Tag: ST4

A new riding genre.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding5 Comments

Forget your power-XC, aggressive All-Mountain or Riding-round-in-circles-while-dressed-in-silly-clothes, these last ten days have opened my eyes to a style of riding that is entirely attrition based. That sad collection of broken parts represents a litany of trail-based disasters which has stripped me of a whole load of cash, and rendered the barn mostly devoid of spare bikes.

The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice the high co-efficient of Mech based products to general MTB detritus, but these are symptomatic of a far more serious cause. Before I explain what, let me explain how. First take the ST4 and add a spiteful branch to a fast spinning wheel. Stick hits mech, arrests wheel, rotational energy transferred to drilling the stick into a catastrophe of sheered brakeaway bolts, bent mechs and sacrificial hangers taking one for the frame.

I wasn’t unduly concerned with a flurry of Internet activity procuring fast delivered spares, so ensuring my participation on a ride three days later. This sanguine approach to the rough and tumble of bike ownership soured a little as the clever and expensive air can became a very stupid pogo stick. Without the sophisticated platform damping, a single pivot suspension system returns to the bongy age of early double springers. And that gets old very quickly – it’s only when something breaks, you realise how damn good it was.

What I hadn’t realised was how damn bad it would be getting the bugger out from various close fitting linkages. Weary puzzlement soon gave may to the kind of annoyed grunting and twitching for the big hammer normally associated with an embarrassed trip to the bike shop. But the shock came out undamaged as did a swathe of small and unexpected parts. My life was suddenly full of ball bearings, mashed cases and unidentified broken bitswhere sealed bearing once were. Orange agreed that their promise of “guaranteed for life” probably covered me for Warranty with only 400 miles and 4 months under-wheel.*

Both the repaired shock and a bag full of bearings arrived free of charge over the next few days, but still the bike is nothing more than a pile of bits. Because I own neither a bearing press, nor the skill/bravery to proxy something using a vice and a socket set. “Interference” fit is something my close friends tell me isn’t a long word meaning “smash them out with a hammer and while it’s in your hand, you may as well use that tool to fit the new ones”.

So it’s down to the bike shop, and I’ve asked Nick to take a few other minor indiscretions into mechanical consideration. For a start the brakes don’t stop. Well they do for about ten minutes so lulling one into a false sense of security, before the levers bang the bars and your options are limited to nutting a tree or abandoning ship. The front mech has taken the destruction of its’ mechanical brother rather badly and now has an action so stiff it speaks of Shimano Viagra. It’d be easier to list what is still working…er let me see…. er, no that’s broken…. hmm that’s pretty shagged…right…not much then.

But even after all this angst, I was able to unleash the power of my bike acquisition strategy by dusting down the not-ridden-very-often Pace which proved good to go. Well good-ish, I spent about an hour chasing a knocking noise around the rear triangle only to finally realise the headset was loose. The bike lasted exactly two and a bit rides unbroken, being much fun to ride downhill and only a bit too humpy on the ups. It survived 45ks in the Forest, a good pummelling on some Malvern super-dry trails, and then nearly an hour back in the FoD.

Before an unholy trinity of bad gear choice, a slightly bent chain and a huge sodding – if unseen – root, left with my that familiar lack of drive. And then I realised that Fate has taken against me, although enquiring of a Singlespeeding mate with squeeky breaks why he didn’t just get a proper bike may have poked that particular vengeful God in the goolies. The Butterfly Effect applies here – “Take the piss out of someone elses bike and ruination of your own will be visited within the hour“.

My fiscal misery continued when a close examination of the once expensive parts showed the cheese-dropout ™ hadn’t failed quite quick enough to save ANOTHER new mech. Amazingly this bit of metallic Gorgonzola somehow is worth* twice the£15 forked out for a bit of pressed steel to fix the ST4.

I am left with the roadbike and my Trailstar. I dare not ride either of them because bad things come in threes and if they don’t break I undoubtedly will. Many years ago a friend of mine reckoned “You could get a similar experience to MTBing by running around a forest setting fire to ten pound notes“. A wise man that fella, and he’s a Fulham supporter – two things you don’t normally find in the same sentence.

So there we have it; God hates me, I have found solace in the philosophy of a Fulham supporter, and have spent an average of twenty quid a day to push broken bikes along some lovely dusty trails. I’m off to burn a bunch of cash as a sorrowful sacrifice while taking my therapy from a bottle. I may be some time.

* They also admitted in passing that the cause might be a bent swingarm. “If it happens again send the whole thing back and we’ll sort it out” / “Is it okay if I set fire to it first?”

** Depending on your value of worth. As the buyer, I was struggling.

Lessons Learned

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

“You never stop learning” as preppy and enthusiastic training types are want to brightly scold you. At my age, it’s more of a “never stop forgetting” decline, but there may be some merit behind the over-reaching ethic of self-improvement.

Take last night for example, some representative example to share:

Meet time is not ride time. Oh no, because first there is “faff time” and “chat time” before we’re ready to go. And then we don’t because someone’s disappeared for a spot of dogging*, someone else hasn’t even turned up yet, and the route is still in the “committee” stage.

It’s all part of the ride experience, and – I’m sure – backed by some EU rules.

Mid April is still night riding. Even if you’ve forgotten your lights. Then it’s more “dark riding” really.

When bikes > 5, there will be a mechanical. Ahem, that’ll be me then, serially stuffing air into my shock which still has some damping, but not any associated with compression.

Don’t think that because the route pathfinder is also lightless, you will not suffer benightment in a dark forest with people you hardly know. This is because he can clearly see perfectly in the dark, and may have been crossed with an Owl or a Bat. You however, will find your way by crashing into trees.

It is not possible to avoid chasing people. I am like a labrador, they are the juicy stick. I can hear Tony Doyle “Slow in Fast Out, Looking round the corner” in my ear but the Ego Devil is on my shoulder shouting “GET ON WITH IT YOU MINCER” and it’s his advice I follow. Predictably, the stick remains uncaught.

