Passportes du soleil

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

Roughly translated: Passport to the Sun. Which suggests I could rock up to an airline desk, present my credentials. and be instantly transported to the perfect vista featuring sea-to-sky sunshine. Only not in this reality. Two reasons; one none of our carriers offer the big burning ball as a destination*, and secondly selecting such a off-beat tourist destination would leave you resembling a particularly rancid pork scratching regardless of any claims made by total sunblock.

No what we have here is a metaphor. The passport is very much required to cross three national borders but the sunshine is largely optional, and certainly not guaranteed. Still as we’re deep into France and high in the mountains, snow may cover the peaks while thunders stalks the valleys. An almost ideal environment to ride mountain bikes with a similar minded hoard – all of us apparently on a day trip from the local sanatorium.

The PPDS is a race of sorts. Or sort of a race; covering 80 kilometres up and over conveniently located Alps perched high on the Swiss/French border. Any event that includes 8000 metres of chair-lift accessed climbing each buttressed by a cheese and wine stall is stretching the concept of race quite a bit. Scratching around for a corollary, the best I could come up with is Cricket which breaks for both lunch and tea.

So not a race then. But still a bloody good day out and not an easy one. 8000 metres of descending – with a cheeky 1000m thrown in where you actually have to pedal – is going to elicit some wear and tear on age-ravished bodies. Assuming you fail to plunge into a handy abyss or chin-surf a kilometre of rock hard – erm – rocks, come trail end your kidney and spleen will have swapped sides and your off-bike demeaner will best resemble a man significantly encumbered by being hand-cuffed to a road drill.

First tho we have to get there.

There’s not even a branch of spatial mathematics invented to solve the multidimensional logistical cluster-fuck which predicts nine confused men will arrive at the same bar at the right time at exactly the point it’s time to buy their round. This bar is in Les Gets – the perfect French town to begin such an arduous endeavour. Which explains perfectly well why we’ll actually be starting in Switzerland.

This, and I can see you shaking your head, is a massive improvement on where we came in, where none-of-nine had a race entry duplicated by any other. Worse still, three had picked not only the wrong country but the wrong day. One member – and I use that adjective entirely appropriately – had somehow booked himself onto two start lines in different countries on the same day. Neither in countries in which he currently abides, and since that country is France even our useless little crew nodded sagely in agreement that this had set the mr-fuck-up bar really quite high.

Anyway it’s sorted now for a given value of sorted. 4 of us are setting off from Herefordshire in Haydn’s love bus accompanied, briefly, by Matt’s electro-trance back catalogue and, latterly, by a bloodied man slumped in the front seat having been beaten unconscious with a boxed set of 80s rock music. 3 more are heading out of London at stupid o’clock to board a midnight ferry to France. From where they will drive to Italy for reasons only those recently lobotomised can fathom. One more flies into Geneva, while the final entry to the race-honed super-team shall make up for the fact that airline-boy forgot his bike by bringing him a spare.

Honestly that’s the abridged and simplified version. At 9pm on Friday night, this crew of most motley shall rendezvous at the Le Boomerang boy and plot our race strategy over a beer or nineteen. Assuming the ‘Herefordshire 4’ haven’t monged themselves during a brief warm up ride designed to shake down the bikes, but leave the limbs attached to the correct parts of the torso.

I think we can all agree it’s almost impossible to think of anything that could go wrong. Assuming no-one dies in the inevitable drinking frenzy or ends their own life rather than ensure a face-splitting hangover, we’ll find a way** to cross the border at silly o’clock the next morning to ride awesome mountain bikes in amazing scenery on stupendous trails while regularly refuelling on red wine and cheese. All of which will be under the eye of thousands of locals who turn out to celebrate this festival of cycling.

I can only assume the booze is free for them as well. Unless they have a well developed cruel streak which tends to the ‘Hey Roastbeef, merd, merd, merd…!’ when the more self concious rider passes at all the speed needed to hunt down a lettuce. Still I’ll be pissed so shall probably reply with something appropriately ambassadorial enquiring whether ones hecklers upstream family had collaborated or surrendered.

My good friend and lackadaisical dandy Martyn asked me a while ago if he thought we’d be okay. ‘Martyn‘ I counselled ‘you and me will be slumped in a French bar, lightly covered in dust, watching the sun sink behind the mountains while quaffing an ice cold beer. Tell me ANYTHING that is wrong in that picture’. I feel he was appropriately reassured.

So assuming all of that goes well, the following five days will be spent getting lost in the mountains with only my best friends and a truculent GPS for company. We will be at our best in high places, riding bikes and drinking beer. There will be thrills, spills and scenes of mild peril – more than mitigated by laughs, giggles and memories burned into that bit of your mind that has no room for regret or sorrow.

Sure there’s guilt that I am abandoning my family once more to be selfish doing the things I love. But this is something that’s long been on the ‘bucket list’ and the years are passing like hyperspace. I’m pretty fit and mostly healthy and have the perfect bike and the greatest friends to go adventuring with.

Right now I feel about eleven years old. I shall endeavour to hold onto that feeling.

* except probably Ryanair. Then it would be ‘near the sun‘ or – as normally transpires with such things – a place that’s never even seen sunshine. Let’s call that place Manchester.

** No one has any idea what this ‘way‘ might be. I’m holding out for a teleport which makes mine the sensible option.

Stadium Rock

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment
intimate it isn’t.

That’s a terrible noun pair even before comprehension gets a look in. Back on the day* we had no stadiums but wedefinitelyhad rock. This was a time before social media, on-line ticketing and – in my case – thatcheral thinning. Head-banging to the the much played scratched record was a passage of rite ending in a mosh-pit cavern – mostly experienced under a low-roofed beer shower ofsweaty men rocking their Kevin-Keegan perm.

Times have changed a bit.Twentyplus year ago the Stone Roses exploded onto the stage at the Briton Academy roared on by those who’d been happily shooting up with Bolivian marching powder in the gents some five minutes before. It was awesome and not without mild scenes or peril, but at 23 you’re basicallyindestructibleso flowing with the go is where it is at.

I remember my heart beating so hard in sync to the bass line. I remember careless discarded beer ruining my first good suit worn as a rush from from corporate life. I remember feeling that if this wasn’t what wasimportant, then there was some very fucking big thing out there I was missing. This was as much about belonging as experiencing and it was fantastic, ace, life changingingly important.

Which was somewhat at odds wtih 25,000 people crammed into Arsenal’s stadium paying hommage to a band that’s transcended punk and indie while somehowappealing to dad’s and lads over a thirty year career. I’d taken my first born to the Green Day Rock Opera last year and witnessed her open-mouthed awakening to the power of live music and thought ‘there’s something here I need to nurture’. ‘God Dad It’s Loud‘ she said I nodded, silently adding ‘you’ve seen nothing yet’

So through internet buggering about two tickets for Green Day were procured, whichtriggereda far more complex logistical exercise of homing the family in London for a weekend. That done, we drove into the capital and marked time before hitting the tube with a middle ageddemographicdesperatelydisplaying their tour t-shirts which entirely failed to hide sloping beer bellys.

