Pass me those legs..

… no not those, they’re entirely useless for anything other than modelling socks. Assuming I am sitting down. Slightly tired right now.

Bit special this weather isn’t it? Trails so dry that a couple of brief downpours were almost dust-dampeningly welcome. Not quite as moistly appreciated as a couple of mid ride pints ,in a rather fine pub on the banks of the Wye. I rarely risk beer when the off road isn’t done, as the increased alcohol induced silliness in no way makes headbutting trees any less painful.

Today’s justification came after a section of trails that invited you in, shook you up, blended pure adrenalin with healthy dose of fear before spitting you out gabbling, giggling and desperate for a pint. A pint that was preceded by some urban amusement in the form of many, many steps which rewarded a bit of pace and rhythm. I certainly achieved both in the pub afterwards.

It is a bit odd riding with people you barely know as one of two things generally happens a) they try and rip you legs off or b) are the kind of riders whose view on life is diametrically opposite to yours. In the Forest, you must also be ready for the sounds of Duelling Banjo’s, when someone stuffs a pair of boar tusks in their helmet* and darkly proclaims “It’s time to initiate the new boy, fetch the chicken”.

Multiple Daves, a Nick and A Gary did none of those things – although I feel an initiation ceremony may only be waiting for the hours of darkness – and proved just damn nice people who were happy to show a gobby northerner their favourite trails. And what trails they are. After Wednesday, I fully expected to be a bit disappointed because it was hard to see how the basic awesomeness of that singletrack could be matched, never mind bettered.

And, cutting to the point here, the first hour pretty much backed that up as rendezvous plans fell to confusion, a dearth of mobile phone coverage and some roadie criss-crossing. Eventually – after nearly being taken out by a twatty eye-test needing Volvo owner – we found an approximation of a riding flange and went searching for some dirt under tyre.

FoD Monster Ride - April 2010 FoD Monster Ride - April 2010

And what we found had a bit of everything, fast turns, tight turns, open sections, rock drops, jumps, gulley’s and occasionally terror all bounded by the bountiful forest. I was happy to bottle a big roll down that required precision and bollocks, neither of which I’d remembered to pack in my Camelbak, but did my best to make up for such wanton neshness everywhere else. I think the school report would read something like “doesn’t have much aptitude fo the subject, but tries hard. Rather noisy in class“.

And far from being embarrassingly overbiked – with the ST4 shock being properly broken, and a bunch of bearings having gone the same way – the Pace was a perfect accompaniment to some steep’n’deep trails which went from the barely defined to the obviously crafted. At no point did I think “you know what, I really should have brought the rigid Kona, that’d be ideal for that steep, rootfest, death line over there”

Proper ride that. 45ks, 1100m of climbing (I’ve gone metric, it’s all that road riding), out for five hours, one of those spent happily in the pub. And the second I’d made my goodbyes, while trailering the dusty bike, the heavens opened and the righteous gone rained on. Which was fine as I was inside the truck at that point.

I nearly didn’t ride today due to a combination of terrifyingly complex family logistics, and the option of throwing expensive gliders off windy slopes. But I can do that when I’m old and broken – until then more of this please.

* the one on their head. It’s not quite as bad as you may have heard.

Lessons Learned

You never stop learning” as preppy and enthusiastic training types are want to brightly scold you. At my age, it’s more of a “never stop forgetting” decline, but there may be some merit behind the over-reaching ethic of self-improvement.

Take last night for example, some representative example to share:

Meet time is not ride time. Oh no, because first there is “faff time” and “chat time” before we’re ready to go. And then we don’t because someone’s disappeared for a spot of dogging*, someone else hasn’t even turned up yet, and the route is still in the “committee” stage.

It’s all part of the ride experience, and – I’m sure – backed by some EU rules.

Mid April is still night riding. Even if you’ve forgotten your lights. Then it’s more “dark riding” really.

When bikes > 5, there will be a mechanical. Ahem, that’ll be me then, serially stuffing air into my shock which still has some damping, but not any associated with compression.

Don’t think that because the route pathfinder is also lightless, you will not suffer benightment in a dark forest with people you hardly know. This is because he can clearly see perfectly in the dark, and may have been crossed with an Owl or a Bat. You however, will find your way by crashing into trees.

It is not possible to avoid chasing people. I am like a labrador, they are the juicy stick. I can hear Tony DoyleSlow in Fast Out, Looking round the corner” in my ear but the Ego Devil is on my shoulder shouting “GET ON WITH IT YOU MINCER” and it’s his advice I follow. Predictably, the stick remains uncaught.

New trails should not be taken at full pace. Becuase you will find yourself entering an obstacle (let’s hypothosise a very large and deep roll down) at a speed far exceeding your skill base. Regardless of the parlous state of the bike’s suspension, you absolutely will acheive full travel on the anal sphincter.

Local knowledge rocks. Fifteen miles of perfect singletrack, grippy on the corners, fast on the straights, rooty and tight one minute, fast and open the next. Dust motes backlit by the setting sun. Finish one section and immediately dive back into the woods for more trail perfection. You know it won’t always be like this, and somehow that makes right now even better.

