Behind the New Inn halfway up Churwell hill basked in the dim glow of the dim outdoor lighting the pootle crew already present followed their own pre pedal routines for the ride ahead. Waiting for the stragglers to show, Jim was off firing up and down the hill getting some early ride training in. On one of his runs he bumped into Pootle crew veteran Roachy who has been sadly absent from the Tuesday crowd for far too long. Out on his own, building his missing fitness back up; he briefly spoke to Jim and was away into the dark ahead of us.
Pete rocketed into the car park; carrier bag dangling from his bars stuffed with cake and post pootle clothes. On Sunday’s ride I bonked in a huge way and if Jim had not donated me a full bottle of his Torq drink it would have taken me a hell of a lot longer to granny-spin all the way home than it did. Jim mate, I owe you one! I dug out the cleaned bottle from the pit of my boot and threw it back to our resident semi-pro XC whippet.
All eight riders finally ready to go we set off twenty minutes later from the car park (cheers Phil). Crunching out of the car park my rear mech could not be persuaded to shift in either direction. A few brutal bunny hops later and it was grudgingly persuaded to behave. Off the tarmac and onto the dirt the steep banking pointing at the motorway underpass that usually vexes me rolled under my trailrakers without a dab nor an unclipped sole. In the field at the bottom the mud was inches deep and it was a heart crushing rhythm of pedal one revolution with grip then slip five more. The bog of misery behind us I caught up with two of our riders pussy footing round a tied up horse. As they finally traversed the tethered equestrian animal I rode past muttering something about “townies†into the brisk night air.
Firing down the double track past Rooms Farm I could spy in the distance the faint blinking of Roachy’s rear led. Taunting us from the top of TFI it only reminded me of the hills ahead to tear my legs and lungs to ragged bits. Everyone regrouped it was time to climb TFI. And just like that†“; I was at the top, all done, hill taken in my chubby little stride. Riders grouped up all that was left was for Picky’s chest infection to force a hill climb induced coughing fit vomit and we were off again.
We hit Cockersdale wood soon after, I pulled up at the back ready to tell Pete I was taking the steady ones on the top main path. My breath was saved as the lead pedallers had already bumped into Roachy who forewarned us all at the poor and very muddy state of the bottom path. We didn’t need telling twice and the group collectively rolled down the hard surfaced path to carry the pootle forward. Wheels, boots, hooves and time have improved this recent trail upgrade and a path once loose and joyless is now a swoopy haven of rolling tyres all seasons through.
Very steep stairs ahead we all dismounted and pushed on through the fishtail inducing gloop by Troydale beck. We all made it out to the foot of Post Hill without incident (well apart from a Classic Picky Comedy Dismount moment in the field – PICKY DOWN, REPEAT WE HAVE A PICKY DOWN, MEDIC!!) and the rushing sound of water hypnotically soothed my stressed and strained soul.
At the foot of the hill the four riders of the mockalypse headed into the dark woods for very steep and slippy climbing fun. Purely to keep those not fancying a go company (ahem) we waited in the layby for ten and then made a head start on the tarmac to get to Lumby Lane.
Lumby lane is a very steep tarmac street climb and has beaten much better riders than I on more than one occasion. I almost effortlessly got to the summit spinning away gobsmacked once more to be lacking that near death feeling. We tootled on to the threshold of the Moravian Settlement in Fulneck and waited for the fitter guys to catch up. Barely stopped my phone started to ring but with it being all snug in it’s waterproof pouch I couldn’t get to it in time. I rang the nuber back but the mysterious caller didn’t want to communicate any longer and with a shrug of my shoulders I re—snugged my phone and carried on chatting absolute rubbish with the assembled pootlers.
Pete led his merry band of Post Hill conquistadors up to us and he too had heard from the mystery night caller…. Roachy dispensing trail wisdom again warning us of a no-go climb by Rooms farm as the hedgerows had recently been strimmed puncturing his tyres on his ascent home.
Sapring no time we fired down the near side of bankhouse with a near over the bars dismount for me as I hopped a rain bar straight into a pothole. With my arse cheeks tensed and my adrenalin up we headed straight at Keeper with the goal in sight. Keeper was a monstrosity of slippy, grimy, gloopy, gritty gripless heartbreak. But, I was doing it, picking my lines carefully and giving every ounce of my physical and mental being into beating my own daemon ascent. Three quarters up and mere feet from where the path dries out the rear tyre lost all purchase and a very loud “Fuck†escaped my strained lungs into the Yorkshire horizon.
Nearly all regrouped at the summit Picky walked his ride to us and flipped it over to fix his front wheel flat. Taking this as a sign from the Trail Gods I made offerings of sour sweeties and hill medicine. All satisfied and sugared up we fired on trying to make some time back. Back into Cockersdale and I stormed the grin-fest downhill as fast as my yellow streak allows. At the main road the decision was made for us to tarmac it all the way home and so we set off cadence increasing away from the wet trails.
At the first crossroads I powered past the main group grabbing as big a gear as I could push hammering the pedals as hard as I was my cardiovascular system. Jim quickly caught up and we bantered a bit as my speed tapered off. All that was left was for another burst of speed from me, a little local trail knowledge and the fast descent to the pub.
In the warmth of the pub the banter flowed with the ease and smiles of the trail Theses are the times I ride for.
Fat Lad
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