Arriving at the stadium you are met with a wave of discadded beer bottles from those refusesing to pay stadium prices. I was ever so snooty about this before buying a beer and – having beencourteouslyrobbed of more than five quid – calling the St. John ambulance for immediate medial assitstance. Our arrival in the bowels of the what’s corporately called the Emerites Stadium was over a bridge full of fading football legends and peopled by t-shirted affections of previous tours. The force was strong with the pot-bellied.

Abi was keen for some food. Having seen the food, I was less engaged but through the simple transaction of cash for rubbish we secured a pizza for Abi and a beer for me which took 20 minutes where we failed to add to a half filled stadium being entertained by the support bands.

We finally rocked up beer in hand (that’s me, even I am not stupid enough to believe that’s something a 14 year old should be experiencing. Or at least not while I am nominally in charge) and the Artic Moneys were more than fine. Full of energy, pointedly bigging up the main act and not short of a few hitsthemselves Sideways glances suggested Abi was definitely in a learning experience but I left her to it. One of the things about being a dad to teenagedaughtersis you have to let then live a little. I received exactly zero perecent of fuck all from my parents on how the world might work. That’s not a reflection on spousal abandonment, they just hadn’t seem to have a fucking clue either.

Green Day hit the stage and 20,000 people hit their own ‘fuck it‘gland giving it the full middle aged two finger rock-on and slavish vocal accompaniement, And to the stand-apart ironically amused observer, I couldn’t help but notice that 40 year old prostrates – jiggled over ten songs – had those t-shirt stretched disciples streaming for the bogs when something written post about 2004 blasted out from the speakers.

It was great. Not epic because live music without some kind ofintimacytakes on the form of stage managed rock opera. Which if that’s your thing is fine and if it isn’t Green Day are probably the best band to make it as good as it can be. Two and a half hours, 31 songs finishing right on the curfew, and a whole load of audience participation. There’s something quite choral going on with 25,000 people singing vaguely in time and occasionally in harmony. That many people shouting ‘fuck‘ at the same time stretches the choral thing a little, but nevertheless an awesome piece of audience engagement.

The mosh pit was policed first by security and then the ambulance service as various partially clothed younger type of people bounced on each other heads in an apparent orgy of excitement. One or two were pulled out at random to sing or play guitar which they performed with suspicious perfection. Still the girl fetched from the front row to play Billy-Jo’s Strat, while he took her photo in from of a stadium full of fans, probably now has the world’s greatest Facebook profile.

So all good, firstborn apparently full of happiness with little of the initial trauma apparent. Decanting that many people into North London at 10:30pm had me slightly concerned, but a 10 minute mobile street carnival to Finchly station had us step straight onto a tube. Good job too as I was knackered and ready for a nice cup of tea and a lie down.

Which brings me to the terrifying conclusion that if I’m getting a bit decrepit for ‘granddad-rock’, when the default position is sitting down on a chair, what the hell I am going to do should a request to attend some kind of up-to-your-armpits in mud/chemical toilets/drunken fools* type festival. Actually I have an answer ‘of course that’s a great idea – it’s your mother’s turn to take you‘ 🙂

* or year. Or – let’s be honest – decade when I had hair Rock was something you went looking for rather than gravitating too with 20,000 people. I’ll pretend that’s progress of a sort.

* A little like Mountain Mayhem. Except the mud could never be as bad.

Flat Eathers

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

There’s a commonly held myth that Columbus believed the world to be flat. He didn’t and neither did anyone else really since about the fifteenth century. Ironically thanks to Internet democracy, the number of flat-earthersis probably now at an all time high. Still when we consider the followings forScientologyand the like, a quorum of deluded individuals – however large – makes not a rationale theory.

This is my lead into how Al’s life on flat pedals has been progressing. Most of my riding buddies rock the flat platform either from long lost youths or recent evangelical conversion. All are excellent riders flowing over lumps and lobbingthemselveswith careless abandon into summer air. This is frankly a bit irritating, especially as at no time is the lament ‘arrrghhh I’ve spiked my shins‘ heard on attempting to crest a tiny obstacle.

Well only from the earth bound misfit here. After one ride, it was like ground zero at anacupuncturists’ convention. My lower legs bore the aftermath of a frenzied hedgehog attack fired from bazookas. I was all mental trauma and scar tissue in thepursuitof another myth known as flow. I wasn’t flowing at all, the blood was but I certainly wasn’t – travelling cautiously slower and slower until the pub finally brought an end to the misery.

Giving up was an option. Back to SPD’s and accept that seven years is a long time in mountain biking. Especially with withered reflexes and a head full of over-thinking. But no, the standard Al-response to any such problem is to buy a way around the issue. New flat pedals and some rather funky blue sticky shoes played well to my Emelda complex and stuck feet to pins in an almost SPD like embrace.

Except over jumps and drops. At that point, the gap between pedals and feet was far greater than wheel and dirt. Gifted individuals including the-mighty-beard took time to explain heels needed to be dropped, ankles softened,commitmentsmade. Through sheer gritted-teeth bloody mindedness over a few rides, incremental improvements ensure feet stay mostly in the right place but confidence is not.

It’s definitely over-thinking. And worrying about a visit from Mr. Mong and His Rocky Accomplices that is messing with my head. A mild epiphanic moment occurred over a drop where the bike went up and my feet stayed down, but it still didn’t feel as good as being clipped in. The frustration is flats allow you to pump the bike more, it’s more of an organic experience when you’re not attached to the bike. Uphill it doesn’t make a lot of difference surprisingly, and since flats are for mountains and mountains have chairlifts, it wouldn’t matter if they did.

I’ve deliberately stayed away from the SPD equipped Solaris and ridden nothing but the Rocket for six weeks. And I still find it hard bike to love. It starts to make perfect sense at speeds/levels of peril that I really don’t want to be involved in. If this were some kind of realrelationship we’d be firmly in the realms of ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘. It’s a fantastically well engineered bike with everything you need for any kind of challenging terrain built in a shape that fits me perfectly. Maybe I’m just not brave enough.

Being a bit solution obsessed, I’ve decided to hedge. Two sets of pedals and shoes shall take up valuable boot space in the Alps-Mobile. The only decision now is which one shall be on the bike for PPDS. I’m delusionally hopeful the whole bike/mountains/setup thing will come together riding seven days on amazing trails under (please let it be) glorious sunshine.