Riders make the ride. If I’d been accompanied on this trail only by GPS and my own company, the ride would downgrade from great to good. Regardless of the long back stories from the guys on the ride, I still felt part of a kind of group conciousness that just wants to ride, to have the craic and to feverently help someone falls off in front of them.

One thing I didn’t learn last night was just how brilliant riding bikes is. Because I already knew that. But it is brilliant to the power of giggle when you add all the summery elements, so badly missed in the never ending winter we’ve endured.

I’ll be there 6:30pm next week. Ready to faff 🙂

* this may not be entirely true, but they came back looking flustered, yet satisfied

The Return of the Sweaty Helmet..

.. or “Why must I race every day, even when there is only me, and therefore I can only lose“. Standard Disclaimer absolutely appropriate here: “It’s not my fault“. My unpleasently perspiring arrival at the station this morning was entirely driven by technology and fear.

Technology being my bike computer pretending to be a GPS. One of its’ nastier features is a “virtual partner” where a slimmer, faster and less heavy legged version of yourself powers away effortlessly into the far distance. Essentially you’re racing a clone from another ride, but it’s a speedy clone saved with the fastest time ever acheived.

And that’s a bugger, because every commute Bealzibub’s LCD annointed one on earth mocks me as he stretches his lead. Until today, when – head down, legs madly spinning, lungs gulping down bucketloads, and sweat poring down my face – I beat it. By 7 seconds.* At which point alarms were going off all over my head including “Warning – legs not available for re-use”

The fear bit is wondering if enough riding has prepared me for a spring/summer/autumn of endless riding, without a lack of fitness chucking a stick in my spokes.

it won’t be the same stick which ripped out my rear mech yesterday, as that was both real and really bloody annoying. I am not entirely blameless, since our hack through stick alley was brought on by a navigational failure made worse by refusing to accept the wrong way was -in fact – the way we’d been going for some time.

Tim B fashioned an epic uber-bodge with nothing more than a chain tool and basic knowledge of chain growth, while I silently brooded over the thick end of a£100 worth of busted parts and fat dinks in a previously pristine chainstay.

We managed to finish the ride and, even with the silliness of singlespeeding, it still proved to be awesome under warm skies and atop dusty trails. If we were being honest, neither of us were really truly at the races; Tim fell off early doors and seemed to spend the rest of the ride trying not to do the same, and – even before derailer emasculation – my newly learned trail skills appear to already be half forgotten.

It mattered not. We climbed enough hills and covered enough miles to earn a large egg based reward. Aside from Tim’s claret coloured knee, both of us had received sufficient bramble action to pass off as “badger strike” when curious children questioned why I was bloodied from both thighs down.

The trails are so rock hard at the moment, a spot of rain wouldn’t do them any hard. Did I just say that out loud?

Oops.

* Tonight I shall be clearing ALL the ride histories. No way I’m racing myself again at that pace. I will die.

Seasons

Taken by Tim B, December 23rd 2009 during this ride when we still found snow novelty fun. How that changed over the next two months, with a winter cold enough to freeze or bore you to death.

Today was the first “proper” MTB ride with smallest (and yet not very small nowadays) child, with the Verbal one dispatched to ruin a friends’ house on the roundabout of Sleepovers that have erupted this last few months. Talking of eruptions, it is clearly a train company plot to bolster profits because we’ve had a horizon scraping blue sky day that speaks of summer. Ash did feature in my day but only shovelling some fire remains into the compost bin and fetching the dog out of what was left*

Random, despite her bike being mostly unridden for a few months, picked up from where she left off, climbing a few more hills, eeking out a bit more speed on the downs and looking pretty damn relaxed. A steep, loose path to the lake was a two person descent with one running along side holding the brake lever only last year. Now she just controls her speed using the infamous “Donut”**, until – about half way down – abandoning them completely and hooning off to the power of “wheeeeeeee”. Scary stuff I can tell you.

Embolded by fearless trail skills, we tried a “hard” track by the lake with a few roll ins, bigger roots and tight turns. Aside from falling off and attacking a stump with her front wheel, she was essentially awesome and undamaged. Even my personalised 1:1 tuition didn’t seem to hamper her much either. A half fallen tree was negotiated with a breathtakingly instinctive move to stick her head on the stem and hope for the best, while a tricky bit was undertaken three times to make sure “I got a decent photo“. No idea where she got that kind of Prima Donna “look at me” attitude from.

Obviously she then boasted to her now re-located sister on how much better her riding was, leaving me to arbitrate sibling DEFCON 2 with a crowd pleasing “You’re both really good“. “Yeah, but I’m still BETTER” asserted verbal. I chucked them outside and left them to it. Practical parenting I like to think of this as.

Anyway, the point – if there has to be one – is that the seasons have really changed. Apparently dead stuff is becoming leafy stuff, grass is growing, days feel long, weeds are being dug, things that look like weeds are being planted, and tomorrow I’ll be earning cold beer on dusty tracks, going fast and praying the weather won’t break for a bit.

I’m struggling with my normal grumpiness. Probably means I’m due to fall off and lose a limb or something.

* That’ll teach me to give him a wash then. He’s remonstrated by rolling in anything ending in the word “Poo” for the last week. If anything he smells even worse, and honestly I didn’t think that was possible. It’s like having our own mobile Porton Down.

