There are worse things than being ill..

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

… dead for example. This morning my Lemsip anti-cold barricades were over-run by man-flu-lite and asthma heavy. At this point I tend to wang the grumpy meter into the red zone, and demand that everyone treats me as a dying swan.

An hour later, I stopped feeling sorry for myself after being informed that a second (of six) chickens has squawked off this mortal coil. The first one we assumed had passed over due entirely to natural causes late last week. Those causes being a ruddy great abscess Ledbury’s finest vet* diagnosed as malignant and fatal.

So sad as it was, not a huge surprise although the suddenness of happily vertical to motionless horizontal gave us pause for thought. Then this morning, our longest serving, largest egg laying, fox surviving proto-hen hailed by all as “Nugget” dropped dead as well.

This after just laying an egg. It’s not a fox because she would have been carted away and the rest killed. Current theory is mink although having only ever seen dead ones worn by posh people, it wasn’t until some lunchtime googling, I had even the slightest inkling of what this chicken-stalker looked like.

Evil I reckon. Nasty little bastards they are by all accounts. The irony of extending the chicken coup but letting them run free is not lost on me. What to do next is. I’m considering using the remnants of the wire to build myself a minx trap. Then inviting my friend round with his mate Mr. Shotgun.

Random is now doubly upset as that’s two chickens in less than a week. We’re not going to attempt repopulating to a strength of six again, until the cause of chicken-gate is fully understood and dealt with. Right now I’m thinking Col Mustard in the Library with a Iron Bar.

And no we’re not eating the dead one. How could you even ask.

* Yes I know you shouldn’t spend£25 at the vet on a£2 chicken. UNLESS they happen to belong to a very teary 9 year old.

Chicken Run

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography1 Comment

Chicken Run!

Sometimes Genius takes many forms. In this case, it’s a wire tunnel connecting the perfectly secure – if bijou – enclosure to the structure supporting our Trampoline.

What kind of person could not look at those two disparate objects without thinking “Hang on Grommet, there’s an invention here to be had“? So humming the tune to the Great Escape, and making light work of spade, wire and pliers, we’ve created quite the extension to Poultry Alcatraz.

Chicken Run! Chicken Run!

Chickens are pretty intelligent*, so once we’d enticed them into the escape hatch a couple of times, it all seemed to become second nature. There were a few collisions and one of the larger ones appears to enjoy accelerating to ramming speed and punting the smaller one out, but otherwise the project is a complete success.

Except, two small issues. First is we’ve already pretty much let them have run of that garden section. To make the whole thing properly fox proof, we’ll need to be doing more than mending fences. Installing them more like, and creating an environment that a hundred years ago could have easily housed a couple of families.

Secondly, what happens if the buggers start laying egg in there? Option a) is to send one of the kids through the tunnel but I’m not sure they’d fit. Be fun to try tho. Option b) is dynamite and build a proper tunnel under the ground in the manner of an escaping WWII prisoner.

Pretty classic Al really. Solve one problem, create a few hundred more.

* I have this feeling they’re quite a lot brighter than me.

Wibble

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography, Road Riding6 Comments

Woger Wibble

Meet Woger, the latest step on my journey to bike nirvana. Lately I’ve managed to convince almost no-one that the days of random bike purchases were long behind me. A strict one-in one-out policy was being ruthlessly augmented with a “cost per use” equation. Once I’d run out of wall hangers, I’d run out of excuses to buy anything new and shiny.

It’s important to understand these hard and fast rules were in fact no more than guidelines. And a lack of wall space can be simply solved by either leaning this one against a handy bench, or chucking Carol’s bike into the shed.

There is some method to what may seem absolute madness – especially to those whom I confidently explained that any instance of Lucifer’s preferred personal transportation device would burn up on entry into my cycling atmosphere – to why I now have two road bikes.

It’s about cash. Sort of. Mostly. In parts. If viewed from an oblique angle. By an alien. Every trip to our offices in England’s second city offers me not only a zero MPH view of the M5 most days, but also the fiscal opportunity to blow the thick end of FORTY QUID on petrol and parking. You could run a Space Shuttle on that, although I except it’s harder to find a space for it in the multi-story.

Riding 12 miles to Ledbury station costs nothing but a bit of commitment, planning and refusal to accept that dark and cold automatically equal cars with heaters. From about now until the world revolves slowly round to BST, wibbling to work via the train will pay for Woger and some. And the time I spend slumped in the carriage of London Midland’s finest trundlers can be spent reading, writing, looking out of the window, or dribbly asleep.