Honestly tho, it’d be easier just to change the rider 😉

Land of Confusion

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography12 Comments
Rocket. Now with confidence boosters

First up, that’s a non ironic Genesis hook. Although obviously this particular track was penned well after they’d rolled down from the peak of prog-rock light. Or to put it another way after Phil Collins somehow conned himself into singing vocals. Anybody under the age of about a hundred has absolutely no concept of what a travesty this was. Still they were also born after Jimi Hendrix died so their musical opinion is of absolutely no consequence 😉

Right then. See that ^^^, it’s like my Rocket only subtly different. Things you cannot see are a 30mm bar shave and a further short, back and sides on the fork steerer. Two reasons, none of them terribly rationale; firstly the all-Ross-how-bloody-heavy-is-my-bike roll call saw even a trimmed Cotic tip the scales as 31lbs. Not a big surprise nor a big worry – that feels ‘about right‘ for a 160mm* hill-hooligan with proper tyres and all sorts of elven magic breathed over three different suspension platforms.

The second thing is more of a worry. Since fitting those long forks and longer bars, most of my riding has been regularly interspersed with stupid crashing. Including falling off while riding uphill. Pathetic, pilloried and frankly rather painful. Deploying a strategy best thought of as ‘deckchairs‘ and ‘titanic‘, I’ve hacked chunks off various parts and switched back to flat pedals.

Flat pedals are fab. Years ago in my ‘lobotomy lobbing‘ days when ‘perfectly normal’ was chucking oneself off mini-cliffs in full storm-trooper kit, flat pedals absolutely rocked. Especially during exit manoeuvres where going down with the ship was likely to end with coming up for air in A&E. And traction.

In those days I really could bunnyhop, look evidence and everything:

I still have that bike. And that hat. The skills tho? Long gone

But that was a long time ago which was really rather sadly apparent after digging out that bike and trying the same had me mostly digging just into the ground. Or, as the DMR is equipped with the shortest chainstays in Christendom, flailing off the back missing the rear brake but finding the concrete. With my arse. Thankfully this was away from human ridicule but the cows were pissing themselves.

Being a bloke, I’m on a serial hunt for crashing solutions. Being old and wise, I don’t expect to find them on tomorrows’ monster FoD ride full of fast, bumpy, jumpy trails. Some stuff will be co-located although it’s likely to be a spikey pedal and a soft shinbone. Still no point dying wondering eh?

My decision making is clearly miles off kilter anyway after today’s attempt to wrap new tyres on the balding Yeti. Announcing myself with a brisk ‘Good Morning, do you have a couple of tyres for my car?’ to the bemused shop owner, I was rebuffed with ‘No Sir, this is a gun shop as demonstrated by the simple fact that you have walked through all manner of small arms on your way to this desk’. That was awkward.

The rocket and me feel like we’re on different orbits right now. It needs to be ridden faster, but to do so I need to get some confidence in what the bloody thing is doing especially round the front. In five weeks we’re in the Alps which makes this next month a pretty focussed ‘stop crashing‘ exercise. Or at least learning to crash with a bit more style and a bit less pain.

I blame that road ride. It’s clearly bloody ruined me.

* I am aware of a metric/imperial switcheroo but there’s always google for the hard of arithmetic.

Not completely terrible.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road Riding1 Comment

Hitting the organic ejection seat at 05:40am on a sleepy Sunday is never go to put you in the best of moods. Especially if a good part of the rest of that day shall be spent riding past fantastic looking dirt trails – partially hidden by humourless men squeezed into inappropriate lycra.

Not all of them, of course. There were some women as well. Not many sadly with the stereotyped demographic of expensive bikes piloted by sort-of mobile sponsor billboards representing far too much of an otherwise rather fab event.

Ian and I were keen to seek out unlikely looking physical specimens scheduled to ride a 100 kilometres in the lumpy environs of the English/Welsh border. Mainly to make us feel a little better about ourselves and, specifically, our woeful lack of preparation. And team harmony was already being tested after the rushed admission that one member had indeed been secretly training. Sure it was one ride, and quite a short one at that but I still felt this wasn’t in the spirit of our cook-snookery worldview of riding around in circles.

Hot on his training admission, Ian also felt the urge to share his ratio faux-par of a triple front ring*, swiftly followed up by making a sexually ambivalent fashion statement though the medium of white shoes. Right then I’ll be spending the next four or five hours with a one man Liberace tribute act would I? Splendid.

After some customary faffing which somehow left us with multiple tubes but only a one-shot inflation solution, we gunshot-clipped into roadie-pedals and made rather rapid headway onto the course. Ian was looking a bit racey having arrived at this event without being clinically half-dead, although he was keen to point out that very small children gain-stayed any periods of useful sleep in the last few weeks. I rebuffed this with the fact he was still a young man full of vitality whereas I was an decrepit old fucker. In that happy vein, we made steady progress to the site of the first accident.

Not ours thankfully, but some poor sod had clearly been introduced to unseen traffic and was lying in a bloodied face-up position looking quite bashed around. Nothing we could do other than curse Sunday drivers and hope we weren’t next. Mass cycling events on public roads are going to create some kind of friction and conflict however well organised. And this one was extremely well organised, but there’s always some arsehole behaviour on the part of the motorist and/or cyclist ending in gunning engines, dangerous manoeuvres and the waving of a couple of fingers.

Generally tho, a lovely day out. Lots less banter than a mountain biking event but moving speeds and restrictive roads explain some of that away. Ian and I were having a good time especially at my expense once I’d proudly explained part of my ‘fuelling solution‘ were energy bars endorsed by no other than ‘Sir Bradley Wiggins‘ himself. Inevitably this led to much innocent questioning ‘what’s it like having Brad in your mouth?‘ and ‘Brad seems to have gone a bit soft and squishy since the last time’.

I responded by lampooning his choice of ridiculous gear ratios likening them to a BBC3 denier. Dirty secret that sometimes will be used but never, ever admitted to. We even had a go at some proper road riding, drafting a few riders who began to look a bit angry when their significant looks suggesting we should take the wind were met with a facial expression somehow suggesting that ‘we’re mountain bikers mate, absolutely no idea what you’re talking about’.

I don’t suppose it helped much when – at the foot of the first proper climb – Lance Beddis stomped on the pedals and attacked the group. I watched in middle aged detached amusement in my happy spinning place catching Ian sometime later, where he admitted to a possible tactical mistake. We traded strategies where my plan to ‘unleash the power of my mighty thighs at 80k‘ was met by some bemusement and surreptitious pointing at the tiny ring on his chainset. “You’re not thinking of using that are you? You’re dead to me now‘

Warming temperatures, blue skies, light winds and a few more hills landed us in the first feed stop at 45k. Both felt in decent shape although the extra 10 minutes rest on deploying our one and only puncture solution might have helped. Me jumping off curbs a few minutes before probably didn’t. You can take the boy out of baggies and all that…

Refuelled and relieving ourselves of expensive energy drinks, we crossed the border with half the distance gone but still with a couple of monster climbs to come. Which I was a little quicker up, but Ian caught me easily on the descents. Every time I tip the road bike into a corner, the almost imperceptible tyre width gives me the bloody jitters. With some strong MTFU mental flogging, I improved immeasurably from crap to ‘quite crap‘ while Ian cheerfully railed corners and cut through slower rides.