** Squeeze the brakes like you’re holding a donut and don’t want projectile jam in the mush I taught them. They now seem to think this means I have to actually give them a donut.

Are we there yet?

The brain is a remarkable organ. Some would say the most remarkable organ in your body, although most of those wouldn’t be men. It is capable – rather unlike certain other appendages – of significant displacement activity especially when faced with much of the same for most of the time.

In the case of one hundred kilometres of not terribly different things happening in front of me, the cerebral loaf sliced up time with the insertion of looped music into a head otherwise stuffed only with boredom. Sadly this synapse sponsored play-list contained only one song, of which I know almost three lines from the entire lyrical ensemble.

Elvis Costello may be a genius songsmith and I have some time for much of his back catalogue, but even his most ardent groupie would tire of hearing a repeat of lines including “Checkpoint Charlie” / “Mr Churchill” and “Johannesburg” interspersed with some desperate humming. Six hours of “Oliver’s Army” has left me with no choice but to dedicate the remainder of my life to hunting down and eating every remaining copy.

Between slapping my head in a doomed attempt to skip tracks, the HONC passed me by in a series of emotions primarily swinging between boredom, misery and dashed hope. I’d also like to record brief periods of fun, humour and generic enjoyment except I don’t think there were any.

It went something like this:

Mile 0:

Arrive in Winchcome at far-too-bloody-early o’clock, and am immediately confronted with arm waving high viz jackets, middle class white people* of differing shapes struggling with the full range of two wheeled accesories from the basically recreational to the achingly niche.

Meet riding buddies and swap excuses. Difference being they a) have ridden the event before and are looking confidently fit and b) are both much younger and competitive that me. I decided right then this would be the last time I see then.

Mile 1:

And we’re off. Instant cockage overcomes pelaton types and there’s some elbow out action down the high street. Wonder if it’s just me that thinks with 59.5 miles to go, sprinty showboating might be a little out of place. “It’s not a race” I want to shout but instead just hand out some lessons in exactly how pointy Yorkshire elbows are.

Mile 3:

First climb and I wave bye to my friends as they carry out their threat to put in some hard yards, so not to be caught behind slow and rubbish riders as the road turns to dirt. As one of those slow and rubbish riders, I applaud their commitment from a very spinny position some way back.

Mile 5:

We crest the first (and longest) climb with testosterone levels still high enough for some knob to save himself one second by rudely pushing in as we approached a gated crossing. Already a bit miserable, I opt for some sport by drafting el-knobbo on the road right up to the point when he notices, then cruising by in the manner of the aerobically untroubled. Then slowing right down so he has to go straight back past. Guess what I did then? I know, I know I just can’t help myself.

Childish yes, and I bored of it after a couple of miles which unfortunately swept us past the exit marked “all non lunatics turn here” and committing myself to the full 100k. Mr Costello sat himself downon a comfy chair for a nice long set.

Mile 10:

First checkpoint. Only thing of note was the first proper muddy section (of which there were thankfully few) where some racey nutter took a bankside route to pass the double stacked riders. The end of which dropped him into a hub deep puddle of vile slop, and – because there is a God – then pitched him head first into a second vat of something similar. To be fair to the fella he did acknowledge the cheers from the righteously avenged.

Mile 15:
“Give it a REST ELVIS” I found myself shouting much to the apparent consternation of some innocent fellows I’d fallen in with. It has to be recorded most of them were significantly quicker uphill showing levels of commitment reflected in their raspy breathing. Show them a bit of downhill though, especially were it enlivened by a smattering of the slippy stuff, and they’d show you their getting off and walking skills.

But with the ups lasting far longer than the downs and the off road being pretty benign, soon they left me to be replaced by the next keen set of riders who would swallow me up and spit me out the back. This bothered me not at all as my plan had nothing at all to do with what what going on with other riders’ abilities.

Mile 20:

Time to execute on Ride Plan. Off the bike, bit of a stretch, force down some ‘orrid energy bar, slurp a few mouthfulls of electrolyte laced water and then stretch some more. Having fallen victim to terrible cramp and general un-wellness on long events before, this time I was going to finish on the bike however long it took. In my mind that was about seven hours, but the GPS told me I was doing a little better than that.

It also told me I still had 40 miles and 4.5 hours to go. I began to obsess a bit about that pleading for the miles to decrement at an entirely unrealistic rate. Paranoia infected my thought processes, and I forced myself to look away believing the evil little numbers would only change if I wasn’t watching.

Mile 22:
It was in this state of mind that I made the first of my navigational mistakes. Obviously it was downhill, and some distance from the usefully placed course marker I’d somehow missed. On the upside, I’d dragged about five riders with me which ensured company on the grind back up to where we could see many riders zipping by wondering what these losers where doing all the way down there.

From now on, I’d forget about the miles and follow the little pointer religiously.

Mile 24:
My GPS says we’ve gone the wrong way” I quietly whispered to a few more riders milling about on a road junction. Back we went a headwind-y mile back up a dusty road with me pretending it wasn’t my fault. Thinking about equipment and its’ appropriateness, it is fair to label the ST4 as far too much bike for the road sections. Even with 40psi in the tyres, I was briefly jealous of those whizzing by on Cross Bikes or light hardtails.

