Parenting was attractive for many reasons, foremost of which was the mainstay of any healthy young male; that is to have as much sex as possible while doing your bit to dynastically supply the planet for future generations.

It’s only when the product of all that count the legs and divide by two action pops out of a business end does the act of copulation suddenly seem slightly premature. Like an uberbitch Wednesday come down after a weekend of booze and drugs; reality bites you in the arse and something immeasurably precious and completely demanding is shoved into your arms.

I don’t ever remember cycling with my Dad. He was always too busy, too tired, too preoccupied with his own life to offer up time to watch his offspring learning how to jump skinny racers in disused quarries. And while “ I hope – my parental obligations have been taken rather more seriously, I’ve failed to invest time in teaching the kids anything other than the rudiments of cycling.

There are good reasons. Firstly, you don’t want to be all competitive dad because I’d rather suffer serial parenting apathy over vicarious screaming from the touchline. It’s unlikely our kids are ever going to be first at anything, for which I’m curiously grateful as the human race is nasty enough without trying to win by pushing.

Secondly, trying to make kids do things they don’t want is a constant challenge “ there’s some bollocks talked about them testing the boundaries. No, they are just criminally lazy and viewing the world from the opposite end to their parents. When asked to go and tidy your bedroom mostly the reply will be why? and that’s a fair question.

So a deal was struck; into the parallel orbit of playing in the park and family riding came Black Park, a place of easy woodland trails and home made ice cream you’d happily sell a child for. Especially a whingy one. And because the Sustrans is boring (Yes it is) we headed out instead for tracks with a personality – a ribbon of hard packed dirt peopled with baby roots and framed by head high vegetation.

My attempts at teaching (if teaching is a word that can be applied to fetching them, bleeding, out of the shrubbery) was mainly of the instructive come on, pedal, pedal, DON’T LOOK AT THE TREE [child bounces off trunk] You looked at the tree didn’t you? and the motivational Right, stop bleeding, get back on and there’s an ice cream in it for you

They did great as did Carol whose increased confidence was nothing to do with me and everything to do with her having a crack at stuff she finds a bit scary. The summary seemed to be that off road riding is hard, falling off can be painful and braking suddenly is generally followed by fetching ones’ bruised nose off the floor. Amazing, it took me YEARS to learn that.

Mark Twain had it right when he said My father knew nothing when I was 18, now I am 21, its amazing how much the old bugger has learned. In that vein, my mum cut through all the modern self help parenting bullshit with Love them, Limit them and Leave them.

She was probably right.

… and I’m bad. Bad tempered because I packed a chest infection to go to Scotland. It accompanied me on three rides weighing me down and holding me back up the hills. Bad riding meant this didn’t matter much because it took me almost as long to go back down again, and this time I had no medical complaint to blame. If I may paraphase Swiss Tony “Corners are like a beautiful woman, fantastic when pumped and taken at speed but not quite so much fun if molested by a shuddering panic and sworn at”

I was bad at hangovers but good at drinking including a first night lager train crash that rendered me almost blind come the morning. And considering what happened late in the bar, this was clearly an act of kindness. I’ll say no more than nurses uniform, hairy bloke, drunken mates and phone camera. It was beyond ugly and still travelling when passing obscene, ungodly and probably illegal.

Here a few photos of men on bikes. Evidence of the previous paragraph was forever consigned to the great digital dustbin in the sky once I’d eaten the phone. It seemed the right thing to do.

Next week, I’ll be 40. Although friends have advised me not to start any long books and to put my affairs in order on hearing a hacking cough which is a close medical twin to tuberculous. If my peak flow doesn’t creep over 450 again soon, I’m going to buy a bungalow because stairs are just too bloody challenging.

It was fun actually. Not the cough but everything else. But then bikes, beer, sun, stupidity and great friends usually is. Until the incident with the dress and the concept that having sex with three or more vegetables should be properly called a “medley”. Or that the best way to treat a weeping wound is to “Stella-rise” it.

You probably had to be there.

Remember the old adage that dog owners begin to resemble their pets ? (I assume it is dogs, as it’d be hard to imagine even the most facially adept animal lover morphing into a double take of “ say “ a goldfish). Whatever, the very same process has transpired between me and my tyres.

First thing this morning, first commute for two weeks, the ˜rat front was partially flat and a strange shining orb was lurking in the sky, looming like an alien craft. Putting two and two together and coming up with a conspiracy theory, it seemed obvious that green eyed monsters had both taken over the free world and still had time to let my tyre down.

After some brief yet grunty action with the plastic pump of piss poorness, I’d punched 120 PSI into the soft tube on the dozy assumption that this’d provide sufficient inflation for both out and back trips. Obviously what I’d forgotten was with this much pressure, the tyre bounced and jumped over all but the flattest tarmac and my teeth will now require much expensive dental work due to unplanned yet frenzied mashing.

Flat legs mimicked the tyres as three hours MTB’ing in the Flanders of South East England had sucked the gas from these vital cycling appendages and the will to live from the rest of me. Actually, my expectations were so low, that any ride not ending in hospital or custody could be deemed broadly positive.