New trails should not be taken at full pace. Becuase you will find yourself entering an obstacle (let’s hypothosise a very large and deep roll down) at a speed far exceeding your skill base. Regardless of the parlous state of the bike’s suspension, you absolutely will acheive full travel on the anal sphincter.

Local knowledge rocks. Fifteen miles of perfect singletrack, grippy on the corners, fast on the straights, rooty and tight one minute, fast and open the next. Dust motes backlit by the setting sun. Finish one section and immediately dive back into the woods for more trail perfection. You know it won’t always be like this, and somehow that makes right now even better.

Riders make the ride. If I’d been accompanied on this trail only by GPS and my own company, the ride would downgrade from great to good. Regardless of the long back stories from the guys on the ride, I still felt part of a kind of group conciousness that just wants to ride, to have the craic and to feverently help someone falls off in front of them.

One thing I didn’t learn last night was just how brilliant riding bikes is. Because I already knew that. But it is brilliant to the power of giggle when you add all the summery elements, so badly missed in the never ending winter we’ve endured.

I’ll be there 6:30pm next week. Ready to faff 🙂

* this may not be entirely true, but they came back looking flustered, yet satisfied

The Return of the Sweaty Helmet..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding2 Comments

.. or “Why must I race every day, even when there is only me, and therefore I can only lose“. Standard Disclaimer absolutely appropriate here: “It’s not my fault“. My unpleasently perspiring arrival at the station this morning was entirely driven by technology and fear.

Technology being my bike computer pretending to be a GPS. One of its’ nastier features is a “virtual partner” where a slimmer, faster and less heavy legged version of yourself powers away effortlessly into the far distance. Essentially you’re racing a clone from another ride, but it’s a speedy clone saved with the fastest time ever acheived.

And that’s a bugger, because every commute Bealzibub’s LCD annointed one on earth mocks me as he stretches his lead. Until today, when – head down, legs madly spinning, lungs gulping down bucketloads, and sweat poring down my face – I beat it. By 7 seconds.* At which point alarms were going off all over my head including “Warning – legs not available for re-use”

The fear bit is wondering if enough riding has prepared me for a spring/summer/autumn of endless riding, without a lack of fitness chucking a stick in my spokes.

it won’t be the same stick which ripped out my rear mech yesterday, as that was both real and really bloody annoying. I am not entirely blameless, since our hack through stick alley was brought on by a navigational failure made worse by refusing to accept the wrong way was -in fact – the way we’d been going for some time.

Tim B fashioned an epic uber-bodge with nothing more than a chain tool and basic knowledge of chain growth, while I silently brooded over the thick end of a£100 worth of busted parts and fat dinks in a previously pristine chainstay.

We managed to finish the ride and, even with the silliness of singlespeeding, it still proved to be awesome under warm skies and atop dusty trails. If we were being honest, neither of us were really truly at the races; Tim fell off early doors and seemed to spend the rest of the ride trying not to do the same, and – even before derailer emasculation – my newly learned trail skills appear to already be half forgotten.

It mattered not. We climbed enough hills and covered enough miles to earn a large egg based reward. Aside from Tim’s claret coloured knee, both of us had received sufficient bramble action to pass off as “badger strike” when curious children questioned why I was bloodied from both thighs down.

The trails are so rock hard at the moment, a spot of rain wouldn’t do them any hard. Did I just say that out loud?

Oops.

* Tonight I shall be clearing ALL the ride histories. No way I’m racing myself again at that pace. I will die.

Are we there yet?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding5 Comments

The brain is a remarkable organ. Some would say the most remarkable organ in your body, although most of those wouldn’t be men. It is capable – rather unlike certain other appendages – of significant displacement activity especially when faced with much of the same for most of the time.

In the case of one hundred kilometres of not terribly different things happening in front of me, the cerebral loaf sliced up time with the insertion of looped music into a head otherwise stuffed only with boredom. Sadly this synapse sponsored play-list contained only one song, of which I know almost three lines from the entire lyrical ensemble.

Elvis Costello may be a genius songsmith and I have some time for much of his back catalogue, but even his most ardent groupie would tire of hearing a repeat of lines including “Checkpoint Charlie” / “Mr Churchill” and “Johannesburg” interspersed with some desperate humming. Six hours of “Oliver’s Army” has left me with no choice but to dedicate the remainder of my life to hunting down and eating every remaining copy.

Between slapping my head in a doomed attempt to skip tracks, the HONC passed me by in a series of emotions primarily swinging between boredom, misery and dashed hope. I’d also like to record brief periods of fun, humour and generic enjoyment except I don’t think there were any.

It went something like this:

Mile 0:

Arrive in Winchcome at far-too-bloody-early o’clock, and am immediately confronted with arm waving high viz jackets, middle class white people* of differing shapes struggling with the full range of two wheeled accesories from the basically recreational to the achingly niche.

Meet riding buddies and swap excuses. Difference being they a) have ridden the event before and are looking confidently fit and b) are both much younger and competitive that me. I decided right then this would be the last time I see then.

Mile 1:

And we’re off. Instant cockage overcomes pelaton types and there’s some elbow out action down the high street. Wonder if it’s just me that thinks with 59.5 miles to go, sprinty showboating might be a little out of place. “It’s not a race” I want to shout but instead just hand out some lessons in exactly how pointy Yorkshire elbows are.

Mile 3:

First climb and I wave bye to my friends as they carry out their threat to put in some hard yards, so not to be caught behind slow and rubbish riders as the road turns to dirt. As one of those slow and rubbish riders, I applaud their commitment from a very spinny position some way back.

Mile 5:

We crest the first (and longest) climb with testosterone levels still high enough for some knob to save himself one second by rudely pushing in as we approached a gated crossing. Already a bit miserable, I opt for some sport by drafting el-knobbo on the road right up to the point when he notices, then cruising by in the manner of the aerobically untroubled. Then slowing right down so he has to go straight back past. Guess what I did then? I know, I know I just can’t help myself.

