I don’t want you to get distracted by that image up there. Even while accepting that  a cursory glance suggests yet another bike crowding the diminishing floor space in the shedofdreams(tm).

Conclusions are assumptions, but context is everything. Well something anyway. Maybe an excuse thing. Whatever this isn’t N+1, it’s merely N, a holding pattern, more of the same but a little different. A day before whatever that is arrived, something far better defined left in the hands of a very happy man three days short of a significant birthday.

What has he bought? Previously we’ve described these triangular garments, entirely failing to clothe the emperor, as last century’s mountain bikes wrapped in shiny marketing cloth. That holds regardless of their party trick is being pretty damn good at a lot of things, and amusingly useless at a few others. In a time of no bad mountain bikes, this is to be celebrated.

We came into the sport as silly. Seriousness is not something to be applauded. Riding excitedly to your local woods, playing between the trees before trudging home with a bloodied knee is exactly how your eleven year old cherished their spare time. So more of that can’t be a bad thing, right?

Yes, Al maybe/possibly/what the fuck are you talking about? Get to the point – what is this new thing and why’s it replaced something that looks – at first, second and forensic glance – pretty damn similar? I’m glad you asked. No really I am, as this is not just drunken purchases disguised as a grand strategy.

Nobody who rides mountain bikes with any level of obsession would allow ‘well they’re all the same, why do you need more than one?‘ to pass without a vigorous defence probably including complex charts, longitudinal analysis and peer reviewed research. *

So it its with gravel bikes, or whatever we’re calling them now. We have road bikes with a nod to imperfect surfaces** and mountain bikes Frankenstein’d into drop bar mutants. Grade them on a curve and the Tempest was a refined, comfortable mile muncher, while that green monster prefers to paw away at raw soil before thugging its way through the countryside.

Look closer and there are many differences; frame material, wheel sizes, head angles and other items of irrelevance. The important disparity is intent. The Tempest wants to pick a distant spot on a dusky horizon and navigate there via interesting paths. The Digger (what is it with me and stupid bike names?) tolerates a bit of tarmac, but what it really wants is to hunt down an enduro bike and poke it with a stick.

The Tempest is background, the Digger is front and centre. It needs to be ridden, it’s not interested in being out all day, it’d rather rip your legs off, scare you shitless and then drop you off at the pub. Which is  absolutely brilliant for a mountain biker looking for a bike to make the local woods a bit more interesting.

Unless the same individual was tilting at a third attempt at a multi-day self supported King Alfred’s Way in less than two months. I used to have the perfect bike for that. Until yesterday but now I have something else entirely. There’s a hurtful rumour my purchasing criteria was based on ‘I‘ve already got one that colour’ and ‘last years model is going at a heck of a discount‘.

Regular readers will back me up that such salacious gossip is entirely at odds with my unimpeachable integrity, ruthless logic and legendary fiscal responsibility***

Regardless it’s been pedalled out to those local woods which was perfectly fine if a little slower than previous drop bar bikes. The payoff is picking lines on muddy singletrack when you reach that destination. Wide bars, knobbly tyres, dropper post, this really is an MTB hiding in plain sight.

It’s fun on easy trails in a way that my 160mm hardtail really wouldn’t be. There’s nowhere here I’d bother dragging the full-suss bikes for. But an hour on muddy trails going mostly sideways with a big grin on my face? Lots more of that please. Yeah sure that was the same face accessorised by new bike glasses. But even so, it’s quite a thing and if my thing is 90 minute escapes from this long-stared pane of glass, then it’s my new favourite thing.

For now anyway. As Herefordshire’s undisputed “Mr Fickle‘ for 14 years running, who knows if my fruit-fly attention span will bridge the gap between new and bored. I’m ever hopeful. And possibly delusional.  Let’s try working a bit less and riding a bit more to find out.

Oh and we’re not done with bike laundry either. A second much loved frame is on the edge of shed and sullied. Still might not happen. There’s a real danger this may become a habit.

*just me then.

**99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the roads where we live. We’re net importers of potholes. While `asphalt comes here to die.

**Laughing is beneath you. As for pointing, there’s no need. I buy 50 bikes with absolutely no rationale whatsoever, and this is the respect I get. Really, you should be ashamed of yourselves.

In lieu of starting all the work I airily promised to finish before my holiday, instead I’ve been binging Top Gear re-runs on YouTube. While putting the “pro” into procrastination, I couldn’t help but notice that almost every episode has May telling Clarkson “You dolt, you’ve ruined it“.

