16 Gloriously sunny miles last night and I’m feeling good. A little rain on the way to work today but I’m feeling strong and fit.
Superstition was strong last night with the pootle crew and I decided the stars/gods were telling me that Mayhem this weekend is going to be good as I cleared the roots of all evil. Cleaned in one swoop, no dabs, Scouts honour.
Pre race carbo loading provided with pie and peas.
Race report to follow sometime next week.
Fat Lad
With only Pete and I out for the morning it was a leisurely ride up with no start time to panic about. The glorious sunshine of the day was cooled by the vicious winds whipping round the hills and streets of my home town. This morning was the maiden voyage of Pete’s gorgeous new steed; his sunburst orange Superlight.
Sat at the Master Mechanics kitchen table necking hot tea an idea thrown out became reality. Spurred on, pedals swapped from old to new, we geared up and set off, the morning already getting late. With the ride decided, tyres soon span noisily on the tarmac, the thgileD girD had been born and it was time for the fun to begin.
Hugging the sanitised trail behind the empty industrial buildings my front wheel bounced up from possibly the only rock in the trail. The wind pushed at this precise and opportune moment and I struggled to stay in control of a bike travelling in a direction I hadn’t intended to. Straightened up we shimmied trough the narrow alleys and back streets of Gildersome struggling to keep to the right ginnel with the mirrored route of this ride.
Heading off the paved and onto the dirt, disorientation of riding the familiar backwards forced us down and away from the accepted pathway. Corrected and climbing we had not been slowed, even with Pete’s incorrectly inflated fork. Crossing the A road veins of West Yorkshire to the all too small Drighlington Moor, miniature dust devils danced around blowing grit into our eyes. Looking down the delight Pete joked about how nice it was to be this end of the hill without panting. With barely a glance and a grin we exacted revenge on a climb that has made us suffer for months and years. The run was dusty, dry and rolling; even the inconsideration of one of the equestrian community could not spoil what we had earned in so many rides past.
Adrenalin buzz subsiding, we noticed a path never seen before at the base of the climb. Making but one mistake in exploration it was added to the trail repertoire for future use. Knife edge retained it’s challenge in a completely new way, requiring more of heart, lungs and legs then the usual mix of nerve and skill. Both promising a better attempt with a clear run we headed back out of cover into the gusts. Claiming the karma back for many a knee busting hurt upwards, it was apt to use the big ring on Nab Lane for the first time in riding memory.
Into Birkby Brow picking up speed rolling down the fire road, the shooters were in poor mood for such a glorious Sabbath. Bucking the trend one Englishly cheerful woman encouraged us onwards to the-better-climb-than-descent. The path barely dried out I bashed the top of my lid on a low branch trying to maintain some semblance of control amongst the top ruts and gulleys. Splashing through the seasonally shallow stream I completely mistimed the exit pedalling and Pete pulled away from me up the sharply steep bank. Desperately trying to catch up I middle ringed up to the ruin to see Pete taking no shelter from the vortex of air swirling around him.
Hurtling out from the soon to be overgrown path I bottled the church steps yet again. Not letting my blatant cowardice ruin a superb ride, climbing to the usual hip flask point, I suddenly realised that this jaunt had already gone beyond the original remit. The firm ground made the climb easier and I reunited with Pete for more pedalling. In Haigh woods the fallen tree that had so stubbornly blocked our flow since the last period of high winds was now smouldering away in one of the natural craters; the lads responsible sheltering, using it’s warmth. Up DSFT (which will be DSFD until mid Autumn) it sapped my legs of any go. Funny how some sections remain hard work year round.
Taking the short route around the reservoir the wind was creating waves upon the normally smooth surface. At the bomb hole local kids lay on the dirt BMXs by their side watching the clouds race by, only becoming aware of us as we did too. Crossing the final section of trail heading home we had our backs to the winds, it was nice to sail the last few miles with natural assistance.
Too many times we’ve been told “Don’t do that ride backwards, it’s not all that goodâ€. For once it felt good to prove someone wrong.
Fat Lad
Leave you’re old pads in. Get a gert bif feck-off srewdriver in between them and force the pistons right back. That should do it. If not then take the top cap off the resevoir and do it agin. That’ll do it
From here
And… that’s what I did. The pistons? Oh yeah right back. The rest of the fluid from mos of the system? On the bat cave floor. Bugger. So a frantic phone call later I was booked in with the Morley Mechanic. Like a drunken Stormtrooper aim we kept missing each other. One ride missed I pootled on up to the lair of the Master Mechanic, a place where v-twin monsters hibernate to prowl the roads when salt will not damage their chrome armour.
Amongst the organised chests of tools obscure and familiar the stand was prepared.The King was hoist into it’s plastic jaws to await it’s salvation and the Mechanic set to work. Engrish Hayes instructions interpreted, ignored and bettered my brakes were air free to stop my chunk once more.
