Fat Lad Rides Again

* or alternatively “You’ve come a long way Fat Lad”

Colne Valley Mountain Bike Challenge

With a very large bowl of porridge washed down with a hot cup of tea I managed to just about leave the house on time with the car loaded up for the short journey to Golcar for my first go at the Colne Valley Mountain Bike Challenge. 30 odd miles in some of the hilliest terrain in West Yorkshire. The tagline of the event is “Are you tough enough?” well maybe… organised enough… erm maybe not. I got so lost on the way to the event navigating the back streets of Huddersfield badly. At 9:00 on the dot I got my number and hammered the cranks to the start straight. Luckily for me they were running late, always nice to start right at the back of the pack…

In thinking about the event and my recent less than stellar form I was aiming for a sub 4hr finish and in the few minutes standing round waiting for the hooter to go signalling the start of the suffering. A very very short downhill roll 90 degree’d into a steep cobbled climb; the perfect opportunity for the chain to drop off the top of the cassette and into the spokes. Marvellous. So at the back, malfunctioning bicycle and a very flustered Fat Lad remounted and cracked on.

The initial tarmac climb dragged on and on the first of many seemingly eternal climbs. At the first relief of a downhill section the pack was still well and truly bunched up, backmarkers as far as the eye could see… Not especially technical I passed a good handful of riders mincing their ways to the bottom. The next climb whilst not long was another cobble run this time saturated with running water. I think even with an unobstructed run I’d have struggled with it. So for not the last time that day I was pushing Elvis towards a summit. Before remounting I ditched the base layer to climb, climb and climb some more.

And so it went, some awesome descents more than outweighed by the evil bastard sons of hateful geographical climbs. I got to mile 10 seemingly without issue and cracked on after chatting bikes with a thoroughly nice bloke about my pace. At the first feed station I grabbed a banana as one of the trailside angels refilled my first empty energy drink bottle with lemon SIS. At mile 14, pushing up a soul sucking wheel dragging grass monstrosity with neither sight of rider in front or behind I had the only moment where I could have given in. There and then halfway up a field somewhere near Huddersfield I felt the lowest I think I’ve ever been whilst out on the bike. Pushing on, calves screaming I “had a word” with myself and at the summit I cruised through the farm to the next feed station.

“How you feeling kid?” asked the next trailside angel. I think my weary smile said more than words and helpfully offered up “This is your last chance to turn back” the clack clack of SPDs was my only reply. I’d just clicked over 15miles and there was no way I was giving up now. A 35mph belter greeted me on farewell form the feed station but it soon turned into more beast like ascent. All I needed to do was get to mile 20…

More short ups and downs see-sawed us along. One guy I had chatted earlier with having done this ride the year previous gave me warning for the climb up from the reservoir. Those words contained many an uneasy truth and I settled in turning the cranks always at the top of the cassette yet changing the key of the cranks from low to middle where strength and spirit allowed. Weather gods had not smiled upon the day, and the fantastically and quintessentially British word of Muggy has never been more apt. Somewhere along the 3.9 mile climb it started to rain. Gentle, caressing, welcome cooling earth bound droplets. I was blessed by the constant grey sky and was truly thankful. Nearing Wessenden Head I passed a smooth body of water, the mirror surface penetrated a million times over, nature pock marking the perfect glass finish as I turned my back desperate for some respite. With a heavy heart and heavier legs I had to get off and push with the last big summit of the day.

More energy drink inhaled I had a moment of recognition, deja vu informed me of a long tarmac descent ahead and after stretching out my hamstrings for as long as I dare the lightweight lurid rain jacket clammily stuck to my rain and sweat soaked forearms.  Another high speed road descent propelled me towards the eventual goal.  A very sharp left hander onto the trail greeted me with the smell of many cooked brakes. The wide many lined downhill was reward worthy of the feet earned previous and with the terrain allowing every rock became a kicker and I whooped, laughed and launched my the whole way down. Post stream crossing I removed the fluorescent boil in the bag layer and with a very saddle sore behind remounted. Four hours was coming up and I still had over seven miles to go. Four hours was a distant dream and I was in this purely to finish now. Every climb now was an affair for Granny and I; winching my self up all but the most gentle of climbs.