Try that on the Motorway and see what happens*. And yes I could make that journey on my lovely Carbon boardman that’s seen 850ks of commuting and not much else this year. It’s not like I’m even a proper roadie**, it entirely fails to deliver the visceral pleasure of mountain biking, the pleasure is more about retaining fitness not actually what’s going on during the process.

So why buy another bike to do something that’s meant to be about saving money. Logic so twisted it requires a couple of extra dimensions. And yet, my justification based entirely on the shitty state of the roads here, the cost of replacing expensive components the Boardman is hung with, and a guilt-free laziness of a bike that has “shed chuck” written all over it. Only way that bike is being cleaned before spring is if it gets rained on.

That was my rationale before I rode it. Didn’t expect to enjoy it at all, it’s cheap and that’s reflected everywhere with heavy stuff adorning an unsophisticated alloy frame. Surprisingly it’s pretty good fun once winched up to speed. Lardy wheels make that a bit of a chore and the gearing is a bit aspirational when presented with the local geography, but get a wriggle on and there’s a racy little number trying very hard to get out.

It has the persona of a fat lass, downstream of a few Bicardi Breezers and looking for a good time. While the Boardman is all efficiency, lightness and power, Wibbly Wog is labrador-esque in its’ need to please. Will I feel the same way at the end of winter?

Not sure, but there may be a road bike up for sale. Possibly two.

* Disclaimer. If you die horribly in a mass of twisted and burning wreckage, don’t come looking to me for sympathy.

** To fat, head not permanently stuck up one’s own fundament, occasionally noted for a sense of humour, has man-hairy legs, that kind of thing singles me out.

If it isn’t fixed, break it.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography6 Comments

Two halves of the same thing

Do you know what it is yet? Or – and tense is important here – what it was. The photo below is more than a bit of a clue.

Luna 2

Yes that was my favourite/latest/fastest/most fun to fly toy glider. And having not had the chance to stand on a hillside freezing my cods off for a month or so, I felt this weekend was an ideal time for a bit of sloping therapy.

Didn’t fancy riding because my knee hurt a lot. Ironically it hurt more after trudging up a lumpy, tussocked approach to a not terribly windy edge. The pain in my knee however was subsumed by the dent to my pride, after bits of once expensive moulded glider cartwheeled across the ground.

It’s hard to say what happened. Well, no that’s not true. It’s very easy to say what happened – the model fell out of the sky from around fifteen feet in an entirely vertical direction, and ploughed into the ground with all the finesse and elegance of a piledriver.

What’s not so easy to understand is why. Let’s go with pilot error and leave it at that. Not far behind in the “uh? what?” stakes is how the hell I’m going to fix it. The broken bit up there is in the middle of the fuselage. Moving forward, where the wing used to sit is just shards of glass fibre, and the wings themselves are missing the pieces which were ripped out on impact.

It’s possibly repairable. Even by me. Whether I have the time/inclination/ability to survive mainlining horrible gluing compounds is something else.

The irony of not going riding because of a broken knee wasn’t entirely lost on me. So the next day I decided to see exactly how broken it was by subjecting the bugger to a bit of early morning MTB action. Result of which is I am still walking, but more of that later.

For Christmas, I’d like some less stupid hobbies, twice as much time and a titanium knee insert.

Arthur Knee.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

Disembowelment attachment.

I find misery can sometimes be partially assuaged by having a good laugh at the misfortune of others.

You know the kind of thing; the face of some poor sop you’ve never met trapped in a ten mile traffic jam on the opposite carriageway, the look of a self-important corporate clone at the exact second his frothy skinny latte-hold the cheese explodes all over his designer suit, a good mate falling off and giving himself a nasty bruise. Possibly in the testicles.

I believe the Germans call it schadenfraude. Apparently there is no direct translation into English. But there is a facial expression, and that is the smirk.

That was me, smirking, at this courageous positioning of those bar ends. Really couldn’t be better placed to disembowel oneself during an accident. It’d be a bugger really having survived a head on with a car, only to find your kidneys impaled on spiky bar accoutrements.

Unless you were watching. In which case, smirk. And the way things have been going this week, I’m in need of a damn good smirking.

My miracle-working physio explained that melonknee(tm) was a bit out of whack. Ligaments that should hold the joint appear to have wandered off the another part of the body, and if skilled prodding doesn’t sort it next up is a man with an MRI machine and possibly a small drill.

