Fat Lad Rides Again

Being on the wrong side of the Pennines can do funny things to a man. The mere thought of being away from the comfort of West Yorkshire made me forget to take three key items to Phil’s abode. Guiness, Tangfastics and my mountain bike. Spending a week being taught the correct way to wield a dirty great hammer on bicycles by the fantastic ATG guys in Manchester only made the withdrawal symptoms even worse.

Back in Lancashire for two days to complete a DT Swiss wheel building course I organised a ride with Trio via Twitter having remembered the bloody bicycle at least…

With a distinct lack of my usual faff and a very quick installation of a new rear disc rotor for my temporary landlord, we set off up the ominously monikered A666 belly’s full of Phil’s tasty spaghetti bolognese. When I’d left ATG earlier in the evening I’d thought the traffic announcers had lost the plot completely as they reported biblical levels of mist descending on the land. Driving out now to the start in possibly the most terrifying conditions I have ever motored through we nervously laughed at what we’d let ourselves in for.

We drove past Trio trundling through the moisture filled air and shortly pulled into the pub car park serving as base camp for the evening. There’s always (for me at least) that moment of unease when meeting someone new. Will they like me, will I like them, will they get pissed off waiting for me on the climbs. Will they get even more pissed off waiting for me on the descents. What if this turns out to be an undetermined distance of awkward silence and stilted conversation. Within thirty seconds of meeting Trio I relaxed and knew we would be in for a fun and chatty evening. Suited and booted Trio offered us the easy tarmac option or the hard but shorter off road slog. Which, dear readers, do you think we took?

Three lights lit the fog filled night ahead of us. Visibility of the road ahead could only be measured in feet and never breaking into double digits at that. We made steady progress upwards quoting American Werewolf in London all the way. Trio was setting a good pace on the ultimate bike of niche* and for a bloke who’d had a week off the bike, cake pretty much every night and too many trips to the burger van across from the workshop, I was too. It wouldn’t last I was sure. Shortly before we left the metalled surface we burst through the fog, our lights suddenly finding distance as well as illumination. By the first taste of off road I glanced back over my shoulder drinking in one of the most beautiful night skies I have ever had the joy of seeing. Ploughed Astrostratus strolled across the sky, phosphorous lights reflected from the valley below under lighting the night sky an ethereal orange.  Finally with a bit of clear air between us I had the chance to take a snap:

Trio mentioned how useful it would be to have Mrs Fat Lad here with us for soul stealing duties but alas my meagre snapping would have to do. Our first rough section was broken ground, rocky and running in streams in places. With what seemed a small brick placed every inch or two rolling below my wheels I was glad of the skill compensator. The lack of derailleur didn’t seem to hindering our hostess any and when asked about my crunching gears I could only answer: “They might be noisy but they’re dead useful when you’re chunky 😉 ” We topped out at Pigeon Tower the bizarre construction looming out of the dark skies. I made some glib comment or other and Trio replied with:  “You’re in Lancashire now we’ve got loads of follies here”. Brief local history over we had the Ice Cream Run ahead of us. “It’s not too bad” Trio lied “and you can’t get lost”

I got lost. In the first 5 feet.

Then to add injury to insult I fell off. Before it got technical. It wasn’t even a good fall. It was one of those comedy dismounts where you grab too much anchor and end up stepping over the bars without really falling off. Upright and moving I minced my way down a technical, rocky, fast few moments of sheer terror grinning like a wide eyed maniac glad to be still in one piece and functioning the best I ever do. My epitaph will almost certainly read “Nice bloke, shite rider…”

We rode up up and up some more steady away gaining feet happy to be generating warmth in our synthetic barriers against the elements warmth stealing nature. Back at the folly we headed onwards turning our back on the fear inducing Ice Cream run. Passing riders coming the other way I tried to soak up as much of this foreign grit and soil into my essence, etching as much fun and laughs into the karma bank as is possible. We climbed yet more and with a few more technical switchbacks we hit the penultimate high up man made structure of the night. At Rivington Pike Tower I experience the odd hollow feeling of strong déjà vu; neurons desperately firing, failing to figure out how I could possibly have been here past tense. Before my easily confused psyche could grasp anything we were wheels down, losing altitude quickly as a long technical descent was swallowed up by time and speed. At the end of the run we had to re-earn every thing just gained and we set off for Winter Hill.

Trio with local knowledge settled in for the long walk steed by her side as Phil powered on, his rear light the only indication of his winning battle against terrain and inclination. I too was walking but only because of a lack of legs and lungs and not bike choice.  Trio promised this was the last climb but one and it brought to mind the three universal lies.** Phil stormed up to the summit with nary a dab and after a long push we reached him by foot at the private road. Phil and Trio back on solid ground gradually creeped away from me as any hint of fitness departed. I caught up with them by the security footprint of the transmission towers , a jonny no-stars patrolling, shining his maglite onto these strange lycra clad weirdos. Not willing confrontation Tri took us bog snorkeling the circuit of the fence instead. I was glad of my winter boots.

The last off road climb was over and the long fast blast to base pub called. Clipping in we fired off sea-level-wards the track wide and smooth inviting speed and confidence. Phil had already disappeared and we were surprised, and particularly for me, amused to turn the first corner and see Phil in a heap on the ground.

Dusted off, pride just about intact he blasted off again and we chased as best we could. As the trail got technical and narrow the fog came back in with a vengeance. Visibility dropped just as the trail got tough once more. Coming across Phil on the ground again I tried to get the Kodak moment again but just ended up with white fuzz.

Sadly and all too soon we hit tarmac and ground our way up the short burst back to the car. In the pub, warm dry and with beer and crisps the chat warmed us up as much as the post ride glow. In all it was a fantastic ride with a good new friend and I’d be honoured to ride with Trio anytime she’s willing to wait for a rotund rider on a bouncy bike.

Fat Lad

* Singlespeed, 29er with rigid fork…

** 1) Of course I love you. 2) I Promise I wont come in your mou…. woah family blog…  3) Just one climb Al I promise