Childish yes, and I bored of it after a couple of miles which unfortunately swept us past the exit marked “all non lunatics turn here” and committing myself to the full 100k. Mr Costello sat himself downon a comfy chair for a nice long set.

Mile 10:

First checkpoint. Only thing of note was the first proper muddy section (of which there were thankfully few) where some racey nutter took a bankside route to pass the double stacked riders. The end of which dropped him into a hub deep puddle of vile slop, and – because there is a God – then pitched him head first into a second vat of something similar. To be fair to the fella he did acknowledge the cheers from the righteously avenged.

Mile 15:
“Give it a REST ELVIS” I found myself shouting much to the apparent consternation of some innocent fellows I’d fallen in with. It has to be recorded most of them were significantly quicker uphill showing levels of commitment reflected in their raspy breathing. Show them a bit of downhill though, especially were it enlivened by a smattering of the slippy stuff, and they’d show you their getting off and walking skills.

But with the ups lasting far longer than the downs and the off road being pretty benign, soon they left me to be replaced by the next keen set of riders who would swallow me up and spit me out the back. This bothered me not at all as my plan had nothing at all to do with what what going on with other riders’ abilities.

Mile 20:
Time to execute on Ride Plan. Off the bike, bit of a stretch, force down some ‘orrid energy bar, slurp a few mouthfulls of electrolyte laced water and then stretch some more. Having fallen victim to terrible cramp and general un-wellness on long events before, this time I was going to finish on the bike however long it took. In my mind that was about seven hours, but the GPS told me I was doing a little better than that.

It also told me I still had 40 miles and 4.5 hours to go. I began to obsess a bit about that pleading for the miles to decrement at an entirely unrealistic rate. Paranoia infected my thought processes, and I forced myself to look away believing the evil little numbers would only change if I wasn’t watching.

Mile 22:
It was in this state of mind that I made the first of my navigational mistakes. Obviously it was downhill, and some distance from the usefully placed course marker I’d somehow missed. On the upside, I’d dragged about five riders with me which ensured company on the grind back up to where we could see many riders zipping by wondering what these losers where doing all the way down there.

From now on, I’d forget about the miles and follow the little pointer religiously.

Mile 24:
“My GPS says we’ve gone the wrong way” I quietly whispered to a few more riders milling about on a road junction. Back we went a headwind-y mile back up a dusty road with me pretending it wasn’t my fault. Thinking about equipment and its’ appropriateness, it is fair to label the ST4 as far too much bike for the road sections. Even with 40psi in the tyres, I was briefly jealous of those whizzing by on Cross Bikes or light hardtails.

I say briefly because almost every off road section was a washboard field crossing, a rutted doubletrack or a rocky gulley. Here the full suspension bike held sway, and it was with some vainglory that I passed riders who were desperately hanging on to the bars and, probably, their kidneys.

One fella I kept seeing on a cross bike very similar to the one I sold just in time that I couldn’t ride it here, did a pretty solid job of descending on something entirely unsuitable. But every time he caught me up on the next road section, something had broken; his toolkit, a spoke, his eyeballs, etc. It is difficult to show sincere sympathy while at the same time explaining just how smooth the ST4 was down that very decent that had beaten him up.

“You didn’t enjoy it?” / “No way, it was ACE”

Mile 30:

HALF WAY. Thank fuck for that. 30 miles still to go? Bollocks.

Mile 32:
Mr C clearly in for the duration “Churchill” “hmmmm, hmm HMMM HMMM hmm hmmm Johanesburg Hmm hmm OH FUCK OFF”. Arse starting to hurt now. Even with sufficient Assos cream to lubricate a Rhypnol evening at a Boy Scouts badge ceremony**, my “sit bones” were becomes jagged bones to the point where I’d started to have a strange fantasy about squatting on a pineapple. Long, lonely rides can do that to a man.

Mile 33:
Photographer attempts to lure me into stream crossing. I’ve heard all about the bike swallowing properties of this obstacle so skirt round the side and freewheel into the food stop. Busy, but I know no-one. I was following up a vague web conversation to meet up with Jo Burt, but didn’t feel I knew him well enough to offer a hand shake when I’d seen him earlier.

To be fair he was taking a piss, but I accept I missed the perfect opportunity – on our next meeting – to open with “Hey Jo, didn’t recognise you without your cock out”

Mile 35:
Quick cake and tea stop and I’m off before the chilly wind saps my motivation to get this thing done. A quick stretch nearly had amusing consequences when I had to be helped back to an upright position. I’m fairly sure no damage was done to either my reputation or dignity, as I remained half hinged and mostly helpless.

Mile 38:
20 to go, last 2 don’t matter as they’ll be back into the village and sheer bloody mindedness will get me there. I know from a route scan there’s some tough climbs and they are almost entirely into a strengthening head wind. Cake Powered, my uphill prowess increased to the point where tired riders were dispatched with a cheery “On your right mate” and for a while I felt like a proper racer.

Mile 42:
Now being passed by same riders who clearly have proper fitness. Pass a few back on a long rutted doubletrack into the valley bottom. Enjoyment tempered by climb out of the far side, firstly through a ploughed field and then over a rocky horror climb bounded by an aggressive hedge. People are pushing now but I’m still grinding on, loving the plushness of the ST4, hating everything else.

At this point my “Greta Garbo I want to be alone” approach was fully tested as an old man riding a bike made new in 1973 – including the original toe clips- breezed by. What was that I said about retaining any dignity?

Mile 44:
Okay quick push now up a bastard climb that sat atop a muddy section which showed just how bad this course would have been a week earlier. Pretty much un-ridable in my view and while we cursed the eyeball pinball that the ruts and tractor tyre artifacts begat, it was still one million times better than a 100 kilometre slug-fest with thick mud under tyre.

