Fat Lad Rides Again

‘It wouldn’t be a Morley ride without dog shit, nettles and mud…’ an anonymous local rider.

It starts with tarmac, it  has to round here. Down the hill wind creating streaming eyes. Sharp left round the gate onto dirt. Broken glass, under-age outdoor drinking kids anti motorbike gates and onto the flowing stuff that leads to Lynne’s drop. Rooty, steep and fast.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

Down the old railway line paralleling the Leeds-Wakefield line. Wide crush and run under tyre rusting palisade fence to the left. Overgrown undergrowth to the right. Bare forearms bear the self harm of thorn and bramble. Over the bridge and past the burnt out historic hall.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

More black top. Too much. Lycra and baggy warriors bully our way across two lanes to stake the roundabout. Our waved thanks to the motorised caged is half felt and ungenuine. Too many near misses. It’s them and us.  Pebbles embedded in ill thought out waterlogged dirt. Upwards building character as we go crossing more train lines jumping the last three steps imagined freeride gods.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

Under the trees only gas, gas, GAS will see you clear. Off camber big roots and a step up on an ascent. It doesn’t relent still leaning right you lean left or slide down. The roots will have you. Big tyres make it. Bigger hearts destroy it.  A cut through the industrial estate only locals will know puts us into the real reason for heading out. The poorly tended crop whips at bare shins no line choices clear just speed and wind rush.  It’s here now. This is it. A sharp left. Don’t fuck it up. Go, pedal harder, more roots gun for the uncommitted. A small drop off through the trees. Jump to flat. Commit. Take the fun right line. Leave the left Strava line for the dead souled. Another drop, get it right. Hand of god acceleration in the small of the back to the kicker. Front and Rear rubber reconnect simultaneously. Seamlessly. The last lip. The last lurch of stomach mid air. The landing rolls you away. The good stuff is done. We’re just rolling home now.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

Fat Lad.ales

I am broken…..

6 weeks and 3 days ago I tumbled off my bike breaking my collar bone
and damaging my elbow and shoulder at the same time.

Sat in A&E I was not a happy chappy, in fact my mood got worse when
the doctors started saying things like I wouldn’t be riding again
until October – 4 months away.

So what did I do….. I decided that I wasn’t going to sulk about the
doc’s opinions on when I would pedal again and instead do something
with my time and hopefully prove them wrong

Seeing as I had spent the winter slogging my guts out riding through
West Yorkshires finest stickiest wettest mud in an attempt to get
fitter I decided that I needed to keep turning the wheels somehow.

Out came the turbo trainer, yep the dreaded turbo trainer. I decided
that I needed a challenge, something that would keep me motivated,
keep me focussed and sane

With all that in mind I announced on twitter that I was going to do a
turbo version of LEJOG, a mere 874 miles from Lands End to John O
Groats. At the back of my head a small voice wondered if I was daft,
it was a huge number of miles, I couldn’t reach the handlebars because
of my broken bones and in fact getting on and off the turbo was really
rather challenging.

What I hadn’t factored in was the fantastic people I chat to on
twitter, there was lots of encouragement, my fellow broken collar bone
twin @trio25 agreed to do the same on her turbo, @stickymitts and
@_rOcKeTdOg_ decided they would attempt to do the same distance on
actual bikes whilst I pedalled on the turbo inside.

So far I have ridden 82 miles so still a long way to go, I’m slowly
healing, plenty of physio sessions, lots of turns on the turbo even
though I still can’t reach the handlebars. All the time being
supported by Al who has in the last 6 weeks dressed me, made my
meals,cut up my food, driven me everywhere, sorted out my tears of
frustration and continually looked after me whilst I have begun to
heal.

Hopefully the sling will disappear this week, my collarbone appears to
be healing well, my shoulder is a bit more troublesome but we will
see. All I need to focus on now is more sessions on the turbo to make
those miles disappear and to get out pedalling properly.

Sarah (AKA Crash Test Dummy)

A friend of my father who drifted out of our lives as quickly as he’d  floated in; was a man of far out ideas and off kilter thinking. Walking the hills, the sun was shining with full beam nostalgia strength. Yomping across dale, short naive teenager flanked by taller years of wisdom, listens intently to conversation flowing naturally around him trying to keep up with the words as well as the pace.

“So, the earth has magnetic fields?”

“Indeed”

“I believe that all the ghoulies, apparitions and unearthly sights are simply strong emotion stored to the earth.A spiritual Match of the Day to Gaia’s betamax played on loop again and again. Ghosts stuck on repeat. Recordings of the soul”

“Right…”

It’s a conversation that in all the years of slowing synapses has stayed lodged firmly in my head. If it’s true what do we leave with every turn of the cranks on the trails? All the bits of trail haunted by my learning over the years, memorys shed all over the paths of the land. Do they play back? In the dead of night do whispy ethereal riders whoop down the runs leaving misty contrails from other wordly tyres?

Tyre tracks fade on . Our souls play in the dirt eternal.

Fat Lad

It’s all about momentum.

Descending your ally. Keep it on side; a little kick of the pedals here. A push of the bars there. So much comes from so little effort.

Ascending momentum a fleeting friend. Pedals turned smoothly carry the relationship for so long. But momentum will flee on all but the briefest of ups.

Sarah’s momentum stopped dead Thursday night. A bad roll of the cosmic dice robbed her all the forward motion gained.

Our current thoughts on the matter come to a slipped front wheel over rough terrain followed by a panic brake gave us the above result.

Watching your everything cartwheel at speed over the bars and ragdoll into the bushes is something I never wish to see again.

A clean break of the collar bone may have slowed Sarah down. So much has been gained. But her’s is a momentum that’s hard to slow yet alone stop.

Fat Lad