One more big climb at 75k was met with an impromptu halt while I sorted a bit of cramp amusingly brought on by reaching for the hard to grab water bottle. The one being drunk to ward off any signs of cramp. Popping ‘my last Brad‘, legs and lungs felt good enough for a bit of an attack on the strung out pelaton ahead. Although it wasn’t an attack rampant in savagery or shown by awesome speed. No it was more passing tired riders – with that head down/raspy breathing of the properly knackered – with a cheery ‘hello‘ and polite enquiry if all was well. A patronis-attack if you will.

We even saw a few walking which was sad and painful for those clearly who didn’t ride that much but were giving it a great shot, and shallowly amusing when it was the fat blokes tramping leaden footed with a carbon trinket for company. I know this is a crap attitude, and I know that more people cycling is all good and – yes – I also know that it’s lazy analysis at best. But I can’t help myself. I guess if a decent MTB’er sees me having a mince somewhere on my over-biked much upgraded steed, he or she is welcome to feel the same way.

Last 10k was a fun tussle with a couple of young fellas who had all of the fitness, but lacked my guile and engorged competitive gland. With the GPS running out of pointy bits, the hammer went down until my arrival back at the start stopped the clock in just over 4 hours. Ian was a couple of minutes behind having rightly refused to get involved with such silliness.

We toasted ourselves with yet more energy drink and concluded these road bikes are actually quite good fun. What we needed was another challenge. Something ambitious we could be rubbish at. Both of us arrived at the same idea – a proper imperial century. We even talked about doing it this year. I wonder if I can move to somewhere flat first.

Whatever, it won’t be 18 months before the road bike and me go tarmc’ing again. It won’t be next week though because that’s mountain bike time. Today was a lovely day to ride my road bike with my good mate Ian. Still not a patch on hitting the dirt tho.

* 3 rings? THREE. Honestly just post a video of you and a goat deeply in love on YouTube. It’d be far less humiliating.

Tapering

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography, Road Riding1 Comment
The Clothes Horse

A verb I happily placed in the sad world of those who include bevelling and routing*in their chosen vocabulary. I’ve always found little room for such nonsense when ‘drinking‘ and ‘slacking‘ offer far more pleasurable displacement.

Apparently though this isn’t some kind of organic whittling of material – rather it is more a structured approach to training for maximum performance. No surprise it’s never caused me a moment’s bother until today where my mild concern at not riding a road bike for eighteen months was laconically described as ‘that’s a proper bit of tapering‘ by a proper roadie.

Proper in that arse-headed, chisel jawed, thin-lipped and tyred view of the world. Announcing that come Sunday, yours grumpily shall set embark on a hilly 100 kilometre voyage of the many peaks and troughs of the wye valley, he felt the urge to question my training, preparation and technique.

“Mountain bikes, decent claret, keep-buggering-on disposition‘ framed my jaunty reply. Not good enough apparently. Tapering was just the bloody end of it, there was nutrition, heart rate, tactics and mental alignment to consider before even turning a pedal. Apparently getting round without calling for medical assistance not only lacked ambition, it was disrespectful of the entire endeavour.

My reply is not recorded by history**, but a jaunty disposition hid a worried frown. I’d had every intention of unearthing the much neglected road bike, blowing off the dust and re-acquainting myself with the whole oddness of a tarmac world. Sadly work, weather, apathy and a mental weathervane that rotates past ‘right then 50k on the road starting right now mister‘ before slamming to a stop at ‘See you on the dirt at midday, bring money for beer‘ with barely a guilty pause.

That guilt did at least trigger some desultory activity involving inflating flat tyres, poking unfamiliar components with a small hammer and harvesting hated lycra from the darker recesses of the kit drawer. A shakedown ride aimed high at 3000 metres, but ended low with only about 200. Half of these were desperately spent failing to clip into weird road pedals, and the rest wondering where the rest of the bars had gone. My working assumption was the same bloody thief had nicked about 2 inches off the tyres.

And the brakes? I’d have liked some. A quick jaunt off road confirmed it was no cross bike aswhat we have here is pain wrapped up in carbon and trinkets. There’s clearly no hiding place in lycra which is a bit of a problem as my superbly focussed weight loss initiative hit the buffers of I-Can’t-Be-Arsed-Anymore, and there’s a bit more Al and a bit less fitness.

Still I did manage 100k when I was nearly 10k heavier. This is a good statistic although somewhat mitigated by the non refutable fact it was two years ago when I was road riding to avoid trains. Since then I’ve ridden 100k exactly no times at all unless you’re allowed to include car journeys which apparently don’t count. Even if you have a mountain bike in the back.

Come Sunday then, me and my ever present insanity-wingman shall be awkwardly hanging about in a muddy field at stupid’o’clock, jostled by testosterone cockage and spring rain. There’s a part of me – that’s the part that’s about 9 years old – thinking ‘bollox, I’ll take the mountain bike, the camelbak and the peaked helmet.. that’ll show ’em what a proper rebel I am‘. There’s another part some 35 years older that knows nobody’ll give a shit. Not even me.

Anyway at least it won’t be snowing. I’ll be campaigning the slow down to go fast approach with a clear rider than at least half of that is negotiable. Apparently there’s medals and stuff for arriving at some arbitratory hour. I think we can give that the fuck off it deserves. Arriving back alive after 5,500 feet of climbing and much mincing on the descents will be enough for me. More than enough.

For about eighteen months if history is any judge.

* but not rooting. I once loudly admonished an office-full of shocked Australians that every proper Englishman always rooted for his country. A well tanned local slapped me on the shoulder and declared ‘fair dinkum mate, that’s a proper job‘. About five years later realisation dawned on why sniggering and pointing announced my presence on that particular floor.

** Oh okay it did. “Fuck Off“

You see? Cured.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography17 Comments

Hidden in the Internet-Tardis that represents my many years of dead-electron drivel is a post which raises mirth and incredulation in equal quantities. Gasts have been flabbered on bike forums patrolled by hardcore keyboard warriors whocurmudgeonlyconfuse cost and value. And yet hidden somewhere in the ‘more bikes don’t make you happy‘ dogma nestles an unhappy truth.

Lots and lots of bikes HAVE made me happy. They didn’t make me any better. They do however represent my view of the mountain biking world and my place within in. That place being a somewhat chaotic meeting of real geography and the rather more impressionist landscape of my mind. For the Chilterns, lots of twitching eyebrow lock-to-lock steering short travel hardtails seems just the ticket. But that ticketgainstayedany entry to the new world of bike parks where riding was more short-and-mental rather than long-and-unthreatening.

And then there were the blind alleys, the drunken eBay purchases, the niche chasing nonsense all seasoned with a heavy whiff of nostalgia.Somewhereout there was the perfect shed of dreams. I just needed to keep on looking. And buying.

But let’s not look for reasons or even excuses to my revolving door approach to bike ownership. Instead it’s time to bring the story up to date where I hoped to show a new found maturity and laser like focus on a bare minimum of bikes which were well ridden, much treasured, carefully maintained and obsessively retained. This didn’t quite happen. Okay it didn’t happen at all.

