Fat Lad Rides Again

Thursday

The thing about holidaying with my wife is that because of her insatiable need to experience new things and see, well, everything I rarely get a lie in. “Let’s get up really early and go photograph the dawn. It’ll be fun…” Uh Uh? Alrighty then. So when the opportunity does arise I try and grab has many Z’s* as my tired fingers can grasp.

Unceremoniously dragged out of bed later (“You sleep too much…”) we headed out to try and experience some modern Americana at it’s worst: a shopping mall. We were told later that we visited the small one but to be fair that amount of consumerism was more than enough for my “one-firebomb-away-from-anarchy” mindset and the sports shop we visited plain old frightened me. It was like a mall within a mall bringing home two things to me:

1) I didn’t realise there were that many sports and

2) apparently there’s a market in selling equipment to all those sports in one place: “Excuse me young man I’m looking for Disc-Golf frisbee soccer boots” “They’re behind the shotguns between ice hockey masks and spelunking helmets. Have a good day y’all”. Despite being in the land of the free for over a fortnight that was the day of my first burger and it was mighty tasty, thought there were enough chips to feed eight normal sized human beings. Not one to be outdone I only ate half of them…

Shopped out we headed down to Lake Ella to take a stroll around it’s delightful shore, watching sun basking turtles and the myriad of small fish in the shallow lap of water in the glorious North Florida sunshine. Hoping to experience another local bike shop we wandered over to Joe’s to find it bare only a sign hanging declaring business back soon. Back in the artificial cool of the not-so-mini van we rolled down first to the supermarket to pick up some dinner for me and then over to the pharmacy to stock up. Several of the delicious sweeties we devoured over there are very sadly not available back home. We visited a few pharmacies in America and I found it quite bizarre that mostly there are very few pharmaceuticals but lots of everything else…

Well, the plan tonight is to show Alan around our northside trail system. I think we’ll meet at my office around 5pm, and roll from there. There is plenty of parking and it’s convenient to the trails. For those not in the know, the office is located just north of Capital Circle, on Thomasville Road. We’re directly behind the Popeye’s Chicken, fast food joint, in the south end of the Albertson’s/Books a Million parking lot. We’ve got nice weather, so if you’re up for a mountain bike ride, come greet our guest, and show him some of the crew hospitality.

BIGWORM

That was the mail waiting for us at the hotel and I wolfed down my pre ride fuel of champions: bagel chips and pasta salad. True athlete’s food at it’s finest. Mrs Fat Lad and I rolled to the start and as we arrived the late afternoon sun was still hot on the skin. Bug spray applied, lid atop my skull all I had to do was sort my tyre pressures out and I was ready. I let out air, too much, put some more in after begging a track pump from WB and finally I was ready. The rest of the Bike Chain crew arrived and while Sarah took every back road in North Florida to get home in the name of adventure we rolled out. Assembled at the car park was Wrecking Ball, Bigworm, Tyler, Cliff and myself. I was in for fun I could tell.

Clipped in cranks turning we railed across the parking lot and snaked through alleys heading out towards suburbia. With white picket fences, perfect almost unreal green lawns and lego like houses everywhere sprinklers spraying I guessed we were at our pick up point. We picked up Mark and his son Berg (known locally as “Iceberg”) in the all American neighbourhood and continued on. Negotiating traffic on your own turf atop two wheels is a subject commented on in many places with many words. Doing it in another country where the traffic at junctions comes from entirely the direction your not expecting it to add a whole new dimension of fun and expletives.

It was time, the trails were here. Legs warmed up everyone launched into the tight twisting turns with out abandon. I was glad of the softer tyre pressure as the roots under wheel battered body and bike alike. I was hanging in there best I could, never hitting anywhere near the front of pack but holding up the British end all the same. The pace was brisk, like a Bad Brains Club run but without the “have a minute” cries at each junction. The heat was still an issue for me, energy infused moisture seeped from every pore. In true Southern style the locals kept commenting how mild the conditions were.  Spat out at speed from the trees into a MTB playground. Up and overs, low log runs and the like inhabited an area the size of your average garden, once more misplaced patriotism shone through and I hoisted the front wheel up onto the short plank run. Little more than a foot off the ground back home I wouldn’t even dream of having a go, ” I’ve nowt to prove” is the standard get out clause of anything that might actually challenge my skills. But I rolled it without incident. Unfortunately Berg went flying over the bars getting over the log hop. Once we confirmed his good status the jibes common to any group in the globe started to flow too.

The guys bemoaned the next session ahead of us, and in truth whilst not up to the great standard of trails behind us, it was still tight twisting fun. Crossing parkland the bizarrest puncture I have had in fifteen years of biking occured. In a freak nanosecond my front tyre went from 40psi to flat in an instant. Slinging a new tube in not a nick, thorn nor any evidence of pointy inner tube death could be located.

