I want my life back

The Eighties were dreadful for so many reasons*, but even in that decade of pompous absurdity that phrase shines like a beacon of stupidity. Some quiff in a sleeve-rolled suit would wring their hands to a backdrop of starving African kids, and piously declare that the country had “compassion fatigue“.

No it bloody had not. The ones who could see further than their own self-importance measured by cars, cash, being a fuckwit that kind of thing continued to give what they could, while everyone else – from governments down to those believing AIDS was a solution made excuses.

The problem wasn’t people not caring, it was the explosion of the global coverage of dreadful poverty set against a pot that wasn’t getting any bigger. None of this was helped by a Western approach that patronised rather than listened, gave the money to the wrong people, and were somehow surprised when the misery continued after the cameras left.

I remember this making me quite angry at the time, and – even nearly twenty years on – the dying embers of when the world was black and white still burn a little. Good job as it was about the only thing keeping me going, as the rain charged in one way and my motivation slunk off in the other.

Neil (Organiser, all round top man, poor bugger whose wife died last year from Cancer) told me that while all the entries had been sold, only around 2/3rds of the riders had turned up. I have no issue with serious athletes using the CLIC24 as perfect training for the upcoming 24 hour race season. But what does piss me off is when they can’t be bothered to earn their sponsorship** because the weather is a bit shit.

And shit it was. I arrived early enough to sound out the perfect pitch at the foot of the big camping field. Perfect in terms of being well drained and flat, also geographically spot on for funnelling freezing winds into the nether regions of team “hardcore loafing“. After Nig and I had done our damnest to be fatter piggies than the hog roast, the temperature had dropped to the point of “is it me or is it fucking winter?”

We gave up with outside and cracked a middle aged bottle inside the back of my truck. A truck full of many things, which now included red wine stains. but sadly not my lights***. At least it was warm although I cannot imagine what our neighbours thought of a ton and a half of metal rocking in the stiffening wind. Honestly it was nothing more than “to you, to me, can I just stretch that leg out,? okay Dave you can come in now but you’ll need to leave at least one arm outside”

Last year Dave cleverly avoided the first lap by inflicting £200 work of crank based damage on his bike. We all joked that this time around no one could possibly trump that. But come a morning punctuated by squally showers and clamped in ball freezing cold, Jason put the Hardcore into Loafing by completely failing to turn up AT ALL.

Dave was so stunned by this ballsy race craft, he barely objected to being sent out first although – in the spirit of loafers everywhere – we turned up ten minutes late for the start, even after arriving some sixteen hours before. We’re all understandably proud of that.

The clock ticked on, the rain sheeted down, blue sky occasionally appeared before being distainfully swept away by a stormy wind in league with the God of Precipitation. Dave’s course report was largely irrelevant since Nig and I were instead checking out the state of his bike.  Brown and Wet were the key indicators of trail condiitons and that’s never a good combination in almost any life experience.

Jason joined us half way through the next lap, showing a worrying confidence in the future performance of his lovely new Titanium hardtail. Worrying as I’d built it three days before utilising the experimental technique of fitting everything with the largest hammer. Still it looked okay and with 14k of mud, rocks, stream crossings, fast descents and gurning climbs, what could go wrong eh?

I worried a bit for him as a displacement activity during my first lap. Because as quick as the course was drying out, fat rainclouds threatened to submerse it under the water table. And when those clouds did explode, the next fifteen minutes of my life were the ideal preparation for reincarnation as a trout. I was beyond wet and had entered that transcendental state known to riders everywhere as “four quick beers, a warm shower, B&B and a hot meal and I may live”

My team mates were waiting for me in the transition area. Well waiting to laugh anyway, which is the kind of team spirit that sustains us during the bad times. Of which , we were about to have another as a fierce gust dispatched the gazebo in a scream of tortured metal and extreme flappage. I watched Nig and Jas embodying this extreme flappage from the inside of the truck.

Revenge is a wonderful thing. Still to ensure that team spirit wasn’t affected I made sure my laughing and pointing were delivered in a motivating and positive manner. From there until enough was more than enough, we greased our way round an every more comedic course, between hiding from the wind in any location pedalling food and beer.

Three things stand out; the brilliant organisation, the fantastic atmosphere even when it’s pretty miserable, and a whole bunch of riders on the course trying their first event. I lost count of the number of low cost bikes with nervous riders trying their best to stay onboard in increasingly difficult conditions. And when I came out in admiration they were giving it their all, that’s where we came in with compassion fatigue.

Everyone out on that course had a story to tell, a scary moment, a grin at the silly mud, a determined expression on the never ending fire road, a look of satisfaction on completing the lap and a smile at the shared sillyness of what we were doing. Oh sure, there are those occasional aliens who enjoy this kind of thing, but I’m not one of them and neither were any of the people I spoke too.

