I was awoken this morning by bright sunshine streaming through the curtains, dust motes dancing prettily in the light. Unfortunately the latter caused Vinia to immediately leap from the bed and begin a frenzy of cleaning, all whirling vacuum cleaner and splashed bleach. It was barely 8 a.m. but an escape was clearly required - grabbing a Red Bull, I headed for the shed.
Opening the shed door, a bike tumbled out and a few wheels clattered to the ground. Clearly the shed needed reorganising. But that was far too boring and mundane a task so, grabbing the bike that fell out of the shed, I lycra'd up and set off to the local woods. It was brisk. Very brisk, with the road glinting at me - was that water or ice? Thankfully it seemed to be water and after half a mile I peeled off and began the steady fireroad climb that would take me onto the ridge (I found the climb so life affirming that I repeated it. Twice). The ground was firm and a light covering of snow remained where the temperature hadn't risen the previous day. However the roots were covered in crispy, frosty leaves, trecherous. Thankfully I had the winning combination of a Velicocraptor out front (a rear version, naturally) and a Wildslipper out back, set at 68psi to avoid snakebites. What fun.
Having somehow managed to find sections of soft, sapping mud among the frozen ground, I reached the start of the descent back to the road, tyres full of semi-frozen clag. Now, I am no descender, but I have always enjoyed this section, particularly when the bluebells are out in spring but also because I've ridden it, literally, hundreds of times. Off I set, swooping and sweeping. I was Rob Warner, pre Davina McCall interview. I even managed to clear the tight, off camber, criss cross rooty section, with only the merest waggle of an unclipped foot (but, crucially, no dabs). I was on fire, indeed I decided that I was French and therefore en feu.
I was relaxed. I was loving it and, as I approached a tight corner, I applied the brakes. Pad met ceramic rim. And nothing happened, indeed I could have sworn that I speeded up just a little, so I did just that (swore rather than speed up). Now, there was no way that I was going round this corner, at this speed, and the alternatives were a very sharp drop towards to road or trees and brambles. But, somehow, I was round. Phew.
How shortlived this relief was as I was faced by tow young children, walking up the hill (suddenly the 'one direction suits all' stance of the trail centres made perfect sense). Feeling that it would be lacking in festive spirit to scatter infants like skittles and, forearms like taut rope, I hauled on the brakes some more, particularly the left lever (I had set this up UK style, left for rear, hadn't I?). Something bit and, suddenly, the rear wheel was alongside me, I was facing 90 degrees to my original direction and heading, elbows out, into the undergrowth. Still, the kiddies were safe.
With the sort of snake hipped shimmy that won Harry 'Strictly', I avoided two trees and released my death grip on the brake levers. I was now parallel to my original course but picking up speed and off the trail. Cowardice kicked in and, unclipping my right foot, I applied the brakes again. Somehow this pushed me back towards the singletrack and I popped out below the children, one foot scrabbling at the ground, moto style. My heart was ponding, adrenaline was coursing though my veins but I realised that what I had pulled looked planned and in control, rad almost. This was reinforced by a couple of teenage trail monkeys who were lurking by the road - "wow mate, that was cool". Modestly I replied "yes, I'm fly" and headed off up the road with an air of nonchalance that Thierry Henry would have admired. This image was rather crushed when, on a patch of frozen road, I fell off. Was that a muffled cry of "sorry wanker" I heard? Surely not.
So in this season of good will to all men, when you're out riding, don't forget to do it for the kids.
Opening the shed door, a bike tumbled out and a few wheels clattered to the ground. Clearly the shed needed reorganising. But that was far too boring and mundane a task so, grabbing the bike that fell out of the shed, I lycra'd up and set off to the local woods. It was brisk. Very brisk, with the road glinting at me - was that water or ice? Thankfully it seemed to be water and after half a mile I peeled off and began the steady fireroad climb that would take me onto the ridge (I found the climb so life affirming that I repeated it. Twice). The ground was firm and a light covering of snow remained where the temperature hadn't risen the previous day. However the roots were covered in crispy, frosty leaves, trecherous. Thankfully I had the winning combination of a Velicocraptor out front (a rear version, naturally) and a Wildslipper out back, set at 68psi to avoid snakebites. What fun.
Having somehow managed to find sections of soft, sapping mud among the frozen ground, I reached the start of the descent back to the road, tyres full of semi-frozen clag. Now, I am no descender, but I have always enjoyed this section, particularly when the bluebells are out in spring but also because I've ridden it, literally, hundreds of times. Off I set, swooping and sweeping. I was Rob Warner, pre Davina McCall interview. I even managed to clear the tight, off camber, criss cross rooty section, with only the merest waggle of an unclipped foot (but, crucially, no dabs). I was on fire, indeed I decided that I was French and therefore en feu.
I was relaxed. I was loving it and, as I approached a tight corner, I applied the brakes. Pad met ceramic rim. And nothing happened, indeed I could have sworn that I speeded up just a little, so I did just that (swore rather than speed up). Now, there was no way that I was going round this corner, at this speed, and the alternatives were a very sharp drop towards to road or trees and brambles. But, somehow, I was round. Phew.
How shortlived this relief was as I was faced by tow young children, walking up the hill (suddenly the 'one direction suits all' stance of the trail centres made perfect sense). Feeling that it would be lacking in festive spirit to scatter infants like skittles and, forearms like taut rope, I hauled on the brakes some more, particularly the left lever (I had set this up UK style, left for rear, hadn't I?). Something bit and, suddenly, the rear wheel was alongside me, I was facing 90 degrees to my original direction and heading, elbows out, into the undergrowth. Still, the kiddies were safe.
With the sort of snake hipped shimmy that won Harry 'Strictly', I avoided two trees and released my death grip on the brake levers. I was now parallel to my original course but picking up speed and off the trail. Cowardice kicked in and, unclipping my right foot, I applied the brakes again. Somehow this pushed me back towards the singletrack and I popped out below the children, one foot scrabbling at the ground, moto style. My heart was ponding, adrenaline was coursing though my veins but I realised that what I had pulled looked planned and in control, rad almost. This was reinforced by a couple of teenage trail monkeys who were lurking by the road - "wow mate, that was cool". Modestly I replied "yes, I'm fly" and headed off up the road with an air of nonchalance that Thierry Henry would have admired. This image was rather crushed when, on a patch of frozen road, I fell off. Was that a muffled cry of "sorry wanker" I heard? Surely not.
So in this season of good will to all men, when you're out riding, don't forget to do it for the kids.
