Fat Lad Rides Dashing Dave's Delectation

While the-soon-to-be-Mrs Fat Lad was somewhere in deepest darkest Wakefield confusing the wedding dress lady with her ever shrinking waist, I was firing across the M62 heading towards a far too early rendezvous with Picky and Dave for trails of the unexpected.

Sitting in the car drinking in the tarmac and pre-fab glory of modern British service station chic my phone began to ring with Picky's number glaring from the screen and tinny speaker. They were running late haven taken a wrong turning, this worried me as the man in charge of the wheel in that particular automobile was to be leading the ride ahead...

After our lost souls had ventured into the overpriced strip lit hell to junk food-up for the ride challenges ahead, we assumed convoy and hit the roads for a long drive north. Leaving the multi-laned monstrosity of the motorway my wheeled cage was running on vapours, I radioed ahead my slight dilemma to the metallic blue dot on the horizon and we luckily found a petrol station. I swear the car hissed as I removed the fuel cap. There was a few more miles of pent up ride desire ahead but we finally arrived in Kepwick; heart,lungs and legs raring to go.

The ride started with a gentle spin through the lovely village of Kepwick but the beauty of rural north Yorkshire village life soon faded into a tough and evil climb. Upwards for longer than be considered sane I pushed hard at the cranks mashing the pedals the chain stubbornly refusing to hit the smallest ring up front; bike and body mocking my exertion. Finally admitting defeat scarcely 30 metres away from the summit I manhandled it to the granny ring and span suffering no more to the top.

At our first breather Dave and Picky de-waterproofed and we headed out once again to the moor summit. The tarmac surface soon gave way to proper off-road track and the ride was finally on with the promise of brilliance ahead. Surprisingly quickly considering both Picky and I were out we hit our first summit. As Picky photographed everything in sight Dave whipped the map out for a quick bearing check and we were soon away for the rest of the ride. On the tops we followed the path and Dave's rear wheel with faith. After a quick about turn to get to the correct side of the wall we were following the right track. The ground was still wet but we were firing along at a good pace.

As reward for all the climbing so far we were soon pointing the knobblies down a steep narrow track. The path wandered down the hill side with little line choice I could see. My front wheel dropped over a lip and and I felt my rear wheel start to lift. Too late to release any tension from my kung-fu death grip of the front brake lever the front wheel jammed into the thin track ahead twisted and I was vaulted over the bars. I tumbled for a bit and then with a giggle and a smile I grabbed my steed and gingerly descended the rest on foot. My pride stung more than anything else and the two red socks who were waiting for Picky and I to reach the bottom declared "We knew you were okay when you started laughing...." All regrouped in the dry river bed we followed the remnants of this feature of geology past dodging limestone boulders along the way.

We were soon under a dense tree canopy splashing and whooping through puddles, summer tyres struggling for grip all the way. The ground was very soggy, we all commented, but then hastily retracted this as we realised the British weather had been remarkably good to us in Springtime and we didn't want to upset Mother Nature before summer could kick in properly.

Back on tarmac we were treated to a section Dave had rarely ridden before and as we left the road the devastation of the previous years floods became rapidly apparent. Great swathes of river side vegetation was gone, replaced with broken and rotten tree carcass' along it's now widened banks. A new bridge had been constructed over the river and I hung back to photograph the guys has they crossed ahead.



We climbed the sharp ascent aside the fields ahead skirting a farmhouse. As we cranked through the grounds a herd of inquisitive cows wandered over for a look and seeing only tow fat guys and a whippet in lycra soon ambled away again. We were now in sight of the moor ahead.

Riding across the moor was uneventful and the terrain unchallenging but the banter and laughs ate up the distance with ease. Standing erect on the horizon stood the radio mast tantalisingly close. Democratically Dave and I decided we grab lunch there and as the mild weather warmed our bones we followed the gradual climb of moorland further. Frustratingly the mast seemed to be getting no closer despite how many times we turned the pedals but eventually we arrived there and it was time to dismount for a feed.



As if to mock our earlier comments about the weather the wind had picked up now and so we dropped into a trench for shelter. We all caloried back up with Picky's choice of trail food being particularly inspiring. How a man can consume that many Mars Bars and not be 22 stone astounds me.

Our brief stop surrendered we hit the trails once more with a final amount of climbing on the moor to be finished before our next reward. Revealing a sight into his circus past, Picky vaulted the handlebars in a comedy dismount trying to transfer for one moorland rut to another. As I rolled past his prone and tangled body I was laughing so hard I nearly went over myself. Soon enough it was time to descend again.

This time there was a plethora of lines to choose from but they were all still just as challenging and technical. Dave was in his element firing down his home trails with a graceful ease hiding how hard it was to remain upright. Sky. Bike. Sky. Bugger I'd gone over the bars again. This one had snuck up on me. The trail gods had decided that was the moment I was be reacquainted with the ground again and in the process to bruise my knee with a bar end. At first I sat up and laughed it off but as quickly as the fall itself I felt a little dazed and for the remaining ride to come my confidence was seriously shaken.