This is not good news. It reminded me of an old climbing mate originally introduced as “Arthur Nerd“. This was, “God’s Honest Truth Mister“, because he was not a total nerd. Just the half. My knee is like that, it sort of works in the middle of a perambulating arc, but is entirely uninterested in moving to the margins.

And the half that does work wants my pain centres to know that it’s not mad happy about it. Hence my grumpiness. In fact even the joy of watching two elderly members of the Ledbury tandem club dismount in a manner most likely to break a hip couldn’t cheer me up.

I bought a new bike instead. It might come tomorrow. Mrs Phys tells me I can ride if I’m careful and “Don’t push hard up the hills and try and put all your power down“. I’ve been able to set her mind at rest on that one, I can assure you.

Anyway if they do need to pop the sunroof off my kneecap, I’ll be sure that nothing gets sown back up without a bit of Ti or Carbon being installed first.

Quote, Unquote, Say “ow”

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

Last Friday, I am confronted by an angry fat man in a Butlin’s uniform on New Street’s main concourse:

Him: “You can’t bring your bike up the escalator sir”

Me: “It’s a bit early for all that existential shit isn’t it?”

Him: (Flumoxed): “Sorry?”

Me: “Well clearly, I am here, the bike is on the platform, I have clearly been transported by the moving walkway back there, therefore the physical evidence trumps your philosophical world view”

Him: “Er, no I mean it’s dangerous”

Me: “Damn Straight, walk up those stairs with this knee and there’s a serious possibility I’ll fall straight back down. Well done for letting me use the escalator”

It’s important at times like this to stride – or limp stride-aly – off with a enigmatic smile before the magic wears off.

Today, I’m in the Doctor’s surgery being un-diagnosed by the same newly qualified quack who had me down for malingering last time.

Her: “That’s odd, that knee really is very swollen, what do you think we should do about it?”

Me: “Well, it’s not me that’s spent seven years in Medical school and has access to google, so I’m kind of in your hands”

Three options present themselves apparently; 1) do nothing which has worked so well with my manky finger I was mad keen to try that again. 2) Pump myself full of sufficient anti-inflammatories to stun a small donkey or 3) try and un-retire the physio who sorted me out last time.

I’ve gone with 3) after being offered the reassuring advice that if things hadn’t improved in TWO OR THREE weeks, to come back. Assuming I can get my trousers on and the appendage in question has not taken on the size, texture and general flexibility of a melon.

The only conclusion one can reasonably draw is that the budget cuts are at work here. First don’t prescribe any drugs that might cost some actual money, and – phase 2 – be so entirely bloody useless to discourage further visits.and then rent the space out for CV writing workshops.

Wonky knee makes driving painful, walking a chore and riding pretty much fine until I stop. The latter is extremely vexing since I appear to have dug in enough this summer to dig out a decent level of fitness. Trails are still loads of fun and the ST4 is a bloody joy to ride. Hell, I’m even enjoying road riding, but this is entirely due to working out how much money I save swapping bike for car on my commute.

For that amount, I’d crawl naked over broken glass to get to work. Although I’ll wait until my knee is better first. Not that I’ll be bothering the Doctor, again after seeing her surreptitiously adding “Old Age and Decrepitude” to my list of symptoms.

Return of the rant

On By AlexIn Road RidingLeave a comment

On the one hand, there is my well reasoned discourse – forensically arguing the case for universal benefits with reference to the unfairness of the proposed changes to Child Benefit, and more specifically the devastating financial impact on my secret bike buying funds, on the other a short sweary note on some welly-booted twat trying to kill me.

I have always maintained that a shared passion for something does not automatically engender kindred spirits. Many – in fact most – of my friends ride bikes but that doesn’t represent anything but the slightest dent in a world of cycling cocks. Nor does everyone who lives outside London* assume the gentler, kinder, less hurried characteristics of many we’ve met since heading west.

Last night point entirely proven. LandRover with massive trailer rattles up behind as I made my exit from Ledbury. Set of lights 300 yards ahead on red, but he can’t wait even tho I’m the far side of 20mph and pedalling hard. No, he pulls out to pass, realises there isn’t room for me, him, his trailer and the co-op lorry approaching from the opposite direction, and so removes me from the sizing equation.

