“If you can’t see it, it can’t hit you”

Post FoD, pre-clean

This was one of many teachings from an old school friend. He was a nutters’ nutter, mischievous to the power of insane and almost every time my teenage years were crossed with big trouble, John was chief provider of the big ideas.

Ideas that on the surface had an elegant simplicity, but scratch beneath that and the horror of what might follow immediately became apparent. Generally with older people looking extremely upset and the destruction of property.

For example, if a few of us thought shinning up trees and stealing apples was a bit of wheeze, John’d stand by, look puzzled for a second and then set fire to the entire garden. His reasoning was thus: “the fruit is falling out of the trees AND we’re getting roasted horse chestnuts“. See what I mean? Mad as cheese.*

The can’t hit it proclamation was confidently delivered while door-handling over the Snake Pass in the pitch darkness navigating only be memory, the interior light and a youthful naivety that death happened mainly to other people.

To pass the time before we plunged down the cliff in a fiery ball of tortured metal and soft squidgy bits, I tried to find out more. Apparently his firmly held view was that even if a great sodding dry stone wall was looming out of the black, we were perfectly safe as long – and this was the important bit – he never even glanced at it. 25 years later, I’m still alive so maybe he was on to something.

Riding last night, and again this morning, had Deja-Vu writ large as the constant worry of a big accident JUST passing me by but having so much bloody fun played on repeat. Malverns and Mud are rarely that close together but incessant rain turned hardpack to slick and autumn fall hid gripless roots. Our philosophy was waving two fingers at a proper ride, instead picking climbs entirely on the quality of they scary descents they would open up.

First one, me up front helmet light scanning for big rocks. Head for those because the ST4 isn’t a knackered old Ford Fiesta and is unlikely to be fazed by such hazards. Make lots of mistakes, ace bike compensates sufficiently for teeth not to be spread across the trail. Excess velocity into a step section has the bars clipping a railing which means you giggle a lot because the other reality would have been fairly nasty.

Route choice. Up the side of the Beacon and then off on a stupidly steep and slippy cheeky entry onto a trail barely clinging to the edge. Martin takes what I consider a sissy line around a rock slab. I go straight over and straight over the bars rolling sideways and into soft ferns on a steep angle. Clambering back up – giggling again – Martin has gone and I give chase with all sorts of looking at the wrong stuff, lights in the valley getting closer and a widening gulley nastily adjacent to this narrow singletrack the tyres are doing their best to keep me on.

Back up top via the road because tonight is all about going down. Off the top looking to pop this drop but the run in is so slippy, we turn around and head back the “normal” route. The top of which has about a 30 mile cross wind desperate to whip the wheels away and send you pin-wheeling down the slope sans bicycle.

A fast blast back to the car via a kilometre of much loved – if unsurprisingly sketchy – trail was followed by the admission that if we dodged any more bullets, we’d be in line for playing Neo in the matrix.

This morning I spent another couple of hours trying not to look at things that were scary. Most of those were glassy roots more than keen to whip your front wheel away and provide a not-at-all soft landing for your arse. Somehow mine stayed on the bike, although any FoD dwellers were subjected to many instances of the “Tripod” where two wheels are further supported by a desperately unclipped leg.

To access Tea and Medals, we took the “SheepSkull” DH track which proved the ST4 is basically a mini-DH bike with the seat down which is an excellent fins. Except I am riding at a speed so far ahead of my ability, it’s only a matter of time before I wrap my face round a tree.

Still, if you can’t see it, it can’t hit you. As good a motto for being silly in the woods with a bicycle as I’ve heard this year.

* We’ve stayed vaguely in touch and he’s now an airline Captain for a major flag carrier. One that I absolutely will never travel on.

The same, but different.

ST 4 built not ridden
Bike testing is something I take very seriously. Mainly because the sheer volume passing through the hedgy shed is long past double figures, and can’t be far from celebrating a silver jubilee. So it goes; build, test, declare undying love, upgrade, cast aside, discard in the shadow of shiny new things, then sell.

Notice at no point do the words “Research”, “Logic”, “Profit” or even “Enjoy” gets close to elbowing their way into that tired list of bike rental. I did consider building a shed with just two openings labelled “in” and “out” with little space for actual occupation.

Lately things have improved, although this is analogous to a 50 a day man boasting he’s cut down to 48 fags during any 24 hour period. The difference with the Orange ST4 is it had become a firm favourite which I had no intention of selling.

Really, none at all, rebuilt the Cove, rode it, liked it, put it back on the hanger. Pace was occasionally dusted off but failed to excite, Trailstar is kids woody accompanied for which it is ace, but I’ve no intention of riding it anywhere else.