Because jumping on a bike before going on an extended MTB jaunt has recently led to broken bits of Al being littered over uncaring trails. Since we’re off to Scotland on Wednesday for five days of riding and five nights of drinking, this seemed a disturbing portent.

Anyway, I survived through the power of extreme mincing and rapid fire excuses while making real life contact with two people who’d been unluckily washed up on the Hedgehog. It’s like Second Life in here without the celebrity endorsements.

Here’s a picture of Duncan riding a trail that I came to think of as where the f*ck is it? Still at least this meant it couldn’t be as muddy as other 19.5 miles of which mostly all was mud flingingly gloopy and yet strangely fun.

Finding the London bike was a bit of a challenge since a) I’m nearly officially old and have rapidly reducing memory and prostrate function, b) I parked abandoned it while pissed and c) the thicket of bikes made it an almost Stanley like plunge into its’ grimy heart to finally dig it out.

At which point I realised both tyres were on the soft side of usuable. My mobile pumping Viagra is a difficult hybrid of gas powered and manual inflation. It’s fairly rubbish at both but, if pushed, I’d have to plump for it being particularly useless in the wanking elbow scenario. Good job I’ve put all that time in on the Wii.

My final ode to flatness was a bendi-killer-bus doing his best to achieve the unwritten target of two dead cyclists a day. One second of inattention triggered a further three seconds of abject terror as 18 metres of Al-crushing tonnage threatened to grind me flat against the curb.

I know one thing that isn’t going to be flat later tonight “ it starts with B and ends in my belly.

Because if it is, I am ready for the part of Grumpy the dwarf. I am basically method acting the little fella 24 hours a day.

This morning I found myself in the unusual position of not wanting to get off the train. Normally, my modus operandi is to be leaning on the doors desperate to escape from the sweaty tin can full of properly odd people.

But today, mentally beaten by the drumming of the rain on the carriage roof, I could hardly bring myself to waterproof up and venture out. The train had already been delayed due to unidentified objects on the line which I took to be Monday morning suicide victims unable to stomach another week of pissing rain.

One the cleaning staff started to stare and their were whispered conversations about informing the station manager, I grudgingly rotated still moist arse into a standing position and trudged wearily onto the platform. True to form, the rain increased from bloody annoying to gopping wet as I wheeled out of the station. The humidity ensures that you’re wet on both sides of your rain jacket, and one arrives at work both a little flustered and partially cooked.

Last weekend, the optimistic four drove a few hundred miles to Wales in the forlorn hope of some dryish riding. Saturday was warmish, the rain held off but the trails were still excitingly soggy. And I use the word exciting rather than bowel scrunchingly terrifying as I don’t want to be labelled a total wimp.

Especially since the trails/rivers were being lightly bashed by my hardtail. My body was more brutally bashed and by the end of the final run, I was ready to lie down in a sandy stream and wait for some passing angel to dispense alcohol. It was fun is a happy to still be alive at the end kind of way but next time I’m bringing the talent compensator. And based on my crappy riding this time around, it has some work to do.

We didn’t ride Sunday what with the two inches of rain falling in the night, the 8/8ths cloud cover, the howling wind and barely double digit temperatures. Instead I went home and was rained on there instead while operating the immortal electric lawnmower.

My shoulder is getting worse, I’m having to pay someone to explain why our roof leaks in all sorts of interesting ways. That gives me the chance to can pay someone else to line their pocket attempting to sue the original builder, who has taken the attitude got your cash, don’t give a shit. Added to this is the hated, never changing weather forecast predicts next weeks holiday will be spent inside or on the roof to evade rising water levels.

Is it any wonder I’m grumpy? And looking round I’m not alone.

Perspective is the thing though. Exactly a year ago. I had just smashed up my knee and then spent most of the following week in Hospital. It was not an experience I ever want to repeat although, one could reasonably argue, riding is the Summer of 2007 is pretty shit and “ at least – it’d be warm and dry in Accident and Emergency.

While I find the Canadians honest, open, enthusiastic and fun loving, there is a certain whiff of smugness about them. And with good reason – a thinly populated sports playground, clean air, low crime, vibrant economy and a work/life balance that sees everyone knock off at 5pm. Ottawa is a good example of this. It suffers the same urban sprawl that circles most UK cities , but nobody really cares. Because there is just so much land to build on that even when a thousand houses spring up in a place where there use to be forest, a million kilometres of bugger all still extends in all directions.

My friend Andy was an hour late picking me up from the airport because the local bike shop had forgotten that I’d hired a bike from them. Despite two phone calls remind them; Welcome to Canada the land of the occasionally smug and extremely laid back. We still had time to go riding straight from his house with the woody singletrack, nestling under a rain lashed sky reminded me of home, but home on steroids and free from people.

Still this was just a warm up (or more a rain down) and less than twelve hours later, we drove 10k to Kanata Lakes, a well known MTB mecca squeezed by encroaching development. More rocks, more roots, less mud, more fun. Andy’s shock exploded about 10 yards in but he gamely carried on.