How the swinging death metal of the trailer missed me I do not know. I did ask him though – politely knocking on the window before demanding a explanation quickly followed by an apology of exactly what the fuck he thought he might be doing. A standard response I’ve learned well from my time in our fine capital was again trotted out “didn’t see you, didn’t realise you were going so fast, wasn’t that close was it?”. “Blind Idiot, Stupid Idiot, Yes it bloody was, I was there, honestly I know” was pretty much my comeback only with lots more swearing.

I went on at some length that the highway code applied equally to us all, and that “no his road fund license was not funding some secret cult where it was okay to kill cyclists for being in the way“, at which point the lights changed, and I decamped haughtily down a one way street. In the wrong direction. Throwing my moral high ground behind me.

If we meet again I shall hope he is suitably chastised and has learned a hard lesson. More likely it’ll be a shotgun out of the window and picking pellets out of my arse for weeks.

For the sake of balance, my reasoned argument went something like “tax those bastards who got us into this first, yeah you know the ones paying themselves six figure bonuses for lending more cheap money. The gits that don’t need child allowance to prop up their boarding school fees“. I feel it’s a populist cause I’m fronting here.

* almost all those inside are nutters tho.

Funny shaped vegetables

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Potato Harvest

Remember those quieter times, when the highlight of a Sunday TV schedule would be a humourous* selection of misshapen brassicas and root vegetables vaguely resembling – in a certain light and to a certain schoolboy mind – dangley body parts?

I worried – even at an age when a dog farting was absolutely the funniest thing in the world – about the people growing such penile specimens. Did they do it on purpose? Was there some kind of special seed? Maybe a funny shaped tube mirroring something normally kept well holstered inside the trouser?

I worry no more. Because after exercising scavenging rights in the field adjacent to our house and unearthing the remains of the vegetables beds, it has become absolutely clear that nature has a wicked sense of humour.

Firstly the humble spud. Now grown on an industrial process unrecognisable to even a post war farming generation, they’re planted in dense rows, sprayed with all sorts of shit**, everything above ground killed with sulphuric acid, and then harvested with a machine first recorded during the Spanish Inquisition.

Only not all of them. It’s uneconomical to hand pick the stragglers. Well it is for the farmer, far less of an issue to a family hurdling the fence in the hunt for a season of free chips. Armed with nothing more advanced than a wheelbarrow and a furtive expression, we’ve recycled enough to make me wonder if “potatobix” has a future as a breakfast cereal.

No idea what they are. “Potato” I hear you say? Ah well you’ve not plumbed the fascinating depths of tuber identification oncethe Internet is brought into play. Really there is no finer family fun that holding a humble muddy spud to the light while pointing excitedly at the screen: “It’s that one, I’m sure of it, mottled edges, responds well to squidging, looks as if it may have been secreted by a sick bear… yes it’s definitely ‘Farmer’s delight-the muddy bugger‘”

The carrots however are something else. Everything we grew above the surface of the beds has been nibbled/shit on/carried off into the night by an insect population which turns up with cutlery. What is left has taken the most amazing shapes from the chronically deformed to the point-and-laugh.

It’s great to see my own kids have taken on the mantle of indicating that an orange vegetable with a point at the end may very well be a spitter for a willy. Makes me proud.

Still they’re free and they taste pretty good***, and one day I’ll feel strong enough to tackle the difficult potato Random dug out that has the size/weight/general shape of the dog’s head. Send that one into Esther and she’d not know where to put herself.

I’d almost welcome a reboot of the That’s Life franchise, were it not for “Gardener’s World” being a worthy successor. Ashamed as I am of admitting it, I could not tear myself away from Friday’s gem of an episode where lots of retired folks were terribly serious on the topic of “Exhibition Vegetables”. I might have to have a go – there is at least one carrot the judges would find hard to ignore.

* Only, not very.

** Chicken shit generally. Ask me how I know.

*** The Veg not the kids, but I like the way you’re thinking.

No Crash Zone

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Ski-heads will reverently talk of heli-serviced runs where the phrase “No Fall Zone” is both a barrier to entry and a badge of honour. High above the marked pistes, where snow clings precariously to impossibly steep slopes is close to heaven for adrenalin junkies. Screw up here and you’ll most likely die – either by tumbling a thousand metres down the mountain or being lost in an unmarked crevasse.

I’d like to introduce the concept of “No Crash Zones” for mountain bikes. And I feel more than qualified to do so with a distinguished history of ejecting stage everywhere, sometimes comedically slowly, frequently largely unnoticed, occasionally with an élan made for video, and rather too often finishing in hospital.