Gingerly away form the dirt we rocketed down a steep road enjoying the buzz of tyres and tarmac through the frame and handlebars. All too quickly the road headed for the heavens and I had to really work the pedals as once more the smallest front sprocket eluded me. The wind that had started as a gentle and mild breeze earlier was picking up speed and ferocity making the unavoidable road work tough indeed. At an arbitrary point we pulled up and Dave informed us it was decision time. Here was an opportunity to bail out and with those words now uttered I replied "I'm not proud mate, my legs are fecked and I'd like the shortest route back please" We'd already had 17(ish) miles of hard climbing and descending and I was ready for a pint.

Back on the dirt we made our way up a short climb and headed into a forest. Thankfully that was one of the final climbs of the day and almost without realising we were picking up speed rolling down the wide hard pack of a Forestry Commission route. Zooming past a guy armoured up astride his down hill rig with helmet on bars (I guess waiting for his gravity buddies) I shouted back that I wish I was on his bike for this bit the doppler sound echoing through the trees.

All the fun was over and already fading into memory and we pedalled back towards the cars through gorgeous villages once more and both Picky and I cursed Dave with some choice words as we mashed the pedals back up an evil road climb. With a sad but tired heart we were back at the cars. In the pub the talk turned to more of these adventures and with honest promises we decided on more.

It had been an epic, and I couldn't wait to do more.

Fat Lad

Fat lad Rides the Birkby Brow Bash

Sunday morning and for once I’m out of bed, fed, watered and ready to go. I pootle up to the Mermaid chippy to meet Pete and his missus. Again I’m early and this is really starting to freak me out. I don’t do early. I’ve got a reputation to maintain…..

Pete and his better half turned up at nine on the dot and after a little while chatting we were off. We followed the road up to the turnoff and started lifting our bikes over the gate. “I’ve never seen this track on the map” Pete asked. “Ah, That’s because it’s a cheeky bridleway Pete fella…..a footpath mate.” I replied. “Oh well, not to worry!” was his response and with that we shot off down the track and across the motorway bridge. Despite the drizzle it was turning out to be a good morning. We turned right after the motorway bridge and through the small wooded area and after following the track a little bit further down hill to the top entrance of Birkby Brow woods.

We sailed down the singletrack winding our way to the main path and came against our first obstacle of the day. A knobhead. A clay pigeon shooting Knobhead to be precise. After arguing with him about rights of way and if indeed he could actually point out a path on a map we were off again. To be fair the Knobhead was lucky Roachy wasn’t there because I think he would have probably flattened him. He had a stinking attitude.

Back riding we got to the gate and we had our first puncture of the day. Mine. Feck. I hate changing tubes while I’m out. Being a *ahem* larger fella I can never get the pressure as high as I want it to be with my trail pump. Tube changed and tyre inflated we carried on over the road and onto the climb up to Howley Hall Ruins. I came so close to getting all the way up that I really pissed myself off when I didn’t. Next time, next time……….

At the top we all had a five minute breather and it was Pete who made a good point about the shooting guys. “They need all the support they can get now, You’d think they might be a bit nicer to people and try and get away form the image they already have.”

Back in the saddle and we followed the track down past Woodkirk Cricket Club and climbed up to the last bit of Off Road of the day. This is when I had a genius idea….. (I should know better at my age than to trust anything that comes out of my dark dismal mind….) Rather than following the path that we knew took us back home on the road… we decided to go left. Well in my defence it looked like the path carried on for a long way. It didn’t. It turned into a rather muddy field very quickly. I tried to remain upbeat and kept saying to Pete and his missus “We can’t be too far from the motorway bridge now…” After a fair old slog and some *ahem* creative navigation (Don’t ask) we got back to the main road. I think that everybody (including me) was starting to doubt my sanity with regards to that bloody motorway bridge. When we got back to the main road we could see it, probably about a mile away, at least I really wasn’t going mad.

I left Pete and his better half near where we’d set of from and shot off back home. On the way back I decided on a shortcut. The short steep cobbled hill that we sometimes climb right at the beginning of a ride was the goal, and I got there quickly. Without any hesitation or thought I flew down the cobbled hill way too quickly and when too lads turned the corner at the bottom I decided it was probably a good idea to slow down. So I squeezed the front brake.
Ever.
So.
Slightly.
Ouch.
I hit the ground with a real feckin clatter: rotated the handlebars back in the stem, landed really heavily on my arse and wounded my pride. The two lads rushed up to see me asking if I was alright and commenting that I was going way too fast. Cheers lads. After doing that “walking round in circles bit” when you fall I started laughing and so did they. I limped home the last half mile to a very hot bath and a cup of tea.

Fat Lad

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