STW Weekender - Lee Quarry Rocks!!

Apologies. Yep, an entirely predictable pun. Having missed the first two, I decided that the third was a definite. Only ... I didn't have a bike with me. My kids and me and some Ernest Press/Bike Maps books were motoring up to join in the festival of riding; three disciplines on one bike. Excellent. STW truly embraces the spirit of why we ride; to get away from it all and push the boundaries ... that and drink beer and make huge bonfires and ...

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Ben and Aimee soon became urbanely feral, in the safe and adventurous surroundings, randomly winning an xtr tshirt!

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Nick Craig and his extraordinarily talented son Thomas out in an off road conga.

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With time penalties from the up and down disciplines of the day before, The traditional cross country race wasn't dogged by a harpsichord at the first hurdle. Riders leaving in order of time penalties meant that racers either set a pace they enjoyed or set out for three laps of a sub-hour lactic fury. Your choice. 

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Steve chose this line.

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So did Nick ...

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Craig and Kirsty Forester have been friends-of-afar for a long time, but the weekender afforded us time to get to know each other properly. Nice. 

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Dave MacDonald (in green, left of screen) of Madison standing 2nd next to Nick Craig. Me: 'The last time I rode with you, you were flying!'. Dave: 'Mumble, well, that was a long time ago and i'm sitting third and my thumb hurts and my sideburns are too long and ...'

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And Steve Webb of Singular. Although Nick Craig could have claimed the overall win, he didn't. He accepted his category win and acknowledged the stunning ride put in by Steve. This is the measure of a professional athlete who is still here for the passion. The fact that winning equaled a full XT groupset didn't sway his decision. Times like this remind me why I love riding mountain bikes and the people who do it with me or, in this instance, way, way ahead of me.

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And then we burnt lots of stuff until it was too hot to stand beside the fire and ... 

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Next year Ben & Aimee fancy their chances on the pump track.

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I almost forgot! 

Steve 'the ringer' Webb of Singular was the only rider to clean the full climb challenge. Driving him back to Sam's, we chatted and reminisced, we put the world to rights and eventually, Steve admitted to having a poster of Nick on his wall as a teenager; the enormity of what just happened seeping into a mid-30's man. 'I had his poster on my wall and he gave me the win ...'.

And finally there are the crew. If Benji and everyone else hadn't worked tooth&nail to put it on ... well. We don't have to worry about that because they have and did and it.was.good. Please do it again next year?

 

Air!

Lately, I've re-found my passion. Whether I found it or it found me - I really don't care. That is not important.

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Pic: Adam @ Photo-id

Bristol Bike Festival was as I remember. A gathering of like minded souls, whose company I cherish.

Then too much beer and some racing. I loved that my last lap was a struggle to convince wrecked arms how they should work (typical rodie symptom). But they did and loved every minute of that crazy technical, challenging race route.

24 hours of Exposure

My first experience of 24 hours of Exposure was a good one. Oh yes, there was that weather, but ... you know? I packed waterproof stuff and, if I'd been organised, would have booked into one of the excellent cabins at Rock UK.

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The village centre sign in ceremony and ride out was a great spectacle and in the true spirit of our sport, inclusive and fun for all. Pole positions given and a proper tour stage feel. After all the entourage had left, I overheard a mother talking into her phone, 'yeah, it's like the European ... no World championship mountain bike race ... yeah, people have come from all over the place!'. And she was right, not just over water or in a plane, but, for me, 400 miles.

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I was here to work though. Rob Lee, the man behind Extreme Endurance and Seven Deadly Spins (amoung other epic adventures) has written a book and I was here in Ernest Press mode. That and to do a bit of pitting and chatting. As it happened there was more pitting and chatting than working but hey!

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As Rory was heading out on a lap, I turned and 'woaw, Rory, stand under the Rainbow!'. The obvious reply was that he rode through it. Ever the pro!

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Lee, Oli, Phil and Fraser had entered the 12 hour event and it was Lee who would shine - tapping round and staying constant. Half way through, cramp set in but he drank more and rode through. It was Fraser's turn for bad luck, three snapped chains and a ripped tyre. Oli and Phil had an 11 hour catch up on Uni days:o)

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 Rob started the 24 singlespeed race well. Sitting a solid third, he soon moved to second place and was maintaining a steady pace, either on or near his 1:09 lap timing.

