… May I be allowed a “FUCKING HELL THAT WAS JUST BLOODY FANTASTIC” ? Thank you.” But I cannot really tell you quite how good that was because a) I am so happy to be still alive and b) I don’t really have the words to adequately describe the feeling of mainlining adrenaline.
Five minutes of riding downhill with your bollocks on fire* packs in a whole lot of life events. A gamut of emotions rollercoasting from joy to abject terror accompanied by a staccato commentary “fuck, get a grip, get inside that bloody corner, pump that, jump that, back back back some more that’s steep, fuck fuck fuck that’s rocky, get off those bloody brakes, let it go, breathe, breathe, breathe”
Chasing your friends is a big part of the fun, having the same limb count at the bottom is some of the rest. The course is not hardcore compared to some of the rockfests in Scotland, but if you take liberties, it’ll respond brusquely by trying to kill you. Near the end of our seventh run, I thought I had it’s measure and went for some stuff that quickly proved I didn’t.
We failed to crack the five minute barrier but it’ll definitely go. And the burly bike build is staying. Okay I may remove the elephant prophylactics masquerading as inner tubes, but the rest makes the whole package just so much fucking fun at a speed on the margin of fear and unreconstructed joy.
Blasting out on the Van stereo, as we ascended for our last run, was Bono lamenting he’d yet to find what he was looking for. Looking at the bike shadows cast by the falling sun, I think maybe I already have.
* this is a metaphor. Although those DH boys were suspiciously messing around with their ciggy lighters at the top.