Remember this?

And all my manly posturing on how easy it was on the new bike, and how all that was lacking in my mighty toolbox of skills was a little more style? Today, I tried it with a little more style and rather than receiving the plaudits of my peers, instead I received a helmet full of dirt and a full body battering.

But rewind a little. On a lovely winters day, full of the sunshine and light winds that have so forsaken the South East for the last month, we arrived in the middle of a body armour convention. I’ve never seen the place so rammed with play bikes of all description and a riding community ranging from young Gravity Dwarves to elder statesmen like myself.

The GD’s are born to ride in three dimensions launching small bikes over huge jumps while performing complex yoga moves, such as tapping a grubby ear with a Nike trainer while calmly flying at fifteen feet through the trees. Others of an indeterminable age but sporting ungrizzled stubble and motorbikes without engines were winding them up over the big jumps and drops that define the area. Well that and the air ambulances and broken bodies.

Trying to build on the previous festive ride of absolutely no style, I attempted to ape the skills of those who weren’t method acting a sack of potatoes velcro’d to a fridge door. The main aspect missing from my riding – other than the permanent absentees of bravery and commitment – was, and I’m writing this carefully, Hucking. To huck, one must perform a foolhardy firm compression of the bikes’ suspension to instigate a stylish, salmon like leap over the drop. This is best created by driving your body downwards and then allowing the bike to spring back by lightening the sprung weight. Which is this case means you and in my case is quite significant nowadays.

Now think about this – what we’re talking about is flying off a ledge with around twelve feet of thin air between you and the rather thicker ground while taking the weight off the pedals. There an integral part of what we mountain bikers call “the things that attach you to the bike and stop you getting horribly injured“. And yet, it was all going rather too well until, in a moment of unconsidered bravo, I attempted to go large.

As the ledge approached, I pushed vertically down – hard – with both hands and feet , feeling the tyres digging into the dirt. Then as the bike rebounded rather rapidly, I unweighted everything and flew gloriously into space. It was at this exact point that the total wrongness of style over substance overwhelmed me, as my feet and the pedals became pen pals. No longer were we connected by anything other than memory and as the bike landed hard on the downslope, I remember thinking “well I’m hucked now“.

Apparently you can ride this type of thing out. If you’re any good and don’t instantly stiffen up with the type of rigidity associated with rigor mortis. The “Leigh alternative” is to crash painfully down the slope, with feet acting as buffeted outriggers and bollocks bouncing on the top tube. And just when a small slither of survival gloating shafted low through the trees, my attempts to stay upright went sideways. The bike hit a lump and by the power of kinetic energy I exited sideways in a flat trajectory. Luckily, rather than a pleasant dirt surf down the slope unencumbered by stumps or pointy rock, my velocity was rapidly reduced by the shuddering impact of an earthen wall. The whole painful episode could be summed up with the simple phrase “Deceleration Trauma“.

“At least my friends didn’t see that” was my first thought as they ran over the hill to see if I’d trashed the bike. A short period of grunting followed while the full body systems check ran as a priority process. Aside from very sore ribs, a stiff neck and battered pride, the initial damage report was encouraging. Only later did I realise that the stabbing pain in my thigh was a perfect mirror of my car keys. These normally harmless items had burrowed deep into the limb in some kind of futuristic organic/mechanical fusion.

The bike was thankfully undamaged. Which gave me no excuse not to limp back on and ride the drop again. The Icy Hand Of Fear was clamped hard over my nether regions but it really had to be done. And it was, with no huck but a silent “thank fuck” as I landed happily still attached to the appropriate staying alive components.

I rode a bit more, but then it stared to hurt a lot more as befits an old bloke doing a young mans sport. So I quit whilst I still had a head but on driving home, my overwhelming emotion was of bloody annoyance that I’d failed to conquer this simple skill. And it never occurred to me until I began writing this that there will be a time when I break rather than bend. But that’s some way off I hope and through the power of Nurafen Plus, cold beer and hot baths, I’m already planning my triumphant return.

