I'm gonna make you bleed

I remember the guy from Glenmarnock. So much promise and power but so little self-confidence. I tried, I really did, to get him out on training rides. Every time I’d wait 10, 15, 30 minutes. No show. He was consistent and had a furious sprint in our inter-club races. Why didn’t he follow the sport? So many charlatans and wheel huggers did.

On this day, I had my carbon/alu mix bike, the first road bike in a while. My folks’ house is in a dip so I eased up onto the road and set a pace gently east. The hill past Eastwood Roundabout is a classic leg warmer. Not steep, just demanding and consistent. Ignoring it, I  cruise on down to the other roundabout with a dip and sharp climb up the Stewarton Road. Hard out of the roundabout and then harder still, kicking and kicking again. No ipod just aggression, not angry but determined to show this familiar training circuit that I’ve not forgotten its demands and peculiarities, up and onto the Fenwick Moor. This hurts a lot but I’m traveling fast. Crossing over the big road, the descent via Eaglesham starts and I know the effort is over. But is it? I’m out the saddle at every opportunity, kicking and dancing into every corner. Sprinting for each line. Finally gliding into Carleton Drive, Dad is heading out for a walk. We exchange greetings, I can taste blood. Dad understands.

Dave was leading a ride – four of us. I was new to the Southern crowd. Friendly and inclusive. Nice. We started out toward the Kemp Town racecourse on a Tuesday night ride at a pace I knew. It grew, then grew and became amazing. I hadn’t ridden so hard since … since … Christ, it’s hot. I’m still on his wheel. He’s still accelerating on this churned up rubbish? I’m still on his wheel. I can taste blood. I understand.

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We met for Rory’s 42nd. I’ve missed the last few birthdays. Missed quite a lot really. There are wonderful faces from the past, friends whose stories are equally as important as my own, just that they haven’t been shared in a while. The ride to Selsey is calm and social – good time to catch up on what is going on. We pick up one of the most enthusiastic and wonderful people I have ever met in Chichester … only he manages to pinch flat and split his tyre in under a mile. It’s raining and cold. What do we do … taxi? Halfords (with five minutes to get there?) … gaffer tape? Hell yes! Wrap the contents of Nigel’s gaffer tape round the tyre and off we go. It wouldn’t have been right to do it any other way.

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We all bleed. Bleeding is good.

PORC

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I went out on Saturday morning for a blast. Kind of warming up to big efforts again and various pain zones are getting under control. Quads and calves seem to behave. But, well, you know those kind of days when you can’t really be bothered? It’s outdoors and, well, warmish in recent comparison but I’m not really kicking or digging it. Same old trails. Blah blah … so I get home quick and give the bike a good clean. This works as a diversion tactic but then, what am I going to do now? Plenty of work to get on with, but there always is. I could pick up a book or switch on the telly. It is the weekend after all. The possibilities are endless.

Without really making a conscious decision, I’m in the car and have Penshurst plugged into the satnav. Penshurst Off Road Cycling is proper old school (back in the day etc etc). I only know of it via a friend whose guidebook I’m poking my nose into. Gary stopped during a recent chat and reminisced about PORC. The subconscious always has reference points.

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 So I arrive at the kind of car park and venue that is synonymous with any Scottish or Welsh trail centre – stacks of this and that, purposeful looking machines and huge piles of wood. Only this is in the Kent countryside, stunning in its setting, but not mountainous. Getting out the car, there is clearly something I've forgotten. A bike. Hrm. Wandering about, the retarded progress is immediately obvious. A grand building with chestnut trunks thrusting through its floors. Not supporting but defiant. A well-packed main trail running through and under a bridge that is blocked at one end with a tree trunk. There are launch ramps and tabletops, berms and a wonderful looking bowl, full of fall lines. Now I’m really narked at myself for not bringing a bike.

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The ubiquitous green portacabin has a guy chatting through its window, so I hang awkwardly for a while, feigning interest in the chestnut building before heading back over. ‘Eh, do you do tea?’. It seems like a good opening gambit. Mike Westphal is holding a kettle, ‘it would appear so!’. I start asking when the chestnut building will be finished and introduce the guidebook that I’ve brought with me. Minutes later, I’m in the portacabin and enthralled by Mike and his business partner Paul’s stories of determination in the face of adversity and 100% commitment. Some classic tales of derring do (that are clearly true) ensue and my heart opens in a moment. So many similarities to another such slightly anarchic, yet passionate and professional member of the outdoor industry, Raasay Outdoor Centre.

 After more stories, wonderfully up-beat chat and sharing contact details; it is clearly the right time to leave so I get up to shake hands. An excited father, who I saw earlier photographing his son, pops his head in the window. ‘Can you tell me a bit more about mountain biking?’. Mike and Paul are both on their feet, out the portacabin and showing what PORC land has to offer while talking about bikes, technology, safety ... If you knew nothing of PORC don’t google Mike Westphal + PORC, just go and visit and buy a cup of tea. Oh, and take a bike. 

 

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.