Well, the Drig Delight anyway. Thursday night is the Bad Brains club night and usually I can be found at the back of that particular pack trying to keep my heart and lungs inside my chest cavity. However they were doing a ride that I didn’t have the diesel to get to (this close to payday anyways) so I’d have to give the guys opportunity to ride without losing me for a change.
In an event unlikely ever to repeated I was pedalling up to Pete’s early, taking my time absorbing the few rays of the elusive British summer on the way. I rolled into Pete’s drive way to find he’d nt even started getting ready yet as a consequence of his late exit from work. I told him not to worry about it and sat my ample backside on his kitchen step letting the world go by while he readied himself.
We picked up the cadence down the road to the first field riding two abreast winding up the motorists no end while we yammered on about this and that. Onto the first off-road run and the ground was marble hard making the going super quick. We continued to set the world to rights up over the old waste ground battling on through the overgrown foliage to Howley Hall ruins.
Words silenced as we fired down the rock chute and onto splashing the stream crossing we resumed the pace onwards. With Pete not too far ahead (more through politeness than my increasing fitness) I middle ringed it up the “better-climb-than-descent†track dodging overgrown brambles and hedges all the way. Catching a very short breather at the summit I mused on the fact that once upon a time I could barely walk up there….
Following the bottom track of the woods we were grateful for the shade, we nixed the singletrack climb up to the top of the woods followed by the screaming steep descent as being far too much like hard work for the night. Pete declared he knew of a sneaky-deaky bit that would eliminate the need to hoist our steeds over the gate but our new shortcut wasn’t to be as the gap in the fence had been hastily repaired with barbwire. Retracing our steps we shrugged off the inconvenience and were at the steep tarmac climb up Nab Lane. Very wisely a group of fellas were taking ten in the shade of their works van and I cheekily asked for a push. With no takers I cranked on anyway catching up with Pete riding through the burning thighs and the desire to stop.
More miles under the wheels we hit knife edge woods and I managed to sail through for the second time in a row without dabbing but trail karma as it is decided to redress the cosmic balance by nettle stinging me to feck! Out of the shade and off camber goodness we were straight on for the delight. I told Pete to let the red mist take hold and I’d meet him at the top but he plodded on in front of me seemingly drinking in the fine West Yorkshire view.
At the top it was time for a breather and for the hip flask to come out. Burning gullets subsiding we burned the moment to memory as the warmth of the trail and the blue sky made the rest of life seem a whole continent away. Onwards we sailed down the dusty descent to Brownhills exchanging a pleasant “Evening†with the old couple we passed on the way back up out of the valley. Getting to the cut off point for humble abode I asked the age old question with hope in my heart: “You got any beer in your fridge Pete or what?â€
I want to be faster, I want to be a better rider. Do I want to give up the occasional night of summer laziness to obtain those goals?
What do you think?
Fat Lad
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