So a certain irony then when the ST4 decided to dump me and some of its’ more important internals after less than a year. Still fickle chap that I am, its’ rather burlier mutant twin has already displaced it in the “keeper” category*

So bike testing. Here’s my approach honed over far too many random purchases. Finish bike build at exact time red wine bottle is empty. Ideally this will be before midnight, but rarely is this the case as the “last small job” appears to have triggered a rebuild from the wheels up. Forget to sleep properly due to lame excitement, chicken issues** that apparently must be discussed at 3am, and multiple visits to the bog.

Groan when alarm chirpily informs you that 7am is actually a real time on a Sunday. Lurch out into the rain and lash bike onto trailer. Select least stinky riding kit and motor off in search of other early morning nutters. Turn back at three quarter distance to retrieve trailer key left on kitchen table. Get stuck behind tractor and nearly end life attempting risky passing manoeuvre. Find friend still drinking tea and dither for a bit.

Riding eventually had to happen after we’d run out of new things to poke and prod. First 25 minutes was climbing, first on the road switching to a much hated shaley double track expressly laid to make me miserable. Goes on for a bit, nearly as long as my technical evaluation of the new ST4’s climbing prowess “pretty stiff back there, pro pedal is a bit keen, shit I’m knackered today“.

Finally a descent, flick the happy switch on the shock which instantly sits the bike deeper in the travel. Throw it into a couple of slippy corners and down a steep rock gulley and it feels the same but different. Up front is a bloody good fork, but it feels out-classed by what’s happening out the back. Super plush over the bigger rocks but ramping up nicely deep into the stroke. Probably a bit too much meaning a stop for some “biffer air” in the chamber.

For those not of a bikeacul persuasion, the last paragraphs may read like nonsense. In fact, even those who do will rightly question my ability to critique anything much more complex than “the wheels go round when you press the pedally bits“. And you may be right, but I contend that riding the same trails with the same kit on a different frame is a fine way to work out what’s different.

We rode on past our normal switchback point and headed deeper into the hills. Lots of steep climbs on wet grass and loose shale demonstrated a total absence of flex, rather the bike hunkers down and demands grip from the surface. It’s pretty damn effective until my lungs give out.

The middle Malvern hills throw silly steep and loose descents as a challenge to the fat tyred, and we took them on without much drama but quite a lot of speed. Couple of jumps, then a significant flight of cheeky steps were soaked up and spat out by a bike that appears to have eliminated flex in this third incarnation.

Too early to tell for sure, but by this time I’d abandoned any rigorous evaluation of the suspension performance, instead removing the analytical part of my brain entirely to allow the section marked “Silly and Impulsive” to have its’ head. Quick scoot through some lovely Autumn-turning singletrack, plunge down into the quarry before a last 200m climb close to where we started.

Close but above. Good, because I am really knackered now – being easily outclimbed by my pal on his proper heavy Heckler. Windy up here too, so it’s a quick nod to the God of Staying Wheel Side Up and we’re away. Off the ridge spine, rock drop into a loose ninety degree turn, then the same but reversed, line up the drop, dispatch with nary a worry – when did we start thinking 5 inches of travel as Trail? Jeez these things are awesome – fast turns lead us into a final off camber woody section.

Boom-Boom down there, hip swinging the rear tyre away from the trees, quick breath, brakeless eyes wide open over steep and wet roots shooting us out onto a grassy slope where rain and due ensures braking traction is a bit of a random affair. Grin, point, tea and medals.

Riding any bike almost any day is generally a joy. Today should have been the end of a painful disappointing journey with the old ST4. In fact it felt like the start of another altogether happier one.

3 posts in three days? Unheard of. Work tomorrow, normal silence will be resumed I suspect.

* Yes it’s a very small category. But statistically, it counts.

** One of the poor buggers appears to have been shot if the wound is anything to go by.

It was one of those nights…

… when you turn out the lights at which point song lyrics and riding reality diverge. While AC/DC rock on with “while everything comes into view”, my personal world was essentially pitch black and silent. Except for the horrible sound of tyres sliding on wet roots and some associated whimpering.

This was a day which had started badly, then spiralled ever downwards leaving me desperate to crush the unenlightened in a pedal revolution. But it is hard to unwind your mind and plot vindictive revenge when the first obstacle acts as an organic off switch.

The trails were in that transitional state between grippy and slippy, while the trees were still resolutely bone breaking hard. I caressed the first with a shoulder before juddering to a desperate stop. Some cable fiddling later convinced me my darkened days were behind me – which as a belief system lasted about as long as a wine gum.

