Let’s start this with a little bit of good news, Fat Lad has a new bike. It’s very light, it’s very quick and it’s very orange:
It’s maiden ride was at Sleepless and in hindsight riding a new barely fettled bike at an endurance event was not one of my better ideas.
With my latest motorised cage gone to the great scrapyard in the sky I’m back to local rides for the foreseeable future. With the club riding many miles away I was joining Pete and the Chip Shop Challenge Crew for the start of their Thursday jaunt.
In the last year, both Amy and Pete’s fitness has shot through the roof by riding with Jim. Back in the days when they were Pootle crew regulars I could barely keep up with them, now they are riding with a very fit endurance athlete and raising their game exponentially, all I ever see is the back of their jerseys heading over the horizon. I trundled up to Pete’s Home For Broken MTBers to find everyone in the kitchen in various states of readiness. Sitting down at the table I asked Pete where his crowd were going that evening so I could head off in the same direction and leave them to it. Pete replied “Where are we going Al? The wedding is finished you seem to be better; no excuses you’re riding with us tonight!”
Everyone ready and Pete, Amy, Jim and I headed out to the main road and stopped barely 200 yards from Pete’s house. Jim piped up to tell us we we’re heading upwards and internally I felt relieved. “Reservoir Raid” thinks I, “I should be okay even with these speed demons.” Hitting the tarmac we headed out at speed to the off road turn off, rolling down the farmers field at pace. We passed some one taking his hounds for a stroll and unusually Pete managed to sidle by with out any teeth marks in his legs. We carried on briskly heading up the short sharp climb to the copse and I had to stop at the top and tighten the bolt of my new grips. Like the muppet I am I hadn’t installed them quite a thoroughly as I’d thought.
With a few turns of the multi-tool and a few deep breaths we rocketed off again hitting Birkby Brow for the sweet singletrack descent to the floor of the woods. As we turned right and I fairy-ed down the steep slope it dawned rapidly that maybe we weren’t doing the Res raid after all. Lifting our bikes over the stile I locked out the front and rear and settled in for the steep evil tarmac of Nab Lane. It was painful but I middle ringed up and over heading towards the self assembling 7th level of hell of Ikea. Pete and I were nettled like crazy and we caught up with Amy and Jim aiming for Knife Edge woods.
Regretting not bringing a handlebar mounted scythe we battled through the overgrowth.Emerging through the dense wet summer encouraged foliage I watched the others shoot off (for a change). Heading for the fallen tree that has been my nemesis for a while now I muttered “commit” repeatedly to myself and managed to clear it catching neither my chain rings or unmentionables in the process. I promptly then slipped on the next section of roots losing all my momentum. Back on and mobile again I caught up without incident at the foot of the delight.
Fearing that if I stopped I’d never get started again I passed the whippets chatting away with a cheeky cry of “on yer left”. All too soon Jim shot past me thundering on his cranks. Pete wasn’t too far behind Jim and flew past, Amy sat in and span up the long drag with me chatting away. About a third of the way to the summit a real humdinger of a stitch decided to bless me with it’s presence. I grimaced and carried on upwards riding through the middle of the waiting Pete and Jim rolling out over Drighlington moor. On the flat my diaphragm finally decided to behave and is it left me in comfort it was replaced by cramp in my right calf. Joy. Pete stopped briefly to inspect his drivetrain and I leapt from the steed grateful for the opportunity to massage my painful lower limbs. Again before I could lower my breathing or heart rate we shot away. We rounded Gezz’s corner and as my increased tiredness started to affect my handling I over shot the next corner. I descended “the marbles” (an fun little descent full of broken, loose, fist sized rocks where my best technique is to hold on tight and hope!) and remember mid downhill to sit down and actually use the full bounce available to me.
We crossed Whitehall road and headed into Cockersdale wood, climbing up to Tong up the technical path Amy chatting away with me once more. At the summit in the shade of the hedgerow Pete and Jim deliberated where we were going next. I, with some dignity I might add, quietly died and hoped they would take a very long time to make up their minds. Sadly, after not much time had passed, we were mobile once more. We headed down a long fairly steep tarmac drop. Wind rushing past my ears I managed to reach a sphincter tightening 37 miles per hour but it still wasn’t enough to coast all the way to the top of the next rise.
We entered Post Hill via the up and over whoop inducing run-in and I sat in to granny spin all the way to the top. Slipping out again (fecking oem tyres) early on the rest was painful but steady away. With the briefest of breathers we launched down the berms and ruts of the descent earned and I bottled the slab in there despite encouraging shouts from Amy. At the last loose rocked bitch climb out of Post Hill I came the closest I have been in a very long time to giving up on a climb. Thighs screaming and lungs burning I hit the summit and rolled out to another tarmac climb.
Back into Cockersdale wood the horrid crushed rock surface may as well have been the north face of the Eiger for the way my legs were feeling. The guys shot on ahead and although I could have pushed a bigger gear I ambled along to catch up. Turning left to the muddy final climb out of the woods my mind rewound a bit and with a wry smile nostalgia took over. When all this started a few years ago, Roachy and I used to a have an 8 mile loop that took in this climb and it was a personal challenge to get up as far as I possibly could. I remember the first time I cleared it, Big Chris and Roachy patiently waiting for me at the summit, my lungs and legs were screaming and with my heart pounding I was like a dog with two dicks at a goal achieved. This time there was still people waiting for me atop the hill but instead of stopping and dying I carried on pedalling and dying.
I big ringed down Whitehall road cutting right in the twilight to descend TFI. I flew down the rough field riding much faster than my ability could comfortably allow for. We were on our way home now and after swapping bikes briefly with Amy (so she could try out my new grips) up Rooms lane we entered Dean woods. Back on my own steed Pete and I left Amy and Jim cooing over some kittens they has discovered by the stables. Pressing on we cranked through, heading out for the main road.I cleared a section for the first time and the only thing stopping me from achieving a clean sheet was Pete loosing grip on a climb ahead of me. All together in the orange warmth of the street lamps on the motorway bridge it was a short dash home ahead of us.
At the cobbled short sharp shock of a climb we loving refer to as Paris-Roubaix the run up was clear and staying fairly high geared I pounced out of the saddle and mashed my cranks with every joule I had left. Behind me I could hear good natured shouts and at the summit I found out that Pete nor Amy could catch me. The last tarmac mile home on aching legs was interesting but there was a cup of tea and many digestives to be consumed.
Sitting in Pete’s kitchen my entire body tingling with post ride buzz I treated everyone to a Fat Lad Rain Dance as cramp grabbed hold. I was truly fecked. Easily as fecked as those early rides with Roachy. Any do you know what? It was just as much fun…
Fat Lad
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