Mile 46:
After that climb was done, I was pretty much done. We rode through the impressively manicured grounds of Salperton House on a wide track awash in acres of verdant grass, and my aching body could no longer resist the siren call of the slack. As I lay supine, happy to be off the bike and out of the wind while being gently warmed by a cloud broken sun, hoards of grim faced riders whummed by. The occasional one took my regal wave as affirmation I was not in need of medical attention, and only the prospect of being shot by a rich man with a gun***with a vague idea of what a pheasant might look like, roused me from a slumbering torpor.

Mile 49:

CHANGE YOU BASTARD I requested politely of the GPS. Road, Climb, Field, Bump, Down, Up, “Churchill, Hmmm Hmm Johanesburg, Hmm, hmm, hmm Checkpoint Charlie, Hmm, hmmmmmmm after you Elvis, you know the words, mnnnnnrrrrtghhhhhhmnmmmmm”. Anybody else getting groundhog day?

Mile 53:

Last 4 have passed in sort of a blur. A very slow blur that can only be recorded by expensive motion capture cameras normally filming the changing of the seasons. Everyone in our little group looks a bit fucked and worn out. The views have been horizon-to-horizon lovely all day but now we’re climbing onto Cleeve Common which seems to double as a council tip.

Before we get there, another photographer jumps out and demands some kind of cunning stunt from a man who has lost all interest in cycling. I manage to get one of my ends up while silently Spoonering his request. For a second it drowned out Oliver’s Army, but the bugger was soon back garrisoned in my frontal lobe.

Mile 55:

Jeez, we’re in the epicentre of the world’s largest fly tipping experiment with a difficult juxtaposition of dead fridges, spring-out sofas and surly motocrosses. Bastard rocky climb as well which I ride because I don’t trust my knees for pushing. I pass a few with a tired “how you doing?” generally illiciting not much more than a grunt or groan. The fast boys and girls are done and showered, and it’s all mid pack and difficult now.

Not far to go but it’s properly hurting now, I’ve had a first bout of cramp trying to re-seat a dropped chain that’s disappeared behind the cassette of a rider whose entirely clueless on what to do next. I fix it at the expense of bloodied knuckles and comedy emergency stretching.

Mile 56:

Ah hah, ROTB (Roadies on Mountain Bikes) in matching jerseys and beaten expressions make organic slalom markers on a proper ripping singletrack descent from the common’s top. I spend some happy seconds thinking no one has passed me on a descent all day, before the realisation that about ten times as many have gone past when the trail points the other way somewhat dampens my rampant ego. Not much else is rampant apart from a desperate need to eat, but I’m sick of goo-ey energy bars.

God shows again he’s the beneficent being the Church is always banging on about by placing some young entrepreneurs on the common, pimping out mouth watering chocolate slices for 50p and encouragement for free. Many riders pass while I make multiple purchases and wonder if I can recruit them for Dragon’s Den.

Mile 57:

Hello twatty headwind how I’ve missed you. C’mon Elvis let’s sing it together “Checkpoint” grind “Charlie” Gurn “Churchill” Grimace. Repeat until it’s gone beyond funny, and into that dark place where the cackley demons live. I. AM. NOT. GETTING. OFF. Most of the other riders did as pedalling on damp grass after 55+ miles of quite enough became far too much into the tooth of half a gale. But I’m just not built that way. For all my pretending not to care about the pace of others and sticking to a plan, I still have myself to beat and beat up so I give up trying to find a lower gear and just bloody well get on with it.

It ends eventually and what an ending with the best descent of the whole day opening up into a rocky gully full of mud hidden traps waiting to claim tired riders. And I’m shot, completely, no new Trail Skills to save me here, no “in slow out fast“, no looking round the corner, no outside pedal down, just sheer bloody bravado and joy and this being so good and so close to the end. I know the climbs are done so I may as well put everything into the next mile

It’s ragged. It’s not pretty. It’s not even a distant cousin of smooth. I hear the chain slapping the swingarm, the heavily PSI’d tyres scrabbling for grip and I’m making too many corrections, trying to flow but never getting close. And then Ol’ Toe Clips is marooned in the middle of MY descent doing 4 mph and that won’t do. I have two options, one is polite and correct, the other tells you why instinct and common sense are never equally distributed.

Suddenly Elvis has left the building, the pineapple was a forgotten fruit and my mind was full of “The Italian Job” imagery as they escaped down the tunnels. I hit the bank hard, rocks cascading below me to the drumbeat of the impulsive, railing high and left above Mr. Marin and his Sensible Pace before I’m running out of road and ideas. Got to drop back in, probably clear, probably, definitely maybe, better than an even chance, no choice, it’s crash or turn.

Noises sequence like this: Trail bike hits trail hard, suspension compresses with a loud squish, rider behind makes a noise with an “O” shaped mouth, rider in front is high on adrenaline shouting “YOU WERE ONLY MEANT TO BLOW THE BLOODY DOORS OFF”. Everyone is happy. Well one out of two anyway.

I stopped some time later as muddy dirt met tarmac to clean my splattered sunglasses and still my beating heart. Matey Marin caught up and we agreed to disagree that my passing move was either “Safe, controlled and well intentioned” or “Dangerous, bloody stupid and inconsiderate”.

This is a very friendly event even with 1200 riders, and yet I’ve managed to piss at least two of them off. Ah well, it’s not like I’m coming back.

Mile 60:

And I won’t be. Collecting my time at a smidge under six hours I didn’t feel particularly worthy or content. The car park was more than half empty which shows exactly how good the time really was. My arse hurt, my knees ached but not so much I didn’t ride last night on some sublime, dust speckled woody singletrack. I probably could have finished 30 minutes quicker if I could have – at any point – given a shit, but that never got close to happening.

My mates finished nearly an hour quicker and declared themselves satisfied and sated. They’ll be back next year. I’ll be riding somewhere fun for three hours and then going to the pub.

* All driving 4x4s as well. Honestly, what a stereotype eh? Know anyone like that?

