It was only my second ride out after being incredibly poorly the week previous. As he’s now running tubeless; Gezz had very kindly donated me some pre-loved continental Gravity tyres to orbit my rims and I’d driven to our meeting place so we could fit them. Chuckle Brother mechaniching aside they were on and seated very shortly as we enjoyed the unseasonal warmth of the mild spring evening.
The usual suspects (and a new face) arrived soon enough and the local supermarket car park was soon swelled by the ranks of the pootle crew in various states of (un)dress. For the dubious pleasures of West Yorkshire off-road debauchery tonight six riders had dragged themselves away from the sofa to join me.
Not joining us for the Pootle this time was Amy, Jim or Pete. Both Amy and Jim ahd crashed at the Bulith Wells thingy and Pete had returned home from work too late to join in. JohnD had managed to drag himself out of pootling retirement and with everyone ready it was time to roll.
With only the upcoming miles of trail and a glorious evening ahead of us we rolled out and it suddenly dawned on me; ” I’m the only one who knows these trails inside out, feck me I’m actually leading this one…” We were soon off the tarmac and down past the recently arsoned rifle range rolling down the hill the donated tyre propelling me down the hill with speedy glee. After crossing the motorway bridge everyone rode hard at the short very steep climb into the copse with almost everyone making it.
As we approached the blinding off camber tightly wound singletrack decent to Birky Brow woods I let Gezz lead up the assault to make sure we didn’t lose any pootlers in the trees. Regrouping at the bottom Picky beamed across towards me “look at his f*cking grin” and with that we were off once more. Coming to our next descent I let the natural order of the group assert itself as Gexx led the kamikaze chase down the next descent. Once more the speed of the trails was sucking the air from my lungs as the adrenaline fired my heart rate into the stratosphere.
The quick pace continued as we snaked under the railway bridge then splashed and crashed through the stream. I mashed the pedals hard up the climb to the ruins nearing the summit I’d still managed to remain in the middle ring and grimacing through the groaning of my thighs I cranked all the way to summit leaving the left hand shifter pod untouched. Atop the hill catching my breath by the long decrepit house’s fallen walls not far away I was bollocksed. The rest of the crew soon trundled up and after a brief stop we were onwards again.
Democratically decided we hit the singletrack to the cricket club before enjoying the firm path before it became a backdrop for day of the triffids in the upcoming weeks. Unsteady ground and deep divots nearly caught a few out and the chatter at the end of the track turned to near misses. We rolled over to the church steps and I bottled out again Gezz leaped off and through them to show how it’s done. Bastard. Talented bastard. But a bastard all the same.
Climbing the next ascent I chatted with the new guy all the way and the usual “just having a minute” point we cranked straight on through neglecting our traditional hip flask session and fired through the swoopy double infested Haigh Wood hitting the shores of the reservoir with speed. We added a lap of honour round the depleting water and blasted to the bombhole for a well earned respite for some whilst the other took the opportunity to play.
I rounded up the troops and we sailed onwards to Beirut, not long amongst the debris and detritus of the UK underclasses, John’s front wheel fell prey to a piece of broken glass. Tubes soon swapped we flew along the doubletrack and I led the descents pushing my skills and fitness to their limits. The trail was lightning fast and the corners dry and loose. On the second corner my confidence exceeded my abilities and it was all on not to overshoot it. With people on my tail I could feel their expectation and breath upon my neck so I pushed on more. We soon ran dry of the joy of Beirut and it was time for a long uphill slog home. Tentatively crossing the railway line we were comfortably over as one thundered by into the dark night.
The final off-road climb off the night left my thighs screaming as I conquered another without dropping to the ring of few teeth. Lynn peeled off home and we launched ourselves up the cobbles home the pub in sight as our reward.
All in all it had been a superb ride. It was a first for the Fat Lad truly leading a ride. I’ve shouted out directions to whippets out front before and played sweeper on local-knowledge rides more times than I can count. But, to actually lead a ride was a first for me and a little bit frightening. Also as a first it was the very first time on and around the hills of my fair parish without leaving the middle ring. Maybe I will have to surrender my crown for the “King Of The Granny Ring Spin”….
Fat Lad
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