Right then? Kettle on? Biscuits ready? Then we shall begin. This isn’t quite chronological. I did the best I could with fading grey matter and Flickr EXIF data, but when there have been so many, owned for so few months, it’s always going to be more of a jigsaw than a timeline.

Roger the Pink Hedgehog

Summer of 2007 saw Roger joining the fray via a half price fire sale at Sideways Cycles. It was a lovely colour. Manly purple with a bit of sparkle. Jealous sorts refused to accept it was really any colour other than a sexuallyambivalentpink, which I think we can all agree is green-eyed blindness. Sadly my ever more desperate denials were merely displacement activity for a frame that was about 2 inches too short in the top tube. The only riding style for my gibbon like frame was that of a praying mantis attacking a purple (okay pink) frame shaped fish. It wasn’t pretty and it didn’t last.

Another singlespeed. Are you on crack?

Clearly it was time to move on. Which begs the question of exactly why buying another singlespeed seemed like a good idea. Especially from the same manufacturer who were on some kind of metal saving top-tube reduction vibe. I rode it exactly oncewhich I think we can all agree fits perfectly in the envelope of long term bike ownership. Then we moved to somewhere hilly, rocky and significantly more like proper mountain biking. Good excuse for some more bikes then.

Hmm Ti. Nice.. Rubs thighs

So abandoning singlespeeds for the last time, I emerged like a man from rehab stating that suspension and gears are a victimless crime. And what a statement the Cove Hummer was. Just a brilliant bike ridden anywhere and everywhere for four years. FOUR years, that’s a bloody lifetime in my riding pantheon, The bloody thing should have been awarded some kind of gold clock for long service. I don’t have it anymore having decided the top tube was a bit short (honestly why didn’t I just chop a couple of inches from my arms? Bloodied stumps would represent a rationale fiscal alternative to just setting fire to tenners which is pretty much my bike buying/selling approach).

But this one has many memories that make me smile. I don’t miss it, but I cherish the time we had together. It was a great bike and I should have chucked fiscal prudence out the door and hung it on the wall.

Nice. See that top tube length?…

I accept it’s getting on the dull side ofrepetitive blaming my transient bike collection on a single measurement. Especially when I actually test rode this and declared it ‘the one’, And it was for a while being campaigned both right here and all over the country including a fantastic day on the Cwmcarn downhill course, multiple presentations at Scottish and Welsh trail centres and some awesome natural riding in the peaks and the lakes. Then I rode the ST4 and that was pretty much it for the Pace.

Which didn’t in any way persuade me that collecting more bicycles that really didn’t make any sense at all was anything other than the logical progression of a rationale mind. Firstly there was clearly a hole in my riding life where a cyclocross should be.

Nice Bikes. No Brakes

I absolutely convinced myself I needed a cross bike. I’ve yet to convince myself otherwise, although what wasn’t apparent to me on purchasing this rather lovely older example was the simple fact that the brakes are merely bar mountedaccoutrementsto tick some legal boxes. It was fun off road until any retardation of speed was required, after which I would either a) fall off or b) nut a tree. Reduced to commuting duties for a while, the writing was on the wall once I’d decided – for the standard period of ‘al-time’ (i.e. not very much) I liked road bikes. First tho, we headed off in yet another direction.

Never meet your heroes.

Back before a beer fuelled sabbatical of a few years, one of my first mountain bikes was a Kona Kilaueu which somehow I survived some real off road rides in the peak district. But soon it lost its lustre and was consigned deeper and deeper into dusty sheds before being abandoned in a house move around the turn of the century. Always regretted that which gave me an ample excuse to buy a rather fine example off eBay one drunken evening. Being just a frame and fork, time and money were thrown at recreating afacsimileof my long abandoned bike,.

And it rode great. Lovely. Just like the old one. Right up until the point of pointing it off road where, after only a couple of rides, it was clear that I wasn’t close enough to a man to ride fully rigid off endless roots and rocky steps. So I sold it to a man who thought he was and moved on. Lesson learned? What do you think?

So back to that ST4 then, remember the one perfect bike – but before we talk about that, let us bring out our dead and prostrate ourselves apologetically in a desperate attempt to avoid censure. Okay, here goes, road bikes. Two of them. For commuting and, well, commuting. I tried road riding and frankly it was slightly more dirty than the darker arts of animal husbandry. Somehow I managed a few 100k sportive’s with a scary bunch of chest-toast-racked billboard-lycra-wearing aliens but it’s not my world. Not even a little bit.

Still got it. Tyres are flat tho. So that’s okay yes?

 

Woger Wibble!

The latter commuted me to my office over nine months and a thousand miles saving me/the planet/randoms on the trains I would likely have killed until I decided that job was about as much fun as a 24 hour testicle slamming in sharpened drawer and moved on. As did the bike. Ihesitateto admit this but I sort of liked it; sure it was heavy and unsophisticated and a bit ordinary but that fitted me pretty damn well on all sorts of levels and we grinned our way through some truly epic commutes full of rain, wind and snow.

I still have the boardman. One day I’ll ride it again. I expect I’ll be about 84.

Right back to the good stuff. We’re not done yet, but we’re making damn good progress. I finally found a bike I really loved which was heavy, flawed, flexy but otherwise perfect. Rode it, rode it, rode it and finally bonded with something that suited my riding and strange dimensions. Lavished love and cash making it perfect and then the ungrateful fucker exploded into un-fixable pieces after aPyreneestrip.

And lo, it broke

Orange were great and sent me a brand new one that wassignificantlymodified, considerably less flexy and somehow less fun.

 

Looked nice. Was nice. Just not quite as nice as the other one.

This one didn’t break at all and rolled 2000 kilometeres under my ownership before being moved on. By this time I’d got a pretty good handle on what I wanted to ride and a plan of sorts was formed. Not before this happened tho.

The Ugly Stick

On selling the Cove, I decided a long travel carbon hardtail was missing from my life. The gap was filled by this on-one Carbon 456 which was essentially blameless if a little crude. Had lots of fun riding it which was far better than having to look at it.

About the same time, it became clear i’d failed to fully mine that niche that was cyclocross. At no time did I consider myself close to adequate enough to complete – instead I felt it would be an ideal companion to speed into the local woods and explore the myriad of tracks discovered through years of dog walking. Assuming I could buy one with some real brakes.

It’s not another road bike

And in a spooky realisation of some random thought process, that’s exactly what’s happened. I absolutely love riding this bike and it keep me more than honest in rooty singletrack 10 minutes ride from our house. I’ve changed exactly nothing in over a year making this something rather unique in the shed of dreams. A bike that’s ridden and not modified? It’ll never catch on. Because…

Rocket. It is. I’m not

Since that photo was taken in December 2012 (Mount Tide in Tenerife if you’re interested), it’s had a new fork, mech, tyres and bars. An astonishing bike that takes me so far out of my comfort zone I’ll near to get a taxi back. Fast – oh so very fast – composed, carve-y and on at me all the time to be a whole lot better rider. I love it like addicts love crack-cocaine. It’s probably going to hurt me quite badly but what a way to go.

