Fat Lad’s Missing Mojo

Sneaking away early from the daily grind Mrs Fat Lad and I perused a new gaff for us to cohabit. It's rather nice and we sorted all the paperwork there and then. Mrs Fat Lad will tell you all sorts of things about central heating, double glazing, gardens, blah blah blah but what sold it for me is the garage..... My very own workshop/hideaway/batcave... I wonder how cheap I can pick up a workstand for?

Back at our current abode I cooked up some pasta and pancetta for us both and after devouring the product I couldn't seem to get going. On a usual Tuesday night I can be observed rocketing round the house at 90mph cleaning chains, filling camelbaks, getting changed etc but tonight I was perfecting the arse grooves in my favourite chair.

Leaving things until last minute as always I eventually pulled on my jersey and squeezed into my riding shorts. Although, it was too much to hope for me to get the spare chain from the container of degreaser, clean and put on the bike. The one snaking through my cassette and chainrings would have to suffer for a few more miles yet.

Sticking my head out of the door I rapidly re-entered the house to redress, the two weeks of British summertime had visited us briefly with warmth. I trundled up to Pete's and upon arrival I demanded to know what he'd done to the weather. He mentioned something about it being just like the winter only without needing our lights.

With the rain falling and the football on it was only the party faithful out. With the grim skies above we set off sharpish and arriving at the cricket club (after MartinGT nearly deposited himself in the stream) we decided to cut out Haigh woods with no riders bringing lights.

We followed the path by the club and as a result of the recent rain the high edges of quarry had avalanched down blocking the route. Gingerly climbing over the rocks and mud we eventually got onto the bikes and we pootled on once more. The rest of the path was really overgrown and I was glad for the long sleeves of my rain jacket. Emerging at the top and onto the tarmac of Quarry Lane Pete had to break the news gently to my fragile mood that he'd dropped a bollock taking us up the hill by mistake and we'd have to descend the remaining tarmac to get to the tip section. With a grumble or two from me we made our way back to the recon mission and were soon at the narrow gate squeezing my lard arse through limited space with a grimace. With either the descent to the ruins or the “long-cut” ahead of us it I declared “fuck that!” and quite clearly not feeling my usual self we scooted on. Heading down from the ruins to the stream MartinGT finding himself in a literal (rather than my metaphysical) rut cartwheeled over the bars producing a fine claret from his leg.

Amy not wanting to be outdone, at the next steep banking toppled over backwards after not making it and also not managing to unclip. At “Amy's path” it was Keith's turn to say“fuck that!” and again we were on the main path pedalling along. Heading up the climb to Birkby Brow I was feeling strong but just couldn't push myself to do it quicker. I wasn't tired but my get up and go had got up and gone. I plodded on as the other pedalled a little in front of me chatting and enjoying the evening. Entering Knife Edge woods in the solitary ray of hope for the night I sailed through the off-camber challenge of roots and rocks without a single dab. From there, all that remained to be conquered was the delight, once more I felt strong but couldn't find it in myself to push hard.

By the top of Brownhills all that was left to do was congratulate MartinGT on his improving pace and scoot off home to to get changed for a drink at the pub.

Fat Lad

Footnote:

Fat Lad's missing mojo was later found on the very same trails two days later and also a new found quicker pace to join it.

Fat Lad's Multi-Media Extravaganza

Recently, the Pootle crew have gotten into the habit of having longer rides upon the sabbath. I'm not sure I approve but I tag along anyway. All these miles are improving my fitness no end and narrowing the waist some what. However, I have a reputation to maintain. I think an athletes diet of Pies and Black Sheep is required to restore me to my former glory...... Anyways this week for our weekend jaunt (on Martin's suggestion) we joined together the Reservoir Raid with the Middleton Mosh.

All in all it was a cracking ride but with little to write home about. In the woods there is and awesome little basin play area/jumpspot where we stopped for our usual play. With gorgeous sunshine providing awesome lighting it was time to play with the video function on my riding camera.

First up was Martin:



Good approach speed and with the right balance he nails it.

Next up was Amy:




A little nose dive but quite daring all the same with rubber leaving the ground. So... that only left the Fat Lad. We've been here quite a few times before, and today, like all other days I can hold my own. That is, until I had the camera pointed at me:



Completely spooned it. I was lucky to stay in the bleeding saddle.

All in all we did 18 miles this morning with smiles all round! The Oxenhope ride I mentioned in the comments below has gone from the loose ramshackle assortment of neurons and synapses I call memory, but, fear not dear readers we are to be there this weekend again while the rest of the Bad Brains are to be at Mountain Mayhem.

Stay Tuned

Fat Lad

Fat Lad Cleans His Bike

For other, perhaps even more worthy, cycling/MTB journals this wouldn't merit more than a throw away sentence. A few discarded words of soapy routine maybe, but a whole post? Definitely not.

You all should fear for the very existence of the universe and the fabric of the cosmos itself. That's right Fat Lad has cleaned his bike. I don't mean the usual rinse down with the hose it gets every week or so, but a real life, honest soapy water, sponge and bucket job:



Don't adjust your monitors those really are my shorts.

So in a few short hours it went from this:








to this:



href="http://www.bigalsplace.co.uk/fatlad/gallery/cleaning/06.jpg">

href="http://www.bigalsplace.co.uk/fatlad/gallery/cleaning/07.jpg">

Mmmm Shiny. I even turtle-waxed the mother-feckin frame. Don't worry dear readers this is not to become a regular fixture.

On pulling out the trusty steed from Roachy's van on the Sunday moring jaunt from Oxenhope, Amy summed up the sentiment of everybody present:

"Bloody hell. It's clean"

Footnote:

I asked Big Worm on Juancho's Blog the following question:

Dear Big Worm,

I often get criticism from my fellow pootle crew riders about the cleanliness of my bike. Although mechanically sound it has a fine veneer of mud and is what I would call Trail decorated. Big Worm, sometimes, their words hurt.What should I do your holy-invertebrate-ness?

Fat Lad

And got the response at the link above. Strange how these things come together.

I now ask, nay, demand that you add Juancho's Blog to your rss feeds/bookmarks/favourites whatever as it's like a transatlantic mirror of these here parts and is consistently well written.

You have been instructed,

Fat Lad

Fat Lad rides the Tyersal Treat

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 way”
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