When the lights died again, so nearly did I – this time bouncing off a tree which at least had the beneficial effect of slowing my progress to a somewhat larger drop to my left. When the going gets tough, the terminally cheesed off go home and that was my strategy, until Martin generously halved his own lumen count by insisting I took temporary ownership of his helmet light.

Funky little Exposure Joystick thing with a buddy attached. The dead weight on the bars was at least twice as bright but since it wasn’t working, I wasn’t complaining. Well not more than usual anyway. Martin’s reward for his selfless sacrifice was a flat tyre which split the pack, and led to some comedy communication failures due entirely to only one person actually having a phone about their person.*

My enlightened status was dependant on a tiny battery Martin admitted he’d never tested to destruction. So most of my riding was spent with a well focussed torch on my head and absolutely no idea what was going on left or right of that. Or whether it was about to get permanently dark again.

Which puts the whole Lumen Arms Race into perspective. Most of us started riding with 2/3rds of bugger all fading to yellow after less than an hour, after which we navigated by memory and bruising. So while Tail End Charlie was the only option, if I didn’t want to be thrown into a megawatt shadow, there was a certain nostalgic rush riding at the limit of an ickle light. Slower it may have been, but less fun?

I’m not sure that’s right because one much loved section of singletrack felt so different with sufficient illumination to enjoy it, but not enough to turn it into daylight. And taking it easy was absolutely the right approach since my entire evening seemed to suggest a better way to spend my time would be programming A&E on speed-dial.

Really it was if I couldn’t quite decide where to crash; “ooooh nearly, no let’s go a bit further, no that doesn’t count you’re still on the bike, hang on slamming testicles is merely a coping technique, sorry you’ll need to try harder“. I was trying pretty hard discovering helmet lights are ace for showing you where you’re pointing, but not entirely stable on a head wobbling about on wibbly trails.

The final descent probably had my name on it, so – if proof were needed that God Loves me sometimes – when my chain snapped in a way suggesting it only had a future for harvesting powerlinks, I gave up and dug out my pumping skills** to roadie it home. Martin punctured again, which if karma means anything would suggest I’d have been medi-vac’d off that hill with a spatula had my mechanical not saved me.

I’ve bought one of those Exposure jobbies mostly for being able to find my way round the Forest in darkness, but also because some old school/anti nightsun riding may call. Look at it this way; shitty, cold winter night, force yourself out, might as well throw in some naked terror because misery works better in threes.

Ask me how I know.

* That’d be the one doing the texting. I’m sure Alexander Graham Bell felt the same way before he’d shed’d the second unit.

** The bike ones I learned from Tony Doyle, the dogging area is on the other side of the Malverns. So I’ve been told.

Beer or Bike?

Not so much a quandary, more of a life decision. Many times I’ve moodily watched expensive vegetation being drowned or whooshed horizon-wards by tornado winds thinking “I’m good at excuses, this would seem an ideal time to make one”, before bearing down on the sofa waypointing at beer fridge and crisp cupboard. The consequences of such an easy choice are bigger trousers, unreconstructed feelings of guilt and entirely missing the point.

Before moving here, riding rarely ended without beer. Some started that way as well although inevitably finished in a heap of limbs making giggling noises half way up a tree. Only when the shock of failing to recognise your riding buddies in civvies after two years of sharing trails, do you realise how much things have changed. All the good bits are still there; like minded people, gentle piss taking, hidden competitiveness, schadenfreude, pain, suffering, lucky escapes, joy, pain and scars. But post ride is a quick go on the hose pipe* and away to general duties.

This week we invited the Forest crowd over to sample some proper hills not bounded by bar spinning trees. This was – for most of them – a first experience of the geological oddity that are the Malvern Hills. Powered by volcanic activity, they rise from a flat alluvial plane with unrelenting steepness to multiple jaggety peaks. We set off up the North end which is busier, rockier, higher and criss-crossed with plunging trails and bastard climbs.

First up we had hoards of riders to escape giving the poor FoD crew an experience similar to dropping Robinson Crusoe into Central London. To spare them from having to explain where all those extra fingers came from, we dropped into the shadow of the Worcester Beacon and kept it right side and looming on the approach to the last proper Malvern Peak. North Hill brackets the end of the ridge, and offers many secret delights down into the town itself.

First tho a stiff pull*** skywards before a cheeky cut back on moist grass enlivened with tyre stopping rock. Everyone got down but not without some wide eyed stares. The perception seemed to be that the ride would mostly be on soft grass with a few rocks thrown in. This end of the hills is exactly like that only entirely the other way round. Crash in the forest and you’ll be picking teeth out of ancient oak roots, lunch it here on something steep and they’ll be using those teeth for identification.