And being a fanboi, I had to have another Cotic.

Solaris. Like a soul. Only better

Having dismissed 29ers as a fad that not even a niche-chaser like me would ever be interested in, my position softened a little bit after riding one. The Solaris is fast and fun. Belying its little 100mm fork, stuff just gets rolled over at silly speeds until the terrain goes the other way at which point it just eats that up as well.

So that’s it. I think. There may be a few missing but that feels about right. For those not paying attention, I’m left with the Rocket, Solaris, Boardman CX, Boardman Road and long serving DMR Trailstar LT. So of the thirty or so once owned – however transitory – we’re left with just five.

I’d like to say that’s absolutely it. But of course, it absolutely isn’t. The bloody industry is throwing every more diversive platforms at us – long travel 29ers and 650b for a start, while writing off the 26inch wheels size that’s served us so well. An intelligent rider would declare ‘stop the world, I’m getting off’,

Honestly, I wish I was than man. But realistically I’m not. See you in a year with an update 😉

Practice makes..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography7 Comments
Lands like a feather. Attached to a rhino

… you a bit better that average. Possibly. There’s not much evidential measurement in mountain biking unless you categorise improvement by shaving seconds off your Strava times, or extrapolating a downward curve when plotted against A&E entries.

Quite a while ago, Tony Doyle rebooted my mountain biking world by breaking down riding into a small number ofcongruent techniques, which was as much about stopping what was wrong asconsistentlyattempting what was right.

Tony’s continued success is atestamentto – generally – older riders accepting that no amount of travel and technology will ever cover for an approach that is little more than ‘hang on and hope‘. And that’s great, more people riding, for longer, on harder terrain without hurting themselves.

But this hides a dirty little secret. Away from the bubble of a skills day, those bad habits creep back in. We all know that to be fast you first have to be smooth, to carve corners your body positon and weighting are everything, to ‘attack‘* steep, technical sections needs speed management and clear focus. Right up until your best mate starts to ride away from you, and – BANG – Mr Cahoonies elbows you out of the driving seat and we’re back to wild eyed desperation, naked terror and consequence delusion.

There’s nothing wrong with this of course. Adrenalin spikes and Dopamine hits never fail to raise the silly grin of the recently spared. Having fun does not always mean riding faster. Accepting your limitations is part of growing up. Our riding reality is never close to the minds eye view, so why not kick back, hang on and tweak the nose of terror with a technique that has so far kept you above ground.

The answer I think is because one day you’ll really, really hurt yourself. The difference between learned and instinctive skills matter most when it’s all gone horribly shit-canned, and the next two seconds are the difference between riding home and not riding for a long time. Since buying my Rocket, it’s absolutely clear it puts me into situations that are beyond my ability to get out of with any degree of safety.

Most of these are likely to be in the Alps. Where we’ll be in eight weeks throwing ourselves down mountains day after day, with ego, testosterone and big bikes for company. My riding is a mash up of half remembered techniques, sloppy copies of internet videos and burned ininadequacies when things get tough. Strava – we will be back to this very soon on the hedgehog once I’ve finally decided if I hate it or like it – tells me I’m fast compared to my peers. But that’s mostly the bike which is very capable. I’m not even sure I’ll ever get tocapable, but I’d quite like toachieveadequately brisk and relatively safe.

Which is where Ed @ Great-Rock comes in. A Calderdale based skills coach who impresses with his easy manner, outstanding riding ability and legendary beard. It’s worth the price alone for a front row seat to view robustious facial hair last seen during the Victorian era. Behind it is an intelligent bloke with the knack of making hard things seem easy.

First up this is a very different approach to Tony. Not better, not worse, just different. Ed’s training ground is the steep sided valleys above Hebden Bridge, full of West Yorkshire’s finest rocks and roots. He sized us up very quickly, me – too far back on the bike**, Matt – too ‘closed in’, H – not loose. By then we’d ridden two or three great trails in the manner of those ‘travelling far too quickly for their own ability‘

This is where practice comes in. Ed doesn’t reconstruct your riding, instead he focusses you on a few moves to make it somewhat more fit for purpose. Firstly a more open body position combined with better management of speed before letting it all hang out on technical sections. This act of faith to abandon the binders means taking more direct lines and committing 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} to the terrain. There’s some soundbites around ‘chin up, elbows out‘ but it’s more subtle than that.

It’s also not easy. Trying to unlearn everything that’s so far made you a bitsuccessfulis frustrating and a bit scary, but the reward is when it feels right, it is right so even if – when – you screw up again, at least there’s something to go back to. The same with drops and lips. Ed has us attempting to bunnyhop – not as a car park stunt – but because it’s a brilliant way to launch over trail obstacles without losing speed. Years ago this was one skill I actually had, back in the days of flat pedals and short chain-stayed hardtails. Today – not so much.

A fast top to bottom run putting it all together was great right up until the point that crashing somewhat interrupted my flow. At attempt to clear an entire root section with a committed un-weightingmove was scuppered by a distinctlyuncommitteddab of front brake. The same error had me over again a little later while attempting the kind of steep, loose off-camber corner we’ll see a thousand of in the Alps.

My increasing frustration at being a bit shit was mitigated by Ed’s calm explanation of what was going wrong and how to put it right. Which I finally did on another steep switchback, but this time with a proper line fixed by looking a long way down the trail, a flick of the hips to drive the bike round and a committed body positionthat had my head somewhat nearer the stem than the rear axle.

There’s lot more here mostly around being less of amannequinand more of a man on the bike. The realisation of all this were a few more fantastic trails at the end of the day where my riding yo-yo’d between really quite good and really quite tired. Sufficient energy barely remained to throw ourselves off a concrete slab demonstrating new found confidence and technique. Even if in my case it came after a few attempts where Ed’s kindly instructions couldn’t quite eclipse the sound of a 160mm travel fullsuspensionbike being rocked against its stops, as Herefordshire’s answer to the Kango drill honed his skills.

Sitting in the pub afterwards with a well earned recovery pint, it was clear that there’s a pragmatic way of going fast and having more fun while all the time reducing the fear factor of that speed.

In six hours you’ll learn why that is. And what to do. And a bit of how that works on every trail you ride. But you won’t leaveproficient in those skills – certainly not if you’re starting with me. You will leave with a head full of ideas and a very sore set of muscles unused to being included in the great sport that is mountain biking.

Ed’s a great conduit for this. He’s a very approachable fella with a quiet passion for doing things right. It was a six AM start and an eight PM finish to squeeze in this skills day, but it was time perfectly invested. We’ll be back to ride those trails, and to borrow Ed for another day so he can teach us ‘olds‘ some the dark arts of proper jumping. Until then, I’m digging out the old jump bike and practising.

Because average is the new fast.