I say briefly because almost every off road section was a washboard field crossing, a rutted doubletrack or a rocky gulley. Here the full suspension bike held sway, and it was with some vainglory that I passed riders who were desperately hanging on to the bars and, probably, their kidneys.

One fella I kept seeing on a cross bike very similar to the one I sold just in time that I couldn’t ride it here, did a pretty solid job of descending on something entirely unsuitable. But every time he caught me up on the next road section, something had broken; his toolkit, a spoke, his eyeballs, etc. It is difficult to show sincere sympathy while at the same time explaining just how smooth the ST4 was down that very decent that had beaten him up.

“You didn’t enjoy it?” / “No way, it was ACE


Mile 30:

HALF WAY. Thank fuck for that. 30 miles still to go? Bollocks.

Mile 32:
Mr C clearly in for the duration “Churchill” “hmmmm, hmm HMMM HMMM hmm hmmm Johanesburg Hmm hmm OH FUCK OFF”. Arse starting to hurt now. Even with sufficient Assos cream to lubricate a Rhypnol evening at a Boy Scouts badge ceremony**, my “sit bones” were becomes jagged bones to the point where I’d started to have a strange fantasy about squatting on a pineapple. Long, lonely rides can do that to a man.

Mile 33:
Photographer attempts to lure me into stream crossing. I’ve heard all about the bike swallowing properties of this obstacle so skirt round the side and freewheel into the food stop. Busy, but I know no-one. I was following up a vague web conversation to meet up with Jo Burt, but didn’t feel I knew him well enough to offer a hand shake when I’d seen him earlier.

To be fair he was taking a piss, but I accept I missed the perfect opportunity – on our next meeting – to open with “Hey Jo, didn’t recognise you without your cock out”

Mile 35:
Quick cake and tea stop and I’m off before the chilly wind saps my motivation to get this thing done. A quick stretch nearly had amusing consequences when I had to be helped back to an upright position. I’m fairly sure no damage was done to either my reputation or dignity, as I remained half hinged and mostly helpless.

Mile 38:
20 to go, last 2 don’t matter as they’ll be back into the village and sheer bloody mindedness will get me there. I know from a route scan there’s some tough climbs and they are almost entirely into a strengthening head wind. Cake Powered, my uphill prowess increased to the point where tired riders were dispatched with a cheery “On your right mate” and for a while I felt like a proper racer.

Mile 42:
Now being passed by same riders who clearly have proper fitness. Pass a few back on a long rutted doubletrack into the valley bottom. Enjoyment tempered by climb out of the far side, firstly through a ploughed field and then over a rocky horror climb bounded by an aggressive hedge. People are pushing now but I’m still grinding on, loving the plushness of the ST4, hating everything else.

At this point my “Greta Garbo I want to be alone” approach was fully tested as an old man riding a bike made new in 1973 – including the original toe clips- breezed by. What was that I said about retaining any dignity?

Mile 44:
Okay quick push now up a bastard climb that sat atop a muddy section which showed just how bad this course would have been a week earlier. Pretty much un-ridable in my view and while we cursed the eyeball pinball that the ruts and tractor tyre artifacts begat, it was still one million times better than a 100 kilometre slug-fest with thick mud under tyre.

Mile 46:
After that climb was done, I was pretty much done. We rode through the impressively manicured grounds of Salperton House on a wide track awash in acres of verdant grass, and my aching body could no longer resist the siren call of the slack. As I lay supine, happy to be off the bike and out of the wind while being gently warmed by a cloud broken sun, hoards of grim faced riders whummed by. The occasional one took my regal wave as affirmation I was not in need of medical attention, and only the prospect of being shot by a rich man with a gun***with a vague idea of what a pheasant might look like, roused me from a slumbering torpor.

Mile 49:

CHANGE YOU BASTARD I requested politely of the GPS. Road, Climb, Field, Bump, Down, Up, “Churchill, Hmmm Hmm Johanesburg, Hmm, hmm, hmm Checkpoint Charlie, Hmm, hmmmmmmm after you Elvis, you know the words, mnnnnnrrrrtghhhhhhmnmmmmm”. Anybody else getting groundhog day?

Mile 53:

Last 4 have passed in sort of a blur. A very slow blur that can only be recorded by expensive motion capture cameras normally filming the changing of the seasons. Everyone in our little group looks a bit fucked and worn out. The views have been horizon-to-horizon lovely all day but now we’re climbing onto Cleeve Common which seems to double as a council tip.

Before we get there, another photographer jumps out and demands some kind of cunning stunt from a man who has lost all interest in cycling. I manage to get one of my ends up while silently Spoonering his request. For a second it drowned out Oliver’s Army, but the bugger was soon back garrisoned in my frontal lobe.

Mile 55:

Jeez, we’re in the epicentre of the world’s largest fly tipping experiment with a difficult juxtaposition of dead fridges, spring-out sofas and surly motocrosses. Bastard rocky climb as well which I ride because I don’t trust my knees for pushing. I pass a few with a tired “how you doing?” generally illiciting not much more than a grunt or groan. The fast boys and girls are done and showered, and it’s all mid pack and difficult now.

Not far to go but it’s properly hurting now, I’ve had a first bout of cramp trying to re-seat a dropped chain that’s disappeared behind the cassette of a rider whose entirely clueless on what to do next. I fix it at the expense of bloodied knuckles and comedy emergency stretching.