We skirted the worst of the grassy climbs before summitting high on the ridge end, stopping only to enjoy the popping sound of cooling singlespeeder knees. Yes, Adam was back on a bike lacking 26 out of 27 important mechanical parts, but the bugger did stunningly well to get up everything. Confirms my hypothesis: Alien. Good times tho playing to Al’s first rule of riding “50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of what’s good is where you are, the rest is who you’re with

And where we were was topside of a rocky horror switching to mad steep dirt abbreviated by vertical granite sleeping policemen keen to make a tyre arrest. Riding it at dusk on the hardtail was reasonably involving, but my mind was distracted by the general carnage in front of me. Nobody died which seem to spur the boys on to tackle a nasty set of steps incongruously located in the middle of bloody nowhere.

I gave them a miss but liked to think earned a few man points with a brisk clearance of a much loved rock step accompanied by a silent “glad I didn’t fuck that up“. Now we’re in Malvern proper and that’s the low point of the ride. Elevation wise we’re a big hill from home, and it’s a 25 minute climb to get there. No point rushing I offered, I’ve tried that in the past and while the hill doesn’t care, you’ll end up spatchcocked over the bars making the kind of gestures un-bowled goldfish are known for.

There’s a cheaty, easy way round the Beacon to crest the final climb. It seemed a shame to share that what with a few of the boys showing such enthusiasm for the steep and unforgiving front face. Those buggers have had it over me enough time in the deep, dark woods and it’s important to restore karma. Not that I was in any way counting. Oh no.

Much nudging regarding quality of the view from the top. Not surprising since riding in the Forest is brilliant but visually merely slightly different coloured bark. No time to linger though, with a straight mile of lumpy descent unencumbered by corners but fast enough to promise breakfast through a straw should liberties be taken. Martin (proper guide and reason we didn’t spend the entire night going “er, this way not sorry that way, er anyone got a compass, or a rabbit’s foot?“) is a man who does indeed take liberties on this trail, and raced off with the Forest boys in determined pursuit.

I was sweeping at the back, and nearly had to sweep myself up after a rather vigorous if unwise pace was applied to a part of the trail where the ground drops away and tyres scrabble desperately for grip. I slowed down a bit after that which was fine as I wasn’t catching anyone anyway.

A quick loop back over the top of the wyche so we could finish fast and loose on big steppy rocks and then just big steps found us at 8:45pm having climbed 2,300 feet in a lot less than ten miles – the result was a bit of cheek blowing democracy on what we should next.

We went to the pub. Obviously. And it reminded me what a great natural high dopamine mixed with decent beer will give you. So now Al’s rules of riding runs to three, the one up there, an assertion that “riding is always better than not riding” and now “A proper ride only ends when stumbling tiredness is mixed with conversational bollocks and decent beer“. I reckon there’s a book in here somewhere.

So it’s not beer or bike. It’s beer AND bike.

I know what some of you are thinking. And I know how old you are. You should be ashamed of yourself. Really. Next thing you’ll tell me farting is still funny**

** Okay I accept that.

*** There you go again. Not role models for your children really.

No Mountains, not much Mayhem.

In fact I’d shoot for “Lumpy Slackness” to best describe my own take on the OSMM 24 hour mountain bike race held just down the road from here. Every year I make a special effort to attend while adhering to a firm committment not to get involved with any of that riding nonsense. I mean why would you? Ace riding on the doorstep, almost none of it encircled by a private deer park filled with desperate IT middle managers* properly hurting themselves to secure 321st place.

No I grooved a well worn record of scouring the vast campsite for familiar faces, stashing away any freebies before adjourning barwards to watch the start. This time I had family and mad mutt in tow so had to answer some slightly uncomfortable questions regarding my non participation. Straying away from bare faced lying for a change, instead I employed displacement tactics pointing out everything that was wrong with a thousand people crammed into a localised methane cloud waiting for the start.

After saving my cheers for the slowest, oddly shaped and fully paid up members of “Team Chubb-a-Lubb”, a navigationally challenged rendezvous with some old friends reminded me of a vague promise to ride an entire lap in exchange for beer. Thankfully my carefully studied slackness had ensured a ride-readiness state scoring about zero what with no bike, no riding clobber and a pair of wellington boots** which sadly merely postponed the horror until the following day.

But this is a team which would present Team Hardcore Loafing as a race-tuned, podium chasing professional outfit. So in keeping with the sleepy ethos, I turned up late only to shockingly discover a member of the team WAS OUT ON THE COURSE. Not to worry, a more than ample excuse for a sit and chat in the sunshine. That’s the fella out doing a lap I’m talking about who had located a grassy bank much to his liking, and passed a convivial half hour chatting with the real – if somewhat bemused – racers.