** I apologise for the tastelessness of that joke. You have to appreciate the pain I was suffering at the time.

*** Salperton House is a very expensive retreat for posh people with too many teeth and not enough manners to go and shoot fat birds. I believe they keep pheasants in the shed, not alcopop’d blonde’s from Essex, but maybe someone should check.

That hurt a bit.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

Pain By Numbers. 60 miles, 6000 feet of climbing, 6 hours. Aside from being unable to articulate much from the waist, and being fairly certain of violatation by the rough end of a pineapple, I am feeling remarkably sprightly.

Although, on arriving home, here are some words I didn’t want to hear “Dad, Dad, can you come and play on the trampoline with us“. Only if you want me to play dead, and I can do it while quaffing a medicinal beer.

More numbers. 9 Days, 16000 of climbing, 160 miles, 15 hours 30 in the saddle, 15,000 calories.

If anyone asks me innocently if I’d like to go for a bike ride, I shall politely shake my head before punching them repeatedly in the love plums for even suggesting such a thing.

More later if I make it through the night.

Mountain Men

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography10 Comments

Lately my castigation of something dubbed “a mountain bike lifestyle” has known almost no limits. That’s a good enough reason to why we tried a ride that didn’t have any either.

Now I accept that my Internet-Blowhard categorisation of two season Scalextrix riders who want it all sunny, dusty and expertly buffed hides a dirty little secret. I quite enjoy my trails riding like that too, but sometimes you just have to kick back against the hype, go lose yourself in scary mountains, to find out why you ever started riding on the lumpy stuff in the first place.

Exactly a year ago, a few riding buddies stayed over to sample those exactly perfect conditions, and the promise of much the same enticed most of them back this weekend. Anyone looking out of the window this past two weeks will understand why dry and dusty was to be replaced by mud and slop, with sunshine being backstaged by rain, snow and skies the colour of angry lead.

So my route was chosen with care. Not high enough to breach the snowline, not forestry enough to hide a million miles of mud, and not busy enough to ruin a big day out. The Elan Valley is a place I’ve been desperate to re-visit since we moved within a reasonable day trip of the start point at Rhayader.

Many years ago, some of my first proper days out revolved around the dams and reservoirs of this beautiful, wild and mostly deserted mid-Wales riding hotspot. 50k, a tad under 5000 feet of climbing, starting easy and picturesque, ranging high and bleak over a tussocked moor, and finishing on a couple of descents best described as steep, fast, shaley and potentially one bad line choice from a skin graft.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

Things started well with the forecasted uninterrupted day-long drizzle staying away long enough for a little warmish sun to peak through the, er, peaks straddling the valley, but these were dwarfed by the Snow covered Brecons to the south, so the decision to stay low seemed a good one.

And that smugness remained for the first 6 kilometres with the flat cycleway pulling us into the ride, and depositing jaw dropping views of dams every so often. Amazing feats of engineering these, but we couldn’t help noticing the thundering volume of cascading water being driven over the dam wall.

No matter, soon we left the water for a while only to find it running down the first proper off road climb. We chose to walk the first super steep part before sliding about in the mud a little higher up.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

Good spirits and being out in proper hills kept our spirits going the same way as the climb, and soon we were a little gobsmacked by the Arctic tundra lookalike stretching horizon-wards in every direction. There was some snow as well, and if you lifted your eyes from the amazing landscape, the nearest hills looked more than a little dusted.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

No matter, a fast rocky doubletrack descent led into a techy-rutted section onto most of a bridge which was a fine spot for some bar-fuelling while Frank attended to a ‘not so smooth‘ snakebite in his rear tyre. Further muddy but perfectly rideable loveliness took us to another dam where we branched off again to follow the stony track circumnavigating the reservoir.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

I’ve ridden this a couple of times and it’s been pleasant in a non-technical/big view kind of way. But I’d never seen it like this, desolate, pock marked and awash with cold water. The sun chose to hide at the same time as an unrelenting loop of “Manual”, “Splash”, “Dodge” played out on trail repeat for quite a few tough kilometres.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

A second food stop outed the map and showed we were soon to be leaving this relative easy – if wet – riding to head over the moor, which I’d warned may be “a tad moist“. I was right. More than right in fact with energy-sapping sogginess dragging tyres into the peat, and a snowline barely 100 feet above the valley floor.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

It was fun at first hike-a-biking through ankle high drifts and affirming our Mountain Man-ness in this fantastic, if desolate, landscape. “See” I theory-expounded ” this is proper riding, none of that on your plate nonsense, hard, worthy, difficult and rewarding“. There may have been grunts of affirmation from my riding pals, or just grunts as carrying and pushing replaced riding, and route finding in deep, brackish water replaced the track.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010â’¦

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

And my extollation of how good winter boots were compared to the disco slippers of my waterlogged companions had the fateful result of a deep water excavation of one of the very bogs I’d so far avoided. It was funny at the time, especially to those not knee height in cold liquid wondering how they were going to get out.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

A further carry to reconvene with the trail opened up a view which should have been labelled “Welcome To Mordor“. We could see for miles, and that vista included no people and quite a lot of snow. And no obvious way of where the mooted downhill section was be.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

It was in a river. I am not exaggerating here, we rode to a depth of 3/4 wheel which is 20 inches even in man measurements. When you’re on a bike and your bollocks are still essentially underwater, you begin to wonder at the sanity of the enterprise.

A couple of painful klicks further on, Jas asked me how my Mountain Man outlook was going right then. Since, right then, I’d just extricated myself from another hidden crevice, my response included two very rude swear words. Very close together as well they were, as I didn’t have much breath to waste.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

From there it went from a bit difficult and lacking in fun, to properly unpleasant and a bit scary. Dave’s feet by this time could have belonged to someone else such was the lack of feeling from the ankles down.

It’d taken us nearly an hour to travel less than 4k and we had that and a bit more before any kind of respite became available. This is a bad time mentally and physically with endless carries, brief periods on the pedals and frustration with the never ending snow and non existent trail.

Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics] Elan Valley - April 2010 [Jason's Pics]

But it’s a good time to be out on a big hill with mates you’ve known for years and sharing the experience with people who are far more than fair weather friends.

Blissfully, the snow thinned out after a couple more k’s and suddenly we were riding more than we were walking, and that felt like a big win. There wasn’t an obvious way out into the lower valleys but at least we were moving, and occasional far away farmhouses promised civilisation might not be too far away.

It wasn’t, a rutted double track descent full of slick mud and challenges we were struggling to get motivated for saw us hit the road and I – for one – was bloody glad to see it, as it had started to get a bit scary up there.

Elan Valley Epic - April 2010 Elan Valley Epic - April 2010

And although conditions were pretty atrocious, the weather held, we had plenty of light, food and gear. Had Fog clamped the ground, wind and rain dropped the temperature and the day faded at the speed of night, I think we would have been in some trouble. Mountain Men? We really weren’t.

And we weren’t done yet, because our original route took us back over the moor to hit those fast descents we’d been anticipating the night before with a beer in hand.Since Dave could barely clip in and we were all cold and tired, a decision was made to roadie it home. A distance of 7-8ks according to our fuzzy map reading, but it ended up being more like 15.

A retreat into our own personal thousand yard stares saw pedals being pushed and cold extremities being ignored. When the rain started, I found myself laughing because clearly this was Mountain Biking schadenfreude at my big ideas showing me how small my resilience to proper difficulty really was.

We made it back in a convoy, shepherding a broken Dave between us, before ripping off frozen clothes in the municipal toilet. No idea what the locals thought about that, must have looked like some kind of extreme dogging convention. We fixed Dave with hot tea, sugary products and the car heater turned up to nuclear, before heading east back to England, hot showers and big dinners.

There is no denying that, at times, that ride was properly shit. Right in there with my bottom five times out on a bike. Climbing for ever, not much reward going the other way, off the bike every 30 seconds and stranded-cold on an endless moor.

But, on reflection, it was something I really needed to do because we don’t just ride bikes, we head off to wild places and test ourselves, we push into a zone where there are mental demons, we get scared, tired and exhausted. And then we use these experiences to calibrate our life.

There’s a phrase for that; it’s not some marketing bullshit, it is merely this – “Mountain Biking“.

FoD

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding5 Comments

The Forest Of Dean is often abbreviated to FoD. After Wednesday’s night ride, I shall be writing to the appropriate naming body proposing a change:

Forest of Dark
Filthy ‘orrible (&) Dirty
Festival of Drudge
Failure of Drivetrain
Full of (potential) Death

Lately the grumpy hedgehog has been whining that the Malverns are a bit boring, although really that’s nothing more than a failure to MTFU when faced with their challenges: to whit unrelenting steepness and an amazing ability to store snow. The FoD offers different sorts of problems but vertical climbing isn’t one of them, with a sixteen mile ride raising a barely humpish 1400 feet of climbing.

This doesn’t however include the four miles travelling entirely sideways and a the few – yet unremittingly terrifyingly – hundred metres bug eyed and entirely out of control. It’s been a while since night rides started SW of home to a meeting point full of strange men apparently attending a “Bike Light Arms Convention“. Two other things were apparent in the drizzly gloom, one was a splattering of muddy body armour and the second an almost 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} coverage of double mudguards.

We don’t do mud in the Malverns. There’s an occasional sticky few hundred yards of heavily travelled slop, or a few woody sections that can get a bit “Chiltern-Y” , but up top the worst we can expect is a bit of moist grass. Our route in the FoD was an educational journey into a thousand different types of mud, all of them offering us mudguardless fools a gritty enema, and extending their no traction guarantee to every rider.

It was fun in an old school sort of way. Sliding about in a parody of control idly wondering if the next crash would end in soft mud or a hard tree. And while we’re on a renaming track, I’m sure Schwalbe, being a proper German firm, will have some kind of formal procedure to approve the “Nobbly Nic” becoming known as the “Suicide Sam” in conditions so slippy you could dress them in a suit and call them Peter Mandleson.

My newly learned trail skills had already been hosted in another forest the day before where, after much intense muttering and mentally beating myself up, I managed to look a long way around a bermed corner and tear a swathe of dirt from it with my back tyre. Question for you: “If you pull of that kind of stunt in a forest where there is no one to see it, did it really happen?”

Anyway emboldened by this trail magic, I found it almost entirely irrelevant when blinded by flying mud and with tyres never gripping sufficient dirt to make cornering much of an option. I think it may have saved me on a few slick off-camber root sections, and a bit of vaguely remembered trail seemed to flow a little better than before. But with a light pointing one way and me squinting unknowingly in the other, finishing the ride alive felt like progress.

You wouldn’t want to ride in that every week, if only because no man without a large trust fund could afford the wear and general destruction of parts. Two sets of cheap brake pads are now entirely worthless unless there is a second hand market in backing plates. My new drivetrain is looking quite old and run in, whereas most other bits just look a bit run down. My rain jacket did a superb job at keeping the incessant showers away from my snug torso though, all the more impressive since it is entirely transformed to this season’s new colour*

Lovely bunch of lads though, who made me feel most welcome and made me laugh with their incessant piss taking of everyone for anything. And it’s a brilliant place to ride in the dark even when you’re wondering at what point mud becomes quicksand. I can see an bi-monthly split between this and the Malverns – although such is my love of riding in the dark nowadays, maybe I’ll manage both on lovely summer evenings swooping down dusty trails and beer to follow.

This feels like it may be some way away. On arriving home, I spent a happy 10 minutes hosing first the ST4 and then myself before being allowed over the threshold. I still fear for the washing machine even after my best efforts. But what the hell, if nothing else that two and half hours further nailed the truth that riding a bike is nearly always better than not riding a bike. And sure, the trails have suffered with all this rain, but if you can’t deal with the mud you can’t really call yourself a mountain biker.

* Brown in case you were in any doubt.

