Fat Lad Wishes:

Anyone who has come to this muddy part of the t'interweb a very Happy Christmas!



and a little ditty for you:

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Seven riders falling,
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eight hills a-hurting,
Seven riders falling,
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Nine Roadies prancing,
Eight hills a-hurting,
Seven riders falling,
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten "Rad Dudes" leaping,
Nine Roadies prancing,
Eight hills a-hurting,
Seven riders falling,
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eleven Club lads riding,
Ten "Rad Dudes" leaping,
Nine Roadies prancing,
Eight hills a-hurting,
Seven riders falling,
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And A Fat Lad on a full bounce.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve Pootlers Pootling,
Eleven Club lads riding,
Ten "Rad Dudes" leaping,
Nine Roadies prancing,
Eight hills a-hurting,
Seven riders falling,
Six Knobblies Rolling,
Five Chris Kings,
Four Inch O' Mud,
Three rides a week,
Two Smelly Gloves,
And a Fat Lad on a full bounce!

Happy Christmas

Fat Lad

It must be Christmas...........

This post is for all the Bad Brains boys and girls that Fat Lad normally rides with!

A couple weeks ago at the Bad Brains 15th Anniversary party (which a certain husband has yet to write up!!!) Fat Lad won a prize, a very special prize, that's right he won the Kim and Aggie prize for the dirtiest bike in the club!

Now some of you will have noticed that Fat Lad's bike is never the cleanest bike, in fact it is safe to say that he doesn't have a post ride cleaning ritual - even though he is slightly autistic in his pre ride prep (helmet, gloves, bandana - repeated several times as he rushed round the kitchen)!

In fact his bike can go a number of rides in between cleans!

So just to prove that it does happen every now and again I give you Fat Lad cleaning his bike!!

This is the part where Fat Lad discovered that he had broken spokes on both the front and back wheels, he was not a happy little cyclist!




And this is just to show how bad the bike actually was before Fat Lad washed it..

Fat Lad washing his bike........it must be Christmas!

Fat Lad Rides Through The Freezing Fog

Firstly lets get something out in the open. At the time of writing I have a stinking hangover and if the words themselves don't shout "No really Al, you should of stopped drinking about two hours before you did", then at least only one of us is miserable and dehydrated.

Secondly this post's title is almost Harry Potteresque.

Onwards to the meat of the ride:

Friday was the Work Christmas do. I drank. I drank a lot. Then I drank some more and at some point Mrs Fat Lad coerced into our car and she very soberly drove us home in the early hours of the morning. Prior to this by a few days I had organised to go to the Peaks with Gunner to sample the steep climbs and technical descents that the rock strewn valleys have to offer.

Stumbling out of bed after barely finding the required dexterity to silence my alarm I swayed all the way to the bathroom and back and it was time to make a call:

"Gunner, I need a lift mate I'm still drunk...."

Postcode supplied for a stern voice to guide him to casa Fat Lad and I wandered down dressed to the kitchen for something sweet and stodgy to soak up some booze. Gunner arrived far too soon for my addled mind to cope with and we went into the Batcave so I could start getting ready. I text stAn to see if he was still going and when I'd not heard from him for a while I used my chunky charm to talk Gunner into a local one.

I quickly whipped out a flat tube and deftly for a man still inebriated installed a fresh one. Chatting to a saintly patient Gunner I heaved on the track pump and the pistol crack bang alerted us to the now exploded tube. Again my wobbly digits put in another rubber and this one didn't wake any neighbors.

At a quarter to ten my mobile shrilled with an incoming call. It was stAn. Already at the South Yorkshire meeting point. Oops. I groveled a bit but not anywhere as near as much as I should have and with rosy shame filled cheeks Gunner and I finally headed out for the trail.

A short burst and we off the tarmac across our first dirt fix. The ground was concrete hard confirming the -2 Celsius Gunner's car had reported on his arrival. The fog was thick reducing visibility to only a few feet and my fingers hurt as the two pairs of gloves only succeeded in keeping the edge off. I was desperate for the blood to reach my digits. We headed up the hill into Tingley staying off the road and sticking to the pavement the mist surrounding us and with neither of us having a blinking red light to protect us from bleary eyed motorists it was for the best.

Finally onto the trail proper we dipped through the bobhole and rolled round the reservoir. Taking advantage of the very frim ground I had to smile as we rumbled down a field that is known to us locals as DSFT (Ask in the comments I'm sure a pootler wil explain) not having to fishtail as usual down the sliding mud.

By now the hooch had finished and the hangover was kicking in properly. I was feeling very sorry for myself. We took the high path threough Haigh wood avoiding the doubles and bike play areas for the local kids. In vain I hammered at the cranks to climb the steep bank out but failed when I managed to unclip and twat my knee against the handlebars. Now my head and knee were both throbbing.

Out of Haigh wood and heading towards the church we rocketed down the firm field and cranked up through the churchyard Gunner's form disappearing into the mist as he gained on me.



Past the ruins I made the decision to use the cowards run bypassing the stream crossing. What the cowards run loses in technical descending it makes up in speed. With visibilty so low even the electrical pylon we passed by seemed to loom out of nowhere like the lower leg of a Ted Hughes creation. Making the most of the solid ground the Better-Climb-Than-Descent was not the usual nightmare slop for this time of year and we carried on straight through the woods heading for the tarmac horror of Nab Lane. After spinning the granny all the way to the summit we stopped for a bite of energy bar and Gunner informed me with a certain amount of sadistic glee that he could smell the whiskey on me. My stomach lurched once more...



I struggled through Knife Edge woods laughing as both of our steed's tyres failed to attain grip on the slippery ice covered roots. The feeling sorry for myself mood reached it's full strength and I just wanted to be at home with good cup of tea and some paracetamol. Crawling up the delight, for the first time in a long time, I had to stop for a breather halfway 'twixt top and bottom.

The last section of dirt rolled under our tyres and the frozen stalks of grass flower stopped me dead with their skeletal beauty:



I coerced Gunner into tarmacing it back to base and after coasting most of the road descent home it was was time for the kettle to go on.


Fat Lad

Now if you really want to read tales of ice filled, bone chilling, true winter ride you need to check out these guys:

Jill - Up In Alaska
Tim - Bicycle and Icicles

Fat Lad's Mojo Crash

There are many things that can be said about me. Most of them derogatory and nearly all of those true. But one word would never been able to come from anybodys lips:

Uncommitted.

That is, until now.

I am so unmotivated it's beyond funny. Two weeks of illness combined with the sudden and downright bloody miserable winter and I've sat astride my suffering bike only twice. Both those times were sullen hours of snap-free quads and empty reservoirs of necessary forward momentum. My get up and go has got up and gone. I have details of your very own chunky cyclists award winning evening but that too dwells in the cyberspace dank well of absent-drive.

This needs remedying before it's too late. The lure of the XBOX is calling and I must ignore it's siren call of cheap adrenalin fixes and warm living room contentment.

Perhaps the lure of a new route will reel me back into the fold of the always forgiving (if less than gently mocking) Pootle crew and I can get my winter riding back on track.

Whose with me?

Fat Lad