I’d consider that packed. There is a chance that Airport Security may not agree with me.

Last year, two nights, three days riding spawned a bag weighing just under 10 kilograms. This time around honing, paring back and cramming has an AUW of about the same. And that includes strapping the “action sandals” onto the side. No point owning such outstandingly fashionable footwear* and not proudly displaying it to bemused passers by.

The weight loss wasn’t a credit card punt at unobtainably and/or financially ruiness lightweight gear. No, I just took a litre of water out of the Camelbak bladder and assumed the persona of “Mr. Stinky” for a week. Sure it’s nice to have crisp, fresh shorts, tops and socks every day but it’s pretty bloody nasty carting an entire wardrobe over lumpy geography.

Instead I’ve opted for 100ml of liquid washing powder and less kit. Assuming I don’t just marinate myself in beer and lie out in the sunshine to dry off.

Bike’s in the bag. Looks less like an explosion in a pipe lagging factory that previous years. A high risk strategy that ensures the bag remains luggable, with the possible downside of the contents being reduced to swarf by those nice, careful men who dump your luggage from hold to tarmac.

Forecast is for 28 degrees and sun, sun, sun. Apart from the thunderstorms and lightening. I shall be sticking Si “lightening conductor” James up on a telescopic pole if the weather turns scary. He’s almost a native now so can negotiate with the un-earthed electricity in French. Important to understand the strength and weaknesses of the team and play to them I’ve always thought.

I’ll miss my family terribly as I always do, but – honestly – now I just want to go. Get through the crapolla of UK Airport PLC without getting lost on the way to Bristol, and just survive sticky/sicky charter kids for two hours.

Then go ride for a week in high places. No phones, no watches, no pressure, no email, no decisions other than “what shall we have for lunch?” and “another beer?“**, good friends, big skies and bikes every day. I’m like a kid the night before Christmas.

Except he probably didn’t have to go and mow the lawn before being allowed to leave 😉 Back in a week before the relative luxury of camping with the family. I expect to spend most of that holiday sleeping and boring Carol with tales of daring do. When I get properly back, I’ll share that out with everyone else!

* especially if accessorised with the “long sock”

** A tautologic couplet I’d suggest.

No, not ready at all. Last year, with an entire week to go, I was done with pontificating, faffing, cogitating and – finally – selecting stuff for the Pyrenees trip. A procedure that became less about how important an item was, and more about it’s size/weight/squashability. We ended up here:

And that collateral served me well. Right up until the bike committed suicide through a mixture of bad design and Ostrich Mechanics*. Which scored zero on a scale of one to lamentation on the reasonable grounds that carrying a spare frame up a mountain is somewhere beyond paranoia and deep into a mental illness.

With three day s to go, my concessions to creating a carryable support infrastructure for a longer and more arduous trip has been to buy some sandals. I give you – and I am quoting directly from the marketing blurb here – “the power sandal. An all-terrain light shoe experience for the adventurous traveller”

For me it has sufficient beige to signify the true age of the sandal wearer, augmented with sporty orange to dull the embarrassment. They shall be strapped proudly to my camelbak ready – at a moments notice – to be unleashed once Si’s map reading has us again portaging bikes on exposed cliff edges.

And – as a bonus – come supping time, I shall be sporting these fab footy fixtures in any and every Pyreaneen drinking establishment. Such is my confidence in their playful attractiveness, I am considering employing a handy Frenchman** to “demand manage” the screaming ladies desperate for some Sandal Action.

Other areas of pre-holiday preparation are fairing similarly. The bike seems to work in non creaky fashion. Careful use of the word “seems” with a single 1 hour ride in two weeks unrepresentative of serious testing. This was followed by 90 minutes in the pub, which is what endurance athletes such as myself term “tapering”.

And as for the part of my life which fills the days and pays the bills, the less said about that the better. Is there some twisted phenomenon ensuring the greatest volume of work is directed at the individual with the least amount of time? Come Friday night, whatever isn’t done shall remain in that state for two further weeks.

Three times already, the following conversation has taken place “When are you on Holiday?” / “Friday” / “Will you have your phone with you” /”No” / “Oh” / “Because I’ll be half way up a mountain and BECAUSE I’M ON HOLIDAY. GO LOOK IT UP IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS“. So far, I’ve only said the last bit in my head. But next person asking shall be in unhappy receipt of the unexpurgated version. At some volume.

Ready? No. Keen? Yes.

* The art of understanding that something really, really bad is happening to your bike and attempting to drink enough to forget about it.

** That’s not a couplet you’re likely to hear twice in your lifetime. Unless you’re read a lot of those specialist publications.

Heard one song. Bought the album, refusing to get involved with some new-fangled “listen before buying” nonsense. Listened to the other eleven songs. Confused. Quite Northern. Otherwise, properly odd. Anyway moving on, the elbow under discussion is the right one that’s still wrong.

It sort of works which places in firmly in the category of “the remaining vaguely articulating bits of Al’s battered body“. I’ve learned to manage around always-sore ankle (casing jumps at chicksands), clicky shoulder (over the bars @ Swinley Forest followed by beating it for a week in the Atlas Mountains under pain relief called “Denial“), Dodgy Knee (opened up on Chiltern Flint and about 2mm from long term crutch use) and unrotating neck muscles (age, decrepitude, posture, computers and beating it repeatedly on the ground).

But having an elbow that – at full deflection – signals the brain to “stop the fuck with that right now” is getting almost as old as the rest of me. Regardless of that litany of injuries, mostly I’m a fast healer going from scar tissue to occasional whinge in a week or less. Pretty much the operating model for lumpy middle arm, but after starting well and getting 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} better, the last 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} remains stubbornly unfixed.

So closing doors, carrying buckets, reaching on top shelves* – you know sort of life stuff is immediately followed by a whispered “fuck that hurts“. Spotted by my long suffering and hypochondria abused wife, a quick examination revealed a lump that’s probably a chunk of grit I’ve illegally nicked from the Malvern Hills. Smart money is back to the Docs for some x-ray and remedial proddage. Al’s threepence is on further denial and stellarising the wound.***

Still three rides this weekend have left the joint sore, but the owner pretty chilled. Firstly out with my never-stop-improving youngest daughter who is starting to show a worrying velocity in the singletrack. Luckily I can still cheat enough to catch her, but she’s going to have the beating of me before too long. She does crash a lot though, but refuses to blub or blame afterwards. I’m starting to think she may be adopted.

Then a tour of local riding for my good mate Jason who- despite being a Kiwi and therefore quite odd/a worry to sheep – is an all round good egg in the don’t whinge/get on with it mould. So even after lunching himself on a rather tasty cheeky trail in the FoD, he was still keen for an 8am appointment with some Malvern Pointiness the following day.

Ace it was, dodged the showers both days, rode some silly trails, talked a load of old bollox, had the occasional moment of blind terror and many more of “did you see that? that hip jump? you saw that right? that was awesome?…. you didn’t see it? right. Fucker“. Fired up warm things on the BBQ and cold things from the fridge which has made Monday Morning come round far too bloody quickly.

Reminded me of one thing though. Why we live here. It’s bloody fantastic. Even with a dodgy elbow. I might have mentioned that already.

* not that kind of shelf. We’ve the Internet for that kind of thing.

** A spoonerism devised under medically challenging condition during a Scotland Roadtrip. Don’t remember much about it, remember having to explain to the landlady why the bedsheets had the appearance of a double-bloody homicide. Went with “goat sacrifice” as it was less embarrassing.