Chicksands is neither populated by nursery hens nor is it noticeably beach like in terms of crushed golden micro-rocks. It should be better described as a year round playpark for Mountain Bikes stuffed with jumps, drops, raised planks and other amusing ways to hurt yourself rather badly. I wrote about it here.
We arrived late. Two of my riding pals – who’d arrived on time – took that as their cue to leave. Iâ€™m not sure the two were connected but I nearly left with them due to being â€œinsufficiently motivated”? as my appraisals are want to document. My previous visit had been blighted by a serial bottling of a large drop which had my name written all over it. Unfortunately â€“ as smelted in my excuses workshop â€“ it also had pain, suffering and a ruptured spleen written in slightly larger letters. I wasnâ€™t really looking forward to a rematch, so instead chose to tactically ignore itsâ€™ existence and try and recapture the essence of fun this place always use to have.
After a practise on some baby obstacles proved that three months Chicksands absence makes not a freeride God, I grasped the nettle of fear and whimpered a little before attempting to ride some learner plankage. It was neither very high nor terribly narrow, but having the balance of a three legged stoat suffering a serious head wound and possessing the low speed bike handling skills bettered by almost any 4 year old who has chucked away their stabilisers, itâ€™s a bloody challenge. Mental rather than physical which mocks muscle memory and laughs in the face of previous successes.
Continue reading When DIY isnâ€™t enough. A day at Chicksands.