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.