Em lent me a plaster to stem the bleeding from an elbow. She didn’t want it back 🙂
This is a post ride image familiar to any cycling enthusiast/insufficiently medicated masochist* marching on through a winter campaign of dark, cold misery. Those identifying primarily in the secondary characteristic claim not only that sliding through three** months of endless filth is a riding hack for upgraded summer skills, but further it is just damn good dirty fun.
Grudgingly I’ll partially accept the skills thing, although – for me – those skills are primarily mental; acceptance of tyre sliding anxiety, bloody mindedness on wheel sucking climbs, acknowledgement that ‘still alive’ is an excellent outcome on a favourite descent, and a stiffish upper lip enduring endless slogs finishing in twilight or starting in the dark.
As a list, it’s hardly compelling. Alternatives include fitness hibernating in winter and only being dragged painfully from the dark as evenings lighten, exchanging real landscapes for virtual worlds, or refusing to interact with the elements until that fabled bluebird day or frozen ground. None of these in isolation replace the type 2 fun of arsing around in the mud. And while I still enjoy it, as I get older so it does too.
This year, the seasons have basically disappeared. Started raining in December with no sign of it ever stopping. Spring may be emerging slowly from sodden ground, but everything trail related is still very much in winter mode. Okay the water might be a bit warmer as it floods over your ankles, but even that is overselling the joy of slop redux represented in the long term forecasts.
Here’s further evidence of the mudmageddon aftermath of a night right. Trousers may be mocked by a few of my riding buddies, but these water repellant bastions of leg wear save my arse and points south from high pressure trail enemas.
Why do you wear trousers?
The state of the kit tho? Ready the bucket of doom because the washing machine is off limits! By February I’m really done with it, but persevere because Spring is just around the corner.
There was a brief respite in January when winter bit back with proper minus temperatures, freezing the ground hard and our faces with it. But for a couple of snatched rides, it was summer from the axles down and we returned from rides not obviously auditioning for the part of Wye Valley Swamp Monster.
The rain returned and I didn’t. Lots of reasons but hardly rode for a few weeks (I like to blame the treadmill but honestly if we didn’t have that, I’d have found another excuse) and other than assuaging guilt didn’t feel the slightest inclination to drag myself through a few hours of mud.
None of which we found on our stolen weekends riding in Malaga (back to that next time). T-shirts, dust, beers on the beach. Oh yes this is why I love mountain biking. Returning to – you guessed it – torrential rain, the four Spanish Exiles were still motivated enough to head back out for a tour of the forest over the Easter weekend.
Central to my winter riding is the GrimWagon. Steely in purpose and shorn of all but a few bearings, it’s the perfect foil for real mud and imagined glory. Fat, chunky 2.6inch tyres running low pressures provide the grip while a gert 160mm fork up front offers the bounce. In between are consumable components aging quickly, but unlikely to be upgraded until the mythical dry line returns.
Riding a full suspension bike in conditions like we’ve had suggests an edge of lunacy far distanced from the general stupidity of riding when you’re the owner of a nice, warm house. You’re not getting much benefit of all that extra travel when the tyres are rim deep in soul sucking mud. And after the ride, the already tedious clean up routine would be augmented by the counting of collapsed bearings and a checking of available funds to replace.
Not so the GrimWagon. Ride ends, gets chucked in the shed. Sometime before the next ride, gets taken outside, beaten lightly with a brush to remove the worst of ‘dust clods’ and freshened up with some chain lube. Occasionally I’ll spray some WD40 into the mech, but really only out of a sense I should probably be taking maintenance a bit more seriously.
It just soldiers on tho. First 1000m of climbing for a while and much of that hard earned on tracks barely recognisable from their summer forms. Downhill wasn’t much easier, sliding around, trying to be brave in the corners- often with ‘enduro leg’ flailing about in a parody of balance.
Occasionally tho due to very local sandy topology and a fair wind, a dry trail emerged from the slop. And very welcome it was too. Then the GrimWagon reveals its other side, a proper sorted ‘hardcore‘ hardtail that’s slack and carve-y while being supple and somehow precise at the same time.
Is that a dry trail I see before me?
Sunshine was as welcome, if not more so. It’s hard to be annoyed that more bloody rain is coming when the big yellow orb is in full joy delivery mode.