And this time, it’ll be so stylish even the GD’s will whisper “not bad Grandad, not bad“.

PS. Never again will I feel silly wearing leg/elbow pads and a full face helmet. They all took a proper bashing and without their protection, I would undoubtedly be enjoying an extended stay at Bedford hospital.

Our mini roadtrip consisted of 360 miles, one night in a bed and breakfast, one curry in the terrifying post apocalyptic horror that is Maesteg and various cakes, coffees and beers. Oh and an epic 14 miles riding. That works out about £3 a mile and you could run a Challenger tank on that.

There are mitigating circumstances. Firstly daylight is something that only happens in seasons other than winter. There is a counter argument which goes something like “well you have a set of very expensive lights you could use when it gets dark”. That’s all very well but a dark, cold Welsh forest in the middle of winter inhabited by things that may kill you or at least deliver a light mugging, is not my idea of fun when the option is warmth, light and beer.

Obviously we could have set off earlier but that would have removed one of my excuses for not wanting to ride more than once. MonoLung(tm) and heavy bikes mix as well as Relatives and Christmas. Uphill was actually ok as I’ve learnt to manage my lungs when Asthma strikes. Downhill, working hard to get the most out of the bike, left me breathless and stationary at the side of the trail.

Still it gave me time to wonder how the route could be so dry and so much fun. Man made trails are great in winter, they offer a consistency of experience regardless of the weather. There was plenty of grip and not many people which makes for great riding between desperate gasps for a lungful of clear air.

So once the man with the bike carrying van said no and the night plunged down the hill, we abandoned any thought of riding and instead dreamt of edible recompense for our awesome calorific efforts earlier. A sweep of the local offerings suggested no one in South Wales eats outside their own houses until March. We resorted to a meandering trip through the nearby ex-mining town of Maesteg, which told me everything I didn’t want to know about what happens when an industry dies. Streets full of thrift shops, boarded up buildings and really quite scary eyeballing young people.

Still we ate like kings for a tenner each and were burpingly joyful on returning to the car and finding it still had all the wheels attached. We talked long of a big day out tomorrow and slept the sleep of the worthy.

Unfortunately 8am brought Noah out looking for a lost giraffe.

We bought coffee and watched DVDs in the cafe and silently hoped neither of us really wanted to go out and drown. Eventually we abandoned any pretence of riding in Wales, perambulating in a ziggyzag fashion back to Oxford via other possible riding spots. All of which looked fantastic if your imagination could insert “dry, warm and summery” when your eyes reported “slippy, wet and bloody freezing”.

I felt a little guilty about the whole thing until it occurred to me what a great mood had now rolled over my previously miserable form. I didn’t feel any better physically but mentally the excesses of the holiday period had been properly cleansed.

It’s still cold outside but the rain has stopped and the wind died down to a point where I no longer fear for the fence. I think I’ll take monolung out for a gentle ride.

My preparations for dragging my post festivities body pedalling a pre festivities new bike have been somewhat hampered by a medical complaint. It’s properly medical and I’ve certainly been doing all the complaining and quite right too. What one hand giveth, the other snatches away which medically transpires to a bastard snotty cold and the removal of a lung. The cold has taken up residence in my nose, head and, bizarrely, ears. It clearly intends to outstay it’s welcome sometime even past that of my in-laws. The lung has gone the other way, ravaged by winter Asthma and offering all the oxygenating possibilities of a moist paper bag.

I’m wondering what the cycling equivalent of a cesarean section is. Although there may not be an obvious parallel with those ladies who insist on having their vital internal organs rummaged through in a find the baby? game. But I too am too posh to push? and riding uphill? in this state is nothing more than twisted tautology. If I am to be spared, the nice man with the uplift truck will be operating, otherwise I feel I may be measuring myself up for something sturdy and long lasting. In pine.