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After around 10 hours of consistant laps, Rob came back shaking and looking 'wrong'. He had taken a two metre, head first tumble off a bridge and was clearly in shock and pain. Two slipped vertebrate and it was race over. I first saw Dan Treby in action at Mountain Mayhem last year and he was on fire then, as he was this weekend, taking a convincing Singlespeed victory and 5th overall. Watch out geared boys at Mayhem, indeed!

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Possibly the most unlucky man of the event (year?), Vet Male Winner Mark missed his 19th lap counting by 30 seconds ... that has got to hurt!

A big up to Sara and Paul of SIP and Rock UK - next year I plan to be fit enough to race the event. 

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And, you know? A Road trip of around 800 miles can be a real ballache, but in good company and nature lending a helping hand, it can be a pretty good time.

 

 

 

Never judge a book by it's cover

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Gary Tompsett, now of Rat Race adventure fame (and British Cycling, Polaris success among many other adventures) published his Kent Mountain Bike Guide in 1995.

More recently in 2007, Gary and I put on an event, Raasay Rumble and I was introduced to Gary's ability to turn Ordnance Survey coordinates into a cricle of joy. He saw ideas for fun on trails that I'd not noticed on an island that I used to live on! I've just spent the last three days riding around half of the routes for upcoming revisions to his Kent guide and ... well, yes. Of course I would say it is great, it is an Ernest Press guide after all.

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Orchards out of Plaxtol

But if you like gnarly technical descents, stiff climbing, stunning scenery and wide open spaces ... among other things; and are going to Kent with a bike, then look no further than The Ernest Press website and grab a copy.

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Trails near Ivy Hatch
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 Triffids!!!!

Some things will change, I'm sure, but in 15 years, Gary's sense of fun and knowledge of what makes a good day out on a bike was as valid then as it is now.

 

Ain't nothing as good as messing about on a bike.

It's been quite a long time since I've ridden my bike on consecutive days. With a justifiable excuse that I'm working, I've been out route proving for an upcoming Ernest Press revision. Today, I was just. riding. along and realised that  the simple  act of cadence in a beautiful location is enough. What more do you need?

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 Bluebells!
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Given the location, it's a safe bet that it is an ex-turtle.

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 Glee!

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Sun ... more sun!

The Pits at Mayhem

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Without the fitness or head for racing at Mountain Mayhem, I was delighted when a friend announced his solo entry. I don't want to race, but can pit for Grant and throw an all-nighter, drinking in the atmosphere. After the essential and random email trails, another friend Gavin accepted a late request/offer to stand in on the Singletrack team so Grant, Gavin and me amounted to a road trip. Friday came and after packing, then re-packing and finally doing that **oocha** full force boot shutting we were on our way. Rock on! Ah ... I'll just switch over from Radio 4 to Holy Fuck on the CD. Where ARE they going with that name? Such a quality, innovative band, super tight on stage.

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Pat Adams knows a thing or two about putting on a mountain bike race. Original Source Mountain Mayhem is more than that; it's a weekend community event. It's my Mecca of 24 hour endurance racing. Four years ago, riding through the SAAB event village in gathering dusk, a full orchestra was playing and fireworks erupted, just as I gained the ridgeline overlooking the event village ... Special magical memories burnt onto my soul. Like Seb exiting the Bombhole, perfectly siloutted by a huge moon. The Diprose brothers doing 24 hour DJ and the Gorilla in 2007 With other events, it is the Thetford singletrack trails of Dusk till Dawn, the slick delivery of Mike Wilkens' Trans Wales in 2006. Detail events and my own event, Raasay Rumble. Many, many special people met and moments hardwired onto my brain through riding and racing bikes.