But they carried on because they’d promised to earn sponsorship for CLIC Sargent, and I was very proud to be riding with them. It was hard enough when you’ve ridden a bit, it must have been bloody dreadful if this was one of your first experiences trying proper MTB off road. But I couldn’t help thinking about those who couldn’t be arsed, who decided being dry and war was better than being co-located with a moral conscience

Sorry if I’m going on a bit, I didn’t realise how much it pissed me off until I sat down to write this. It is not as if we did a million laps like the hero soloists or serious teams. But we gave it a good go, and while it wasn’t really fun, the worse times were not while you were out on the course. I quit after a dawn lap as I really wanted to be there when Verbal opened her presents, and  the morning downpour doused what little motivational fire I had left.

Not Nig tho, he was kitted up and ready to go as I squelshed back in. And one lap in the seemingly unending rain and cold deterred him not at all. As we were herding flywaway tents into wet cars, he set off on a seconds lap clearly having imbued madness by a process of trail based osmosis. Although when he finally gave up, my suspicion is his tactic had been merely to lie face down in the mud for an hour before riding back to the start.

He denies it, but I think the pictures tell the true story.

So that was CLIC24:2009. Bottom line is it’s upwards of £30,000 to a charity that clearly invests every penny it receives in making tragically shortened young lives as good as they can be. And somehow giving parents who are doomed to outlive their children, a reason to go on. I cannot imagine what that must be like, but while I can still turn a pedal, I’m bloody determined to make sure they have my support.

Talk to those people about compassion fatigue. I have a feeling they might not get it.

* if you were there, you’ll know what I mean. If not google “puffball skirts”, “Athena posters” and “everyone being a dickhead”

** Assuming they had any. And assuming they didn’t just collect it whether they rode it or not. I know this isn’t a perfect argument. but I was having it at 5am in the freezing bloody cold, and I wasn’t thinking entirely straight.

*** Or so I thought. I found them in the muddy sweepings of a forgotten spares box this evening. A serving of double numpty with a side order of dimwit for Mr. Leigh please.

That is a picture of the 15:35 unscheduled departure of the “Team Hardcore Loafing” Gazebo. It was last seen heading towards Bridgwater, traveling at thirty knots and still accelerating.

More on this, and many other references to “cold”, “windy”, “Muddy” and “generally unpleasant” when I can properly use my fingers again. Chill Blains in mid May? You betcha!

Let us not forget what this is all about though. CLIC24 supports CLIC-Sargent and that makes a weekend of extended misery absolutely worthwhile. And, for the first time ever, my fitness outstripped my motivation – so setting the high water mark for my ability to go back out again onto the storm tossed course.

The organisation was superb, the food and beer tent fantastic, the number of “recreational” riders a real joy to see – let’s hope the conditions don’t put them off cycling forever – and the general ‘vibe’ properly not racey laid back.

Sure the weather was shit, and waiting around for the next lap became a study of chilly tedium, but my team mates were – again – properly ace, and the course held up remarkably well until the last few hours. At which point, islands of trail would occasionally protrude into the fast flowing, ten mile stream.

More soonish… until then I’m just glad to be unbroken, dry, warm and having full use of my legs. Oh and relaxing in the glorious knowledge I’ve turned down Mayhem, Bristol Bikefest and SITS again this year

I remembered the dog’s birthday, but somehow managed to book a weekend of misery – where the Holy Trinity of riding horror: wind, rain and mud shall converge on a sodden field full of hollow eyed idiots – when Verbal hits double figures.  A masterly oversight that would normally offer a perfect excuse to stay warm and dry inside, but your sponsorship means that is not allowed to happen.

I hope you’re happy

Anyway the dog is now a year old and in the eight months he’s been a member of the Leigh-pack, he’s grown into a much loved, if slightly destructive family pet. The wear and tear on shoes and bins has come as a bit of a surprise, as has the worrying prospect that he still has some way to grow.  Unfortuantly this is unlikely to be in the much shrunken areas of his stubby ears amd stumpy legs. As all the growth genes have been seemingly directed to his head, nose and stomach.

And yes he smells a bit, his attention span can be measured in nanoseconds, he’s not terribly obedient and his drool can be a bit embarrassing. We’re still talking about the dog here, ok? Last night he demonstrated all these qualities on being asked to “come” from some major sniffage action he’d undertaken a hundred yards or so away.

His response was unusually immediate and, as ever, enthusiastic. I watched in dog training pleasure as he arced round a clump of trees and turned onto an intersect trajectory. What should happen now is the well trained dog will slow, sit in front of you and be rewarded with a treat.