I know it’s a rare privilege to get to ride bikes mostly whenever I like with friends who make any such ride a giggle, even when the grim has fully descended. I also know I shouldn’t moan about it, because one day I won’t be able to ride whatever is happening on the ground and in the skies.
I know all that and I’m still going to moan. But only for a few more weeks hopefully. We may not have escaped winters grasping muddy clutches, but Spring is on its way. I can feel it, I just can’t see it right now.
*delete as applicable. Or not. Both states can exist simultaneously. Schrödinger’s mountain biker.
What you are looking at there is a pool table. Appreciate it lacks some of the standard features of a traditional setup. Even considering such innovations as pocketless pocketing and 10 kph break offs, it’s aesthetically a tough sell. And there’s the rub*, you need to be thinking more in the abstract.
You see it should be a pool table. Same location, similar cost, slightly smaller. Ever since we had this room mostly rebuilt before the terrifying consequences of the original construction landed on our heads, the plan was to install a pool table because, well, I’ve always wanted one.
Justification wise it’s a solid business case; two player game, fun experience even for the shorter attention span, something for friends to have a crack at, and likely to be reasonably amusing when mixed with alcohol. But like my bike buying strategy, stick your hands through the glossy facade, and the emperor is having a major wardrobe malfunction.
Firstly neither Carol or I are massive fans of pool. She’s hardly played and I can hardly play. About 20 years ago – in front of an amazed apres-ski bar audience – I nonchalantly dispatched the last seven stripes before thin kissing the black into the middle bag. In ski boots and with a couple of beers on board. Winner stays on. Stayed on for one more and didn’t win another game all week. Or many since.
The last of which must be a few years ago. The only bloke I could consistently beat was my ex-marine mate who explained his lack of prowess was largely due to spending most of his adult life on a boat. So while we kind of liked the idea of a pool table, it was clear once the novelty wore off, repurposing as a clothes horse or unusually shaped table would best define its long term use.
Instead we bought the dreaded treadmill. Dreadmill if you will, and we did before parting with our own cash by borrowing one from a friend. Retrieved from under a sofa it clearly hadn’t had a hard life. I did my best to change that and – based on the horrible weather outside and my increasing hatred of the turbo – decided it could be the missing link between my increasingly round middle aged beer repository and the trim and honed athlete I was sure might be hiding in there.
Let’s face it, no single piece of equipment is closing that gap. However there is some evidence** that running and cycling are reasonable bedfellows. Certainly I’ve ached in all sorts of interesting new places, and my knees are delighted with yet more blunt force trauma from my wonky running action.
Running action fails to describe my thrashing limbs attempting to kick my own arse. I run like Han Solo about a minute after they defrosted him. Any stiffer and I’d probably take root. While the legs flail about on the dangerous margins of the deck, my upper body demonstrates an ugly fusion of man boobs and simple harmonic motion. Can almost kick myself in the arse AND punch myself in the face.
Still this didn’t deter me from some rigorous research*** ending with a two man lift flatpack, and some head-scratching while interpreting instructions translated from Chinese to English by a person familiar with neither. Eventually Carol sent me away and sorted it out, while I eeked out a bit more from my Zwift subscription by bluetooth tethering the new machine to the spare TV.
Then I had a plan. Well Zwift had a plan: “Cycling to Running 10k” . 10 kilometres in 10 weeks. My initial disappointment that this didn’t translate to 1k a week was assuaged by ignoring week two entirely instead running by the sea under sunny skies. Sadly week 3 was back in the UK and the plan has morphed into ‘well that was a bit of a hurty bastard’
Going to finish it tho. I mean at the moment the cost per mile for that treadmill would easily run a Chieftain tank. And I’m sort of enjoying it mostly because it removes any feelings of non turbo use guilt. Turbo should be twice a week but God I am so fucking bored of it after five winters. I probably should sign up for some races, but that’s brought us full circle back to my pool win ratio.
Moe worryingly not ridden outside for three weeks. If challenged my defence is simply ‘you’ve looked outside have you? Into that endless morale slicing rain? If I want a night riding experience, probably easier to lie face down in the field and get Carol to throw buckets of freezing water over me”****”
I’ll be back out tomorrow though. I’m even looking forward to it. Last time out I had a proper lie down and quite a few near misses. And conditions were way better. I expect nearly a month off will have both improved my fitness and sharpened my skills.
