Sneaking away early from the daily grind Mrs Fat Lad and I perused a new gaff for us to cohabit. It’s rather nice and we sorted all the paperwork there and then. Mrs Fat Lad will tell you all sorts of things about central heating, double glazing, gardens, blah blah blah but what sold it for me is the garage….. My very own workshop/hideaway/batcave… I wonder how cheap I can pick up a workstand for?
Back at our current abode I cooked up some pasta and pancetta for us both and after devouring the product I couldn’t seem to get going. On a usual Tuesday night I can be observed rocketing round the house at 90mph cleaning chains, filling camelbaks, getting changed etc but tonight I was perfecting the arse grooves in my favourite chair.
Leaving things until last minute as always I eventually pulled on my jersey and squeezed into my riding shorts. Although, it was too much to hope for me to get the spare chain from the container of degreaser, clean and put on the bike. The one snaking through my cassette and chainrings would have to suffer for a few more miles yet.
Sticking my head out of the door I rapidly re-entered the house to redress, the two weeks of British summertime had visited us briefly with warmth. I trundled up to Pete’s and upon arrival I demanded to know what he’d done to the weather. He mentioned something about it being just like the winter only without needing our lights.
With the rain falling and the football on it was only the party faithful out. With the grim skies above we set off sharpish and arriving at the cricket club (after MartinGT nearly deposited himself in the stream) we decided to cut out Haigh woods with no riders bringing lights.
We followed the path by the club and as a result of the recent rain the high edges of quarry had avalanched down blocking the route. Gingerly climbing over the rocks and mud we eventually got onto the bikes and we pootled on once more. The rest of the path was really overgrown and I was glad for the long sleeves of my rain jacket. Emerging at the top and onto the tarmac of Quarry Lane Pete had to break the news gently to my fragile mood that he’d dropped a bollock taking us up the hill by mistake and we’d have to descend the remaining tarmac to get to the tip section. With a grumble or two from me we made our way back to the recon mission and were soon at the narrow gate squeezing my lard arse through limited space with a grimace. With either the descent to the ruins or the “long-cut†ahead of us it I declared “fuck that!†and quite clearly not feeling my usual self we scooted on. Heading down from the ruins to the stream MartinGT finding himself in a literal (rather than my metaphysical) rut cartwheeled over the bars producing a fine claret from his leg.
Amy not wanting to be outdone, at the next steep banking toppled over backwards after not making it and also not managing to unclip. At “Amy’s path†it was Keith’s turn to say“fuck that!†and again we were on the main path pedalling along. Heading up the climb to Birkby Brow I was feeling strong but just couldn’t push myself to do it quicker. I wasn’t tired but my get up and go had got up and gone. I plodded on as the other pedalled a little in front of me chatting and enjoying the evening. Entering Knife Edge woods in the solitary ray of hope for the night I sailed through the off-camber challenge of roots and rocks without a single dab. From there, all that remained to be conquered was the delight, once more I felt strong but couldn’t find it in myself to push hard.
By the top of Brownhills all that was left to do was congratulate MartinGT on his improving pace and scoot off home to to get changed for a drink at the pub.
Fat Lad
Footnote:
Fat Lad’s missing mojo was later found on the very same trails two days later and also a new found quicker pace to join it.