The North Shore is there for a reason, to transport you over bogs and streams. I found the best way to tackle it was at walking pace. That was me walking and the bike being pushed. I wanted to hate the Specialized Epic for the race bike it was, but a combination of bling kit and a singletrack missile hidden behind the graphics meant I ended up really loving it. Except for the insanely low bottom bracket which with fat flat pedals installed made it a bit of a handful in the rockier sections.

Not even slightly sated, we sandwiched in the extreme oddness that is Canada day with another ride in the evening. True to form it pissed down again but only for the first ten minutes. After that, a long lost feelings of fitness and bravery propelled me flying through the singletrack which quickly ended in yours truly getting properly lost. Thankfully the fellas came back looking for me or I was bear food for sure.

Our last ride was to Camp Fortune on the far side of Ottawa deep into the Gatineau mountains and super bike friendly with marked trails and chairlifts. Sadly the chairlifts were only servicing the big rig downhill trails and the nice lady at reception felt the cross country trails would provide more options in the staying alive phase space. So we winched up hot fireroads and plunged down double black trails peppered with north shore, steep drops, monster roots (see above) and endless ways to properly hurt yourself.

As can be seen Martin with his twelve year old canti-braked, lead lined wheeled grip reaper rode most of it. The bits he didn’t ride, he fell off on but this strangely didn’t deter him from getting back on again. When he gets a proper mountain bike, he’s going to enter the ratified stratosphere of “super nutter”.

We even found a safe little jump to play on and regressed to teenage years until Martin – what a surprise – hit it so fast he totally missed the trail on the far side. Time to leave, drink beer in the sunshine and reflect on four rides that’ll live long in the memory.

British Columbia it isn’t. But if you boat is floating on woody singletrack, fantastic views, endless trails – right on your doorstep – and just damn nice people to ride with, Ottawa and the surrounds takes some beating.

So there’s a brief trail review. As the Canadians would say “You’re Welcome“

…. a thousand words. Jetlagged, busy but with much to tell. Until I can string a few amusing words together, you’ll have to make do with a few pictures. These were taken before many arduous and difficult days of dawn to dusk work. In case anyone from the firm is reading 🙂

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A few more here:

Many more words to come including Al’s one page guide on how to get home when jetlagged and abandoned at Heathrow 😉

Right, I’m going back to bed.

Since I’ve given up racing – although this may overstate the actual amount of laps I ever completed – a feeling of relief, tinged with the tiniest slither of envy, falls upon me whenever there is a big event weekend. But not today; a few of my outwardly sound but inwardly barking at the moon chums are preparing for the biggest 24 hour race of the year. With snorkels and fast boats if the weather forecast and – more importantly – the actual weather right now is to be believed.

Now you could argue that 20+ ten mile laps circuitously shared with a thousand other muddy riders while fighting fatigue, hunger and the sound of exploding bicycle components is an odd way to spend quality drinking time. And if you’re in the non racing, dry under roof corner I’m currently occupying you’d be right.

But these aforementioned thousand, soon to be unrecognisably broken, riders feverishly embrace the promised pain and suffering – lighting forums with the fiery ignition of their unhinged enthusiasm. And afterwards, threads spread like wildfire “you really had to be there“, “it was fun really even after my lights, bike and body failed at 3am in the morning” and “I can’t think of the best bit, except the end, that was a really good bit“. I have the greatest respect for the body tented and their ability to remain cheerful and positive way past the time the rest of us would have stropped out of the event demanding hot showers, cold beer and a red cross parcel.

So with the weather sages predicting horizon-to-horizon wet briefly punctuated with tempting bright spells and the real possibility of Navy divers being helicoptered in to rescue sinking competitors, it is going to be bloody horrible whatever people say afterwards. Yet in a ill judged moment of moist solidarity, I felt that my epic ten mile commute should identify with my braver cycling brethren.

Grumpy already with an early start, the tipping rain did nothing to improve my black mood. But with sufficient wet weather gear to waterproof a small elephant, there was no proper excuse not to just get on with it – other than “fuck it, I really can’t be arsed”

Trudging a mental path somewhere between the plight of the poor buggers in a sodden field and the spirit of Victorian exploring, I struck out anyway. My Conrad like “Bloody annoying – an univited Croc boarded my canoe and attempted to serve me up for lunch. I was forced to fetch the blighter a sharp clip across the snout until he desisted” stiff upper lip approach to the increasing wet lasted all the way to the end of the road.

At which point, God emptied his bath tub and I took the least soaking option of hiding under a tree as sizzling lighting BBQ’d lazy, unmoving clouds and smashing rain rebounded to eye level. I scuttled closer the the protection of my friendly tree and waited for the world to break.

It didn’t but my resolve did. I crabbed a fast sprint home, dumped the bike and made a guilty grab for the car keys. But sat here now, I’ll raise a beer to the proper racers defined by their mental strength, mud enemas and crazily unbalanced hardship focus.

Rather them than me 🙂