The crystal clear blue skies gave fortuitous signals for the ride ahead. Stepping from the batcave the steed remained frost free, sheltered from the ravages of night temperatures well below comfortable. Scorching coffee and warm porridge sat heavy in my stomach the outside air and inner heat battling for equilibrium. The tarmac slog to the trailhead blinded by the harsh low beacon of winter sun reflecting back into sleep crusty eyes from mirror shined roads.
The tyres greedily devoured their first taste of dirt and the firm field edge descent disappointed man nor machine. The motorway spanning bridge metamorphosis to ice rink failed to fell either cold morning adventurer and we pressed on lest the Arctic wind sap away our will and warmth. The ride continued, conditions slowing but not abating the intrepid pedallers. Mud filled heart break slogs became skill testing runs of broken cratered ground, pushing the limits of cross country suspension and the grip of tyres designed for wetter, slimier climes. Ice block puddles refused to give way under weight of weekend warrior and bike combined. The long death march climb, ordinarily rim deep in sludge amongst the dark months, transformed into a battle of brittle air and struggling lungs over hard ground.
Out over the moor we rolled, wind defeating man made technical fabrics, nature’s cold breath consuming comfort quickly. Gezz’s corner approached tanting us with it’s potential lethality. Silent prayers were offered up to the fickle deities of dirt, fingers tight round grips concentration and will not to be broken. Mundane slopes of thoughtless motion became testing grounds of determination and nerve. “Don’t brake, don’t brake, don’t brake…” mantras muttered low, manifesting condensed steam in the morning air.
Temperatures climbing higher the slow thaw begins. Puddles crack cinematically the onomatopoeic sound-waves following the wheels departing. Homeward now tired thighs turn circles to finish our loop. The fountain of steam venting to the sky signals the dry snug of home, burnt gas turned to heat and with the adventure behind us I am back ready for my core temperature to warm.
This was the ride magazines have promised so many times. There were no “you-must-own-this-now” bikes to rail the downhills, there were no magic powders to spirit us up the climbs, only good friends, aching legs and trail buzz addled minds. I got out, I rode and for once the UK mtb press could claim the moral mantle of descriptive truth.
Fat Lad
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