This is about as much fun as a middle aged man can have armed only with a spade, a small bicycle, a wood with a status of “probably legal” and an afternoon running away from other stuff that is apparently more important.

More important than riding bicycles? A strange concept that resonates somewhere between “hollow” and “not at all” in my world. So armed with a mate, a foldingentrenchmenttool and a mental age of about 7, we set about clearing trails in a bijou landscape filled with bomb-holes, steep sided run-ins, leaf-fall and apparent abandonment.

For about three years, the mutt and I haveperambulatedalong the main track, occasionally exploring by shuffling down banks and fighting through brambles. At no time have I come across anyone showing an interest in the acres of non-coppiced trees, or – in fact – anyone at all. One snowy December, twenty happyminutes were passed by Murf and I arse surfing down the banks into the bomb holes. It’s may not be much of a wood, but it feels like mine.

Surroundedby larger wooded areas – all of which are filled withpheasantshoots – and bookended by the main road in the valley and the crumbling one on the ridge, this little bit of green seems largely forgotten and neglected. So perfect for some trail poaching.

In my lunatic cross-bike days, trails were scoped out but largely ignored mainly through fear of death. And with so much brilliant riding 20 minutes away, it’s easy to understand door step ignoration of something half as good but twice as convenient. But today we had a proper look and were consumed with “Line Disease“*

Poaching trails not entirely without cheek has a certain etiquette. Pitching up sporting petrol driven chainsaws for example is frowned upon. As is chopping down anything that’s still alive, although selective pruning is fine. Drop-Shipping home built planks and north shore isn’t on at all, but smoothing soil over a likely stump is absolutely the ethos of cheeky trails.

We scoped a lot but built only a single trail before the call of night, tea and medals. It’s a pretty fun 20 second drop off the ridge, cranking right between two trees on off camber loam, bit of speed into a corner needing a berm and then two jumps, the first little, the second merely a trail pimple.

But with a bit of thought and a lot of effort, there is a loop to be made here. It might not be the 100k of sublime singletrack hidden in the Forest or the steep and deeps of the Malverns, but it’s right on my doorstep and I’ve a winter to get through.

My deeply held view of legally-ambivalent trails is simply this; we’re not destroying anything, we’re not breaking anything, we’re not nailing stuff to trees**, we are merely making use of dead space, forgotten land, abandoned acreage. I almost think of it as a public service – although I accept other views are available. Wrong, but available.

But the very best thing about creating something from nothing is this; while you may be 44 on the outside, it males you feel about 11 years old. And only someone with a less developed sense of humour than an accountant would see this as a bad thing.

* Many MTB’rs suffer from this: Look at something clearly unridable by you, stroke chin, rotate wrist 90 degrees describing the line through a shark like wiggle of the hand and declare “that’ll go”. Pause. “Probably“. Pause. “Fancy trying it first?”

** Until recently, a practice exclusively left to Christians and Canadians.

What we’re not talking about here is my endless quest for the the “right” tyres, or some nonsense around “rebooting a franchise“of a tired old brand. The former, I’ve mostly given up on and now pursue a strategy based entirely on “what’s on the rim” while the latter is just marketing speak for “if you want some new ideas, you’d better pony up some more money. Lots more money”

What I am talking about is the search for lost cycling Mojo. Which was last seen back in April just before I spanged my elbow, and has only surfaced through fleeting sightings since. For which I’m entirely blaming having to travel to London. Because otherwise it might be my fault, and we can’t be having that.

London is toxic in all sorts of way beyond just the fug and smog of ten million nutters. It has engendered sufficient evening of benderage that means – even if I live another 50 years – my liver will never be a candidate for transplanting. And outside of treating boring hotels with liquid medicine, the early mornings, late nights, crap food snatched at stupid hours ruined my riding week. And London extended way beyond geographical boundaries however much I kidded myself otherwise.

Excuses not to ride were not just vocationally based. Other stuff to do at the weekends, sometimes with family, occasionally with paintbrush, probably too often on a hillside hunting down composite shards. And even on the bike, it wasn’t always as enjoyable as I remembered. Road biking nudged in for a while until the Dartmoor was done, after which the road bike came out exactly once in three months.

I wondered about this. What was missing from my cycling experience. And came to the worrying conclusion it was me. Or at least my enthusiasm and drive to get off my arse and go do stuff I’m sure I loved. Riding is always better than not riding – that’s an established “fact” here on the hedgehog, but sometimes rings a bit hollow from the comfort of a sofa.

It could be the repetition of too many tyred old rides. It could be the pace, too slow or too fast. Let’s be honest here, too fast is probably the issue. Once the goal isn’t some kind of peak fitness, the whole blowing it out of your arse suddenly looks a bit silly. It’s like those lists that you will never every get done. There is no finishing line, no point when you can put your feet up and say “I’m done“, no time when you ride because you absolutely want to rather than because you feel you should.

Whatever it is, a few things will change. Or be added. Injuries in my case, a couple which have slowed me down even further. So managing muscle groups against the twitch has seen me taking the climbs a little easier and trying to make up the time on the descents. Given a choice between riding with my friends or riding with the kids, I’ll go for the latter option every time. The road bike has a place and that’s not hung on the wall. It’s great for that stolen ride when you need to create that space in your head, and as an antidote to a winter of drudgy mud.