This is normally preceded by said dolt bolting on an Spitfire engine onto a Mini or some such thing. I tell you this because of a slight nervousness a similar fate may have befallen the Mighty RipMo. I mean not a Spitfire engine, which by the way would have been AWESOME, more engaging ‘Ludicrously Slack Mode‘.

Casting our mind back a few months, we find the RipMo at the end of an upgrade cycle. Absolutely perfect. Wanted for nothing. First name on the team sheet, etc. Expect it wasn’t the end, it wasn’t even the beginning of the end, it was rather the end of anything within cackling distance of sanity and fiscal responsibility.

There are reasons. There always are. Mostly we’re back to riding in far flung places. Sierra Nevadas in Spain next week* and a Back Country epic with Basque MTB next spring. Such trips provide what I like to call ‘justification‘ for something bike shaped from the shiny cabinet.

Regardless of bikes not being immune from the supply chain crisis, even if I could find something to buy, there was nothing I wanted. I mean sure I bought the Rascal but that hardly counts. In terms of the ‘big fraud’ bike writing cheques I cannot hope to cash, nothing, nada, no idea why.

Maybe it’s because the RipMo is way past good enough in the same way I don’t reach that grade. Or maybe I was sideswiped by an unexpected case of adulthood. I’m really hoping it’s the former. Anyway since I didn’t want to buy an enduro bike, I thought I might as well build one instead.

A sensible start saw the head angle slackened off by just a degree. One is enough regardless of the Internet suggesting all sorts of Frankenstein savagery. Plugged into the slackset up front was a slightly longer fork. Well the same fork that had been Matt’d with a longer airshaft or maybe a spitfire engine. I am, as ever, hazy on details.

These simple changes didn’t change that much. It felt even more capable and maybe a nadge less agile. Neither of which detracted from its general , genial “RipMoNess’. It still felt very connected to the first ride some 4000km and 40 months before.

And now? Well we all know sensible can go a bit batshit.  Pop into the pub for a quick pint only to find yourself ordering a round of flaming Sambuka’s while dancing naked on the bar*. In my case, I was a victim of circumstance after being offered a set of forks with a normal lead time of ‘they’ll put them in the coffin with you”

They are marketed as for the rider who needs the stiffest fork out there for extreme gnarliness, probably involving smashing through rocks the size of houses and a wing named after you at the local hospital. To be honest, I’d feel less of a fraud pretending I could dance naked on that bar.

Having now accelerated on a trajectory heading for crazy town, I went all in with a rear tyre so fat it barely fits between the stays. Leaving me with a high risk of wheel locking disaster if facing a metre of mud or good sized cowpat. Matt’s whirling spanners then arced from front to back putting firmness into brakes and rotation into bearings.

Declaring it done, I whipped it off the stand to calibrate the new parts at the Ross MTB proving ground. That’s two sets of church steps, over the humps of the old crazy golf course, and a cheery hello to the bowls club regulars who regard this kind of behaviour as birch-able.

It feels different now. I think it’s angry. It’s definitely ready for something. Maybe in the way a stallion can’t decide if to clear a ten foot fence or chuck the twatty ballast into the undergrowth. The best way I can describe it is to use a phrase first recorded when tanks were deployed to the Western Front ‘I don’t know what it’ll do to the enemy sir, but it scares the shit out of me‘.

I thought the best cause of action was to hastily take it to bits before it started terrorising Matt’s neighbours or eating his cat. Subduing the bike into its individual components was as much fun as it always is. It’s ready to go to another country but I’m not sure if I need some kind of permit now. “Hello Spain, okay to bring my Sabre Toothed Carbon Tiger? It’s hardly eaten anyone. This week.”

So have I ruined it? Don’t think so. Guess I’ll find out in a week. I mean only someone with supreme confidence he HADN’T ruined his fantastic bike would risk shipping it 800 miles south for six days riding.

Or an idiot. One of those two. I’ll let you decide. In the meantime, welcome to the rebooted SlackMo. Can’t wait to ride it on rocky trails under sunny skies**. I have a feeling it’s going to be emotional.

*I mean we’ve all been there. Well I haven’t, but it’s how I expect places like London operate.

**I have sneaked a look at the forecast. If it rains all week, my friends will – rightfully – hate me for triggering an atmospheric river.