And if not, well at least dry January is over so we can go to the pub. Oh and this blog was mean to be day 3 of our Pyrenees tour from last year. But the photos of sun kissed bikes and dusty trails made me so depressed, I couldn’t face writing it. Don’t worry once the sun comes out, I shall introduce you to the delights of the “Devils Toilet”.
*of the green. No? Here all week. Try the fish.
**It’s the Internet, confirmation bias is always a few clicks away. Still I have lost about 2kg. I hope that’s not giving up the beer. I can’t face the idea that somehow beer is not good for you.
***Mostly “how frigging much? I want a treadmill not the whole bloody Gym”
As of last week this blog is officially old enough to drink. And if it could, I’m 100% sure it’d be methodically traversing the spirits shelf, after downing eight quick pints in the local. Sadly the best it can hope for is the sweet release of an electronic death, an unplugging from the matrix, a fading ghost in the machine.
No such luck. Even at £4/Month to host, it represents excellent value for the – increasingly – occasional article, poorly edited moob-tube video and the odd decent picture. Often stolen from somebody else.
A fridge full of misery
I’m sharing it’s non drinking misery this month. And playing to my idiot strength, I idly enquired ‘How could Dry January be any more miserable?” which is how we came to borrow a treadmill. Having bodged a hooky connection to Zwift, two facets of running inside have immediately presented themselves.
Fridge loves misery
Firstly it’s even more boring than the Turbo. Until last week, I’d have scoffed that anything – and I mean anything up to and including being locked in a dark room with nothing other than a 24 hour recording of Lisa Tarbuck thinking she’s amusing – could be more soul crushingly wretched than going nowhere slowly. Treadmill running is, by some, er, distance. Distances that are shorter than virtual bike rides but this lessons their tedium not a jot.
Even when multiple bikes ride through your anatomically deceitful avatar*, there’s no fun to be had. Mostly because no ‘fuck you bloody cyclists‘ gesture is available from the keyboard you’re sweating important bodily fluids over**. Massive development oversight right there.
Secondly, it’s still better than running outside. Especially at this time of year. Which is odd, as flipping back a planetary cycle, I was enthusiastically advocating the joys of middle aged fresh air jogging. Well yes but changing my mind/forgetting what happened even 5 minutes ago/generally making stuff up is SOP here on the Hedgy. And most of that landscape is currently underwater.
Type 2 fun – not to be mistaken with misery
And outside, I’m pretty sure my buns aren’t as tight as that lying avatar disturbingly wiggles on the big screen. They’re certainly drier and warmer and I’ll take that. Especially after another GAP ride that had all the right elements if not in the right order. Wind, rain, rain, brief sunshine, rain, frozen rain and – as we were flooding the car park emptying our riding gear – glorious sunshine merging into a spectacular sunset. Upside- not quite as damp as last year.
See – almost dry!
It was fab tho in the way than indoor activity really isn’t. We’ll be back outside tomorrow risking full mud immersions and frequent lying down. It won’t be great, but it’ll still be great fun. Afterwards. In the pub. When I’ll be nursing a lime and soda while silently hating all those sane, happy drinking customers.
Still a month of sobriety*** may trigger an urge to write more stuff. I’m not short of content, but after all these years most of it isn’t even interesting to me anymore 😉 We shall see. If nothing else, I’ll fall into February a bit lighter, as fit as I can be arsed to get, not totally decrepit and mostly counting the many blessings I can’t find anything to whinge about.
Oh and if this blog is 18, and I was 38 when I first committed brain fart to electronic medium, that makes me… wise and experienced. Yes that’s it. It’s what almost everybody says. On that cheerful note, a happy new year to anyone so starved of content they keep finding themsleves back here.
*Unlike many in the virtual realm, my vital statistics are enduringly accurate. Zwift mostly ignores these, instead presenting you as shining figure of health and vitality. There are no fatties in Wattopia. Must be because all the Cafe’s are closed.
**Treadmills are WAY more dangerous than static bikes. Decent prospect of face planting on the roller before being bounced out the back with a better than evens chance of blunt force trauma metered out by stout furniture.
***Well until 29th Jan when Carol and I are winter sun bound. Fully expect I’ll be partaking in the “Weatherspoons Liquid Breakfast” at Bristol Airport 🙂