But I’m going anyway. One because there’s at least a single Alex based anatomical feature that resembles a mule and, two, after a week cooped up with small children and latterly annoying relatives, the option is some extreme body burying patio action.

My role during this season of goodwill to almost nobody has been to remove the kids from the chimney on Christmas Eve while my wife has done everything else. This may seem a rather disproportional split but when you consider our chimney is buried behind a foot of plaster and two expensive kitchen cabinets, the split of resources suddenly becomes fairer.

Still on the upside, I bribed them to clean my bike.

They didn’t do a great job but at least it gave Carol sufficient time to relocate the remaining strands of her sanity. How’s she survived two small children and one rather larger (lager?) one for the last week is a mystery to me. She seems quite keen for me to bugger off though, which may or may not be unrelated to her studious examination of our life insurance documents.

In that I managed to go riding before the onset of delirium, tedium and bedlam, as I naughtily consider my relatives. When the foggy stopping distances flipped from imperial to metric, we made haste in a northerly direction to the Freeride Mecca that is Chicksands. A pagentastic Saturday worship delivered a little mud, tacky but limitless grip and but a few other apostles. Our tempting apple was a warm car when compared to a cold outside, partially frozen beneath a steel gray sky.

But there’s only so long one can stare vacantly at a muddy field enlivened only by the pinging of a fast cooling engine before boredom takes hold. Closely followed by instant frostbite as cold metal stings warm flesh. Eventually after the ten commandments of faffing (of which more at some later day) had been completed, a worthy band of five went searching for the last ladder before Christmas.

Soon our Judas had been outed after declaring himself broken. In an attempt to protect a recently healed fracture on his wrist he performed an experimental dismount on the wooden Shore. His wrist survived but the deceleration trauma on his chest and face somewhat compromised the benefits. The rest of us complained of a litany of ailments raging from fear to hangover passing through cold, apathy and asthma. I was replete with the full set and things weren’t really going to plan until a quick suspension service at fettle central improves the bike if not the rider.

Continue reading “Christmas Bonus” →

It’s been a source of some gratification that I’ve seamlessly transplanted my rambling style from mountain bikes to all manner of other nonsense. Bypassing the old adage to write about what you know, instead I’ve written a shit load of drivel about stuff I know nothing about. What’s even more surprising is that you lot keep coming back to read it. I’m not sure if that’s encouraging or just plain scary.

Anyway, with a barn load of bikes and little excuse not to go riding, last weekend provided the perfect early winters day to detox my pie laden body. For reasons of apathy and antipathy, the core of my riding cluster has imploded to just the Bracknell Two?. Both riding proper manly hardtails but ensuing the lentalist nonsense that is singlespeeding to the power or retro. Honestly, the car park was littered with these machines lacking suspension, decent brakes and any form of obvious enjoyment.

It’s like the ancient sixties car population in Cuba except without any vestige of cool. Still I soon found myself cursing their simple, if difficult to pedal transmission, as rain soaked trails dispatched my gears to a dark and muddy place. My friend was suffering almost not as all since he has one of these fancy internal hub gears, and hadn’t spent a couple of hours fixing his bike the previous night. Yet again, in the face of all historical precedent, spanners were twirled with wild abandon in the mythical search for mechanical perfection.

Actual result in the cold, sober morning light was nothing more than a loose connection between shifting and gears. Cogs refused to engage as I desperately thumbed the shifter, and then viciously dropped three gears when I stamped angrily on the pedals. Luckily I was saved from a difficult head first dismount by a stout contact between helmet and handlebar.

Meanwhile, Nige having no trouble with the Cannondale Bastard? (so named because various non standard parts have been carefully angle grinded onto it’s once pristine frame) whooping and swooping through the slippy singletrack with nary a slip of gear of tyre.

Continue reading “Wow. A mountain bike post.” →