Right now I’m sat on the sofa bed in our spare room. I’m supposed to be tidying away the mountain of riding clothing so our box room/office can be made habitable for good friends to sleep.
Atop our stairs is a mobile of photographs from last years trip of a lifetime to America. I can see it clearly rotating, twisting and rolling from the rising heat of downstairs.
The first photo is of the New York skyline, instantly I’m there with that smell, that bustle and vibe. The baggage handlers have trashed Sarah’s brake lever and we visited NYC Velo for a replacement.
Another flutter and there’s a picture of the rolling tyred critical mass leaving Daley Square where I made a friend for life on the other side of the planet.
One more twist and there I am between Terry and John in the Northern Florida heat trails unknown ahead. More people I love now in my life forever.
My head drifts back UKward to the first ride back, Autumn well and truly in force. Everything home feels dull compared to the Technicolor full-on-ness of the states.
Winter was cold and wet, but not as cold as it should have been. Spring arrived at full pace bringing dry trails and sunshine early. Too early. Summer disappointed in so many ways.
I remember rides where my beard froze to my face, sunshine rides where I swear no man/woman alive could pass me, the sweat soaked lung burning endorphin rush of new climbs finished and beaten.
I’m back in the dreary wet evening at the summit of Room’s Lane, I’ve not been Mountain Biking again for long and stuck fast in the middle of the road the evil pain filled grip of cramp means Roachy has to free tired sore muscles before we can move on.
Waiting in the handover area for the Pootle Crew rider to come back from their lap, nerves of the unknown are affecting my bladder and causing nausea. With the lanyard now handed over and round my neck and tucked down the familiar Black and Red skull festooned club jersey I’m out of the paddock under the start arch and flying away to the first 24hr experience.
We’re all crossing the field single file lent 45 degrees into the wind or we’ll be blown over. The hail is sand blasting our faces and with only 10 miles done we call it a night and end up eating undeserved unearned chips from the kindly landlord in the pub.
Club leader stAn mic in hand is on the stage of a back room of a Wakefield pub. He announces that Fat Lad is that year’s most improved rider and when I walk up to get my award I’m flush with embarrassment. Walking back to my cheering clapping brilliant friends I start to well up but just manage to keep the tears in check.
Sarah and I haven’t been together long and in a crazy manoeuvre decide to head really far north despite only being together 6 weeks. A very very small car is already overloaded but we still manage to find space for my Downhill steed and my commuter for the future Mrs Fat Lad to ride. Rushing Scottish rivers are crossed out of sheer curiosity and swimming feet are not enough to kill this relationship off.
Later in the relationship, but before the best day of my life, we’re riding the Witch’s Trail in Fort William when Sar’s rear tyre explodes like a shotgun. It’s a bloody long walk back to the car.
At the bombhole the sun is blasting the skin through the trees………………..
Fat Lad
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