Preface
After a night out to celebrate two of the club’s finest member’s birthdays on the Saturday night, I was feeling a little delicate Sunday morning. The ride was the Middleton Mosh and it flowed really well despite the one or twelve beers I was rapidly sweating out of my system. In the basin jump/play area after Amy had abruptly stopped I grabbed way too much right brake lever (that’s the front brake for our transatlantic brethren i.e. the right way round!) and sailed over the handle bars into the dirt. I’m told I vaulted the handle bars and looked like an airborne starfish. Pete’s (a long time flats rider) first words we’re: “Well, you can get unclipped after all then…†Rolling on the ground like a turtle trying to right itself I laughed, dusted myself off and after checking the holy trinity (head, testicles, and bike) we were onwards once more. I only mention this little event as I rarely crash with a combination of luck, trail knowledge and general lack of bottle keeping me rubber side down. Anyways….
The Tyersal Treat
Andy Who Lives Near Me (not Andy Who Sometimes Joins Us and Rides a Scott or The Original Andy From Batley Who Sold Me a Car That Is Actually Rather Good. Confused? No? I am…) was joining us on our little spring evening jaunt. Having to collect Pete also because his new car only has room for his scissors and blow drier, meant I’d have to fit the Graber rack. After what seemed like an eternity fitting a Gordian amount of straps in and out of the boot it was on. Andy arrived and with kit loaded into the boot we were onwards picking Pete up on the way arriving at the car park in good time.
All unloaded and geared up there was still no sign of Amy or Martin. Pete wandered of to the other waste ground to see if they were there. As Pete pedalled just out of site I had the thought to check my phone and sure enough a text message from Amy awaited:
“Hey Al, we’re shit I know but Martin the Spaz ran out of diesel so were running late but are on our wayâ€
Not too long after they arrived and all ready we were finally off. Despite the fucking monsoon like rain we’ve had lately the fields we were rocketing down were very dry and we we’re all gathering grateful speed.
As is inevitable round these parts the descent had a climb to follow and before I could start moaning about I was ascending steadily. The others pistoned away to the horizon and middle ringed to the summit. “Where’s the fire?†I queried after I caught up.
Next up was Keeper lane. In convoy we all bounced our way down over the broken ground and I tried to pass Andy a couple of times but his erratic line choice soon quashed that idea. Grins in place at the bottom we followed the path contouring the stream and in the space of four days the ground had firmed up phenomenally.
This particular ride we’d only done once before and it had been considerably damper than now. Following Pete’s rear wheel up, down, twisting and snaking through the singletrack it was very clear to all that this was going to be a lot of fun for the next few dry weeks of the great British summer. Martin has said a few times now that we only have two seasons in blighty; Winter and August. I fear he may be right.
In the final zig of the zag in this section Amy was startled by a LBO (Large Bovine Object) staring down at her from the other side of a rickety barbed wire fence. To be fair it was big old beast, it was quickly decided we should move away from the bull although Andy seemed to think it was a cow. After we asked him to go milk it for us then he rapidly changed his mind and we pedalling once more. Attempting the next short struggle of a hill Sunday’s little off came into play as the chains shifted from the top of the cassette to the spokes depositing me on the handle bars and switching both lights on in the process. With the easiest cog of the cassette a no-go now we followed the long grind out of the woods to the tarmac of Tyersal. Once there we had a quick fettle with the mech but nothing was doing so we rattled on down past the farm with yet more cattle staring out at us.
Through the gate and it was a white knuckle blast to the next shallow stream followed by a horrible granny ring leg burner to the top. After Amy snaffled the last energy bar from my camelbak we were rolling again; tailing Pete through the rolling double track woods. I was feeling good in my bike handling but fitness wise I was suffering.
Starting the long climb to the Bankhouse pub I tried for the easy gears without thinking and any rhythm or momentum I’d gathered in the first few yards ebbed away. So with a long face and a curse or two drifting into the evening sky I started the long trudge upwards. As the light spray of a rain shower hit my face I could nothing but smile.
After catching up to the others it was time to take revenge on the hideous tarmac climb we have to defeat when we do this ride in reverse. With a large amount of glee I fired down the steep road and coasted to the bottom of Post hill only turning the cranks once or twice. I like to call that the Pie or Gravity advantage.
With a full on Fat Lad sulk in progress I muttered something about mojo/ tired legs and waited at the bottom wile the others climbed to the top to play their way back down. While I wondered around trying to keep my legs from cramping up I watched an Owl stalking the smaller birds through the twilight leaf cover.
By the time everybody was back to the bottom the night was drawing in and we only had two sets of lights between us. Once more we skirted round the precarious edge of another stream and with the recent growth spurt of the foliage it was a little hairy in places. Crossing the main road into Cockersdale woods we had a short sharp awful gravel climb and we followed Pete very closely into his new sneaky section. With dense leaf cover and the previous week’s monsoon it was a tight twisty but very slippy affair with Andy sliding out in more than one corner. With a few stile traversed and even more turns of the cranks we were out of the woods on our way to the pub.
Rather than getting to the cars to gear down we hit the pub in full lycra (poor bastards who have to see me stuffed like lumpy mashed potato into a tight sock). Amazingly not a single head turned nor an eyebrow rose as we got to the bar. Too many times we get to some watering holes and it’s exactly like the scene in the slaughtered lamb in American Werewolf in London. (Stay on the road. Keep clear of the moors.) So it was a nice change to get a drink and get a tray of chips for the Pootle crew and not just deranged stares.
After a swift drink it was time to put cold wet helmets back on and pedal the short distance to the car for home.
Fat Lad
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