Sections

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography9 Comments

I’ve always had a suspicion that Mountain Biking is really something rather simple, made complex by marketing fiends pedalling pointless upgrades on some gold-paved trail to cycling nirvana. Countering this is the assertion that any bloke staying trail side up is essentially a cycling God who has hit the tyre choice/stem-bar combo sweet spot, and is therefore impervious to either criticism or improvement.

I say ‘bloke‘ because there is a strict male taboo over even the tiniest admission of poor performance in any of these three three locations; car, bike and bedroom. A link has been forged between fitting expensive new parts inside and technically accomplished riding outside. Trail snobbery – in too many places – confuses how you ride with what you ride and that can’t be right. Tony Doyle of UK Bike Skills is trying to take riding back for the riders, and our day with him was quite different to an outwardly similar experience a few years ago.

That course was all about locating my riding Mojo which had been lost, along with a chunk of knee, in a big crash. This time around, I was hoping to break through a skills ceiling into which my riding has been banging against for too long. I have exchanged ragged for fast and coping techniques for trail skills to the point where my options narrowed to slowing down, having another big accident or learning how to ride properly. I thought I’d try the latter.

Tony is a passionate character with an interesting history including bike racer, North Shore lunatic and long time corporate coach. His approach is an enthusiastic mix of simple theory, clear demonstration and concise feedback. Before you can learn anything, first there is the group-humiliation of a “skills check” where we all rode over small logs and around figure eights. As usual, we all tried hard but achieved little, with Nig being the stand out rider in terms of technical skill. And he fell off. Twice. On flat ground.

Undeterred, Tony explained that our collective rubbishness would somehow bear sweet trail fruit come the days’ end. To get us there, he spent the next four hours taking every thing we thought we knew about how to ride a Mountain Bike and carelessly pitching it into the forest. A place where a few of us followed while trying to unlearn much vaunted trail skills that had no place in Tony’s world of ‘just riding bikes‘.

He showed us how the trail has a bounty of velocity which can be happily stolen by those with timing, body position and commitment. A marker here – Tony teaches four basic physical skills and a similar number of mental techniques which I’m not going to document as they’re a) pretty bloody obvious but b) entirely anodyne unless someone shows you why.

And we’ve all been focused on how. Bad, bad mistake. The plethora of How to DVD’s and endless magazine articles preach conflicting ideas and play into those greedy marketing hands. Anyone reading this who can ride a bit can do exactly that. Ride A Bit. One of the most instructive things I saw all day was a random rider shooting the trail we were sessioning and despite his “look a me” trail jump entry, he was properly rubbish. Too fast in, too much braking, too slow out, no flow at all. Bit like you and me eh?

One thing I have learned is that riding is really simple if you do it properly. Nothing more than physics and geography perfectly aligned. If you let your brain have its’ head, burn a couple of basic moves into muscle memory and trust that this stuff will work even when your instinct is that it cannot, then you’ll be smooth, safe and fast. Tony gains that trust through a series of “Shit, that really works” exercises and some tiny setup tweaks that completely change the way you interact with your bike.

Any bike. At no time in the day was I concerned about tyres, frame configuration or suspension set up. I was too busy deconstructing my riding and starting again on a path littered with partial epiphanies and much giggling. For example, pumping trails should be simple but I’ve ridden 15,000 miles over ten years and I’d no fucking idea at all to be honest. No that’s a fib, I had many ideas – most of them conflicting and all together quite properly wrong.

When you feel your front wheel going skywards without the normal associated bar wrenching, the whole concept of trail riding become significantly more interesting. Because that’s what we do ; ride trails, we don’t huck 30 foot gaps, hit a set of six dirt jumps or launch a building sized drop. We did ride some drops thought but my misplaced confidence in ability honed on some big fellas was mitigated by having to unlearn everything that used to work.

More is less, no pelvic thrusting your arse over the back tyre, no wheeling off drops, no – well – drama. Eventually Mr. Brain overrode Mr. Instinct and we moved on moved on to my trail nemesis – corners and specifically long sweeping examples similar to the ones where I’d torn my knee apart. I’d been meaning to explain this to Tony and ask him for a fix or a cheat, but I am glad I didn’t as it is a stupid question.

Because if you aren’t staring at the apex waiting for the tyres to slip, the shape, size and radius of any corner is irrelevant. Only your speed, your commitment and most important where you are looking have any relevance. It is very odd, getting your head up and looking into the next corner while still being deep in one arcing the other way. Odd, but ace, fight the urge to up your entry speed, and feel the acceleration as you exit the turn. Oh, and don’t brake.

Braking only happens outside “Sections“. A section can be anything; turn, stack of roots, drop off, tricky climb, whatever. Hence not a lot of point in a “Fools Rush In” approach as it wastes energy, you’ll have to brake so losing that speed, and you’ll be ideally set up for making a right hash of whatever is in front of you.

Knowing that is my normal modus operandi, I really enjoyed the first two corners both 180 degree sweepers which’d normally have me threepenny bitting round. It felt slow until I saw the video recording and then it looked fast-ish but most importantly smooth. Couldn’t believe it was me riding really. Tony asked what we thought about the big root section between the two corners, but none of us had even noticed it. That’s what happens when you get your head up and look at what you where you want to go not at where you don’t.

We strung together every section and finished with a few runs top to bottom, ending is a one metre drop nailed in my head before I’d even picked my bike up to ride it. Definitely would have given me pause for thought at the start of the day. Physically we’d ridden about two miles, but mentally I was shot away so Tony stopped us before we hurt ourselves, leaving us with a warning that with increased speed comes increased responsibility.

So Biking God now am I?No of course not, because I’m still working with a very limited set of physical and mental attributes. But ask me instead if I am a re-invigorated rider? Oh yes and some. I’ve had some brilliant days on a bike over the years, and this day will absolutely ensure I have many more.

I am like that kid with a new bike for Christmas. I just cannot wait to get back out into the woods and look at the trail in funny directions. If you’ve money to spend on your bike, I’d heartily suggest ignore pointless upgrades and spend it with Tony who will make you a smoother, faster and safer rider and change the way you enjoy the sport for ever. That’s got to be worth more than a carbon bar.

