Fat Lad Rides Again

What’s your favourite bit of trail? Not ride, but your one two or three hundred yard stretch of dirtly nirvana that you would put into every ride if you could.

Thinking of this I was torn between the incredibly twisty bit of heart racing singletrack on the Long Newmiller ride (Wakey boys and girls will know the one) and the trail I’ve plumped for below.

So I present to you:

The Singletrack That Ribbons Down Through Birkby Brow Woods.

Coming off the edge hugging drudge of the farmers field its a short but steep back wheel dragging left turn in. Right out its off camber exposed and rooty. From Autumn to Spring those heart stopping roots are carpeted with leaves handing your balance to fate. Head on and the trail turns right and back downwards, the track splitting round the topmost tree. Head right for the chicken run or left for the small but concealed drop. Downhill, speed picking up now the trail swings left momentum carrying up the small incline sneaking between holly bushes. Down again and the trail widens: left for the big kicker, right for the gentler take off or middle for the more sedate rider.

Speed well and truly picking up now the trail turns upwards for the last time, the roller coaster almost over. Hit the last section that requires loose but determined handling and your over the last smattering of root. Sharp right and it’s time to get the arse over the rear wheel as you plough over the small rock section. Roll into the fire road and share the collective grin.

So what’s your favourite section of trail?

I’m throwing this out to a few of you out there. Post it up on your own corner of t’interweb. I know I’ll read it when it lands.

Over to you guys:

Juancho – For the Florida Perspective
Grooving Fungus – For the Asian Perspective
The Old Bag – For the Poetic Perspective
TCA – For the South of Watford Gap Perspective
Jeff Kerkove – For the Guy Who Trains Damned Hard Perspective
Big Worm – For the Other Florida Perspective

Fat Lad (about to head waaaaay north for the week)

Spring is itching to get out and do it’s thing to the trails. I for one can’t wait to get my arse-dragging-trail-rotovating-soul-crushing winter tyres off and put the hoops back into my Conti Gravitys. But with this change of weather I think about the riders past. The part time wheelsmiths (to quote stAn) who like Swallows return to the trails only as the weather turns the paths firmer…

Riders gone but not forgotten:

Martin GT – He of Bad Brains Mountain Bike Club forum fame. That is famous for posting considerably more than his pedaling…

Little Big Al – Quite a handy rider, last seen heading south on a sales visit. Never seen again….

Graham – Nice chap, fitness started to pick up, one wet dark night never to return again…

Dazwardo – Nice bike, nice bloke. Got fit for the Andes, never seen again. Maybe the llamas had him…

And many many more….

Yet some do come back from the beyond; I like to call them our Lazarus riders:

Shaun – After finally deciding exactly where his hat is to lie and call home, he’s back out and mashing the pedals.

Keith – Our very own Pootle Crew Crash Test Dummy, still living on the wrong side of the Pennines but back out struggling along. He’s getting there

Roachy (sort of) – Every ones favourite Punk Princess has also been recently sighted, once or twice on the bike too.

I even hear rumours of honorary Pootle member juancho venturing out onto the trails.

Whose due out soon in your crew?

Fat Lad

One of the most rewarding things about riding with the crew I hang off the back of is the good people who I have managed to coerce into friendship. What makes it even more the humbling is that this is despite my many failings of personal hygiene and constant social faux pas.

So with two people still polite enough to accept my company and to actually enjoy Mrs Fat Lad’s, we traversed the country heading to the wrong side of the Pennines via the highest motorway in England. A weekend of booze, fine food and Wii with Phil and Ell.

Please note, for the record, Ell is way out of Phil’s league. Also Phil despite being a rather good rider is quite, quite poor at Ten Pin Bowling

The plan was as follows: up early to disappear into the hills, adding a new ride for our off road repertoire. So at half 9 when we finally stumbled out off bed things were running behind already. Not too much later and with bellies filled with porridge we loaded the car and set out for the start point.

Straight out of the car park we were climbing and my legs felt like lead already. Ahead of us the long tarmac road rolled away to the sky and we followed it willingly. Out of the valley and on the top we headed across the moor our brief stop for photos behind us.

The ground was unusually firm for late winter but I guessed it would’nt last. Across the moor it was time to cash in the climb with the best first descent I think I have ever enjoyed. Wide but technical, steep but not arse over the back wheel so, fast enough to feel truly free. Phil stormed through the stream; splashing cold water everywhere while I took the ever so sensible option of the bridge.

Lifting our steeds over the stile we stomped the pedals to the top of a stiff little climb. Once more over the boundary of field and moor we headed on. More descending down muddy fields was our reward and the familiar (at least to Phil) was over. We flicked over to the route on our GPS’ and grinned at each other, the trail ahead now completely unknown.

We fired down the soggy under wheel trench run, the dry stone walls whizzing by our sides in a blur. Arriving by the lower reservoir side Phil launched himself down the small flight of steps ahead and as usual I dismounted and minced my way down on foot. On the tarmac again we knew we had a right turn coming up. Rolling along the road purely enjoying being out we passed the Addams Family mansion on our right deciding exactly how cool it would be to have an eight foot butler. The excitment of goth-lite TV entertainment getting the better of us we over shot our turning. From the murky depths of Phil’s camelbak out came the map. Lets be honest about it, with our collective navigation abilities we were doomed…

Eventually we found a likely candidate of a path that ran up the side of some poor unfortunates house. Not really knowing where we were we decided to follow it anyway and soon emerged in a clearing with a low rock formation staring back at us. Finally gaining our bearings we roughly knew where we need to be and set off off in that vague direction. Smashing through the undergrowth bikes on our backs the most essential bit of kit we had forgotten seemed to be a machete each.