Mile 56:

Ah hah, ROTB (Roadies on Mountain Bikes) in matching jerseys and beaten expressions make organic slalom markers on a proper ripping singletrack descent from the common’s top. I spend some happy seconds thinking no one has passed me on a descent all day, before the realisation that about ten times as many have gone past when the trail points the other way somewhat dampens my rampant ego. Not much else is rampant apart from a desperate need to eat, but I’m sick of goo-ey energy bars.

God shows again he’s the beneficent being the Church is always banging on about by placing some young entrepreneurs on the common, pimping out mouth watering chocolate slices for 50p and encouragement for free. Many riders pass while I make multiple purchases and wonder if I can recruit them for Dragon’s Den.

Mile 57:

Hello twatty headwind how I’ve missed you. C’mon Elvis let’s sing it together “Checkpoint” grind “Charlie” Gurn “Churchill” Grimace. Repeat until it’s gone beyond funny, and into that dark place where the cackley demons live. I. AM. NOT. GETTING. OFF. Most of the other riders did as pedalling on damp grass after 55+ miles of quite enough became far too much into the tooth of half a gale. But I’m just not built that way. For all my pretending not to care about the pace of others and sticking to a plan, I still have myself to beat and beat up so I give up trying to find a lower gear and just bloody well get on with it.

It ends eventually and what an ending with the best descent of the whole day opening up into a rocky gully full of mud hidden traps waiting to claim tired riders. And I’m shot, completely, no new Trail Skills to save me here, no “in slow out fast“, no looking round the corner, no outside pedal down, just sheer bloody bravado and joy and this being so good and so close to the end. I know the climbs are done so I may as well put everything into the next mile

It’s ragged. It’s not pretty. It’s not even a distant cousin of smooth. I hear the chain slapping the swingarm, the heavily PSI’d tyres scrabbling for grip and I’m making too many corrections, trying to flow but never getting close. And then Ol’ Toe Clips is marooned in the middle of MY descent doing 4 mph and that won’t do. I have two options, one is polite and correct, the other tells you why instinct and common sense are never equally distributed.

Suddenly Elvis has left the building, the pineapple was a forgotten fruit and my mind was full of “The Italian Job” imagery as they escaped down the tunnels. I hit the bank hard, rocks cascading below me to the drumbeat of the impulsive, railing high and left above Mr. Marin and his Sensible Pace before I’m running out of road and ideas. Got to drop back in, probably clear, probably, definitely maybe, better than an even chance, no choice, it’s crash or turn.

Noises sequence like this: Trail bike hits trail hard, suspension compresses with a loud squish, rider behind makes a noise with an “O” shaped mouth, rider in front is high on adrenaline shouting “YOU WERE ONLY MEANT TO BLOW THE BLOODY DOORS OFF”. Everyone is happy. Well one out of two anyway.

I stopped some time later as muddy dirt met tarmac to clean my splattered sunglasses and still my beating heart. Matey Marin caught up and we agreed to disagree that my passing move was either “Safe, controlled and well intentioned” or “Dangerous, bloody stupid and inconsiderate”.

This is a very friendly event even with 1200 riders, and yet I’ve managed to piss at least two of them off. Ah well, it’s not like I’m coming back.

Mile 60:

And I won’t be. Collecting my time at a smidge under six hours I didn’t feel particularly worthy or content. The car park was more than half empty which shows exactly how good the time really was. My arse hurt, my knees ached but not so much I didn’t ride last night on some sublime, dust speckled woody singletrack. I probably could have finished 30 minutes quicker if I could have – at any point – given a shit, but that never got close to happening.

My mates finished nearly an hour quicker and declared themselves satisfied and sated. They’ll be back next year. I’ll be riding somewhere fun for three hours and then going to the pub.

* All driving 4x4s as well. Honestly, what a stereotype eh? Know anyone like that?

** I apologise for the tastelessness of that joke. You have to appreciate the pain I was suffering at the time.

*** Salperton House is a very expensive retreat for posh people with too many teeth and not enough manners to go and shoot fat birds. I believe they keep pheasants in the shed, not alcopop’d blonde’s from Essex, but maybe someone should check.

That hurt a bit.

Pain By Numbers. 60 miles, 6000 feet of climbing, 6 hours. Aside from being unable to articulate much from the waist, and being fairly certain of violatation by the rough end of a pineapple, I am feeling remarkably sprightly.

Although, on arriving home, here are some words I didn’t want to hear “Dad, Dad, can you come and play on the trampoline with us“. Only if you want me to play dead, and I can do it while quaffing a medicinal beer.

More numbers. 9 Days, 16000 of climbing, 160 miles, 15 hours 30 in the saddle, 15,000 calories.

If anyone asks me innocently if I’d like to go for a bike ride, I shall politely shake my head before punching them repeatedly in the love plums for even suggesting such a thing.

More later if I make it through the night.

HONC if your whinning.

I had a couple of surprises this weekend, neither of them offering the same kind of happy discovery that – say – finding Girls Aloud sprawled naked in a vat of custard demanding immediate sexual satisfaction.*

The first was that a windy and mildly damp road ride was not delivering on the expected purgatory. The second was the miserable reminder that HONC is indeed this weekend, and a moment of optimistic insanity had seen me enter the full and awful 100k.

