A year ago today this happened. It continued happening for many months. At the end of which some days were fantastic, others less so.  On the upside riding less meant writing more. I say upside, other opinions are obviously available.

And now? In Apollo 13 language what’s good on the spacecraft? Improved mobility through endless bloody daily rehab. Stronger as well with four weekly gym sessions adding the tiniest slither of muscle to the withered frame. Even a bit stretchier now Yoga has entered the chat. Still venting out to space tho, but that’s just a late middle aged thing 🙂

Full disclosure, the healed collarbone no longer resembles some kind of twisted lab experiment growing a second nose, but it still aches at the end of a long ride. Shorter than it’s twin and occasionally clicky. Does it stop me doing stuff possibly inappropriate for a man of my age? Absolutely not. Really? Okay hold that thought.

Physically, other than managing the kind of decline that nearly sixty years of percussive biomechanical engineering inflicts on the once pristine skeleton*, all is, if not good, on the brighter side of average. Many day long rides have been dispatched comfortably clearing the 50km/1200m of climbing thresholds. I say comfortably although “through gritted teeth, wondering when it’s all going to end” may better represent my worldview at the arse end of those rides.

Mentally, there’s a new and unwanted background process determined to run non interrupt when the trails turn to fun. It goes something like this: “See that greasy root there? Could definitely slide out on that. And this drop, sure you’ve ridden it loads of times but shall we remind you of the ‘don’t want to lose a summer’ axiom that went so well last time?”

I mean this isn’t new. Being scared and doing it anyway is a definition of bravery** fully endorsed by a man teetering on a risk/reward cliff edge wondering if he can fly. Rarely do I back my limited talent and athletic ability against features with outcomes grisly imagined with – in the best case – the loss of a previously useful limb. 4K, fully restored, directors cut.

It’s fucking annoying but in over thirty years of riding out every weekend, it’s mostly been manageable. Heading into the winter of 2025, it felt less so.  At which point it rained almost every day for three months diluting what little confidence I’d desperately husbanded on those last dry days of Autumn.

Best to bugger off to a different country to see if that helped. Which it absolutely did. Heading back from La Palma, the sun finally made occasional appearances and then all of a sudden it was bluebell day. Or bluebell month- stunning this year and a properly life affirming assault on all the senses. Visually mesmeric, olfactory overwhelming, auraily distracting and physically engaging.

Trails sun burnished under blue skies mark the start of my favourite riding season. Augmented with plant life thrusting desperately from a cold earth. There’s a sweet spot when the bluebells go over and the garlic flowers. You can keep the deep green summer when vengeful vegetation rips bare arms and legs. Right now is just the best time to ride.

Why? Because it’s all so new. 2D dead winter flatlands are pushed aside by bustling vertical trail narrowing vegetation.  Any ride you’re warmed by the sun is a gift when you’re still packing multiple layers for those knife edge forecasts between seasons. Post ride garden pub bollocks and bafoonary is no longer shivery worthiness. Sunglasses on, limbs outstretched, weary bodies turned to the sun.

And there’s more. An almost endless stretch of amazing possibilities plays out over a few pints. Where shall we go? What shall we do? How good would it be to try that, or do this again? We’ve endured another winter to earn this prize. It’s here right now and right in front of us. We may be the luckiest people in the world.

Take that away and it’s less of a gap and more than a hole. I really must remember this. It’s so easy to make excuses not to commit. Too tired today***, big meeting tomorrow, trip away next week, it’ll all still be here next month. That’s must be how the end starts.  I first wrote than line over fifteen years ago and yet here we are retreading the same existential bullshit, apparently having learned nothing.

Not quite. I do not want to miss another summer. Or a winter come to that. Flip that round though and I don’t want to ride with the fear either. Well no more than the standard background radiation permeating my brain, mostly before I’ve actually got on the bike. There’s probably a happy medium even if I never quite found it. I’m more of a small 😉 ****

Yesterday was one of those rides that had a bit of everything; amazing weather, not quite dry trails, occasional jeopardy, supportive riding buddies and piss taking friends – often in the same sentence, proper big day out, decent spell drinking cold beer by the river, tough ride home and a much needed desalination event disguised as a long cold shower.

It was also the first ride marked by taking zero pain killers to deal with six hours riding on my left shoulder. That feels important. But not as important as the next four months of doing similar every bloody weekend. Starting a week Saturday when my good mate Olli is picking me up from Frankfurt airport for six days riding in the South Tyrol. On an eBike! With my reputation.

Until then and after then, just need to stay rubber side down because summer is nearly here, and I really cannot face another year looking at it through a window.

*let’s not talk about internal organs. Liver specifically.

**Also stupidity. So it goes.

***A euphemism for “hungover”

**** I will never tire of Terry Pratchett homages.