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As always happens on the Mayhem morning, 08:00 cheekily becomes 09:30 and before you know it; 13:55. You are standing in the starting group, heart pounding at 170bpm. All kinds of euphoria spikes and belly churning doubt going on. Only, I'm shouldering women and children out the way on the 'wrong' side of the barriers so that I can see Grant come back from his run and get my hand on his saddle to secure his bike. How do I feel? Do I want to be racing? Dunno, yes. Maybe, ah! Here's Grant and there he goes. We decided on a two lap strategy so there is time to go and take some photos, bump in to Jim and D of Rat Race and mooch some more. Grant comes back in to pit in a good time, buzzing from the exertion and the fast final flow over the finish line. Bam! In, out off he went. Now I have the tummy churns and can feel the endorphin and adrenaline running through his system. Outside Rob Lee, John Pitchers and Rob Dean's easy-ups are buzzing with activity. James Leavesly and Anthony White are the other side of the exit strip. Grant makes two more pit stops and is still strong, but then we are sitting at 23:30, Grant's knee has popped. We (he more than me) are gutted but hopeful. I've administered as much anti inflammatory in as is sensible. A gentle rub, hot sweet tea and then he's back out. Judging from the locality of his problem, we both know that his leg's not going to fall off but equally know it is unlikely that the inflammation will decrease to an acceptable burn; rather than escalating to seething, sharp agony. Whilst waiting for Grant to come back round, a new and interesting style of heckling is introduced:

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Heckler: 'What's your name?'Rider: 'what?' or '     '

Heckler: [one voice] 'murmur, grumble'

Heckler: 'What's your name?'

Rider: 'James?'

Heckler: [one voice turns into 20] 'GOOAAAN JAMES ­ WOOOO!!!!'

James' face turns from grim determination and masked pain through shock to elation. He coughs back a chocking sob of happiness, pride and joy then painfully raises his left hand in acknowledgement and turns to smile. I'm savouring his moment.

Around midnight, Grant came limping back into the Pits. Race over. We both know that continuing will almost certainly leave lasting damage. Earlier, Rob Dean made the correct choice to end his race, having crashed out of 2nd place on his fourth lap; in a sportsmanship style, he buzzed about until the adrenaline left, then accepted reality, had a shower and looked forward to reading his book and being able to sleep. The race has already taken casualties and will take more. Chatting to Zoe and Chrissie, Rob Lee and John Pitchers are both doing well. I watch as the top riders pit and ride with the same pace and efficiency as 1400, the day before. It is an education, My experience of 24 hour racing has always been the sharp end, where lap counts can get confused and pit stops lost in a haze of fatigue and pain (re-read the last sentence –  and this is my passion because? answers on a postcard).

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Eventually, the desire for an all nighter dwindles so it's time to poodle off to bed. Through the night, Rob Lee and James Leavesly both left the race (respecting their bodies in the same way that Grant and Rob did) and I don't know any of the other soloists now, but know of them, Anthony White is metronomically tapping out laps ­ amazing. And then 14:00 arrives and my friends are trickling in. I want to be one of the slack shouldered, deep chested riders. I need to have the horror and pain, the ecstasy and exasperation, the giggles and incredulity that an endurance racer feels at the end of 24 hours of racing.

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Back in the car, we trundle on down a weary road. Watching from the pits and on the course has been wonderful for me. I've learnt so much by watching rather than doing. So Mayhem 2011, Grant is going to revise the mixed Brighton Jey Pride team and Iím coming back solo, come rain or shine. Shine please.

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XCPro3 - back to my roots

 

After much pondering and some pauses, my decision to get back to hardtail had been taken for me. Fed up of lugging a sluggy, heavy full suss round short, sharp and precise courses and on an uber-offroad commute* it was time. So I duly received a piece of my history (I owned a Maxlight 'some' years ago), only the right size this time** and so, so much better! The only part missing for the build was a headset ... nothing serious then ... but that was sorted quickly. Thursday night saw a quick build with Reba SL, Chris King wheels, XT everything and USE post/stem. Nice. 0515, alarm clock set. Up and out to tweak and tighten on a 40 mile off road commute. 

 

 

The Ride?

 

The Superplastic Formed Tubing delivers a gorgeous integrated head/downtube gusset. The phat BB tubing keeps things tight there too. The carbon wishbone seatstays? 40 miles of off road commuting. Arrive at the garage and, rather than the stalled and slow attempts to straighten my back, it was straight off and, after few touchy toes/quad stretches, all was well. 

 

Light

Precise

Sharp

Laterally Stiff

 

 

And did I mention the graphics?

 

 

It is nice to buy things that have been designed in a quiet, undulating rural part of Britain. The kinds of places that cycling folk would naturally be. 