Spoken about in hushed tones and with a certain reverence I was herded onto the secret singletrack. Unmanicured, unsignposted, unbelievably fun.  Smashing through trail debris, ducking low branches, rough ground it was like being back at home. Admittedly a lovely warm, dry dusty home.  Spat out onto the double track I rolled along with Terry and Cliff shooting shit and doing my best to try and explain the rules of cricket (an awful lot like baseball it turns out…) and some of the more interesting terms. We left dirt for the last time entering perhaps the richest neighbourhood I have ever seen, palatial homes lines the wide avenues roman columns and long drives conspicuously abundant. On the smoothest tarmac I have ever ridden on once more the front tyre deflated faster than a [insert your own innuendo here]. Last tube in, the tyre mysteriously free of any pointy or otherwise intrusions, we pedalled back to the car park. I had to grab a picture of Bigworms truck:

and with me and Terry both proudly wearing the BBMBC colours:

Being the short arse I am Worm had to lift my steed into the back of the pickup. The cooling night air flowed in the cab swirling and vortexing around us almost seamlessly with the reminisce and hopeful bike chat as Worm taxied me back to the hotel. Back in our artificial homestead I soaked in the bath in the bedroom as Sarah lounged on the bed. I think eventually we both managed to close our mouths once the VP debate’s jaw dropping playground level of discourse from the republican candidate had finished. Plans were afoot for us both to hit Munson the next day but sadly it was not to be…

Fat Lad

* That will be Zeds not Zee’s 😉

* A good slide into the new year – For a language that makes even the sweetest of things sound quite terrifying I think that’s quite ace!

Wow what a year. First some stats:

MTB Bike: 1313.53 Miles (of which 56.48 were in America 😀 )

Road Bike: 842.47 Miles

Not bad, not bad. It’s actually a teensy bit more but Garmin Training Centre crashed earlier in the year and my backup of the data was woefully out of date.

Next up, new friends. We knew going to America was going to be a trip of a lifetime, but to gain so many awesome people as new found friends has been a little overwhelming to say the least. Already we have a few people wanting to come and stay with us and I’ve said this before and mean it: If you end up in ol’Blighty for whatever reason come say hello there’s always, warm pies, cold beer and comfy beds for anyone visiting.

So to the year ahead. Time to get some more miles in me thinks. I really want to get into the running properly and get to a shape I’m 100% happy with.  Couple more things I want to get finished here on the site and we’ve got Mrs Fat Lad’s photo course to look forward to.

That’s it I think. Happy New Year y’all.

Fat Lad

Everyone, wherever you are, friends old and new, a very merry Christmas.

Fat Lad the pot belly rider,

had a very chunky arse,

and if you ever saw him

you might even say it grows.

All of the other riders

had to wait for him through the spills,

they never let poor Fat Lad

get his breath back atop the local hills.

Then one muddy pootle night

stAnley came to say

“Fat Lad with your arse so big,

aren’t you ever gonna clean that rig?”

Now all the riders tolerate him,

waiting on summits ready,

Fat Lad the pot belly rider

might be the slowest rider in history….

Just how awful was that 😉

Fat Lad

The crystal clear blue skies gave fortuitous signals for the ride ahead. Stepping from the batcave the steed remained frost free, sheltered from the ravages of night temperatures well below comfortable. Scorching coffee and warm porridge sat heavy in my stomach the outside air and inner heat battling for equilibrium. The tarmac slog to the trailhead blinded by the harsh low beacon of winter sun reflecting back into sleep crusty eyes from mirror shined roads.

The tyres greedily devoured their first taste of dirt and the firm field edge descent disappointed man nor machine. The motorway spanning bridge metamorphosis to ice rink failed to fell either cold morning adventurer and we pressed on lest the Arctic wind sap away our will and warmth. The ride continued, conditions slowing but not abating the intrepid pedallers. Mud filled heart break slogs became skill testing runs of broken cratered ground, pushing the limits of cross country suspension and the grip of tyres designed for wetter, slimier climes. Ice block puddles refused to give way under weight of weekend warrior and bike combined. The long death march climb, ordinarily rim deep in sludge amongst the dark months, transformed into a battle of brittle air and struggling lungs over hard ground.

Out over the moor we rolled, wind defeating man made technical fabrics, nature’s cold breath consuming comfort quickly. Gezz’s corner approached tanting us with it’s potential lethality. Silent prayers were offered up to the fickle deities of dirt, fingers tight round grips concentration and will not to be broken. Mundane slopes of thoughtless motion became testing grounds of determination and nerve. “Don’t brake, don’t brake, don’t brake…” mantras muttered low, manifesting condensed steam in the morning air.

Temperatures climbing higher the slow thaw begins. Puddles crack cinematically the onomatopoeic sound-waves following the wheels departing. Homeward now tired thighs turn circles to finish our loop. The fountain of steam venting to the sky signals the dry snug of home, burnt gas turned to heat and with the adventure behind us I am back ready for my core temperature to warm.

This was the ride magazines have promised so many times. There were no “you-must-own-this-now” bikes to rail the downhills, there were no magic powders to spirit us up the climbs, only good friends, aching legs and trail buzz addled minds. I got out, I rode and for once the UK mtb press could claim the moral mantle of descriptive truth.

Fat Lad