The best description of body and mind coming to the last sixth of the course could have euphemistically been called survival. At mile 25 there was the last feed station, refusing simple sugars all day I wolfed down the offered Club biscuit.* The smiling face of the trail angel told me I didn’t have far to go and shouted energy fuelling words of encouragement as I pedaled away.  More tarmac ingested through the knobblies fired me on and after one more sharp left it was the last off road climb of the day. My legs were gone, but I knew I could do nothing more but finish. The trail gave way to road and even that now was beyond my pedalling ability. Even the descents were now wearying.  Past the Golcar Lily pub spinning on the flat a gaggle of children dressed for wedding reception cheered me on and even mock pushed me along as I struggled on.

The last off road of the days was a narrow lane descent rutted and worn rugged with passings of generations of trail users before me. Burning brake pads cooling off post steepness the despair inducing site of another climb was all I needed to turn the air blue with the sheer volume and ferociousness of my foul language.  That was it, all but done the GPS ticked down the last few markers.

29.4 … Just

29.5 … a

29.6 … few

29.7 … pedal

29.8 … turns

29.9 … more

I saw the finish sign and rolled past the cricket club to the finishing tent. the digital clock displayed my pain numerically; 4hr 58min.  Despite the elation of finishing I couldn’t help feel disappointed. I know I can be faster, I know I can be a better rider…

And then I dig through Mrs Fat Lad’s pictorial history of our life together. I remember how big I’ve been, I understand how slow I was, and I know damn well I ain’t ever going back. 4491ft of climbing in 30.15 miles, the man above would only have ever answered “aye, alright…”

Finally time for some thanks:

• Pete for installing my Chris King headset Mrs Fat Lad bought for me in New York a little while ago…
• Bike Shed in Scisset for whilst-I-waited shock bush replacement making the back of the bike lovely and rattle free again
• TF Tuned for servicing my Fox forks making them as supple and awesome as when they were new  and of course
• CVMBC for hosting the event. the money raised from the event goes to support the 39th Parkwood Scout Group and Leymoor Cricket Club, Golcar.

Fat Lad

*What my Mum would describe as a fridge biscuit.

COLNE VALLEY GPX

With the end of February rapidly approaching I’d not got a ride planned for the “not-a-new-years-resolution-honest” big ride a month. Local legend and all round nice chap Ackworth Dave stepped in and volunteered to lead us astray round the hills on the North Yorkshire moors. So 28th February arrived and so did quite-fit-for-the-new-guy  JT with his van to take us to the hills.  With Dave picked up, bikes loaded and seemingly enough kit for scaling Everest between us we took to the motorway.  On the drive over it turned out that JT had also grown up around North Yorkshire too and it was my turn to listen as my compatriots reminisced the trailhead commute away.

Pulling up outside Kepwick Village hall, the familiar site of a Bad Brains Jersey swung into view behind the steering column of the approaching car as Emsworth Steve arrived too. There was surprisingly little faff and very quickly we mounted up and headed off. The day before my anticipation was high and my prep included fettling the bike and eating an absolute ton of shit food. The perfect set up for a long day in the hills…

We rolled through the road of the village the tyres buzzing loudly in our ears. Very soon the climbing began and it was up, up, UP! I cleared the first section through much gratuitous use of the granny ring already Dave, Steve and JT were ahead of me and we regrouped at the first gate. Stopping to empty my bladder, Dave’s camelbak bladder had done exactly the same too. Barely a mile done and he had already lost half his water for a long day ahead. We remounted and set off , barely a few yards pedalled and Dave’s chain snapped. Steve rooted about in his Camelbak for a power link while Dave set about getting the dead link out. JT is a come back to the sport so he hovered over Dave’s shoulder whilst the drivetrain operation was performed to learn something new. In the saddle it was climb climb climb again eventually reaching our first summit of 659 feet in 1.6 miles.

Breather done with the trail finally headed back towards sea level the track a touch muddy in places but not at all bad considering the time of year. Running the descent with the dry stone wall parallel to us the trail got steep and narrow using Carol’s mantra of “Be brave!” I had a go at the track that had defeated me all the other times before. Still defeated I dismounted after a near AOT* moment. I’ll be brave next time. Catching up to the other more confident riders in quite literally the valley floor. Rolling over the wet flat path JT pitched himself over the bars exiting one of the stream crossings. We all delved deep into camelbaks to grab a quick bite of energy bar and then it was another brief but steep climb for us.

