Saturday.
Cross Baiku. Just like Rakim - Guess Who's Back? Me. On a bike. At last. Wool. Gore-Tex. Wool. Wool. Road is cold. Wind, bitter. Head up to the South Downs. make it 100yards along the South Downs Way. Clag and glop (literally) grind me (and luckily my winter wheels) to a halt. TTry pushing and memories of MM gloop hell come flooding back. Carry cross bike (proper cross ride then) 1/2 a mile out and back to some tarmac. Or at least some fire road. It's going to take a lot of sun and dryness to reverse this winter's soaking. Mountain biking is postponed for the foreseeable then. Take up road riding next ride I suppose. Clank back home spitting clay and chalk at fellow road users like a gattling gun. Mountain Biking is dead. Long live road riding. Best , er...ride of my life.
Sunday Morning.
Cross Baiku (with less knobbly tyres). Head out on the road. realise within yards that my afore held belief that the British were, given all their faults, actually, generally better than many in Europe at driving, is smashed to oblivion by impatient fool upon ignorant fool. Drop into some back roads and country lanes for shelter and realise how much stress there is on the road. Nearly get wiped out by a Disco that decides to overtake on a blind corner, on a humpback bridge (wide enough for one car), on the wrong side of the road and forces the driver coming the other way to actually drive into the verge and stop to avoid death. Astounded, I applaud said driver, wobble as cross bike not that balanced and decide Road biking is dead. Long live mountain biking. Not the best ride of my life.
Sunday Afternoon.
Went for a walk on the downs. Walking boots. Warm clothes. Wife to talk to. Tea and cake afterwards. Mountain biking and road riding are dead. Long live walking. Almost the nicest walk of my life.
:?
Cross Baiku. Just like Rakim - Guess Who's Back? Me. On a bike. At last. Wool. Gore-Tex. Wool. Wool. Road is cold. Wind, bitter. Head up to the South Downs. make it 100yards along the South Downs Way. Clag and glop (literally) grind me (and luckily my winter wheels) to a halt. TTry pushing and memories of MM gloop hell come flooding back. Carry cross bike (proper cross ride then) 1/2 a mile out and back to some tarmac. Or at least some fire road. It's going to take a lot of sun and dryness to reverse this winter's soaking. Mountain biking is postponed for the foreseeable then. Take up road riding next ride I suppose. Clank back home spitting clay and chalk at fellow road users like a gattling gun. Mountain Biking is dead. Long live road riding. Best , er...ride of my life.
Sunday Morning.
Cross Baiku (with less knobbly tyres). Head out on the road. realise within yards that my afore held belief that the British were, given all their faults, actually, generally better than many in Europe at driving, is smashed to oblivion by impatient fool upon ignorant fool. Drop into some back roads and country lanes for shelter and realise how much stress there is on the road. Nearly get wiped out by a Disco that decides to overtake on a blind corner, on a humpback bridge (wide enough for one car), on the wrong side of the road and forces the driver coming the other way to actually drive into the verge and stop to avoid death. Astounded, I applaud said driver, wobble as cross bike not that balanced and decide Road biking is dead. Long live mountain biking. Not the best ride of my life.
Sunday Afternoon.
Went for a walk on the downs. Walking boots. Warm clothes. Wife to talk to. Tea and cake afterwards. Mountain biking and road riding are dead. Long live walking. Almost the nicest walk of my life.
:?
