Dread Red Wine

Pasteur’s famous comment on the Quantity of philosophy to be found in a bottle can be, and often is, taken out of context. I embarked on a path to enlightenment on Friday night. It always seems eminently sensible, but the outcome is seldom anything other than sludge – eyes open the following morning and reality seeps in. Damn! Still, it was a pleasant evening.

So after a morning of duties about the house, mixed with and retarded by two enthusiastic yet almost edible children, I got into my office-cum cycling bat cave and opened the door on spring’s attire, throwing caution to the wind. The selection is shorts, 3/4ers and a shoftshell (I’m not leaving my senses on torso attire).

As much as I love road riding with consistent smooth surfaces, I’ve decided to venture out on an early season, probing, off-road ride. My ultimate passion is what I suppose would be categorised as ‘all mountain lite’. I think of it as a wee bit gnarly, sometimes scary but mainly fast. Leaving the house, the consistency of my recent riding is obvious. Not consciously putting power down, but feeling uphill acceleration that wasn’t expected. 

Once past the disused railway and onto earth, the error of my decision is obvious. While stopped to turn on my helmet cam at the top of an excellent piece of steep singletrack, a couple look at me … ‘you’re mad’. I smile nonchalantly and hammer into the first turn, then slide off the camber, starting down on a trail of wet cement consistency. In and out of decent descending and, after passing a few more walkers, my speed and confidence build until the final stage of this cheeky route: steep, deeply rutted steps. Aim left and hard, no problem … ahr, problem with front wheel, aim harder … bigger problem. Stack. Ouch. Damage? Other than pride, it’s minor, my left hip loups and the rear mud fender a bit cracked, nothing that articulation and electrical tape won’t fix.

Bike is given a once over, look down. Yes. Back on bike, clip in. Yes. Look down the trail again. Look up. No, climb. It’s impossible or just wrong to complete this fall line with broken flow. Back on the ridge line, it’s hard packed and free flowing. Alternatives are never far away and I want to make the best of a bad choice for my day, so two more descents slake my thirst for off-road thrills, though they are still very slow and claggy. But I’m mountain biking. The end of my ride is the wrong side of the downs, but there is a steady bridleway climb to get to the other side so I plug into that and find a beautiful cadence. Not gut busting, but fast. Smooth circles.

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After lunch Ben and me went for a ride that turned out to be a 10-miler (interspersed with sausage sandwiches and cake, obviously) and we passed by Portslade BMX track on the way home. Three of the five guys where doing some really graceful moves so we stopped for a while. On Benfield Way (he loves that) we pass guys digging and packing dirt jumps. It feels amazing, watching the qualities in angst-ridden youth on the half pipe and out building dirt trails with spades, rather than buzzing gas and worrying pensioners.
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Ben seemed impressed with his afternoon out. I wonder what he’ll make of dad at the track, when the season starts. Quality over quantity.

Truck to tuck

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Coming back from Birmingham this afternoon, my spirits where lifted. I'd gone into melt down at the end of the morning; a presentation turned into teacher from Charlie Brown – mwah mwah mwah ... We'd been in the car for half an hour, wasting more of our lives bitching about how useless blah is and how much money mleh had wasted then saw the back of this red truck. 'Do not push'. The mood lifted and conversation changed; Barry's wife will be home, she's been in Spain for a few weeks. My kids will be around and I'm going on a night ride — a road night ride. 

Although very comfortable on the road, I'd never done a road night ride (as in with friends and for fun, not commuting). We set off in good style and with a strong tailwind, the pace slowly creeping up but feeling good. A series of rolling undulations are launching pads for powerful thrusts and we become elastic, coming back as one, stretching out, coming back ... it hurts, but it is that good hurt.  For a while we have been pounding well-used B roads but are soon onto good roads with no cars. Although the pace is now more frisky, it is becoming constant and consistent - less bursts, more torque. The moon, a harvest yellow, has transfixed me, I can't help but stare at the sky, my peleton partner's left hand brake hood and the wheel I'm following acting as my compass. I'm being quite anti-social, transfixed and removed. Then more undulations and we become elastic again. 