I have to mitigate what follows with the rider that he tried. He really did, engaging full reverse 4 paw thrust about twenty yards out in the expectation of stopping some two seconds later. What actually happened was those big, fat paws merely aqua-planed on the wet grass, and – if anything – 35 kilograms of rock hard dog began to accelerate.

The last thing I remember was seeing a look of some shock on Murf’s fizog before the world flipped ninety degrees and I found myself lying winded, face down in the long, damp grass. I thought I’d stay there for a while to mentally prepare myself for the CLIC this weekend*. Lord Smelly of Dog had other ideas and I received the “slobber of life” which is a medical triumph in terms of immediacy of response.

Within a second I was back up with a “Geroff, yuk, ugh, horrible animal“. I was wet everywhere, especially where slob-o-dog had gone straight for tongues, my good knee now hurts like the bad one and my elbow is making a strange clicking sound. It’s probably some kind of water diviner which could be useful for tomorrow. In case I cannot work out where the h20 is by following the stair-rods of horizontal rain.

Anyway, wish me luck. Or just point and laugh. I don’t care, I couldn’t be more miserable. The only thing that has cheered me up is the reinstatement of the “TOOL WALL” after a year abandoned in various lofts.  Tune in over the weekend – not for some twatter/mobile phone picture update – but for some OCD type images of the half finished workshop.

I am going outside. I may be some wet.

* I made this observations last year. And it was fantastically sunny over the whole weekend. I’m thinking of it as my lucky joke. Let’s hope it works eh? One the one side “my lucky joke“, on the other a million weather computers predicting conditions ideal for submarine exercises. H’mm.

I’d be eternally* grateful if any of my long standing suffering readers could either:

a) Develop a Sun-O-Matic device by Saturday to be tested on the area of Shepton Mallet, or more specifically over a middle-aged, balding man being drowned in a hail of trout. If that’s too big an ask, send umbrellas, or an amphibious vehicle.

b) Donate anything you can to my Justgving page

If I can get it up to £500, then the firm will match it, and that’s another £500 to this fantastic charity.

I’m scared by the way. I was feeling quite fit riding home last night. This is sure to be a trigger for a leg falling off or my bike exploding or some such. The dog ate my helmet** last night, so I suppose that’s the start of the comedic trip of mechanical misery which must surely follow.

* well not quite. But until next week.

** Steady. It’s before the watershed.

After my fantastic performance last year, how could I pass up another opportunity to suffer in exactly the kind of event, I’ve come to loathe. I used to dislike 24hr racing on principle, but now experience has allowed me to really properly hate it.

Obviously I’ll be sharing my innovative training regime*, pre-event excuses and pointless bike preparation with you all. In return can you take a look at the Clic-Sargent site, and then if you feel – as I do – that it is worth supporting, my justgiving page is right here.

The event is the same format as last year. Although I expect this time it’ll be raining if we’re lucky, and hailing if not. But Neil – who runs the event – nearly didn’t run it because, tragically, his wife Helen died of breast cancer late in 2008. He’s a bloody hero for dealing with that, and organising this.

Which makes me doubly determined to raise as much money as I possibly can, even in these financially troubling times.

* Currently categorised as “cold, dark and grumpy”

… living in a canvas tent. Nineties hit? C’mon, C’mon. Artist and Title. Here’s a clue, they were one and the same. I want to whinge about my complete failure to complete my commute this morning, but it’ll have to wait. The reason being my annual appraisal awaits, which means lies, more lies and the chicken suit.

In the meantime, I found this on STW. It’s a blog from a man who has gone to great lengths to pay off his debts. He has sold his possessions, moved out of his house, and is currently located in tented accomodation somewhere in the South East. It’s amusing, and you cannot read it without doffing a cap with respect.

Right time to talc up

Oops, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

The riderless plunge through a garden of hard edged rocks took its toll on both rider and bike. Although how the hell I managed to dent it there is a complete mystery!

Tim “Mr Fork” Flooks assures me that fork crowns are cast and so as butch as a lesbian Marine.

Sadly bars, grips and other assorted items were transformed from purposeful, working components to skip food during the transition between wheels right side up and wheels merely acting as attractors for more gravity.

I have to stop crashing. It’s getting expensive. The upside is the customisation of the bikes makes them essentially unsaleable. Which probably leaves me with no option but to ride them.

Chronological retelling of something not very exciting rarely makes interesting reading. But – in line with my aims of ever lowering the bar – that’s the way the Clic24 is being Hedgehog’d.

If you can’t be arsed to scroll down, here is the adjectival summary: late, rain, beer, tent, snore, hot, arse, stop, start, crash, bleed, beer, hurt, beer, stupidity, sleep, stiff, apathy, quit.