After much swearing, bush clearing and most importanly; laughing like idiots, we emerged from the dense brambles into a farmyard that had come straight out of a Mad Max-esque post apocalyptic future. Pedalling past burnt out cars and ruined cinderblock basic shelters it was a quick hop over a gate to the track we had been looking for all along. We turned back up the hill to see where we should have turned in and we both laughed and cursed as we saw the Addams Mansion looming down at us. At least we’ll know for the future….

Back down the road we followed it to the next waypoint and climbed up a narrow path claustrophobicly flanked by high housing walls. Breaking out into fields it was hard slog covering the short distance in such deep mud. Taking the opportunity for a hard earned break we propped up the bikes and wolfed down cereal bars and Tangfastics.

Refuelled we headed on out again but progress was slow, forced into too much carrying thanks to the ankle deep sticky slop. Come summer the route we fought through will be fantastic but it did little for my now tiring legs. Crossing a stream that nearly had me over the bars we came once again onto open fields and gorgeous scenery. The trail headed upwards and it was a granny ring struggle against glue like wet grass and harsh sideways battering wind. After a lot of lung bursting exertion for a very short distance we hit dryer land and stopped for a breather, Phil pointing out where he had brought Ell for a first ride out. Staring down a descent that would have tested most of the club I voiced my opinion to Phil: “Idiot…”

Recovered once again the trail turned tecnical as we crawled up back to the next summit. Two sections split by a main path I stalled on the first; running out of grip and legs in the wet but conquering the second breathlessly grinning like a fool come the summit. Climbing a stile we were onto the moor proper once again and the trail headed back towards sea level. Skirting the edge of the reservoir we rolled past two fantasticaly futiristic looking caterpillar tracked tractors. Phil warned me that there was a little climbing left to do but “It will be well worth it mate”. And climb we did, but not for too long and on not too demanding terrain, I rang in to the girls to say we weren’t far away from home as we’d been out much longer than expected and it was time to start downwards.

Nearly three miles of downhill later you would have needed a JCB to remove the grin from my face and a crowbar to lever my kung fu detah grip like fingers from the grips. It was indeed “well worth it”. On the final flat section the terrain and conditions started to tell as chain suck halted my legs dead on more then one occasion.

Rocketing down the hard park back to the car Phil was leaping each rain runner styling it up at each opportunity. Freewheels clicking like an angry bees we rolled up at the car, a quick change and a loading of the bikes later and we hungrily finished off the Tangfastics and drove back to Phils.

Back at Casa Phillis the girls had cooked up a culinary delight and I think I actually inhaled mine. All loaded up and heading home I fell asleep in the car as Mrs Fat Lad zoomed back across the pennines.

The ride made me wonder what I want out of riding, do I want to go bats arse fast everywhere we roll, or do I need to get lost occasionally fighting through the undergrowth to reveal hidden gems? I think I know my preference…

Whats yours?

Fat Lad

This will be the first in (I hope) a series of interviews with the great and good of cycling. Cutting through the nonsense and superlative of modern mountain bike journalism I will cut to the heart of what matters most.

First up is half man half mile destroying machine Jeff Kerkove.

Jeff’s blog is a real insight into exactly what it takes to be at the top of the game and the training and sacrifice involved. So over to the questions:

1) How did you start Mountain Biking?

As a kid I always rode a bike. It was just part of being a child and hanging out with your friends. Well, there was a core group of guys, including myself, that just kept riding. As we got older mountain bike racing started to gain attention. In 1996, I did my first race and have been hooked ever since.

2) Where’s your favourite place to ride?

I love riding in Colorado. That is one of the main reasons I made the move to Colorado in October of 2007.

3) What’s your most essential piece of kit (other than your bike)?

The helmet. It’s such a minor piece of equipment that can do so much for you. Eyewear is also important to me.

4) Don’t you ever burn out with the constant training and wish for a more
“social” pace?

I am pretty strict on my training. I have a pretty good idea what my body is doing and my Coach does a good job of keeping things mixed up. I have no problem taking time off the bike. Once you have good general fitness, it is pretty simple to maintain with effective training. Cycling is my social pace. This is where all my friends are at.

5) Are side burns essential to Mountain biking?

If you are referring to side burns on the sides of my face……nope, not on me. Some folks can pull it off, such as Geoff Kabush. It’s pretty cool for those that want to take the time to maintain and grow it.

Told you it was the cutting edge of Mountain Bike journalism…

Fat Lad

We used to just call it the jump. Sometimes we might expand it to “the jump at miggy woods”. A micro valley, a bombhole, with a smooth shallow transferring to steep run in with an equally tarmac smooth take off. It was our two wheeled playground. Regardless of skill any rider could become airborne merely by rolling the approach and kissing the sky when kicked off the lip.

Collectively the hours were clocked in. Airtime, crashes and singletrack runs filling our summer evenings and weekends. Time passing slowly in the way only youth fails to understand and treasure.

Sat astride a stupidly oversprung downhill bike, the taste of crusty salt on my top lip, skin painted with dust, the heat made the air still and comforting. Facing down the run in, lids hung over handle bars, the good news passed on before we set off to our spritual dirt home was being contemplated in tired silence.

“Charlie got that job.” Only just sixteen and starting out on the long road head of 9-5 one of our crew had become the first to join the ranks of the drones. We hung together in post adrenalin calm. Riders, friends, brothers.

“Let’s face it lads he aint coming back here anytime soon.” We were right. The statement brutal in it’s honesty. This was our last summer as children. By choice or circumstance it was the final time the group would roll the jump together. As the sun began to set and we made our way home, even back then I knew I’d witnessed the end of something I would spend the rest of my life trying to recreate.

Fat Lad