Eventually Tim found sufficient energy to roll back to Apathy Central and sent me on my way with a stern admonishment not to get back too early. The final member of the team was engaged in a full on race simulation and couldn’t be disturbed for at least an hour. Or revived really since he was entirely unmoving other than some jowly snoring. I rolled onto the course in a unique position of being entirely fresh and light limbed, while every other poor bugger had travelled 21 and 1/2 hours into a place where pain and suffering live.

This is what fitness must feel like. I easily out-climbed the heavy legged, dusty and weary riders who were turning slow circles in tiny gears or – more frequently – getting off and having a walk. On enquiring how they were doing, most would bang out a pained grimace declaring “Six laps in and this bastard is the last one” before trying to reconcile my fresh faced pace, body shape and entirely inappropriate bicycle. “You?” they’d ask with some incredulation “Yeah, last lap for me too, be glad to get it done” I’d reply in shared companionship.

I didn’t feel it necessary to add that this was my first and indeed only lap. Important not to over-communicate when people are under such obvious mental strain. So back to the course which I fully expected to but shit, boring and unchallenging. The first section didn’t do much to dispel such a hypothesis with rutted, tight scalextric weaving pointless between trees. No wonder everyone looks a bit miserable I pondered as riders pulled aside to let me pass.

I did feel like a bit of a fraud, but this was easily offset by the shallow joy I took from it. But I stopped thinking about that as the course suddenly became properly interesting. Some lovely, steep rutted descents, a few singletrack climbs, a more than pleasant flowy ribbon of hardpacked dirt that had me chasing fast riders and passing them before considering why they might be slowing down. The one disadvantage of my uni-lap strategy was that everything around the next corner was a total mystery. Which partially explains a couple of off-course transgressions and a eyes wide shut brush with one of the innocent marshalls.

So course was pretty good, quite challenging in places, brutal for multi-lappers with a halfway round campsite sashay leading to a climb that started tough and kept on giving. The end of which we were rewarded with another sinewy wiggle through the trees, doubly enjoyed after some proper racer elbowed past without so much as a “Out of my way Underling” at the entrance. I challenged him to show some bloody politeness next time to which I didn’t even receive the expected finger. Now I don’t mind being stuffed by those with proper riding skills, but that’s just disrespectful.

Fuck. Slack Mode off. Race Face On. Catching him was easier than expected although not due to any fantastic riding on my part, more because he was, well, a bit shit really. Race-Car on the straights, pedestrian in the corners. Hard to know if his concentration was broken my the sound of my Northern up-his-chuffness offering such pithy snippets as “Did you steal that race kit?” and “You don’t deserve that bike, you’re too fucking slow to ride it“.

This went on for a couple of happy minutes. As we hit the fireroad, I beamed my best smile and innocently asked if he’d enjoyed that previous section as much as I had. Not a word, nothing, he merely vibrated a bit and spun off with the demeaner of an angry hamster stuck in a washing machine. Ace, only one lap and I still managed to properly irritate a cock with a self-important complex. Mission accomplished I think.

Everyone else was lovely. Tired but feeling – quite rightly – pretty damn heroic. Tough course in the dry and had the rain come, most people probably would have left. But in the continued sunshine, we finished on a proper old school fast grass-track descent that had even us clipped-in riders, clipping out moto style. I even managed a reasonably styling jump over a lip where the photographer was apparently lurking. I’m sure his published image will clash poorly with that in my mind’s eye.

Arriving back in just under an hour, my reward was a nice cold beer and the chance to wave in the finishers come 2pm. I did feel slightly cheeky accepting the “riders medal” especially as some nutty singlespeed solo riders sprinted past the start/finish pylon in order to get another lap in. Aliens, the lot of them. Not for us, our laps were so few as to be designated “DNF” ๐Ÿ™‚ More Did Not Start really.

But this is exactly the way to treat such events. It’s not a race strategy because we’re not racing, but as a fine way of passing a weekend with old friends with some bike riding thrown in, it’s hard to beat. However next year I’m aiming for a stretch target.

Two laps.

* Ahem.

** For the first time in epochs Mayhem was dry and warm***, but having endured the great floods of 2008 and 2009, there was NO WAY I was trusting some dodgy forecast.

*** Except for Saturday night which was frigging chilly apparently to the point where some neshers went home. FFS not even I’d do that.

Time.

Slippery little bugger isn’t it? I am fairly sure that last week it was still snowing and mostly dark, and yet here we are with the longest day barely a weekend away. This would be enough to make me grumpy as we contemplate the depressing slide into Autumn, but time has stolen more than my Spring, it’s bogged off with most of the days since as well.

