Fat Lad Rides Again

The daily grind was rapidly diminishing to a place in my mind where it could be lost forever as I pottered round the house getting ready. Mrs Fat Lad had two of her girl friends round so my usual wandering round my gaff semi/fully nude was out of the question. Dressed, I wandered into the batcave and fixed the flat rear tyre.

From the drive home and my aimless wandering round in preparation I mumbled something about the indecisive weather as the sky went from crystal clear to windy grey in an instant. Leaving the girls chatting and giggling about our impending wedding (10 months away now….. not shitting myself at all. Nope. Not one little bit. Ahem) I plodded up to the start point. I rolled up at Pete’s to make sure he was coming and then made my way to the car park start point.

I‘d had a text message form JohnD saying he was running late so I introduced my self to the two pootle crew virgins. Picky and Bob had been lurking on the Bad Brains Forum for a little while and had dragged themselves out for a go. John arrived not too much later and was ready with little faff. All assembled Gezz and I followed as sweepers, playing the noble riders making sure no-one gets left behind. To say that we got chatting and had not noticed the rest scoot off would be a scurrilous accusation to make!

Soon enough we hit the first off road section and while hoisting many bikes over the gate of this particular evening bridleway Keith stopped to put some wind in his tubes, everybody chatting whilst the pootle crews very own crash test dummy fettled away. Swiftly Pete was away rocketing down the field trying, I think, for the MTB minute mile causing a few to miss the turn off into the bushes and brambles to the right. Glancing to our right we could see Pete the other side of the small valley and we all made our way over the stream and up the short yet steep climb to him. We’re going to recon it soon as an alternative to getting torn to shreds by the brambles and nettle of the usual path by the bridge.

Regrouped and with a quick head count I asked if anybody would like the shortcut, I grinned as nobody took up the offer and onwards we were again. As per usual I pussied the church steps. I really don’t know what my problem is with these, they are totally rideable but every time my overdeveloped self preservation instinct kicks in. If only there was some way to show this so you could make your own judgement, photos wouldn’t do it justice neither would my inane prose.

I wonder if the Gezzabelle helmet cam would do:

He’s a talented bastard! Makes me sick… Up the field on the other side we collectively set off again to Haigh woods. Pedalling past the British Oak pub we bottlenecked at the concrete step obstacle (even I can ride that one). As the crowd cleared Gezz lurched to one side slowly hitting the ground. Picking himself up and dusting himself down, crank held high in one hand he cried “You’ll have to stop!!”. At some point in the past the lock ring form his XTR cranks had come out, so, for the unluckiest mountain biker on the planet it was a long walk back to the car.

JohnD and I caught the rabble at the start of Haigh woods and we were hammering the trails again the sound of JohnD landing hard from every kicker behind me. Onto the tarmac again we managed to collect another puncture and while Pete assisted Bob with his rear flat Dave told us funny stories and dirty jokes.

Hitting the road it is a long drag up to he pub at the crossroads and into a headwind it was beyond unpleasant. Picky kept me company to the summit and it was quite clear Pete was taking no prisoners with tonight’s pace. We soon crossed the old waste ground and I asked Pete if he was planing the sides of the narrow gate I’ve historically had to really squeeze through. Or maybe planing my hips. It was getting clear that we needed to make up some time or it would be dark before we got to knife edge. Shooting down from the ruins Pete pinch flatted. The trail gods must need appeasing. With as many mucking in as was feasible we got to fixing the last puncture of the night. Nearly done I led the steadier riders ahead to try to recoup some time.

Cracking on I missed the train again! For twelve years (on and off mind) I’ve been riding round here from cheap steel framed wrecks to state of the art downhill bike and back to something in between and in that time I have never been in the tunnel as a train thunders across. Fair enough I could just wait there for one but that would spoil a good winge wouldn’t it!

At the foot of the better-climb-than-descent track Keith was missing from those who passed me. Turned out despite doing this ride more times than is worth thinking about he’d taken a wrong turn. It was becoming obvious to even my oblivious senses that this ride was rapidly descending into something akin to herding cats. Middle ringing it hard to catch up I took those fancying an easy life on the fire road while Pete led the lambs to the singletrack climb slaughter.

Pete and the rest were not far behind at all as I led the way to Nab Lane. Phil struggled passed me stamping his cranks in anger. I had to shout “Grab A Granny!” as I watched him heart attack his way up. With a swift breather taken it was time for knife edge. Rolling the tarmac I advised knife edge virgin Phil that speed was his friend… I don’t think he quite believed me.

Hopping into the now dark edge I deliberately played sweeper once more. After a few peaks and troughs of the wood I caught up with the group at the first rooted section. The track bottle necked I ran out of momentum slipping out there too myself. In an act of camaraderie I’d started this section with my lamps out. Solidarity is fine, but I like to see too. The fireballs lighted I followed the back markers to the start of the delight. On the final balance challenge out of knife edge Keith helpfully (he thought) shined his lights down the path and promptly dazzled Phil and I.

With the sun all but set now we spun up the delight. Gathered at the bridge I shouted us to move on a few yards out of the wind. Pete was mid conversation telling the fresh meat of a certain tradition at the peak of this climb and as if by magic Big Al’s Special Hill Medicine was being passed from rider to rider. I’m all for tradition and I’m also all for creating new ones and with that the jelly babies soon followed.

The fast flowing descent of Brownhills was interesting for those sans lamps and we were soon back at the pub for a beer or two. I’d managed to remember a t-shirt to change into but not any other shoes. Legs stretched out in the bar Keith asked how my new riding shoes were still clean despite the recent rainfall where his were already grotty.

“That’s because I don’t dab mate 😉 “

Fat Lad

This weeks Fat Lad Rides Again was brought to you by Mrs Fat Lad’s infamous Spanish Omelette, Cuba Libre and Pleased To Meet You by James.

Last weeks Fat Lad Rides Again was not brought to you by working for a living, still unpacking from the move and writers block.