 


So today, I fitted Small Block Eights and blasted round the Stanmer Big Dog course. The XCPro3 doesn't beat you up on the long ride and equally is huge amounts of twitchy, accurate and quick fun on tight crazy singletrack. 

 

* The Uber On road commute scares the hell out of me - too many 07:43 cardiac moments of angst youth, 10 feet behind, pumping into the turbo/nitro bands of some rocket ship with bumpers. 

 

** Just because a bike is cheap 2nd hand, it doesn't miraculously make a 17" frame fit a 19" body.

 

It's the wrong shoes, Gorrick

So, I'm starting to ride a bit. A lot actually - as much as I can. I had committed, then swithered about the Gorrick Enduro. Yes, definitely. Well, maybe. Ach what's the point? Repeat. Like a magician's illusion cup set. Which one is the answer under and, you know what? I'll choose anyway. Rubbish I know. The pitiful lounge lizard is being drowned in derision. The racer and rider is coming out of his malaise - yes. 

Text messages and a certainty that I must get out have me packing my bags on Saturday night, with a racer's meticulous manner. Forecast isn't good so it includes arm/knee warmers, gloves x 3, socks x 3 and race jersey x ... ah, I only have one that I want to wear. Ok. Gore gilet, good. Shoes. Why is the left cleaner than the right? Shrug, stuff in bag. Clothes sorted, I get water, and food, tools and bike ready and go to bed with an excited expectation of what will happen tomorrow. I'd thought (sensibly) that, having only ridden 20 miles hard the weekend before, maybe I should just double that? But seven laps of the 10 mile course is the enduro, and, well ... that's what I do, isn't it? I'm not a whippet; I warm up, ride hard and do ok against my own expectations.

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So we arrive in good time at Swinley forest, Lorraine, Deano, Steve-the-Ringer, Charlie, Jenn, Ian, Rob … I fit here. Rory and me have 30 minutes to set up our pit, get into race clothes, test bikes, register and the other stuff. But everyone is chilled. The last minutes are always at least five. It's the cycling way. While changing and gaffing to Rory about this and that, I reached for my shoes ... ah. One is just far too much cleaner than the other. Turn it over. No, I haven't. I couldn't! I have. Look at my watch, back down at the Look cleat starting back from my left road shoe. Look right at my spd’d mountain bike shoe … they are almost identical. It’s 08:10. 20 minutes. Damn! 65 painful pounds later I have cleats in a reasonable semblance to my normal position and I'm in the bunch. 10, 9, 8 ... my commutes would be so much faster if I was in a group ... 7, 6, 5 ... Christ, get on with it, I’m freezing ... 4, 3, 2, 1, go.   

The first turn down is singletrack and after a few blunt overtaking maneuvers, I've split myself from Rory, having suggested that he goes harder than it feels sensible from the start and then settle into that pace. I’m making sure Rory is around and pushing the pace. Ah, this looks like I need to go right but too fast … mud, ruts, bars fling left – over I go. Ouch. A fine lead out man, I am. The Gorrick course is a mixture of lung busting and impossible climbs, amazingly bermed descent shoots and sweet singletrack and the first lap is dry and fast. I can’t remember exactly when it started raining, but I arrived back from my first lap, placed 40th and aware it was getting sloppy. The emotional and financial controllers in my head had already had their bored meeting – ‘he’s going to do it anyway?’. Yes. ‘Ah well, release the endorphin equity? Ok’. I can see Rory heading up the hill, if I could ride up to him and wheel about, maybe it’d help? Joolze is there. This is like old times.

Rory is riding the pace I’d advised, just a bit more than I can settle into or match. I blame the stupid bike, but then the stupid bike is my daft choice and … SHUT UP!!! I start to anticipate the climbs with more precision, there are fast tracts of land and wheel sucking mud, position on the bike is everything. The descending demands your full attention, to gain as much speed and adrenaline thrill as possible. The berms are holding up well. I’m trying to remember, is it push the outer bar and keep your wrists bent low or the other way round? Whatever, it seems to be working!

Lap three, Rory has disappeared off my horizon so I’m no longer looking to wheel about and settle into a punishing pace. Hungry? Here, a mouthful of wet Haribo mixed with sand and dirt … I’m doing this for fun?