This post should start with an excuse. Or a more arresting image displacing a desperate attempt to manoeuvre the elephant quietly out of the room. Or a pithy missive on this format being a bit grandad. Sure not written much in a couple of months but check out my ‘shredits‘

Yeah, about that. Bought a GoPro. Spliced together clips of average riding and Olympic class swearing into content for an audience of exactly one. My ‘moob tube’* channel has slightly less engagement than underwater knitting or speed tiling. So anyway lots happened most of it roadkill on what we used to call the Information Superhighway.

I might be back to some of the highlights. Of which there have been many. A week in Scotland when it didn’t rain. Let me confirm, other than a 2 minute shower, we spent 6 day with sunny skies up top and dusty trails below. Sure we got midged and fly’d to death but what a trip.

In between there’s been all sorts of shenanigans involving bicycles and beer.  Scan forward and we’re back to the last post on jibbing the King Alfreds Way. Come this Thursday we’re back set fair by forecasts not projecting sideways hail onto my unmotivated person.

Words shall follow. Unless that forecast deteriorates. In which case both Adam and I are firm in our pact of ‘well fuck that for a game of soldiers‘. Tomorrow we’ve duped a few Wednesday night stragglers into a big full day out. On the hottest day of the year. On our favourite full on trails. On hardtails. Nothing to go wrong there**

Right done the whole ‘squirrel‘ thing. Displacement and distraction cannot suppress my ego much longer. An ego which had me explaining to Matt that I felt I might be a ‘little bit stoked‘. His expression pretty much validated that even if I was, this is not something a post-50 rider should ever express.***

I was still expressing it. Having cleared a pair of 10-12 foot tabletops. No one was more surprised than me. Be clear tho, this was not some light bulb moment upgrading me into a riding colossus, as I’d properly crashed a few minutes earlier. No one was surprised about that at all. Except me who assumed it was a fractious dirt bunny grabbing my front wheel. Until I saw the video.

Offered up by our coach Katy (www.katycurd.com) attempting to get two old white guys to jump. She’s not working with top quality talent here, and yet I found myself relatively relaxed as a huge slab of dirt passed serenely under my wheels.

Back in May I booked a session with Katy which mostly fixed my ‘arse going like a rabbits nose‘ approach to downhill drops. I wrote something far better than this for the last Cranked mag so nothing to add here other than, yes, I did crash that time as well.

Matt and I are half way through a second coaching session. Katy has been improving our corner techniques. Making me look mostly competent and Matt look even faster than usual. We’ve moved onto jumps and I’ve moved on to reasons why the simple exercises are beyond my cerebral buffer.

Repetition and gentle encouragement nudges the dial. I’m not good but there’s a noticeable uptick from enduringly shit. That mark is being hit by almost everyone else on the skills loop. Lots of grunting, no technique, repeat until ego masks failure.

We moved on. To two tabletops where my standard approach would see me brake mightily before compressing at least three vertebra many feet from the downslope. Katy believed in us in a way I cannot, and sent us back up the hill to commit to what we practised.

Well fuck me. I flew over the first one and massively cased the second. I’m taking that I said. She pointed me back upwards with a few tweaks and, a few runs later, I’ve cleared both of the monsters.  I was, er, a little bit stoked. Matt asked if I’d mirror that commitment if they were gaps. I was suddenly quite a lot less stoked.

Katy then offered Plan B. Sometimes you just have to hit the buggers as fast as you can. I’ll admit here to being a bit nervous as this approach has never served me terribly well. Unless your goals were extensive bleeding and the possible unplanned removal of a vital organ.

Still we’re here. And no one is going home dying wondering. Big old crank, lean into the berm, time that compression and the lip is coming up terrifyingly fast. Breathe. Push into the lip, keep pushing, wait, wait… wait just a little longer, now let it come back as the bike goes super light.

Suspension unloads, manage that, try and remember all the stuff that is probably important, None of it is important. You are flying. Really, no longer an earth bound misfit. Point stiff hips downward and the landing feels like nothing. Don’t blow it now, death grip the bars, slingshot the berm and go again.

This time it feels both familiar and unreal. Time slows but the scary doesn’t fill the gap. I go again and it’s just as good. Then I watch someone less than half my age throw all sorts of shapes with nary a care. I’m fine with that. Because this morning I was casing this every single time.

I cannot wait to ride tomorrow. I’m sure most of the controlled environment won’t happen on the trail. Going to be fun finding out. Especially on the hardtail.

It’s less old dog and new tricks, more you can just keep on learning. That’s a pretty cool thing.

*combination of loose camera harness and some middle aged wobbly bits.