But mostly the change will be about what I’m riding for. I’ve never been short of guilt (either perceived or warranted) as a motivation for all sorts of stuff, riding included. Every ride is one that you won’t be able to do when you’re old(er) and (more) decrepit and should be viewed thus. We’re stupidly lucky to be able to combine our love of the outdoors with bikes.

Sometimes it is good to to remind yourself why

During a long-forgotten bicycling epoch I think of as my “klepto-insanity” period, nine partially assembled MTBs covered a few niches and quite a lot of floor space.

My coping strategy was to occasionally sell one, even more occasionally ride a few and far too often add yet more by simply mixing eBay with beer. After a particularly difficult whittling session, this approach left me with four 80mm forked hardtails. Two of which had only one gear.

I cherish the memory that my honing strategy had cured me of bicycle buying obsession. Which it had in the same way a 50-a-day man proudly explains – while not exactly stopping – he’s cut down. To 48.

The revolving door acquisition policy now mostly rotates around a paltry remaining five. Four of which have realised “faithful old retainer” status after clicking round multiple years. And the young buck of the bunch celebrates a year in the shed next month. This happy news is somewhat mitigated by it being a second road bike of course.

But Woger Wibble has been the mainstay of my commuting life, and the second incarnation of the ST4 the same when dirt is involved. The Boardman only comes out on sunny days, the little DMR diminished to a kids accompaniment, and the Cove largely forgotten.

Until last week. The Orange had put me into the red with post Pyrenean component replacement, and was left sulking in Nic’s workshop waiting for, well, everything to be fixed. So out came the Cove sporting ambitious summer tyres and spiky flat pedals.

The occasion was my birthday; a ride which started in the Forest and ended in the pub. As all proper rides should. 30km+ of lush singletrack finishing on the final descent of the new blue trail. It would have been a fantastic ride in any circumstances because dust, sunshine and drinking/ridding buddies will guarantee that.

Yet this felt rather special – and not just because of my surprise at being able to still turn the pedals having had another year creep up on me – a stolen ride, loafing about on deserted singletrack while others were at work, new trail nuggets being shown and falling back in love with my hardtail.

Far from my worries around a lack of talent compensation and unclipped feet being ejected trail front, the whole experience was nothing short of fantastic. I had forgotten the whole ‘corner by thought‘ tautness and simplicity of a well sorted hardtail. Sure you work a bit harder, but the reward is more than worth it.

Back on flats, I rode at least one nasty little roll down that’d have me pausing for thought on the ST4. And a light Ti frame draped with nice bits is pretty quick in any direction, including sideways on well sculptured berms.

More fun as well on the final rollers and zip-line like descent. Properly involving especially with the Avid brakes offering all the modulation of an rear thrown anchor.Over a number of beers, I enthused what a superb reconciliation ride that had been, and how the Cove would be the bike of choice for a while. If only to delay financial ruin triggered by endless bearing purchases.

That was a week ago. Since then I’ve ridden four more times. And every one on the newly repaired ST4. Come winter tho, the hardtail will be sacrificed to the gloppy gods.

And it does just go to show what we’ve always known; while all bikes are ace, some bikes are just more ace than others.

I was still in the Pyrenees. Specifically above 2000m underneath the Les Angles bike/ski park. More specifically still, in a bar watching hail and slashing rain install drinking instead of riding in our afternoon’s itinerary.

A few uplifts would have been nice, if only for the novelty value of not riding/pushing/carrying the bike over endless peaks. But with a front brake that had all the form but none of the function of a working one, an arse which showed the scars of some recent prison activity and a level of motivation sufficient only to order more wine, it didn’t feel like a disaster.

What a trip though. Not so much mountain biking, more “Adventuring By Bicycle”. Finally conquering Canigou on the third attempt is up there with the best days on a bike ever. Or with a bike anyway as I shall explain later.

It was a hell of an experience; we were badly lost in worse weather, we had a few scary mechanicals, less crossed words and a gin fuelled bender that ended in me being really quite ill. Last year felt a little life changing, this year even more so. Pretentious as that may sound.

Maybe perspective changing is more accurate. Pushing yourself mentally and physically for five solid days, ensuing the easy options, being in places with a bike that no one else is, sharing experiences and limiting your horizons to big skies, pedalling, pushing and being occasionally brave. It’s a long, slow rush if that makes any sense. It does to me.

And the ST4 survived. Although it was immediately ambulanced into Nic’s Repair Emporium on arrival back in Ol’ Blighty. So far the list of replacement parts reads like a bearing catalogue. New movable spherics all round, new DU bush*, three chain rings, one rear tyre, cassette, chain, headset bearings and possibly rear wheel bearings.

That’s a whole load of expense. As is adventuring at 1 Euro to the quid. But it is beyond money well spent. If anyone asks me for a definition of value, I shall merely point them to my flickr stream.

More soon. Preparing myself for the horror of another Birthday comes Tuesday. Lucky to be alive frankly. A week ago, I felt very lucky indeed.

* This is half of what holds the shock to the frame. Nothing ruder. I was rather pleased the other half had survived. Until Nic reminded me we changed that one two months ago.