Fourth lap. Not feeling so good. I can’t use my knowledge to ride any of this faster. There is no more power available I pull levers in an arbitrary fashion and gears change, sort of. Brakes slow me on an unknown contact substance although the most likely is metal on metal. Not being able to push into the higher heart rates is starting to frustrate and freeze me then, without reason, it all becomes quiet and surreal – removed. ‘1410?’. ‘Hi Dad, it’s me, the race I’m doing today? It’s all got very gloopy, wet and hard, not really enjoying this – it’s sandy, not rocky and I have to tell you about my shoes …’. My mind captures and enjoys Dad’s whooping laughter and smiling eyes. Derek Purdy’s telephone exchanges where always a source of great amusement to dad and I like to think my exploits got close to those high echelons. ‘Bye dad, see you soon’. ‘Bye Phil, take care.’

God my knee is sore. If I pull my brake levers I still slow down. Hrm. There really is no glory in this … och; if I stop I’m only going to have to wait for Rory. Coming through on my fifth lap and I’m placed 8th. From 40th!! Blimey. Joolze informs me that the race is being called after six laps, so I have no choice really. The last lap is ghostly, a few whippets skip past but mostly silence, my gears settle into a reasonable state and tap out the last few miles, not really racing, but riding hard enough. I’m glad to finish and astounded/delighted it’s in third place, although finishing third out of three is really coming last. Hey! I’l take the podium, thanks. Lies, damned lies and statistics.

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Driving back with Rory, we share some good time. Reflect. Rory had a good feeling on his fourth lap, I had my ephemeral conversation with dad at the same time. Later that night, I share good company with more like-minded souls.These are my people. I don’t understand or want to understand others. Some say ‘it’s mad, your commute!!’. ‘You’re addicted to riding your bike’. These people drive to work in the same commuting time that I can make. Who is mad and who is passionate? Who is addicted and who is committed. I know where I want to be.

Feed your Faith. Don't accept a diagnosis. Look further. 

www.canceractive.com

www.credence.org

 

 

Vet Racing. Coffee'n'Cake

I'm not an ageist, sexist, racist, fascist, nationalist or masochist ... well, maybe the last one is true. But standing in the eerie gloom of misty Goodwood, I'm eying up the grey haired brigade. My competition. This is my first race as a Vet. My first race since ... Raasay Rumble? Can't be surely. The Goodwood Spring Challenge is a low key, indeed grass roots, cross country race and with five miles to drive before arriving, I start to feel the pre-race sensations, perhaps a little refined over the years – my four score having instilled some decorum. Arriving, I'm directed to my parking slot, one youth, one adult. It always amazes and delights me – the willing enthusiasm of volunteers at these kinds of event, in fact all events. Without that human quality it would be impossible. One of my most memorable 24 hour events was a sunny Sleepless in the Saddle, not so much for the course, but for the young TA girls belting out 'is this the way to amarillo' - all through the night!

I've prepared properly, hydrating the night before and early to bed after packing the clothes bag, sorting the tool kit (including track/shock pump) and tweaking the irritating rub of the front disc rotor. Claire and the kids were due to come with me, but a sleepover scuppered that plan. No bad thing as the weather looks pretty nasty. Next door to me, a mum, dad and three kids are fussing about their people carrier. The young daughter (Aimee's age) is totally up for it - anything, running about, riding her bike, wanting daddy to win. Two sullen sons (either teen or close to it) have a different agenda. One is determined to get as much mud on the back seats as possible; the other to decapitate mum with the frisbee. Dad snaps, 'oh for Christ's sake!!'. I feel for him, but secretly thank the big man upstairs for sending Kitty and Bea to us for a sleepover. The phone rings just as I see Nigel's Bongo appear out of the thickening mist. Phew. 

