Fat Lad Plays Catch Up

This time digitally rather than on the quagmired hills we call home.

Right then first up - The logs link on the left ( <- that way ) are up-to-date and free of annoying Memory Map feck ups. I know this because I have checked. Every. Fecking. One. Of. Them. So, now you shouldn't get the "do you want to import or skip position" pop up a million times with each route.

Also from a mapping perspective each of those files is lovingly being converted to GPX as well, so if you use something other than the quite brilliant Memory Map you'll be able to see my slow hill climbing too.

Next up. Alex of Pickled Hedgehog will be along soon to answer one of Mountain Biking greatest mysteries. At least he bloody ought to be as he whored himself out to...

If you're not reading his blog regularly then do; because it's bloody funny.

Lastly. On last weeks 'quite-simply-the-most-fun-I-have-had-on-a-bike-for-a-long-time' pootle, Pete went over the bars. The very same water filled crater that launched me over too.

"Bit deep that wasn't it Pete"

"Nah, it wasn't that bad" he replied "but I'm sure I heard somebody say g'day as my chin broke the fall"

Fat Lad

Fat Lad And The Death of Summer

We used to just call it the jump. Sometimes we might expand it to "the jump at miggy woods". A micro valley, a bombhole, with a smooth shallow transferring to steep run in with an equally tarmac smooth take off. It was our two wheeled playground. Regardless of skill any rider could become airborne merely by rolling the approach and kissing the sky when kicked off the lip.

Collectively the hours were clocked in. Airtime, crashes and singletrack runs filling our summer evenings and weekends. Time passing slowly in the way only youth fails to understand and treasure.

Sat astride a stupidly oversprung downhill bike, the taste of crusty salt on my top lip, skin painted with dust, the heat made the air still and comforting. Facing down the run in, lids hung over handle bars, the good news passed on before we set off to our spritual dirt home was being contemplated in tired silence.

"Charlie got that job." Only just sixteen and starting out on the long road head of 9-5 one of our crew had become the first to join the ranks of the drones. We hung together in post adrenalin calm. Riders, friends, brothers.

"Let's face it lads he aint coming back here anytime soon." We were right. The statement brutal in it's honesty. This was our last summer as children. By choice or circumstance it was the final time the group would roll the jump together. As the sun began to set and we made our way home, even back then I knew I'd witnessed the end of something I would spend the rest of my life trying to recreate.

Fat Lad

Fat Lad Wants to Know What He's Missing

On the left there is a link called blogroll. In there is all the feeds I subscribe to now. I reckon there's more good bike reading to be had out there.

What am I missing? Give me some links for further consumption dear readers.

Please.

Fat Lad

Fat Lad Goes Cold Turkey

Well, for a short while anyways.

Holiday to use up and the siren call of the far north luring us away from our fair city we drove to our favourite bolt hole in Scotland. But without the bikes. For the cyclists amongst us let me do that again in italics for emphasis:

But without the bikes.

We went to the outdoor capital of the UK. The site of the UK's only world cup XC circuit.

But without the bikes. Once more.
But without the bikes.

It was very relaxing. But a little like being a junky surrounded by mountains of skag and not a hypodermic in sight. It was also strange to not have grinding noises emanating from my knees each morn.

Sliding sideways down the latest trail to turn to part-grinding mulch I grabbed my re-addiction with both hands and a big grin.

Happy New Year All

Fat Lad