But there is more than a nuance between crashing somewhere good, and crashing somewhere really very bad indeed. Deep in a dark and dank forest encased in coffin sided slate is definitely one of those places. The Climach trail is roughly carved through a quarried out valley and appears to have been gloriously overlooked by the health and safety crowd, so prevalent in other trail centres.

Well the bit we rode anyway, having shown enthusiastic indifference to the delights of the XC loop. The final descent hangs on the valley edge, a perfect singletrack bench cut between slate walls and menacing trees. It’s not welcoming, it doesn’t have happy little signs, it fails to box-tick the “trail centre downhill playbook“, it doesn’t think you’re hard enough to have a go, and it will spit mud in your eye before genially trying to kill you.

Not because it is technically more demanding that anything else we had already ridden in a weekend ratcheting the adrenalin barometer between fun and fear. No, because it’s so damn fast, dispensing with the velocity inhibiting swoopy sinew of perfect apex’s – this trail is straight down, hairpin, plummet again. Hewn out of the slate, the surface is always wet and glassily frictionless, jagged edged to catch a tyre, cambering off to a dark mass of uninviting trees.

Blair Witch for bikes. You have to love it, if only for the sheer chutzpah of a designer who gone with the “fuck it, make it fast and dangerous, they’ve read the sign at the start, they know the risks” brief. One section lingers long in the memory – post hairpin a wall of slate vertically limits the right, dense trees clinging to a forty five degree slope the other way – bracketing a thin ribbon of slate, stone, dirt and mud.

Stray left and you’ll hit something bark related on the way to a 200 foot drop, catch a bar on the rock wall and the experience will be akin to diving head first into a bacon slicer at about 25 MPH. That slate isn’t smooth but cruelly serrated and so very, very close. You don’t want to crash here, you don’t even want to think about it.

I was thinking about it as we winched up for another go. First though I had to fall off the tiny section of North Shore plankage. A standard approach of not getting off on damp wood spanning grim looking ditches* was, er, ditched as I lined up confidently for a fuss-free traversal. A certain causal narrative follows; I look at the plank, I look at the ditch, I ride onto the plank, I ride into the ditch.

Musting** myself off, the trail was now mine alone with my fast riding pals already some way distant. That’s pretty much the situation whenever I’m riding with these two, and it was entirely their fault that my riding speed was way above my pay grade at this point. They need to be slower, or I need to be less competitive.

Corners may not feature much on this trail, but the trail pixies added much lumpiness and scary rock to ensure that you can spend much time in the air and most of that properly frightened. It’s a bit car-crash tv tho – you know one mistake and food shall be served in a drip, but it’s such a bloody rush that the pretence all is fine and you’re more than handling it is a salve for the delusional mind.

Round the hairpin, set up for the bacon slicer, virtual blinkers on, can’t look left, don’t look right, look over there where it’s less scary. Speed builds, split second decision to sacrifice grip, but you’re dare not brake, dare not breathe really, it’ is only fifteen seconds but you’re properly alive, absolutely focussed, living in the moment where fear and joy are just about the same. And then one second – a second I shall relive mostly waking up screaming in a cold sweat – I felt my glove graze the rock.

Two futures open up; one sees the an impacted bar launch the rider hard into the rock before bouncing him – broken – down a cliff offering all the cushioning of hard pine trunks and stumps. The other releases the pressure on that right hand, shoots the bike out of the danger zone and makes damn sure the God of Fate is properly respected from here on in.

I got lucky. In more ways that one. I got to ride mountain bikes on proper mountains with good friends, take more risks that I should, drink more beer than I can handle, and still come back with my shield rather than on it.

A month ago similar things were going on in the Pyrenees. Different mountains, different friends, same feeling of utter peace at the end of it.

That’s not lucky, that’s blessed.

* Because I’ve already got off some 10 feet before.

** A lexical fusion of “Mud” and “Dust”. A winner I think you’ll agree

The same, but different.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

ST 4 built not ridden
Bike testing is something I take very seriously. Mainly because the sheer volume passing through the hedgy shed is long past double figures, and can’t be far from celebrating a silver jubilee. So it goes; build, test, declare undying love, upgrade, cast aside, discard in the shadow of shiny new things, then sell.