Last year, I was able to pull out with a knee that was put out**, and while outwardly miserable that my chance to show outstanding sporting performance had been cruelly stolen by a proper athletic injury, inside I was more than a bit secretly glad.

I had much time to ruminate on the unfairness of my world as two friends, both with a pervy roadie bent, effortlessly accelerated up a Cat 1 climb. I didn’t so much accelerate as wheeze and sweat myself up this never ending ascent through the power of bloody mindedness and a compact chainset.

The outputs from this displacement activity was twofold; 1- this was the first road ride I’d done in a group of more than one, and it was just about satisfactory methadone for an MTB Dopamine junkie when the trails are horrible. 2- If I could put myself through five and a half hours of pain and suffering last weekend, how much worse could HONC be?

But I don’t ride bikes for a feeling of worthiness. That stuff kind of happens sometimes, but I don’t actively seek it out. It’s like piling into a punch up if someone sets on your mates, but not banging down a pub door, brandishing a broken glass and shouting “Oi, you’re all a bunch of raving losers, come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough”

I don’t like races much, and much as I love riding with my mates – so fully accept riding is as much a social thing as a sport thing – but that doesn’t extend to a thousand people, most of whom with Internet personas you’d want to punch repeatedly. I get bored of riding after a few hours, and mountain bikes on the road are so dull – taking the previous analogy – I’d probably just glass myself to make it stop.

And what little off road there is will be spectaculaly muddy. This part of the Cotswolds needs a long period of dry and sunnny weather before it becomes even slightly rideable***, and with so many riders, any good stuff will be clogged up with mucky grimness and bike handling incompetance.

I had a plan to slip about in the FoD again last night in preparation for Sunday. However, on reflection, I’ve decided to merely upend myself in the compost bin for six hours and see how that feels.

Honestly even the road bike seems like a more sensible option, and that kind of talk suggests madness is near. But this morning, into a rising sun, it felt like the first proper ride of Spring. Well it did once I could again feel my fingers and toes, because Early Spring temperatures are not that far from late Winter at 6:30am.

So shall I be wrapping myself in body hugging lycra and clearing my riding diary of dirt, humour and fun for the next six months? No, of course not, but road riding may not quite be the Devil’s own personal brand Tarmac Trail as I’d once suspected. Worrying times indeed.

And will I be whinging and whinning myself round a 100k of mud, boredom and two wheeled cockage come Sunday? Sadly, I believe the answer may be a yes. Unless I can tweak a hamstring on the way home. I’m never that lucky 🙁

* That’s the band members looking for satisfaction, not the custard. Just so we’re clear.

** Excuse 237. Full details available in Volumes 1-7 of Al’s great excuses for being rubbish. Also avalable as 4 DVDs or a bound set including an extra strong shelf.

*** Three proper summers would do it.

Mountain Men

Lately my castigation of something dubbed “a mountain bike lifestyle” has known almost no limits. That’s a good enough reason to why we tried a ride that didn’t have any either.

Now I accept that my Internet-Blowhard categorisation of two season Scalextrix riders who want it all sunny, dusty and expertly buffed hides a dirty little secret. I quite enjoy my trails riding like that too, but sometimes you just have to kick back against the hype, go lose yourself in scary mountains, to find out why you ever started riding on the lumpy stuff in the first place.

Exactly a year ago, a few riding buddies stayed over to sample those exactly perfect conditions, and the promise of much the same enticed most of them back this weekend. Anyone looking out of the window this past two weeks will understand why dry and dusty was to be replaced by mud and slop, with sunshine being backstaged by rain, snow and skies the colour of angry lead.

So my route was chosen with care. Not high enough to breach the snowline, not forestry enough to hide a million miles of mud, and not busy enough to ruin a big day out. The Elan Valley is a place I’ve been desperate to re-visit since we moved within a reasonable day trip of the start point at Rhayader.

Many years ago, some of my first proper days out revolved around the dams and reservoirs of this beautiful, wild and mostly deserted mid-Wales riding hotspot. 50k, a tad under 5000 feet of climbing, starting easy and picturesque, ranging high and bleak over a tussocked moor, and finishing on a couple of descents best described as steep, fast, shaley and potentially one bad line choice from a skin graft.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

Things started well with the forecasted uninterrupted day-long drizzle staying away long enough for a little warmish sun to peak through the, er, peaks straddling the valley, but these were dwarfed by the Snow covered Brecons to the south, so the decision to stay low seemed a good one.

And that smugness remained for the first 6 kilometres with the flat cycleway pulling us into the ride, and depositing jaw dropping views of dams every so often. Amazing feats of engineering these, but we couldn’t help noticing the thundering volume of cascading water being driven over the dam wall.