Long, rambling, amusing. Pick two.

continue reading…

… and 2% Mendip. There is an intense moment of silence which follows the bangs and crashes of a big stack, and into that noise void dropped the thought that I’d completely screwed up less than a mile into my first lap. My plan had been simple; easy spin up the first climb, get a decent sighter of the downhills, and don’t race anyone – especially those with constipated expressions and lean bodies.*

Like all hastily conceived plans, it overlooked a integral component of a successful execution. And that component was my mechanical prowess when performing the complex task of correctly inflating the front tyre. This new boot took one look at gravity driven singletrack and decided to take its’ rubbery business elsewhere. Specifically a swift ‘see ya’ to the rim before flailing around the fork in a mildly comedic manner.

For anyone watching, anyway. I was struggling to find any time to see the funny side as the next few seconds were packed full of incident. If your car tyre ever punctures at high speed, the deceleration process is both rapid and uncontrolled. Now try that crossing rocky ground with half the number of wheels and at one tenth of the width. And that wheel is handling both steering and braking.

Except, of course, it isn’t doing anything of the sort. The front wheel immediately tucked under pitching me headlong over the bars, into a landing zone of spiky rocks and tough looking trees. This was the full crash experience – Surprise, terror, impact, pain, bounce, impale, roll and more pain. Then the silence. Then the ‘what the fuck happened there?’. Then the full systems check as body parts checked in with various degrees of damage. Finally time for a decent groan, after a cautious move to semi prone breaches the adrenaline/pain barrier.

Important to focus on the positive. My smashed up knee from 2006 took a blow right to the centre of the original damage and it’s articulating pretty well. My dislocated shoulder from last year suffered an identical impact as I’d instinctively thrown out a hand and – aside from some desultory bleeding – that’s fine as well. The bike – when I find it over the other side of the track – has some interesting new gouges but appears functionally undamaged. Lots of riders stopped to see if I was still alive, while commenting “woooah, that was a big one”. Which was nice.

The rest of the lap was not nice. I inaugurated myself into the “order of the purple hand” as the lefty changed colour, swelled up and bloody hurt. Refreshingly, all the injuries appeared to be on pedalling centres – ankles, knee and a banana sized rash on my hip. So to summarise; 1 mile completed, can’t use my left hand to brake or change gear, can barely hold the bar and my head feels a bit like it’s been slammed into hard rocks at 15MPH.

Time to MTFU** and get on with it. Which I did although not before two more punctures reduced me to a puncture repair kit and a bloody annoyed expression. The first set of marshalls clapping eyes on my less than pristine person offered me a ride in the broom wagon, but that didn’t seem the right thing to do. And it was with that attitude, I completed that lap and a few more afterwards.

But it was fantastic. Not the crashing but the great cause, the organisation, the course and the other riders out on it. The St. John’s ambulance guys did a fab job of patching me up again, even tho I had to show another grown man my willy as he tutted his way round a couple of deep scabs. I’ll write some more later – about the event not my new found interest in getting my knob out.

I’ve documented my hatred of event racing many times before. And that hasn’t left me, but this event is something I really want to do again. If only to make it past the first descent without barrel rolling down the track. Because then it would make it even better

Today, a goodly portion of my left side is purple. This is officially the summer colour of 2008, and I’m well ahead of the game what with the Voodoo already being that shade***

* It’s really not meant to be a race. A few people didn’t get that at first, but I’d like to think my pithy comments may have helped to shape their opinion. If you can’t beat ‘em, insult the buggers as they fly past.

** Man The Fuck Up.

** It is not pink. A few people also made that mistake during the weekend for which they received a sharp glance and a sharper bit of glass in their tyres.

More laps, more food, more beer, more stories, more pain, more is it over yet?

I’d like to say we’re ready. Which isn’t a total whopper if you suffix it with “as we’ll ever be“. Nigel has unearthed some terrifying mobile fire going by the name of “Chernobyl“. It’s a fiesty old stove neatly circumventing any safety regulations on the exceptional grounds it is a recognised antique. It runs on a cheeky combination of paraffin and eyebrow hair – at least they were the flammable ingredients that set fire to Nigel’s house during pre-event testing.

Jason is bringing a rebuilt bike accompanied by bowels of pasta and an assortment of beverages. I will be packing the car with everything I own including spare tyres, an extensive toolkit for other people to expertly spanner with and a crate of beer. Dave will rock up with his Shoreditch combover and a mobile phone glued to his ear. I haven’t had the heart to explain that the nearest thing to digital communications in the Mendips is the postal goat.

I have unearthed the tent of extreme frustration and will spend many hours trying to build it before giving up and sleeping in the car. I’m also planning to take two bikes. That’ll be one for each lap then

Right, well much to do before packing, panicing, re-packing, getting Carol to help and then sitting on the M4 while pre-ride drinking time ticks away. I’m taking the camera so prepare for Flickr overload come next week.

Oh and a belated thank you very much for all your generous donations.