Notice at no point do the words “Research”, “Logic”, “Profit” or even “Enjoy” gets close to elbowing their way into that tired list of bike rental. I did consider building a shed with just two openings labelled “in” and “out” with little space for actual occupation.

Lately things have improved, although this is analogous to a 50 a day man boasting he’s cut down to 48 fags during any 24 hour period. The difference with the Orange ST4 is it had become a firm favourite which I had no intention of selling.

Really, none at all, rebuilt the Cove, rode it, liked it, put it back on the hanger. Pace was occasionally dusted off but failed to excite, Trailstar is kids woody accompanied for which it is ace, but I’ve no intention of riding it anywhere else.

So a certain irony then when the ST4 decided to dump me and some of its’ more important internals after less than a year. Still fickle chap that I am, its’ rather burlier mutant twin has already displaced it in the “keeper” category*

So bike testing. Here’s my approach honed over far too many random purchases. Finish bike build at exact time red wine bottle is empty. Ideally this will be before midnight, but rarely is this the case as the “last small job” appears to have triggered a rebuild from the wheels up. Forget to sleep properly due to lame excitement, chicken issues** that apparently must be discussed at 3am, and multiple visits to the bog.

Groan when alarm chirpily informs you that 7am is actually a real time on a Sunday. Lurch out into the rain and lash bike onto trailer. Select least stinky riding kit and motor off in search of other early morning nutters. Turn back at three quarter distance to retrieve trailer key left on kitchen table. Get stuck behind tractor and nearly end life attempting risky passing manoeuvre. Find friend still drinking tea and dither for a bit.

Riding eventually had to happen after we’d run out of new things to poke and prod. First 25 minutes was climbing, first on the road switching to a much hated shaley double track expressly laid to make me miserable. Goes on for a bit, nearly as long as my technical evaluation of the new ST4’s climbing prowess “pretty stiff back there, pro pedal is a bit keen, shit I’m knackered today“.

Finally a descent, flick the happy switch on the shock which instantly sits the bike deeper in the travel. Throw it into a couple of slippy corners and down a steep rock gulley and it feels the same but different. Up front is a bloody good fork, but it feels out-classed by what’s happening out the back. Super plush over the bigger rocks but ramping up nicely deep into the stroke. Probably a bit too much meaning a stop for some “biffer air” in the chamber.

For those not of a bikeacul persuasion, the last paragraphs may read like nonsense. In fact, even those who do will rightly question my ability to critique anything much more complex than “the wheels go round when you press the pedally bits“. And you may be right, but I contend that riding the same trails with the same kit on a different frame is a fine way to work out what’s different.

We rode on past our normal switchback point and headed deeper into the hills. Lots of steep climbs on wet grass and loose shale demonstrated a total absence of flex, rather the bike hunkers down and demands grip from the surface. It’s pretty damn effective until my lungs give out.

The middle Malvern hills throw silly steep and loose descents as a challenge to the fat tyred, and we took them on without much drama but quite a lot of speed. Couple of jumps, then a significant flight of cheeky steps were soaked up and spat out by a bike that appears to have eliminated flex in this third incarnation.

Too early to tell for sure, but by this time I’d abandoned any rigorous evaluation of the suspension performance, instead removing the analytical part of my brain entirely to allow the section marked “Silly and Impulsive” to have its’ head. Quick scoot through some lovely Autumn-turning singletrack, plunge down into the quarry before a last 200m climb close to where we started.

Close but above. Good, because I am really knackered now – being easily outclimbed by my pal on his proper heavy Heckler. Windy up here too, so it’s a quick nod to the God of Staying Wheel Side Up and we’re away. Off the ridge spine, rock drop into a loose ninety degree turn, then the same but reversed, line up the drop, dispatch with nary a worry – when did we start thinking 5 inches of travel as Trail? Jeez these things are awesome – fast turns lead us into a final off camber woody section.

Boom-Boom down there, hip swinging the rear tyre away from the trees, quick breath, brakeless eyes wide open over steep and wet roots shooting us out onto a grassy slope where rain and due ensures braking traction is a bit of a random affair. Grin, point, tea and medals.

Riding any bike almost any day is generally a joy. Today should have been the end of a painful disappointing journey with the old ST4. In fact it felt like the start of another altogether happier one.

3 posts in three days? Unheard of. Work tomorrow, normal silence will be resumed I suspect.

* Yes it’s a very small category. But statistically, it counts.

** One of the poor buggers appears to have been shot if the wound is anything to go by.