No matter, soon we left the water for a while only to find it running down the first proper off road climb. We chose to walk the first super steep part before sliding about in the mud a little higher up.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

Good spirits and being out in proper hills kept our spirits going the same way as the climb, and soon we were a little gobsmacked by the Arctic tundra lookalike stretching horizon-wards in every direction. There was some snow as well, and if you lifted your eyes from the amazing landscape, the nearest hills looked more than a little dusted.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

No matter, a fast rocky doubletrack descent led into a techy-rutted section onto most of a bridge which was a fine spot for some bar-fuelling while Frank attended to a ‘not so smooth‘ snakebite in his rear tyre. Further muddy but perfectly rideable loveliness took us to another dam where we branched off again to follow the stony track circumnavigating the reservoir.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

I’ve ridden this a couple of times and it’s been pleasant in a non-technical/big view kind of way. But I’d never seen it like this, desolate, pock marked and awash with cold water. The sun chose to hide at the same time as an unrelenting loop of “Manual”, “Splash”, “Dodge” played out on trail repeat for quite a few tough kilometres.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

A second food stop outed the map and showed we were soon to be leaving this relative easy – if wet – riding to head over the moor, which I’d warned may be “a tad moist“. I was right. More than right in fact with energy-sapping sogginess dragging tyres into the peat, and a snowline barely 100 feet above the valley floor.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

It was fun at first hike-a-biking through ankle high drifts and affirming our Mountain Man-ness in this fantastic, if desolate, landscape. “See” I theory-expounded ” this is proper riding, none of that on your plate nonsense, hard, worthy, difficult and rewarding“. There may have been grunts of affirmation from my riding pals, or just grunts as carrying and pushing replaced riding, and route finding in deep, brackish water replaced the track.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010â’¦

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

And my extollation of how good winter boots were compared to the disco slippers of my waterlogged companions had the fateful result of a deep water excavation of one of the very bogs I’d so far avoided. It was funny at the time, especially to those not knee height in cold liquid wondering how they were going to get out.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

A further carry to reconvene with the trail opened up a view which should have been labelled “Welcome To Mordor“. We could see for miles, and that vista included no people and quite a lot of snow. And no obvious way of where the mooted downhill section was be.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

It was in a river. I am not exaggerating here, we rode to a depth of 3/4 wheel which is 20 inches even in man measurements. When you’re on a bike and your bollocks are still essentially underwater, you begin to wonder at the sanity of the enterprise.

A couple of painful klicks further on, Jas asked me how my Mountain Man outlook was going right then. Since, right then, I’d just extricated myself from another hidden crevice, my response included two very rude swear words. Very close together as well they were, as I didn’t have much breath to waste.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

From there it went from a bit difficult and lacking in fun, to properly unpleasant and a bit scary. Dave’s feet by this time could have belonged to someone else such was the lack of feeling from the ankles down.

It’d taken us nearly an hour to travel less than 4k and we had that and a bit more before any kind of respite became available. This is a bad time mentally and physically with endless carries, brief periods on the pedals and frustration with the never ending snow and non existent trail.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

But it’s a good time to be out on a big hill with mates you’ve known for years and sharing the experience with people who are far more than fair weather friends.

Blissfully, the snow thinned out after a couple more k’s and suddenly we were riding more than we were walking, and that felt like a big win. There wasn’t an obvious way out into the lower valleys but at least we were moving, and occasional far away farmhouses promised civilisation might not be too far away.

It wasn’t, a rutted double track descent full of slick mud and challenges we were struggling to get motivated for saw us hit the road and I – for one – was bloody glad to see it, as it had started to get a bit scary up there.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

And although conditions were pretty atrocious, the weather held, we had plenty of light, food and gear. Had Fog clamped the ground, wind and rain dropped the temperature and the day faded at the speed of night, I think we would have been in some trouble. Mountain Men? We really weren’t.

And we weren’t done yet, because our original route took us back over the moor to hit those fast descents we’d been anticipating the night before with a beer in hand.Since Dave could barely clip in and we were all cold and tired, a decision was made to roadie it home. A distance of 7-8ks according to our fuzzy map reading, but it ended up being more like 15.

A retreat into our own personal thousand yard stares saw pedals being pushed and cold extremities being ignored. When the rain started, I found myself laughing because clearly this was Mountain Biking schadenfreude at my big ideas showing me how small my resilience to proper difficulty really was.

We made it back in a convoy, shepherding a broken Dave between us, before ripping off frozen clothes in the municipal toilet. No idea what the locals thought about that, must have looked like some kind of extreme dogging convention. We fixed Dave with hot tea, sugary products and the car heater turned up to nuclear, before heading east back to England, hot showers and big dinners.

There is no denying that, at times, that ride was properly shit. Right in there with my bottom five times out on a bike. Climbing for ever, not much reward going the other way, off the bike every 30 seconds and stranded-cold on an endless moor.

But, on reflection, it was something I really needed to do because we don’t just ride bikes, we head off to wild places and test ourselves, we push into a zone where there are mental demons, we get scared, tired and exhausted. And then we use these experiences to calibrate our life.

There’s a phrase for that; it’s not some marketing bullshit, it is merely this – “Mountain Biking“.

Double Take..

Best way to describe the FoD return ride today. Except the trails were even dryer, the car was frost free when we left and my attempts to conquer the Downhill courses started small and worked down from there. I added another Tim (that’s him above) and nature gave freely of her spring bounty. Dust motes flashed in the weak spring sunlight and shone on white knobbly knees which powered black knobbly tyres.