We have both neglected to bring arm warmers, embrocation, waterproofs even but head out on a practice lap, it's soon apparent that this is not a problem – out of the wind, it's warm and slightly damp. Perfect. As our 08:00 plan for leaving didn't work out, we have to scope the course in the parent and kid 'race'. I'm not sure that competition is such a good idea for this group - why not just have controlled, event village fun stuff: 'best spokey dokey formation'. Inclusion is the main issue. It's not a technical course by any means, but there is a four foot drop followed by a sharp right and left onto squiggly lines. One poor wee soul has clearly hit the same tree root that I nearly did and gone over his bars, sobbing gently at the side of the track with a worried and guilty looking dad. We rattle on using the slow pace to check out a piece of lovely, tree lined, descending singletrack. Given the chance, we pass the competitive dad/boy clusters and open the taps to skoot on through some forest trail and hit a series of well-bermed turns. No traffic, so I check out the lines at race pace. The course also boasts some comical grass descents - faster, faster, off cambre 180 deg turn coming up nowwwwww - oops. Straight on.

Soon enough, I'm standing on the start line. The surprise of turning to my left and seeing Paul smiling back is amazing but not unexpected. Like chatting to Mike on the startline of Mayhem ... two? three? years ago. Maybe. Like so many other occasions where I've been in the same place and time as like minded souls. This is what it's about. Five, four, three, two, one - Go! My gearing is perfect and we're off, sprinting from a middle position, I take the lead. Ah. Ok. I'll keep this if I can! Careering into the drop, my speed launches and takes me further than my practice potter did but correcting, I heave the bike into an immediate right turn then snap it back left to enter the squiggly singletrack. This is good. I'm feeling strong. Everything is perfect, the trail is dampened and grippy, I know the turns and twists, the tight singletrack trail riding faster and faster, Paul's breathing almost on my neck. Faster and faster; then the tricky double tree-gate looms. At five miles per hour, this posed no problem. At probably 20-25, it's a different story. I brake, correct, try to pedal out of the negative camber before mounting one tree and starting to pin ball the chain of tree trunks, finally throwing my chain, spinning at 300rpm, stuck to a tree. Pride destroyed!

First priority: clear my carnage off the trail.

Second: get chain back on.

Third, get back on the trail – all the grinning greyies flit past and I curse my stupidity, see the gap and flick back in.

The race is on, eeking every ounce of traction from the course; hitting the singletrack hard and with conviction, powering into every climb and screaming through the second section of tree-lined singletrack. Where is everyone? Crossing the Goodwood tarmac hillclimb, I start the grassy giggles – gently heading way out left and more gently flicking right, 30 foot higher than the apex of the grassy off camber descent. The second lap is hard. My energy and conviction are draining as the sun bursts through the trees. Why dad? I asked you to take me instead? [shut up shut up shut up] A group of three riders are ahead - one I know as being 'tasty'. Slap on the launch control and head down. I merge with the group on the first grassy descent – they have all taken the far left line. I like this. They all flick carefully right to pre-empt the apex. Yes. Roadie style, I trust and sit on a wheel (it turns out, belongs to Andy). His conviction is obvious. We wheel about, chase into the tight descending turns and ride hard through the singletrack. Andy is clearly the stronger rider and I start compensating ('he's got a scandium hardtail, i've got this stupid 130m full suss - god I hate the cockpit length on this bike ...'). Crossing the line, I was surprised to find that I'd made the top 10 – just. It hurt but pain was good. 

Later that afternoon, I took the kids to the park. At ages seven and (coming on) six, you can simply open the gate and make sure neither of them have hurdled the fence - let them get on with it. I always wonder what to do – as a parent. The balance of discipline and love, encouragement and rapprochement ... how do you get it right with each perfectly formed individual? Ben interrupts by howling that Aimee is about to be thrown off the vortex blue disk-thing, so I casually save her plunge into sand and we head to the cafe. Ben tells me, enthusiastically, all about Poptropica, drums and Captain Underpants while Aimee carefully details the complex nature of how Grace and Shirley and her had arranged to sit together at lunch [stern looks to make sure I understand the nuances and complexities] and ... yes. Perfectly formed individuals.

God, Hove park do good coffee and cake. 

 

Feed your Faith

www.canceractive.com 

Bright Sun Shiny Days

 Walking with the kids yesterday, I got them to be as quiet as possible in-between skirmishes and giggles. 'Look' I said, 'no trails or clouds in the sky, no noise at all. Isn't it amazing?'. Clearly not, as the younger is too busy wrestling the elder's flint rock out of his hands with the inevitable howls of indignation and belly chortles. I wander off and leave them to their interpretations of enjoying the outdoors and let my thoughts wander – yes there are significant financial repercussions and many hatches, matches and dispatches have been missed, but then should we be such a disparate society? Shouldn't we all just stay put? What utter nonsense ... strains of the youngest's beautiful voice singing '...allll obstaklllls in ma wayyyyy, gooone are the...' remind me of the fact.