And we're back, no surprise, at Ditchling Beacon. In space, nobody can hear you scream. In the dark, the kickers seem to require less effort to ride over. We get up and over, re-group at the top and off. I've taken a photograph and fumble putting my camera back. The group is a little way down the road, so I get up some speed and tuck down. Our initial tailwind is now a headwind as I'm chasing down the bunch. Head down and elbows in. Back straight as an arrow — knees into the wind. I love to tuck, offering least resistance. The Badger was famed for his no-handed tucks, and I've seen a friend do one, only on pot-holed Yorkshire roads on a big bouncy bike. Every now and then, my head pops up to take a longer view and the wind pulls back, my face acting as a sail. Head back down and the wind whistles past ears that are listening to the glorious sounds of nature and machine. Wind in trees, tyres on road. 

The last hill before our group disperses isn't harsh, but long enough to require thought. Topping over the mood is clear and power on as excitedly we plunge down chasing and passing cars. We even get the speed camera to flash!  

Now I've had a mug of green tea and am about to roll off into bed. The truck was a titillation, but tonight, when I close my eyes I'll relive and relish the feeling of putting power down (and getting a response), of popping by a friend's house to borrow a pump (and that being quite a natural thing to do) and of being in a good tuck, overtaking a car in the middle of the wet road and momentarily wondering whether I actually will get through before the traffic island. Tim passed on my inside and skirted the car. Without really thinking, I put more power in and jump onto his wheel – of course I will.

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An end to new beginnings

Until three weeks ago, I had not ridden my bike for three months. I had been watching as the bravest of men fought cancer but eventually left this life on 31st January. I know that we’ll meet again on the other side. Even before those last three months, my riding had been erratic; my reliability constantly suspect with family and friends. But as a part of me died with dad, another part seems to have awoken.

Over the last three weeks, I’ve been commuting the long way as much as possible. Although pitifully neglected, my legs and core are able to tolerate the miles; not at anything approaching the average speed built up over so many years. My head, as ever, relishes the time spent turning pedals alone in pre-dawn’s sharp air; but now it is lost in thought or grief, or is planning my day, my life. Solo miles have always been an invaluable time of introspection and now that is more so than ever.

But last Sunday, a group of us went out on an off road bike ride: full suspension, cyclo cross, hardtail and singlespeed. An eclectic mix. My friends kept a kindly slow cadence; allowing me to maintain motivation. Our mostly random route followed age-old paths in the general direction of Stanmer Park and across a 300 yard stretch of bridleway that is often ploughed (Sunday was no different). The months of rain forced most of us to slug it out on foot, with 20lb bikes tripling in weight. Most, but not all as the cyclo cross bike disappeared into the distance with a comical jaunty quip thrown over its rider’s shoulder ‘I say chaps, is this the way to Jerry’s trench?’. A brutally strong and sharp wind reduced our ambient temperatures to an uncomfortable level, so there were no heroics when the short way home was chosen.

And then today, two of us went out on road bikes, pedaling at a nice steady pace over Devil’s Dyke and round to Steyning. A friend joined us there and the three of us headed up onto Bostal Hill. Two sharp kickers and a false summit make this a hill you love to hate but relish the short intense effort. The climb is worth it. A crisp clear view eastwards captivates my senses for a second or two before the 17% descent has my full attention. Soon we were rolling along past fertile plains, waterlogged gullies and carefully picking our lines along weathered country lanes. Eventually our route took us back over Ditchling Beacon, another classic climb with three kickers this time and another false summit.

So now I’m back home, legs feeling ready for more. My face is tingling and mind is sharp. No more self-reprisals, doubt and anger. No more erratic planning.

An end to new beginnings. Although I stopped riding for a time, I never stopped, and never will stop being a rider.

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