You can catch some short video and Tony’s commentary of our day here.

Double Take..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

Best way to describe the FoD return ride today. Except the trails were even dryer, the car was frost free when we left and my attempts to conquer the Downhill courses started small and worked down from there. I added another Tim (that’s him above) and nature gave freely of her spring bounty. Dust motes flashed in the weak spring sunlight and shone on white knobbly knees which powered black knobbly tyres.

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

Even Mono-Lung appeared to embrace it’s lost twin and for most of the ride, I was blessed with most of my aerobic capacity. Careful use of the word “Most” there, but I’m increasingly hopeful the worst is behind me. Generally struggling to breathe and making gasping noises. See how tomorrow’s ride to work goes, six am has not generally been associated with a peak flow much more than a coughing squirrel so we’ll be leaving the cold beer on ice for a while.

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

Riding was good tho. Spring feels really well earned and the harshness of the winter places the firmness of trail and warmth of rider into pretty stark relief.

FoD 14th March FoD 14th March

You never know, maybe we’ll even get a summer this year. I’ve just taken the mudguards off my road bike, which confirms a mental state on the rubber roomed side of delusional.

Spring Therapy

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

Forget the seasonal pedants – for anyone with a love of outside, March 1 is the unofficial start of Spring. And, whilst we know it is irrational, the expectation is for the hedgerows to explode into growth, the sun to come – and stay – out, the trails to dry up overnight and with all this, seven months of uninterrupted MTB goodness to begin.

For those of us with a real weariness of winter, these changes cannot come too soon. With two events already entered, both with the number ‘100’ in their distance classification*, and the first of which is less than six weeks away, I’ve been upping my riding frequency as soon as the clock struck March. This has already included a Malverns death march, and two commutes that are mildly life-affirming, but generally undertaken in the dark, cold, wind and rain.

Through such trails and tribulations, it’s important to remember why you’re doing this; increased fitness, good summer base, miles in the legs, pounds off the belly, all that sort of stuff. But I have two problems with that; the first is MouseLung(tm) has played the Squatters’ Card so I’m struggling with about 80{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} lung capacity**, and secondly that’s not what I ride a bike for.

Time for a change then. Today I needed to tap back into my woody roots, get back to setting off with no plan, no target mileage, no goal for vertical distance. Just go and do what started me on this ten year journey of fun and frolics; messing about in the woods if you will. And there is no better mate for that sort of thing than TimH of this parish, who greeted my question of “What’s the plan then?” with an airy digit waving in the direction of some trees.

No ride with Tim is complete without some hike-a-bike/trail finding action, and no sooner that we’d spun up a sun-splattered fireroad had he dived off into the bushes promising “There’s a trail in here somewhere“. Indeed there was, and more than one frozen solid but lightly warmed by a weak sun and shielded from the bitter wind. Tim found us a fun little bombhole to play in, which we did for quite a while even getting the cameras out. Obviously we were both WAY better before new-media was there to catch our efforts.

FoD March 2010 FoD March 2010

A little more perambulation round some recent logging had Tim apologising for missing some tasty singletrack action, but I didn’t care one jot. Bike, Hard Dirt, Narrow Ribbon of Singletrack, Woods, Mate, Sunshine, Bacon Butties to follow. Doesn’t just tick all the boxes, but writes mile high in neon crayon “I REMEMBER NOW WHY BIKES ARE ACE”

And they are, especially when thrown roughly at a couple of the FC sanctioned DH tracks. First up “Corkscrew” a belter of tabletops, berms and one fairly “woooah where’s the bottom of that?” drop. It’s all rollable – ask me how – but a second and third run had me hanging onto Tim’s wheels, as his lines tore up the trail and beat down the obstacles. We approached the drop at a speed entirely inappropriate for a man of my bravery, but – as ever – enthusiasm had taken over from common sense.

There are points when you are riding trails on the limit of your ability when you need all your bike skills RIGHT NOW. As we cleared all three foot of the drop, this was clearly one of these times. I landed near the trails edge facing a tree, with my rear wheel locked up. A moment of adrenaline fuelled clarity sequenced a brake release/turn in/push down/grit teeth approach which gained me the corner, but lost me too much time to catch Tim.

FoD March 2010 FoD March 2010

I kept trying tho on the next DH trail named somewhat extravagantly “Sheep Skull“. I didn’t see one of those, but what with everything else going on including steeps, exposure, encroaching trees and relentless roots, I’m probably not the most reliable witness.

DH Sated for the time being, we headed off to the next valley searching for the next slice of singletrack – allegedly totalling over 200k in the entire Forest. After some more tree wiggling joy, time and tiring legs conspired to place Tea and Medals in our immediate future, but we were high on the ridge now – cold out of the sun and in the wind – searching for the most fun way down.

This appeared to be a mellow top section which dropped into a close contoured hairpin alley. Two of these steep and loose exposed scaries had to be conquered before plunging into a high speed chute over another maelstrom of interlocking roots. I’ll not document the rider who managed to do it first time, mainly because Tim had shown me a clean pair of wheels all day, and I reckon he was just trying to salve my ego a little!

FoD March 2010

Giggling like the inner children we are, big hand waving ideas of where we were going to explore next time, accompanied big handfuls of tea and pig-inna-bun. We hadn’t ridden that far, or for that long, or climbed very much, nor maintained a high average speed. And you know what I’m going to say next – it mattered not at all.

This was a ride which reminded me why I ride. Last week a different Tim and I messed about in a similar manner on the fall lines in the Malvern hills. In between I feel like I’ve been trying to damn hard for something I’m not that bothered about.

More Spring is good. Less targets are welcome. Bikes are ace. I’ll not be taking myself too seriously again any time soon.

* and one is more than that in real non metric miles. Gulp.

** Which, with Asthma, is about sufficient to tackle a difficult set of stairs.