Happy, slightly more skilled and, in my case, knackered

Pics here and here for those wanting to see more. Better still, speak to Ed and get yourself booked on a course. For the cost of a couple of tyres, you get to see a whole new world of awesome 😉

* I find that word a bit insincere when considering my riding. Honestly would replace it with ‘mildly menacing’ or ‘desperately trying’

** Removing my head from a perceived place of terror, i.e. the trail ahead.

If at first you don’t suceed

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment
It’s always good to have a spare

… redefine exactly what you mean by success. I haven’t ridden my cross bike much lately, although that verb transcends my entire bike collection during the first half of April. After an amazing trip to the Maritime Alps*, family holidays, refusal of spring to turn up, lack of very large mountains to ride on, etc, it took buying a new pair of forks to motivate any kind of riding activity.

Fantastic they are. First two rides crashed both times. There’s only so much that high specification components can mask talentless stupidity. So turning rather gingerly to a different bike as a possible solution, the wagon wheeled Solaris was car packed, and ready to go at the end of a working week best marked ‘well nobody was actually killed, so it couldn’t have been that bad‘

When that work finally stopped, the weekend didn’t start well. A late release from paid lunacy saw me instantly fall into the trap of attempting motion on a Friday night motorway. The 10 minute saving this route should have made slowly turned into 30 minutes of steering wheel chewing, bumper to bumper action, so we could all get a 5mph drive-by view of a car with a slightly bent bumper.

Finally free, the next blocker between me and some bike action was theheinouscross of equipment-strewn tractors and barely moving cars peopled by ancient hat wearing individuals. So it was some 30 minutes late that the bike was hauled out of the car, and various body parts were mooned to the good burghers of Malvern in my switch from corporate clone to mountain biker.

Being somewhat full of angst, my pedalling revolutions sent me down the first track at a speed leaving my riding buddies behind who’d so patiently waited for my eventual arrival. They had to wait again as the VERY FIRST METRE of proper off road slashed the rear tyre in that depressing feeling of instant deflation. This is a trail I’ve ridden maybe a hundred times on almost the same line, but today seemed the ideal opportunity to try something that’d cut off a whole second. And a chunk out of my tyre.

Quick examination showed the kind latex leakage all us tubeless fans fear.Dispensingwith inner tubes is a great idea for most of the time until suddenly it isn’t. No problem, I’ll stick a tyre boot in there to get us going. That tyre boot would be in the other pack some fifteen miles away. Along with my spare tubes, pump, valve core remover, emergency badger**, etc. The packin my hand contained a bit of water and a cavern of almost no tools or anything useful at all. A fine selection decision at 7am that morning.

My friends were great. Firstly a spare tube was willingly handed over. Quick latex soaked installation later, we raised it to 30 psi and removed the pump. At which point the valve exploded and shot across the Malvern hills never to be seen again. We checked how many spare tubes we now had. The answer was one. But no level of optimism could disguise the clear fact it was three inches too short.***

Furrowed brows brought up more solutions, remove a valve from another tube. For which we’d need a valve core remover, Which was 15 miles away still. Somehow I wrested one out, but my briefly fired excitement was quickly extinguished by the realisation that the rest of the valve core wasirretrievablylodged int the valve, and I didn’t have a big enough hammer to even begin to solve that problem.

Finally, more in desperation that hope, a gas canister applied high pressure to the tyre which merely splattered the remaining latex across every innocent individual within a 15 yard blast radius. I waved my companions goodbye as they began a dusty ride under blue skies, while I grumpily pushed my way back to the car.

Motoring home in a fury, my fully rounded plan to get drunk and sulk was modified by the thought that other bicycles are available. Flinging open the barn door, I extracted the cross bike, manically applied a proper pump to the sagging tyres, fetched the ‘badger pack‘ off the wall and set off into the darkening sky with demons to exercise.

It’s fifteen minutes to the local woods. Not tonight, it was a tad over fourteen with a sweating eyeball-stalked lunatic wrestling a willing bike up and down the cracked and pot-holed roads that make up most of Herefordshire. Waiting just a moment for the spots to clear, I was away on damp, loamy and grippy dirt lit by a dying sun and a big riders grin.

The cross bike is fun on trails like this. Even with now mostly bald tyres and tubes too full of air. Based on how well my tyre antics had gone that evening, I didn’t even consider improving the grip at the risk of a subsequent explosion. Instead I bounced off roots and slithered on soft ground making a total arse of myself.

Night was chasing away the last of the day as I excited a final whoopy trail and hammered for home. Just time to take in a last trail heading due west into a sky someone has thoughtfully set fire too for my viewing pleasure. Back home, karma restored, I examined the pack under the light of a cold beer. Three tubes of differing sizes, two pumps, a shock pump, spares I know not even of their history never mind purpose, two rain jackets and a phalanx of energy products of uncertain vintage.

None of which I needed of course. All of which I shall be carrying from now on.

* which shall be written up in a’full gloat’ style when life slows down enough for me to make up some bad lies around great pictures.

** You can never have too much spare stuff. I know this from my commuting days.

*** We’re talking about the tube here. Well I am anyway.

That was more fun that Mayhem

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment
The ‘everyone likes a trier’ stripes.

Although it could persuasively argued that gently placing ones wedding vegetables into a desk drawer before slamming it violently for twenty four hours would still push that event firmly into last place. Between these two events were nine months, four bikes and ten weeks of healthy living. The cold and rain were two constants except yesterday this was falling as snow.

Most everything else was different; I genuinely wanted to be there whatever my protestations, the course wasn’t based around a field of mud and despair to be orbited in increasingly misery. No one felt the urge to bellow ‘elite rider coming through‘ and – leaving the most important point to the last – the cake was both free and bloody marvellous.

Handed out as it was by friendly marshalls stamping their feet in the freezing conditions while cheering you on and adding to a chilled (natch) vibe of a really well organised event. Nearest thing to it was the now sadly deceased Clic-24, so there must be something about the organisers being inspired to give up their time for local charities which brings out the best in the riders, and the volunteers manning food stalls, sign on tents, enormous breakfast vats and various frozen points around the course.

And what a course it was. Miles of sweet singletrack enlivened with slick roots, rocky gullys and steep chutes all moistened by a rainy week and a wetter winter. The odd section had that life-sapping mud which rewarded intense and sustained effort with a pace easily beaten by those treating the conditions to a more sensible moderate pushing.

This Mayhem like sickly stickiness was thankfully confined to only a few sections of otherwise brilliant natural trails. Sure there were some grim old fireroad climbs and some tough grunts over endless roots gapped by loamy , greasy ground, but the reward were descents offering a perfect composite of gradient, flow, traction and turns.