I blame working for a living. Really chews up your days and eats into the light, warm nights when you really should be a) riding your bike b) drinking beer outside c) repelling the triffid invasion by deploying petrol based weaponry. And then quickly slipping back into b). I seem to be stuck with d) which involves a fairly fully time job augmented by wasting time I don’t have doing other peoples.

You may legitimately ask what they are doing instead, and you would not be alone but I have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. For which I may have to mix work and home life by implementing c) during office hours when a particularly trying situation needs resolving.

I did manage a monster end to end Malvern ride this week which started on one of the longest days of the year but still finished in darkness. The entire gamut of hills were either summited or sneakily bypassed including my favourite rocky horror tearing down 700 feet of steep bouldery ribbon before finishing on a superb rock step drop off. Right in between these two items of loveliness are a set of narrow yet very steep steps which puckered me up in all the wrong ways.

But these too were dispatched with nothing more than a clenched bottom and tightly closed eyes, before declaring to anyone who’d listen that a) it was really easy and b) no thanks I’ll not be doing them again*. Only at 9:30 and at the furthest outreach from our start did we begin to wonder how one of the riding flange was getting home un-crashed without a set of lights to his name. We did our best with a bypass of significant pointy ridge through the use of an “evening bridleway”, and a quick scoot through darkening woods to a final climb over Midsummer.

Where our brave – if foolhardy – pal was now shrouded entirely in darkness. What with it being 10:30pm. Some 100m below was his car and safety – between us and that were a second set of leafy woods letting almost none of the not very much light through. He wasn’t keen to be the meat in a Lumen Sandwich so hung onto the back of us enlightened ones and mystifyingly made his way down using the little known skill of “bark brail“.

Brilliant, brilliant ride. 1100m ish and 30ks. All that trudging through winter makes sense on an epic like that.

Sports Day topped the domestic billing today, but – predictably – I missed one child losing quite often and the other broken one watching on. But I still arrived in time for lunch and left with no phone, no watch, no gps, no water (oops) but a brief time window and a fast road bike. Just headed out in a random direction and rode until my legs were shot and my head was clear. As good as the other night, for all the wrong reasons.

Mountain Mayhem this weekend. I’ll pop in to have a laugh, and personally verify that this could be the first event in living memory where monsoons have now sunk the trails below the water table. Good luck to any nutters participating – I have been offered a cheeky lap on a slack team but any free time I have this weekend will be spent with a glass in my hand. Or possible one in each.

* Lists you see, under pressure I revert to type. Surprised I’m not accompanying this lunchtime post with a couple of beers.

Four out of six ain’t bad

As Meatloaf may once have crooned if he could count past 5*. I appear to have died and been transported to Singletrack heaven with 100 kilometres of the wiggly stuff squeezed into less than a week. Ascent and, more importantly, descent has reached five imperial figures which is exactly half of what I managed all of last month.

But these numbers mean nothing without context. In this rather lovely – if confused – country we live in, every dry spell is vigorously mainlined by MTB junkies getting their rocks off on dusty trails under sunny skies. And for those of us who refuse to accept this is a three season sport, all that winter drudgery is rewarded with fast legs and an unquenchable thirst to go do it all again. And again.

Four rides, three locations, one simple idea to bank happy memories against future wet and miserable. We rolled into the Forest twice this week, and it rolled lush singletrack right back. It might not have the elevation of the Malverns, not the stupendous panoramic views, but bloody hell it’s somewhere beyond fun and into a place that surely cannot be legal. And yet a Malvern ride some 24 hours later reminded me how damn lucky we are to live between this two MTB environs.

A bit cheeky, trails that come alive in the evenings when the walkers have rambled off, perfect blue sky and visibility half way to Russia. A final descent into the setting sun with many metres bagged and ready to be unleashed in a duet with gravity. That’ll stay with me for some time, as will fast laps of CwmCarn – a trail centre 45 minutes from my house and a chosen testing ground for new bikes**

I know its’ secrets well enough to show Martin a clean pair of wheels on the first lap – feeling fit and pretty fast. Big Sandwich and Life Saving Cup Of Tea later, then it’s pretty much even as Martin hustles his big forked hardtail line astern to my brilliant – if fragile – ST4. I can forgive that bike anything because it is so natural to ride. Don’t think, just do. Don’t brake, just trust . This sometimes leads to Don’t look, just hope but how damn alive do you feel when all that is going on?

The last descent at CwmCarn has been properly breathed on by the trail pixies and now it is a kilometre of giggly awesomeness. I can hear Martin’s fat tyre scrabbling right up my chuff so abandon fast and smooth for ragged and dangerous. There is nothing wrong with such an approach assuming you’re still trail side up, which I very nearly wasn’t. Very Nearly is more than okay because it takes you to a place where you want to speak at a hundred miles and hour, but you cannot actually get any words out. I find pointing helps.

