I owe this one to Gezz. For services to the pootle crew of the highest order of innuendo and dry humour.
Working now in the city centre getting home for a reasonable hour is entirely down to the winds of fate and red yellow and green roulette of traffic lights. I think I surprised Phil more than myself by getting home for a reasonable hour. Phil is now residing the wrong side of the Pennines and so using the changing facilities of casa Fat Lad on ride nights. I was ready and raring to go in record time and wandered into the bat cave to help Phil out with a minor fettle before we were due to leave. We had ages, more time than can be comprehended in mere mortal terms. We were late setting off.
My new(ish) but small car will happily do 70+ MPH on the motorway, but with the bike rack on; the slightest gust of wind tosses it around like a cork on the Atlantic. Five minutes later than the allotted start time and I finally parked up and started to get ready. Donning buff and lid I glanced round at the assembled throng and smiled when I saw the usual suspects plus a few new faces. I jumped on the steed and we all headed out for the dark.
Knowing we had to cross the sliproad entrance to a busy motorway had prompted Gezz to warn us all to bring rear lights. What he hadn’t the foresight to predict was the Amy factor. Dropping from the kerb to the road (a whole 8 or so inches) and barely 2 minutes into the ride her carbon bars snapped. Luckily staying upright and not getting mown down by two tonnes of hurtling metal she limped to the other pavement carrying the left part of the bars in her hand. With hunched shoulders and a miserable face she and Jim walked back to the car; their ride over before it had started.
Rob and I pedalled hard to catch up with the group closing the gap as fast as we could. Regrouping by the entrance to our first off road section I gave the guys the good news. stAn, ever the pragmatist decried “Couldn’t she have put a stick through it?” Before he could begin regaling us with tales of rigid forks and days of lurid lycra past, we set off again.
Bunching up for a head count in the first dark section of woods we gossiped and joked as Lynne and Rob caught up, their lagging explained with Lynne’s flat rear shock. Mechanicals bodged enough to get us round we were off once more. We flew down the wide path under and over the motorway the almost warm orange glow of industrial surroundings bathing us.
Climbing into Fryston woods the bone dry singletrack flowed and twisted ahead of us. Upon entering the the closely packed skeleton like trunks around us Gezz had impressed upon us the need to stick together in this eerie place. Naturally, this meant that Phil, Lynne, Rob and I got lost. Not for the last time in the evening Phil fell into the undergrowth trying to unclip. Once upright and after jovial shouts of direction we were part of the main group once more.
Amongst the tight and twisting paths Gezz lost his bearings closely followed by the rest of us. A few “Benny Hill”esque circuits later we were back on track but not before Phil went down once more. Dropping over the remains of the wall he was on the ground fast. I can’t tell you you the sound of a tree falling in the wood when no one is there to hear, but I can tell the sound of a Pootler falling always involves laughter. Everybody rushing to Phil’s side to point and laugh, I had time to get out the soul stealer and save this Kodak moment forever:
Out of the woods we sailed along for a little while the social refrains of the group drifting to the night sky. Bikes over our shoulders we pulled ourselves up the steep steps to the recently refurbished railway bridge. Almost silently we free-wheeled across the steel decking putting faith in the grip of our knobblies not daring to think about the lower than I’d hope fence on our right. Back along the riverside down from higher than I care to think about the night air was blowing through to our bones, more akin to midwinter then early autumn.
For a region of our green county not renowned for it’s hills we were greeted with another climb soon reaching the summit we marvelled at the fabled spot where Cliff had vaulted over the bars on a ride past; on the smoothest, non-technical piece of trail you are likely to come across. Through a couple of gate (night time bridleway) and we we’re on for an exceptionally sweet piece of singletrack. Off camber, rooty, twisting and up and down like a roller coaster, hit it right and all you have to do is hold on and ride it to bliss. Once regrouped the grins subsided as we had a short stint on the black stuff to our next fleeting moment of nirvana. The group strung along the climb we were paced by a car, unnervingly matching our speed all the way up despite our gestured waves to come by. Off the tarmac I was relieved to have the whole group away from “Christine” and back on the dirt.
We were spoiled one more with rippingly quick singletrack depositing the group in a picturesque village where the cars rivalled the house in value. Amongst the group legs and lights were fading prompting the good call to get us back to the cars. Back at the start Gezz had revealed a gem and for better or worse it is now part of the Pootle Crew repertoire.
Fat Lad
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