Nothing to flatter the flat track bully here. It was a committed ride over four to five hours with little respite and enduring challenges. Once tiredness set it, it was a proper bastard and it’d beast you all the way home. Such tiredness on the climbs would ruin the descents and -most likely- deposit the weary rider in a convenient tree. Thesearboreal halts were most likely on two slick, steep horrors that had the marshalls cautioning dismounts if you weren’t sure. We weren’t sure but still gave it a go, mesuccessfullybut only in a heart-in-the-mouth ARRRGHHH IT’S ALL GOING WRONG manner, my mate Ian via an elegant frontal dismount finishing in a spiky bush.

I was still laughing at his predicament when the fast boys on their full suss monsters motored past with nary a dab of brake. Bastards. Some good riders out of the 400, some fit ones as well. Not always at the same time ,which led to a bit of single-traffic frustration best dealt with via an explosive overtake on a line best thought of ‘a bit cheeky‘.

Fun there but not earlier – the day didn’t start well. It started early and cold. Oh so very cold. Arctic winds had me wrap up in double-socked in winter boots, a-topped by fleecy bib-tights, merino base layer, softshell and rain jacket. A gear selection generally outed during the middle of winter, which March has decided to install rather than the traditional Spring Package.

As ever our first proper sight of the event was a muddy field peopled by a phalanx of middle aged blokes baring their arses in some kind of ritualistic pre-ride ritual involving lycra and swearing. We watched this from the warmth of the car which since it contained a blanket and a flask of tea put me very much in mind of pensioner-sightseeing. I did consider this as a pastime for the day were it not that the view lacked anything compelling to look at.

Go for a ride instead then. Knowing our place, we started at the back and remained there as I regaled Ian with my ‘race strategy‘* involving chunks of chocolate disguised as energy bars, a beeping heart rate monitor and a stash of emergency gels marked ‘open only in an emergency’. Our somewhat low key tempo positioned us perfectly for an early stop, during which I further explained to Ian the bladder pressing issue of a middle aged man having drunk a vat of sweet tasting placebo.

So nearly DFL but considerably less distracted, our experience of the first bit of actual off road was that it was full of people who had possibly never been off the road before. As ever my line choices were of the ‘I’ve no idea what it’s doing to the enemy sir, bit it’s putting the fear of God into me’ kind, weaving dangerously between wheeled innocents before nearly being t-boned by my own team mate who’dassumedno experienced or even vaguely sane rider would randomly cut across his path with a cheery ‘are you using that bit of trail fella?‘

The bite of the wind lessened a little in the thick Welsh forest which was about as good as the weather ever got. Still our minds were fairly concentrated on tricky, stall-happy climbing and proper two wheel sliding descents. Distance is hard earned here with the long route cut off an apparently easily achievable 25k away and some 3 hours to get there.

We made it with 20 minutes to spare by maintaining an even pace but not stopping much. This approach works for me with bugger allanaerobic threshold and an asthmatuned physiology which is always steady and mostly slow. Not so much for Ian whose third cold in as many weeks had drained away both fitness and endurance. So wheeling into a hastily build pit stop of goodies, we stopped for awesome cake and a much needed hot cuppa to take stock.

Trooper that he is, there was never a doubt the full 50k was our mission. So let’s get it done, firstly from this high point gained on a stupidly steep road gradient, swishing down sinuous singletrack throwing surprises around every curve – rock steps, narrow ridges drops into deep gullies, rocks to pop off and perfect turns to be carved with more than a nod and a braking finger to the slippy conditions.

That was great. The next few climbs less so for Ian who was really struggling now but he kept at with super little rewards of trail pleasure including a rocky section highlighting how good these new-fangled29er bikes are even with 100mm of single sprung travel and Mr Useless on board. Who was having a ball up and down with winter honed reflexes,hard earned fitness, a methodological eating plan and an eye on my HRM. Normally by this time it’s all hate for the course designer, spite for those breezing past, excuses being formed and resolutions to never be in this situation again forging undercruciblesteely skies.

Not today. Ian clearly felt some of this but mostly frustration at his body letting him down. That’s so different to me, most of the time it’s really the other way around. At the last checkpoint, he insisted I bugger off and leave him to suffer alone. I wasn’t keen, but he wasn’t having it so, as is my somewhat chequered history in this area, I abandoned him to his dark place, popped the emergency gel and pushed hard pedal strokes to see exactly what I had left.

Quite a lot as it transpired. I passed a lot of tired and walking riders on the last few climbs, all of which were the kind of muddy/rocky bitches that you really don’t want to see after the best part of four hours and 1400 metres of climbing. On the rather shallow grounds of having ridden everything so far, it seemed churlish not to at least attempt a bit of bloody effort to complete the course on bike both up and downhill.

Up proved surprisingly easy with my reeling in of more tired riders reminding me of how easy the first couple of hours had been. So either that’s a plan for the future or final proof that laziness pays off in the end. The final descent was signalled by the every happy hi-viz outfitted marshalls now back lit by falling snow and it was almost a disappointment.

Probably for the best though, as after a couple more dodgy overtakes withered-body(tm) began to request heated cars and a long sit down by the simple mechanism of a bit of arm pump and a smidge of leg cramp. The road home was exactly that after a final slither on a descent where 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} bravery felt about 40{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} too much and I wasn’t sad to see the tarmac. With the finish in sight, it seemed a sprint might be in order for which I’d like to apologise to rider 263 who was gasping up the final climb as I flashed past flat out and out of gears.

It’s just that kind of showing off which used to really piss me off when it happened to me. Which was, of course, every other event I’d ever entered. And it’s not like my final time was anything to shout about. Whisper it quietly at best, four and a bit hours on the GPS, five hours elapsed. The field of nightmares was half full at best by now with all the fast boys and girls long gone.

Ian wasn’t far behind and we were soon motoring home in the blissful warmth of my ice-cream van with the heater turned up to ‘I NEED TO FEEL MY TOES’. Ian was disappointed, I was pretty elated but tried not to show it. Might have failed, sorry mate bit bloody inconsiderate.

So what was learned here; important stuff first – great event for great causes, superbly organised, signed and marshalled. Ace course which was tough, fun and committing. Great people to ride with all of which seemed to have exactly the right attitude to a non-race race. Might have been a bit pointy-elbows at the front, but I had absolutely no first hand experience of that. Nor is it likely i ever will.

But I mightachievesome mid pack obscurity at the HONC assuming my ride lots/eat less lifestyle survives a trip to the alps in a week or so where I expect beer shall be for lunch, dinner and breakfast but not for winners. After that I’m definitely quitting. Apart from that 100k road ride I’ve already signed up for. And maybe the 24/12. Sleepless is something I’ve never done but feel I should. Hmm. But not Mayhem. I don’t care where it is this year; might as well be on the moon for all the chance there is of me getting within 100,000 miles of it.

I may have learned this – I really don’t like Mayhem but I quite like racing if I’m somewhere close to as good as I can be. Which – we’ve repeatedly established – isn’t very good at all, but that’s somewhat missing the point. I’ve yet to understand what that point is but it might have ‘entry form‘ written all over it.

* It’s not a race he said. And your strategy appears to be muttering ‘I SHALL NOT LEAVE MY WINGMAN‘ every time a rider comes past.