The only thing that scares me now is how long will it be before I’m too old to do this any more, maybe too broken, or too tired to ride in the winter, or too worried about mashing myself up. Just too damn crocked and decrepit. The worrying thing is – right now – I am as fit as I’ve ever been and riding at a pace that feels reasonably brisk. Probably all down hill from here then. Hope so, sounds like it might be an uplift ๐Ÿ™‚

* Our mutt appears to have some musical talent as lead hound for Mad Murf and the Howlers. Current album “Where’s my breakfast” includes such classics as “Is there any more?”, “That was disappointingly small” and “How long till dinner?“. The difficult second album has stalled at the concept stage with only a working title “I’ve eaten the cat, what’s next?

** There have been a few.

Mud in your ice.

As trail conditions go, a sprinkling of fresh white stuff covering a crunchy layer of corn snow atop a bed of mid winter mud doesn’t trigger an enthusiastic “Let’s Ride” response to a 7am Alarm call. Except today when two of your five tomorrows include 18 hour London Returns and a whole week of shitty looking weather.

We kept to the South side of the Malverns with the high ridges and peaks being properly deep in snow. This still didn’t make our passage easy as every climb had to be forced through the greasiness and energy sappin g slippiness of trail wide mud. Which you only found as tyres broke through a thin crust of snow on the fourth day of a freeze/unfreeze cycle.

Malvern Ride - Feb 2010 Malvern Ride - Feb 2010

I’m fairly bored of snow. Only our last descent was on the right side of conditions nirvana with hardpacked snow on firm trails. The rest of a rather weedy sounding 10k loop had to be hard earned with granny ring gurning, and significant pushing. Downhill was pretty exciting to be fair, with fantastic levels of grip being attained right up until the point when there wasn’t any. At all. I’ll be going straight on then regardless of the spiky vegetation blocking my way.

Malvern Ride - Feb 2010 Malvern Ride - Feb 2010

Momentum was truly your friend – my old mud riding memories surfaced from years of Chiltern Winter* allowing be to blaze a stinky trail over half frozen stutter bumps and endless draggy slush. It was more fun that is sounds, especially as we had the hills to ourselves and most of our tracks were the first ones.

Malvern Ride - Feb 2010 Malvern Ride - Feb 2010

A final climb up a quickly renamed “Mist-Summer” found us finally on harder tracks where pedalling brought a proper forwards, rather than sideways, reward. A brief stop at the top ratified our choice to stay away from the high places with wind driven snow making riding difficult and a bit dangerous. Off the top we went, carefully on the narrow, snowy tracks and then faster – sometimes unintentionally – through the steep, muddy tree section.

Malvern Ride - Feb 2010 Malvern Ride - Feb 2010

A comedically heroic snow spraying plunge back to Hollybush brought forth icy tears and big grins.

Malvern Ride - Feb 2010

If I’m still loving riding so much in these conditions, what’s it going to be like when it’s dry, dusty, fast and warm? I’ll hardly be able to sleep ๐Ÿ™‚

* And Spring. And Autumn. And Summer as well on too many occasions.

The Grim-O-Meter.

This is my unofficial measurement of unpleasantness when bicycles meet rain, dark, wind, cold and mechanical catastrophe. So a 1 would represent a light sprinkle of mid-summer rain cascading over an un-jacketed rider, thereby souring an otherwise delightful experience of tanning and pedalling. Whereas a 10 would be the archetypal “dark and stormy night” attempting to fix a puncture with no tubes, a busted pump and bloodied thumbs while being frequently deluged by passing HGVs.

This morning was a strong six. Dark. Check. Early. Check. Wet. Check. Mechanical. Oh yes. After 30 minutes of sustained fettling, the screeching mudguard of doom now emits a piercing howl rather than a dull scratch. Ratcheting up the GOM score was some unrelenting rain triggered, as I moved the bike from indoors to outdoors, from an apparently clear sky.

A little music tends to ease the passage from night to day, but my MP3 player lay abandoned where I’d placed it charging the night before in a location impossible to miss at 6am. That’s an area of my commute that needs some work, as does about half of the road surface which is either pot-holed, subsiding or entirely missing. The only joy of mid winter riding stems from darkness hiding an ever more pretzled wheel set.

So whereas last weekend I strode the quantocks as a cycling collusus* stomping up climbs and gloating over early season form, this week has been payback. Firstly a Malverns night ride shortened first by apathy and secondly by sleet. My legs were fine, but the shop steward of the brain demanded a one-out-all-out withdrawal of labour.