**next post might refute that last statement. Possibly from a hospital bed.

***Should have gone with ‘well that was jolly nice. Tea anyone?’

Power of 3. Murf was 13 last week, I turned 53 a few months ago and the mighty RipMo clocked its’ third year in the ShedofDreams(tm) today. It’s fair to say both the Lab and the bike are wearing that age rather better than their owner. The senior dog spends most his time asleep with vigorous activity being reserved for anything food related. At times like this I’d like to reverse the axiom that pets resemble their owners.

The bike retains the boundless enthusiasm which sealed the deal back in 2018 and cemented it’s place in the top three MTBs I’ve ever owned*. While its inherent qualities remain intact, the components transforming that frame from a shiny bit of garage art to a full functioning bicycle are somewhat more mutable.

While that picture and this one look similar they really are not the same.

Let’s start at the rear; three wheels, four cassettes, three rear mechs and a similar number chainrings, two cranksets, four sets of pedals, a replacement seat post, a warranty stem**,  new posh forks and a front wheel. We’re not done yet, annual fork and shock services, new shock inners after the originals shat themselves in Malaga, and a final addition of ‘Strict Helga the German Saddle‘. And tyres? Well I dunno, let’s go with ‘a lot‘.

That whole paragraph could be summarised as ‘only the bar and brake rotors are original‘. What’s still missing though is the majority of these changes are wear and tear related. In three years the RipMo has clocked nearly 4000 kilometres across four countries. It’s been smashed down endless switchbacks in Sospel, brutalised by a sodden week in Finale, bashed nearly to death in Malaga and abused on a mostly weekly basis all over the UK.

And still on the original set of bearings and bushings. Which considering it’s designed in Drought County, California is something of a testament to the build quality***. Regardless of the Triggers Broom component stack, the heart of the bike is as it was when I fetched it from a battered box in May, 2018.

If it were a three ringed tree, it’d have notched the passing of time as new and shiny bikes orbited its wall bound status. I never really got bored of riding it, but there was always something new to try instead. Ironic really as in the first six months of RipMo ownership I sold every full suss I owned, including the Ibis gateway drug that was the Mojo3.

Me being predictably me reverted to type and bought stuff that seemed – oh I don’t know what the word is, let’s go with – appropriate. The last of which was the Ripley and we all know how that worked out. Well I say last, obviously that doesn’t include the Mojo4. Because why would it, as that’s an entirely different proposition. Or so I tell myself.

Although not so much this last two weeks. The RipMo has missed the last couple of upgrade cycles what with the new and shiny taking preference. After some post-Ripley bike Cluedo ‘the bike buying idiot in the shed with an XT crank‘, a whole new 12 speed wheel and transmission were slated to freshen up the old girl.

Obviously my skills lie elsewhere so I slotted it into the trailer on the way to a big Saturday ride. Arriving at Matt’s, I decided a second RipMo ride in six months might be quite the thing. Even with it’s mostly knackered gears creaky rear wheel. This entirely failed to stop it being entirely marvellous to the point where I wondered out loud ‘do I really need more than one full suspension bike?‘.

The case for the defence is it’s built heavy with parlance mud clearance. It’s really too much bike most of the time so making trails a bit too easy. What this misses is how much I’ve missed this bike. It’s saved my arse and many other useful limbs countless times. It’s brilliant because it disappears. It elevates me beyond average because it’s just so bloody competent. As a package it’s pretty much perfect in terms of geometry, kinematics and build.

There’s a new version I really don’t care about. What I cared about was buying new bikes that might be better than this old one. Honestly I never found one. Last night there was much briskness and bravery on the Wednesday night ride. Stuff that gives me pause doesn’t stop the Ripmo for a microsecond. Just point it, show a little faith and get off the brakes.

It’s pretty much the perfect trail bike. The median of the three bears. The average of XC and Enduro without ever feeling even slightly average. The only bike I feel fast on even when my head is hard stopped on slow. Honestly it’s so good I’d even let the beer fridge go before I sold it.

So if this feels like a love letter to nothing more than araldite and string, then so be it.  It doesn’t stop me tapping the bars after a great ride and whispering a ‘that’ll do pig’ when no one is listening.

And I get to ride it again tomorrow. Never gets old.

*which is a hell of an achievement when you consider the extensive and bewildering pantheon of bike shaped composites that’ve passed through the shed door.

**Original cracked. Which I discovered the night before an uplift day to a bike park. That check is the reason I still have all my teeth.

***to be fair, Matt’s saved them with an annual service. Even so, that’s way better than a few ‘UK designed’ bikes I’ve had.