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

Even Mono-Lung appeared to embrace it’s lost twin and for most of the ride, I was blessed with most of my aerobic capacity. Careful use of the word “Most” there, but I’m increasingly hopeful the worst is behind me. Generally struggling to breathe and making gasping noises. See how tomorrow’s ride to work goes, six am has not generally been associated with a peak flow much more than a coughing squirrel so we’ll be leaving the cold beer on ice for a while.

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

Riding was good tho. Spring feels really well earned and the harshness of the winter places the firmness of trail and warmth of rider into pretty stark relief.

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

You never know, maybe we’ll even get a summer this year. I’ve just taken the mudguards off my road bike, which confirms a mental state on the rubber roomed side of delusional.

Spring Therapy

Forget the seasonal pedants – for anyone with a love of outside, March 1 is the unofficial start of Spring. And, whilst we know it is irrational, the expectation is for the hedgerows to explode into growth, the sun to come – and stay – out, the trails to dry up overnight and with all this, seven months of uninterrupted MTB goodness to begin.

For those of us with a real weariness of winter, these changes cannot come too soon. With two events already entered, both with the number ‘100’ in their distance classification*, and the first of which is less than six weeks away, I’ve been upping my riding frequency as soon as the clock struck March. This has already included a Malverns death march, and two commutes that are mildly life-affirming, but generally undertaken in the dark, cold, wind and rain.

Through such trails and tribulations, it’s important to remember why you’re doing this; increased fitness, good summer base, miles in the legs, pounds off the belly, all that sort of stuff. But I have two problems with that; the first is MouseLung(tm) has played the Squatters’ Card so I’m struggling with about 80{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} lung capacity**, and secondly that’s not what I ride a bike for.

Time for a change then. Today I needed to tap back into my woody roots, get back to setting off with no plan, no target mileage, no goal for vertical distance. Just go and do what started me on this ten year journey of fun and frolics; messing about in the woods if you will. And there is no better mate for that sort of thing than TimH of this parish, who greeted my question of “What’s the plan then?” with an airy digit waving in the direction of some trees.

No ride with Tim is complete without some hike-a-bike/trail finding action, and no sooner that we’d spun up a sun-splattered fireroad had he dived off into the bushes promising “There’s a trail in here somewhere“. Indeed there was, and more than one frozen solid but lightly warmed by a weak sun and shielded from the bitter wind. Tim found us a fun little bombhole to play in, which we did for quite a while even getting the cameras out. Obviously we were both WAY better before new-media was there to catch our efforts.

FoD March 2010 FoD March 2010

A little more perambulation round some recent logging had Tim apologising for missing some tasty singletrack action, but I didn’t care one jot. Bike, Hard Dirt, Narrow Ribbon of Singletrack, Woods, Mate, Sunshine, Bacon Butties to follow. Doesn’t just tick all the boxes, but writes mile high in neon crayon “I REMEMBER NOW WHY BIKES ARE ACE

And they are, especially when thrown roughly at a couple of the FC sanctioned DH tracks. First up “Corkscrew” a belter of tabletops, berms and one fairly “woooah where’s the bottom of that?” drop. It’s all rollable – ask me how – but a second and third run had me hanging onto Tim’s wheels, as his lines tore up the trail and beat down the obstacles. We approached the drop at a speed entirely inappropriate for a man of my bravery, but – as ever – enthusiasm had taken over from common sense.

There are points when you are riding trails on the limit of your ability when you need all your bike skills RIGHT NOW. As we cleared all three foot of the drop, this was clearly one of these times. I landed near the trails edge facing a tree, with my rear wheel locked up. A moment of adrenaline fuelled clarity sequenced a brake release/turn in/push down/grit teeth approach which gained me the corner, but lost me too much time to catch Tim.

FoD March 2010 FoD March 2010

I kept trying tho on the next DH trail named somewhat extravagantly “Sheep Skull“. I didn’t see one of those, but what with everything else going on including steeps, exposure, encroaching trees and relentless roots, I’m probably not the most reliable witness.

DH Sated for the time being, we headed off to the next valley searching for the next slice of singletrack – allegedly totalling over 200k in the entire Forest. After some more tree wiggling joy, time and tiring legs conspired to place Tea and Medals in our immediate future, but we were high on the ridge now – cold out of the sun and in the wind – searching for the most fun way down.

This appeared to be a mellow top section which dropped into a close contoured hairpin alley. Two of these steep and loose exposed scaries had to be conquered before plunging into a high speed chute over another maelstrom of interlocking roots. I’ll not document the rider who managed to do it first time, mainly because Tim had shown me a clean pair of wheels all day, and I reckon he was just trying to salve my ego a little!

FoD March 2010

Giggling like the inner children we are, big hand waving ideas of where we were going to explore next time, accompanied big handfuls of tea and pig-inna-bun. We hadn’t ridden that far, or for that long, or climbed very much, nor maintained a high average speed. And you know what I’m going to say next – it mattered not at all.

This was a ride which reminded me why I ride. Last week a different Tim and I messed about in a similar manner on the fall lines in the Malvern hills. In between I feel like I’ve been trying to damn hard for something I’m not that bothered about.

More Spring is good. Less targets are welcome. Bikes are ace. I’ll not be taking myself too seriously again any time soon.

* and one is more than that in real non metric miles. Gulp.

** Which, with Asthma, is about sufficient to tackle a difficult set of stairs.