We still poked a big pointy hole on the upside of 2,000 feet of vertical climbing, but sticky trails, too much great riding lately and a shared sense of can’t-be-arsed saw us lowside it home to avoid all the really hurty bits.

And we weren’t alone. At least not quite. Two weeks ago, I was lamenting the burgeoning flange of riders on my hills. But Tuesday saw just us and another pair who were talking a hell of a game in terms of a peak bagging epic** trudging through the plasticine trails, and sliding about in a generally not-very-good-at-cycling manner.

The signs of post Christmas apathy are all around. The fug of a microwaved pasty has already replaced the smell of fresh lettuce in our office. On the train – come summer – we struggle to position six bikes in a space for barely three. But this week there’s been just the one, with the rider receiving pitying looks from fellow passengers.

I know what they were thinking “Nice bike, shame he had to sell his car to buy it, because well you wouldn’t got out in THAT by choice. Or maybe he’s a nutter“. February is always a bastard month, not quite close enough to spring for light and warmth to permeate the times when I ride, nor far enough into the season to motivate yourself that this is training for summer events.

No month 2 is a slog. And there aren’t many of us still doing it. But great riding gear, fast road bikes and a level of bloody mindedness not to let this unheralded fitness slip shall keep me going. Although I expect the Grim-O-Meter to take a beating for the next few weeks.

* Other people who were actually there may have a different – and less glowing – opinion.

** But based on the physical evidence of them blowing it out of their arse on a flat section, I’m thinking they were fibbing. A lot.

Phone Bill.

The price I paid for losing my mobile earlier was to learn that even our little part of the world is sadly full of cocks. The phone and I parted company on British Camp, the most easily accessed and therefore busiest on the Malverns. It should not surprise regular readers that I’d abandoned it, what with my personal belonging regularly being scattered far and wide over a number of continents. Phones, Wallets, Sunglasses and – I kid you not – on one occasion my car tend to go AWOL, although mostly returned through the kindness of strangers.

Losing the work phone SIM is a bugger because until you’ve smothered yourself with Nutella and been prostrated naked in front of the Vodafone helpdesk, they refuse to even accept you have ever owned one of their products, never mind losing one. I say SIM because it was encased in my old “weekend” mobile which I’d thoughtfully left on silent. Furthermore it’s furnished with only a few names of chosen drinking buddies and my wife via her nickname*.

So the poor sod who found it was faced with a dialling dilemma: “Trousers Jenkins” or “BogDoor Bob” being a couple of the more sensible entries, and this to a man who does not have English as his first language**. Eventually my Mum received an 8PM phone call from a nice fella recently of Poland, who enquired if she had a geographically displaced son with a penchant for lobbing expensive electronics out of his backpack. After initial confusion, she rallied magnificently and soon I was on a mercy mission to re-unite myself with my phone.

Which is where the story should end happily, but it doesn’t. Because this amicable gentleman, out taking an early morning walk with his lad, had attempted to flag down some mountain bikers after failing to get my attention once I’d launched Space-Nokia-1 into a low orbit. Now if it were me, or the guys I ride with, we’d have stopped, exchanged pleasantries, and either taken it into care until an Internet forum burped up the owner, or offered any other help we could have.

Not these cocks tho. A whole bunch of them basically told him to fuck off and get out of their way. I can only assume he was somehow in their way, and their version of shared trail access worked on the principle that some animals are more equal that others. This has made me really bloody angry. For two reasons; firstly how can people of some kind of shared-outdoor-experience be so damn rude and inconsiderate? Secondly – and far worse – was the chaps acceptance that somehow “it’s okay, I don’t mind, some people are like that. Especially to us“. No it bloody well is not okay, it never is and it never will be. The shrug and phrase “especially to us” made me wince with embarrassment.

Sure I only know one side of this story, but riding in London for three years de-constructed the myth that all cyclists are good and everyone else is a twat. Almost the other way round in far too many cases, and nothing since has convinced me otherwise. So I could well imagine this playing out exactly the way it was told, and someone needs a good bloody slap. Forget the fact that cyclists are already demonised by most other trail users in the Malverns, many of who are on a mission to enact a partial or full ban. That’s merely a side show to the fact that we are the most scary people in those popular hills, and we need to show a bit of bloody respect.

That’s why we ride early in the morning or late at night. It’s why we try really hard not to bring ourselves into conflict for the sake of it. It’s because we understand the fragile nature of competing groups on a small set of hills. Well most of us do anyway.

I’m pleased I’ve got my phone back, I’m really fucking angry about how.

* we’re not going there. Glad I got it back tho ๐Ÿ™‚

* Kindred Spirit you might say.