JT’s somersault turned out not to be without incident, the mech hanger was no longer as true as it had been in it’s best days so adjusting it best we could trailside we were going again soon enough. That is, until his chain snapped. This was not turning out to be our day. We all snapped to the repair installing a power link as quickly as four blokes can and we headed out for our first screaming descent. The never-dry-even-in-August woods were, unsurprisingly, a little sloppy; sucking the speed from our wheels in sporadic bursts. Overcoming these pockets of filth with quick out of the saddle sprints we got to the screamer. Fast, steep, technical but oh so rideable the speedo on the GPS spat out numbers that would make me grin on the skinny tyred steed. Sadly it couldn’t last for ever and the buzz of trail gave way to the hum of tarmac. Not long on the road we cut left to cross the new wooden bridge. Over the arch Dave and I braved the stream crossing whilst JT and Steve decided to try and keep there feet dry. Wimps.

The height lost on the screamer had to be re-earned. Heading out to the porridge soft field climb we found a sheep skull upon the ground. With the club leader and his unhealthy obsession with all things boney not present I handed the soul stealer over to Dave to take this tasteful shot with the remains of one of natures humble creatures.

Laughter finished with we ground our way up the soft slog. Dave and Ste steamed ahead as JT and I had to admit defeat and push from about halfway up. With such a lead on us tail end charlies he had stopped to get a shot of me and JT forcing the handlebars up the grass. Unfortunately for the speedy one I spied his intentions and mounted back up before he could get the photographic evidence of my lack of fitness. However once we all stopped I got this shot instead:

My legs were really feeling the worst of the height gained and I grimaced just a little as we set off again. Crossing the moor we crossed the worlds least travelled road and headed out towards the mast. The climb that takes you past the mast is long and one of those ascents that never actually going uphill it just feels like a rear flat.  On the tops the mist had rolled in and even when the long drag had finished and we were less than a few hundred feet form the tower it was still to all intents invisible.  At the summit of the moor we stopped for lunch in possibly coldest wettest place on ride,with sated appetites but cold limbs we remounted and started the next descent. Each path was a rain worn maze of tough lines and football sized rocks, with each foot of trail getting steeper and more technical still. It was at this time that my rear caliper decided that this was the opportune moment to stop working completely and with every desperate squeeze of the lever to push more fluid out onto the rear rotor. I caught up with guys soon enough and we squelched over the moors to the next section of grateful solid ground.  Catching a breather we stopped for a fettle with the rear of my bike to find that despite there being a distinct lack of any fluid in my braking system the rear brake was binding quite badly. So,with fecked legs and brakes we were only a few yards from the best descent of the day. Fairly wide with yet only a few line choices it was long fast and fun. Dave had been given the head start and my camera to get some action shots of us riding like the bike gods we are. *ahem*

The endorphins of descent soon metamorphosed into lactic suffering ascent too soon as we swapped the dirt divine for a road grueller . I realised by now that my legs were completely cooked and all I could do was settle in and watch the gap between my front wheel and the guys steadily widen. Ste dropped back like the all round fantastic chap that he is and chatted with me to the eventual summit.

The snaking climb back to nirvana relinquished it’s hold on my aching limbs and we stopped for the briefest of moments, time only enough for me to inhale a gel. Then it was onto the trickiest climb of the day. The climb in itself starts of fairly inconspicuous, reasonably steep not all that technical but lurking round a bend it gets steeper yet and then it gets rocky. Starting with baby heads graduating all the way up to slabs of jagged steps that will defeat all but the strongest and most skilled rider. Suffice to say as the the other three lads shot away, I didn’t clear it. At the summit of this stone soul killer there was only one more long climb up the unforgiving moor path. Dave pointed out a parked 4×4 about a third of the way to the horizon promising us all this was the cut off for the last descent and our eventual way home. Long after we had passed said vehicle and the end point becoming my very own Sisyphean task I started to doubt Dave’s parents marital status around the time of his birth. With a huge sigh of “thank feck for that…” we reached the last top of the day we cut left rolling down a boggy path interspersed with the odd section of rocky outcrops.

The Kepwick Killer is club favourite now and I’ve suffered through it a few times now and the path we were following was unfamiliar to me. It turned out it was also unfamiliar to Dave too as with a shout and squeal of sharply pulled brake levers he stopped just before the path disappeared down a cliff face. Turning round we found the correct last piece of descending brilliance and with speed and smiles we shot out back to our awaiting cars. We climbed a total of 3034 feet burning 1803 calories in the process and boy did I feel each and every one. JT legend that he is had brought quite possibly the world’s most moist cake and with no manners required or requested in devoured it as I sat on the village hall step my legs buzzing and aching with the disappointments and achievements of the day already gone.

Fat Lad

* That would be Arse Over Tit moment…