I remember desperately trying to get onto Mull for a funeral, but being cast off by the gale force weather, no ferries running. But that wasn't a solo effort, Steve drove me through atrocious conditions from my island. It all swings round and is about. Raasay Rumble was on his trials. It'll happen again. And if we were to live in splendid and very local isolation, my mum and me wouldn't have shared a giggle, only hers perhaps a little more innocent than mine. Drop the 's' and change 'pick' for 'grow'? Ahhhh. 

But then commutes. Now. three weeks into my bi-weekly South Downs/Surrey Hills commute and I'm feeling good. The first week was ok - not happy with form, but ok. The second; double puncture two miles from work. Now that's not fair. A friendly face popped out of his car, 'can I give you a lift somewhere?' After thanking him profusely whilst he pulled away, I unravelled my two short valve tubes that somehow had to fit into the deep section rims. Bugger! Look cleats are plastic and expensive. Visiting the LBS later that day and I'm back in the 80's, in Clarkston - it's wee Alec the framebuilder with roll-up in mouth ... only it's not, same body, similar face and reek of stale tobacco, just no fags on show. 62mm valves x 2. Look cleats. Thanks. 

Since the commute of irritating valve fail, there have been three uneventful rides; other than when the chip shop owner in Horsham bodily grabbed me off my bike and, forcing £1.30 out my hand, replaced it with a bag of chips. The metabolic change keeps on catching me unawares – 'I'm fine, I'm fine, I've hit the wall!'. It feels better immediately after every effort, but with diminishing endorphin returns, sometimes finding myself in the garage – tapping on top tubes and looking for my next fix. There is running and the gym, but they are extreme and not sustainable efforts. Swimming. Hrm. swimming. It's obvious to me that I'm a trail junky and an endorphin fiend. Frankly, you can stuff your adrenaline, It's ok in blasts, but not sustainable for the long, beautiful sensation. I need to be in the outdoors and seeking the thrill of singletrack, the agony, dispair and exuberance of endurance r..rid...rac... ach!

The kids sniff out and run down some local secret singletrack, in perfect condition. Momentarily I regret not having a bike, but it is the briefest of moments - they have devised a stop, go, weeeee! ... crunch ... game and I'm being reprimanded for not joining in. 

Quite early the next morning, I get time to head out and over to that secret single track. The long way of course and let it all out. Amen. Riding back home, there is a comical and quite rude (grim stare forward, FSR Carbon) overtake. Now I wasn't pushing it, only just ambling along. Obviously, I take his wheel. I mean he's a great windbreak (stop it!). Then a shambles of metal and garish rugby shirts thunder past at the roundabout. Grr. All around there is the grinding of big Ullrich-esque gearing, Rugby shirts and grim-faced man-men. This is just plain silly and annoying. I slip the Launch Control on ... or is it off? Not sure, turn shock to pro-pedal and pounce like a coiled python (in the right gear of course). My break is a good'n. Grim-faced FSR man catches me in a while, but not so quick as to induce utter despair. Darn. More commutes and Tuesday night rides required. I may even get my racing socks out soon to receive a truly massive drubbing. But I like that too - one drubbing = massive gain in form. What am I saying! I just want to be fast ... er.

I suppose I'm feeding my faith, but that is about much more and will become obvious soon. As soon as I can create something that makes sense. Another good outdoor person has just been diagnosed. Similar and unhelpful prognosis. If only the same effort that went into nuclear fusion and space exploration, went into cancer research and treatment. But even breast can't sex it up enough, apparently. Heaven forbid we should talk about men wobbly bits.

What was meant to be a charitable (thank Christ he's going to be ok/thanks NHS for your accurate early diagnosis) charity Land's End to John O'Groats has drifted by one year and will be on dad's birthday - May 7th 2011, only I recon 50 hours now, not 60. So those who have donated will not be disappointed, just I'll be a year late.