Coasting back home, the cold late spring wind knifed through the too thin jersey. Overly soft suspension unlocked beneath me, jumping speed humps for giggles, I swore for just one moment that I was 16 again. The summer of 97 ahead of me, a downhill bike to play with and the teenage feeling of joy and innocence.
Fat Lad
My good friend Phillis and I zoomed round the Great Yorkshire forest the weekend just gone and my creative energies (darlings) are currently being channeled through the ether to you via blogger. Just slowly.
In other news; despite exercising the most since I was a teenager, eating the healthiest since being a teenager my
Weight is firmly refusing to budge. It’s pissing me off. As endearing as having a “fuel tank for a love machine” is, it’s time for it to flabbily feck off.
Plans for heading stateside early autumn continue, in a moment of genius from my better half we are both taking our bikes as it’s crazy cheap to fly them out with us compared to couriering them over.
The road bike is fun. If your definition of fun is dodging traffic and re enacting Death Race 2000 every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning.
What else?
Nope that’s it.
Have Fun
Fat Lad
The above picture is just to prove (mostly to myself I think) that the sun does indeed come out to play every now and again.
Anyways, I think I’m not right. Whenever the sun is shining and I’m stuck indoors I get ill. According to wikipedia:
The most common symptoms of SAD include extreme fatigue, oversleeping, not being able to get out of bed, overeating, carbohydrate cravings and weight gain. It can also be accompanied by the regular symptoms of depression, such as low mood, loss of interest in activities and trouble concentrating.
Blimey I tick all those boxes all year round. I find the only cure for this weather related malaise is to get out and ride. I wonder if I have inverse SAD. Maybe it’s a whole new affliction. They could name it after me. FatLadMiserableGit Syndrome. I could be famous at last. Pictures of me in all good medical text books. Probably in some more graphically bad ones too.
I’m going to self medicate tonight with some swoopy singletrack descents, ball busting climbs and the company of honest decent riding buddies. I reckon, together, we can get through it.
Fat Lad
Over at Freewheeling Spirit posted up is an interseting tidbit and suitably inspired article I thought I respond here.
First Post:
The earliest record I can find is here on the “Way back machine”. That link is a little flaky but works sometimes. I did have afew posts prior to that but they were delted by some script kiddy sadly. The first here on blogger was this one back when I used to do considerably less riding than now…
Most Read:
Was this one. My Sleepless in the Saddle report. Most of the traffic came from Singletrack and the vast majority never came back.
Most Commented-On:
Is actually this one. But I doesn’t count because Phil used at least two comments up to abuse me over the interwebs.
There is a few more with equal numbers of comments but I consider this one my favourite for obvious reasons.
Personal Favorite:
Just a lot of fun to write. Not all my posts flow in their creation (some unkind people may same about their reading of this site too) but this one just happened.
Most Fun:
This was quite simply ace. Seven days off. Seven days of riding. Every day riding with some different, trying varied styles of writing it was just huge fun. If you missed them the first time round they’re all here:
A stupid idea Day One Day Two Day Three Day Four
Day Five Day Six Day Seven Knackered
Quitting the Blog:
Never even entertained the thought. I sometimes wonder why, when something I’ve really enjoyed writing gets only a few page views and little comment. But truth be told this is vanity project, and I can be very vain indeed
Fat Lad
If you have a blog, consider this a meme and consider yourself tagged.
‘My works about words
And sounds you can taste’
Unlike my husband who is often eloquent and can wax lyrical about his adventures in riding all day long, I am not the same! I use photographs to tell my stories and adventures (some of which can be seen on this blog) so instead of Fat Lad’s ramblings on the Sandwood Squelcher, I give you my photographic version of the day…………………………..
Mrs Fat Lad
More photos from the ride can be seen here :- http://www.flickr.com/photos/10970901@N05/sets/72157604817205629/
A colleague once asked me if I can drive. I could only reply: “Well, I’ve got a license…” So when Mrs Fat Lad and I head north (Nearly ten hours of Mrs Fat Lad’s Doppler shifting driving) the only petrol head in our relationship does the motoring.
Even being on holiday certain traditions must be upheld and so with my bottom lip out and foot well and truly stamped I insisted we ride Tuesday. Arriving at our starting point; amidst the breathtaking glens and soul dwarfing munroes I could be heard muttering: “It’s no Leeds Pootle but it will have to do…” I unloaded the bikes and after much swearing and sore finger tips I gave up hope on fitting Mrs Fat Lad’s front mudguard and turned my goldfish like attention to my own bike. With a very surprising amount needing doing we were suited up and heading out in record time. It would appear that we need to bring my always brilliant wife to the Pootles, maybe we might set off on time in future.
Through the gate and heading coastwards the trail gently climbed away in front of us. Mrs Fat Lad pedalled steadily away in front of me as I hung back happy to let her set the pace. Much much further than I could have hoped for Mrs Fat Lad pulled up for a breather. Moving again the synapse s finally started to fire and the scenery started to become familiar as we forded the stream that entered the first loch. When the contours allowed the wind to whisper away you could almost mistake it for June.
