Firstly lets get something out in the open. At the time of writing I have a stinking hangover and if the words themselves don’t shout “No really Al, you should of stopped drinking about two hours before you did”, then at least only one of us is miserable and dehydrated.
Secondly this post’s title is almost Harry Potteresque.
Onwards to the meat of the ride:
Friday was the Work Christmas do. I drank. I drank a lot. Then I drank some more and at some point Mrs Fat Lad coerced into our car and she very soberly drove us home in the early hours of the morning. Prior to this by a few days I had organised to go to the Peaks with Gunner to sample the steep climbs and technical descents that the rock strewn valleys have to offer.
Stumbling out of bed after barely finding the required dexterity to silence my alarm I swayed all the way to the bathroom and back and it was time to make a call:
“Gunner, I need a lift mate I’m still drunk….”
Postcode supplied for a stern voice to guide him to casa Fat Lad and I wandered down dressed to the kitchen for something sweet and stodgy to soak up some booze. Gunner arrived far too soon for my addled mind to cope with and we went into the Batcave so I could start getting ready. I text stAn to see if he was still going and when I’d not heard from him for a while I used my chunky charm to talk Gunner into a local one.
I quickly whipped out a flat tube and deftly for a man still inebriated installed a fresh one. Chatting to a saintly patient Gunner I heaved on the track pump and the pistol crack bang alerted us to the now exploded tube. Again my wobbly digits put in another rubber and this one didn’t wake any neighbors.
At a quarter to ten my mobile shrilled with an incoming call. It was stAn. Already at the South Yorkshire meeting point. Oops. I groveled a bit but not anywhere as near as much as I should have and with rosy shame filled cheeks Gunner and I finally headed out for the trail.
A short burst and we off the tarmac across our first dirt fix. The ground was concrete hard confirming the -2 Celsius Gunner’s car had reported on his arrival. The fog was thick reducing visibility to only a few feet and my fingers hurt as the two pairs of gloves only succeeded in keeping the edge off. I was desperate for the blood to reach my digits. We headed up the hill into Tingley staying off the road and sticking to the pavement the mist surrounding us and with neither of us having a blinking red light to protect us from bleary eyed motorists it was for the best.
Finally onto the trail proper we dipped through the bobhole and rolled round the reservoir. Taking advantage of the very frim ground I had to smile as we rumbled down a field that is known to us locals as DSFT (Ask in the comments I’m sure a pootler wil explain) not having to fishtail as usual down the sliding mud.
By now the hooch had finished and the hangover was kicking in properly. I was feeling very sorry for myself. We took the high path threough Haigh wood avoiding the doubles and bike play areas for the local kids. In vain I hammered at the cranks to climb the steep bank out but failed when I managed to unclip and twat my knee against the handlebars. Now my head and knee were both throbbing.
Out of Haigh wood and heading towards the church we rocketed down the firm field and cranked up through the churchyard Gunner’s form disappearing into the mist as he gained on me.
Past the ruins I made the decision to use the cowards run bypassing the stream crossing. What the cowards run loses in technical descending it makes up in speed. With visibilty so low even the electrical pylon we passed by seemed to loom out of nowhere like the lower leg of a Ted Hughes creation. Making the most of the solid ground the Better-Climb-Than-Descent was not the usual nightmare slop for this time of year and we carried on straight through the woods heading for the tarmac horror of Nab Lane. After spinning the granny all the way to the summit we stopped for a bite of energy bar and Gunner informed me with a certain amount of sadistic glee that he could smell the whiskey on me. My stomach lurched once more…
I struggled through Knife Edge woods laughing as both of our steed’s tyres failed to attain grip on the slippery ice covered roots. The feeling sorry for myself mood reached it’s full strength and I just wanted to be at home with good cup of tea and some paracetamol. Crawling up the delight, for the first time in a long time, I had to stop for a breather halfway ‘twixt top and bottom.
The last section of dirt rolled under our tyres and the frozen stalks of grass flower stopped me dead with their skeletal beauty:
I coerced Gunner into tarmacing it back to base and after coasting most of the road descent home it was was time for the kettle to go on.
Fat Lad
Now if you really want to read tales of ice filled, bone chilling, true winter ride you need to check out these guys:
Jill – Up In Alaska
Tim – Bicycle and Icicles
2 Comments