The gentle first ascent soon paid us back and testosterone over took me as I flew past Mrs Fat Lad on the first decline of the day. Memory warned me of the technical rock field ahead and as I plowed through the rocky section I wondered to my self: “I wonder if my technical abilities are better now too…” Turning the corner into the path my mind actually knew and it was there it was to be wary. Doing well the front wheel dipped over a large rock and sunk into soft peat all but pitching me over the bars. Discretion the better part of valor and not wanting the shame of calling for first aid so close to the trail head I walked the remaining few yards of collar bone shattering magnets.
The terrain varies wildly round here and the pedalling was over for a short while as we pushed the bikes on around the next loch. Clambering up from the shore and far too confident of my footing I put my right foot down onto emptiness and plummeted over to my right. Mrs Fat Lad’s first instinct?
Exhibit A:
Back upright, dignity lost but with a well and truly stretched groin we cracked on. To add insult to injury my right foot was now doing the backstroke in my not-at-all-waterproof boots. In distance of a few pedal strokes to a few yards the trail switched between riding to hiking. Nearing the last of the riding outward bound the trail headed up steeply. I backed off the cadence as Mrs Fat Lad headed towards a climb of note. Fairly technical, long enough to notice and steep enough to know about it. I backed off, not for preparation, but to leave a gap for me to ride it selfishly when Mrs Fat Lad would have to get off and push. I lifted my jaw, stamped on the pedals to catch up as my better half disappeared riding over the summit.
As I followed over the top the view reinforced exactly why it was worth a very wet foot and the chance of not ever having children. Rolling down towards the dunes progress was only halted by the farmer bringing his sheep back up the path.
Hitting the dunes the deep soft silica was unrideable and as we plodded through I envied Mrs Fat Lad’s walking boots. On the beach the roar of the waves made our ears ring with joy. The photographer I married kicked into overdrive clicking away to her hearts content.
Propping her bike up in the sand waves lapping over the tyres I had a mechanics heart attack as her bike crashed over completely submerged in the Atlantic Ocean. With a certain photo recreated we wandered onto the rocks. A few near death by drowning experiences later due to my slippy soled riding shoes we stood in silence soaking up the spray into clothes and the scenery somewhere much deeper.
The horror of climbing back out of the dunes with bikes on backs still couldn’t dampen my refreshed being and we traveled back the way we came pedalling where possible. Back at the second loch I rode through the gentle waves as the water washed over my rims and I wondered how many times in life I would get to be this content. Or wet.
Back on the rideable parts of the trail Sarah got her soul stealing groove on once more:
And soggily we were on the final leg back to the car. My buff kept falling into my eyes and I stopped for the briefest of moments to unblind myself. With the promise of warm clothes and a slight decline to aid her my wife rocketed rapidly out of site. Hammering the cranks to catch up I did with only a few yards to go and with only a few miles covered I was ready for one of the world’s best pies.
Fat Lad
You may or may not have noticed, that, on the whole I’m a cheery kind of chap. This coupled with a laid back attitude that drives Mrs Fat Lad crazy means that rides that most riders would weep into their handlebars I can pull a positive out of.
“Still” I can usually heard to be saying: “You could be at home sat on the sofa doing feck all rather than being out pedalling. How many people get to experience all our glorious hobby has to offer?”
Not Tuesday gone. Maybe it’s the incredibly wet Spring we’re having. Maybe it’s the elusive dream of Summer getting my hopes up. But I endured quite possibly the most miserable ride of my life. My waterproof boots, turns out, aren’t*. My waterproof socks** were also swimming. The ground could not hold any more water and so rather than riding through the sticky drive train destroying mud we were riding through wet sloppy drive train destroying mud.
My hand were soaked. My wisdom tooth had decided that this very night was the perfect opportunity to push through my gums and was throbbing painfully too. There was no grip to be had anywhere. Even riders who hadn’t been so short sighted to change from mud tyres slipped and slopped the whole ride through. Then I crashed, adding wet riding gear to my increasing tally of misery.
A few miles later we decided to call it quits.
What was your worst ride?***
Fat Lad
* Specialized defrosters – avoid like the plague
** Which I only bought because my boots turned out to be so bloody awful
*** This is a filler post because Mrs Fat Lad is rubbish at getting pictures to me ;)****
**** Blimy I’m getting like Alex with all these *’s.
“Feck me it’s supposed to be Spring”
“I think I’ve changed my tyres a few rides too early”
“I think you’ve changed your tyres a few months too early”
“Cold for April int it?”
“This time last year we were already in shorts and summer jerseys”
“When is this ground going to dry out”
“I’m not going to be rocketing round, I’ve got the last dregs of man-flu”
“I don’t think I could rocket round if I wanted to”
Then. Just for a moment. Silence…
Fat Lad