Fat Lad Rides Again

Fat Lad: Sweetheart, I need some new wheels, the old ones are groaning a bit and these are very bling for the price….

Mrs Fat Lad: Will they make the climbs any more rewarding or the descents any more satisfying?

Fat Lad: Okay, but, Darling, those handlebars of mine are looking a little tired now I was thinking of these ones…

Mrs Fat Lad: Will they make the warmth of the Summer shine longer or rush the Winter through to the spring?

Fat Lad: well no, but honey bunch, the suspension forks on my steed were state of the art when Ned Overend was a boy, these are the latest and bestest and would make it ride like a new bike…
Mrs Fat Lad: Will they make the good rides better? Will they make the epic’s more epic? Will they make the smile any wider?

Fat Lad: errm, right, but babe, look at these cranks! Super light, stiff and looks to die for..

Mrs Fat Lad: Will they make every ride even more of an adventure or make the post ride pub ride bragging any truer?

Fat Lad: look this isn’t fair! Oooh, boutique titanium frame, think of the potential of that…

Mrs Fat Lad: Will it make the miles and memories of past rides brighter in your thoughts? Will it make the climbs less rewarding and the trail call out to you more?

Fat Lad: what sweetie? Wow, shiny!! New model GPS all the buttons and features a geek could ever hope for…

Mrs Fat Lad: Will it pin point your soul and keep it on the trail? Will it lead a better path out into the night to meet friends for miles, smiles, and the hipflask? Will it show the way to a better ride?

Fat Lad: No. No it Wont. Sigh.
Just these two inner tubes then please mate…

Six hours driving, Mrs. Fat Lad’s superb company and many, many miles later and we were in Fort William with a week off to relax and recharge. With way too much food eaten and an even more unnecessary amount of ale quaffed Wednesday rolled round too quickly; this was the day we had decided to hit Iona.

From Wikipedia:

“Iona is a small island, 1 mile wide (1.6 km) and 3.5 miles (5.6 km) long, in the Inner Hebrides, Scotland. Its Gaelic name is ÃŒ Chaluim Cille (Saint Columba’s Island), or sometimes just ÃŒ or Idhe. It is approximately one mile (1 600 m) from the coast of Mull. It has a resident population of 175.
In 563 Saint Columba, exiled from his native Ireland, founded a monastery here with 12 companions. From here they set about the conversion of pagan Scotland and much of northern England to Christianity. Iona’s fame as a place of learning and Christian mission spread throughout Europe and it became a major site of pilgrimage. Iona became a holy island where several kings of Scotland, Ireland and Norway came to be buried.”

By our fireplace sits a picture radiating a lifetime’s love outwards from Mrs Fat Lad’s Mum and Dad. Heart achingly not with us any more this snapshot of sunshine was taken at the Abbey at Iona. In a rare moment of inspiration I suggested to my better half we should recreate this photo and with this is mind a plan was formulated.

Out of bed far too early for a week of joyous snoozing and we were cruising the tarmac of Fort William to our first ferry crossing of the day. The Corran ferry cuts out a huge drive around the peninsula on the way to our eventual destination. The eternal little boy in me still loves all this shit and I sat in awe in the passenger seat absorbing all the marine machinery surround our automobile:

At the other side, Sterling Moss’ re-incarnation gunned the gas and we were firing along through the gorgeous highlands at speed. With the nature of the roads up there getting from a to b always involves a fair old trip and even with Mrs Fat Lads creative motoring skills we had plenty of time to enjoy the views and shoot the shit to the next ferry port.

Reaching Lochaline to cross Loch Fyne to reach Mull a coach load of old folk had just arrived and (in what we Brits do best) queued up for the toilets. Waiting for the ferry to come back and dock Mrs Fat Lad felt the urge for a pee come on strong. “Go now babe, it looks like they’ve all finished from where I’m sat…” My better half handed me the keys and off she jogged to spend a penny. “You’ll be okay driving the car on won’t you” she shouted back over her shoulder. Of course, consummate motoring legend like me? Easy. The ferry arrived and once more the inner ten year old was satisfied watching the loading ramps descend in a whir of hydraulics:

Starting the car up I rolled on with no problems and to great relief. The ferry soon filled and the ticket inspector came round to collect the fares. All around the crew are starting to get the ferry ready for sailing again and there is still no sign of my betrothed. Now the panic sets in, what happens if she misses the ferry? I haven’t got a bleeding clue where I’m going, what the feck is a Fat Lad to do?

Strolling up the just starting to close ramp she makes it and my minor (well sort of) panic subsides and we wander up to the top deck to watch the world go by.

Arriving at Fishnish port, sorry just going to have to type that again. Fishnish. There got that out of my system. Nope not quite. Fishnish Fishnish Fishnish! Say that after four pints of heather ale! That’s better.

Anyway arriving at Fishnish (what a very very cool name) it was more driving to make our way across the Isle of Mull to get to the next ferry. Once again the stunning views compensated for my cramping legs and we made our way to Fionport to take the ferry to Iona. Pulling up my better half wandered down to the ticket office while I struggled to change into my riding gear and not offend the Americans who’d just arrived too with my semi naked flabby body.

Bikes assembled and all kitted up we coasted down to the launch to wait for the ferry to Iona. Non-residential or essential vehicles are not allowed on Iona so I wasn’t bothered one little bit by the prospect of riding some tarmac here. The ferry arrived and we wandered on standing with the bikes on the lower deck. An engineer in the oily uniform of the fleet said something along the lines of:

“lee yer bikes doon thes nae cars on this crossin”

I smiled politely and Mrs Fat Lad always more comprehending of accents than I (she’s from North Yorkshire you know, but don’t hold it against her, she’s actually really nice…) understood entirely and with the GPS still recording we once again wandered up to the top deck. What can I say, I am a full on card carrying geek. I wanted to know how fast the ferry was going…

We roll of the ramp onto Iona and immediately you can see why it has the stunning reputation it does. The island is beautiful. The tea and pee brigade are out in force and in the saddle we weave through trying to be as polite as possible on the way. We follow the main road out past the nunnery ascending the only climb of the day distancing ourselves from the blue rinse ensemble.
The grey hard route rolled underneath us quickly and with the dry stone walls surrounding us the summit of the road merged with the horizon threatening to lead us into the sea. Over the edge onto more road we reached a gate to take us to the coast with a really arsey notice up about not taking bikes onto the path. I was far too chilled out to be risking arguing with anyone so we turned round to roll back to the abbey, stopping here and there to watch Mrs Fat Lad point the SLR at what caught her photographic fancy.

Wandering into the Iona Community Centre shop we shuffled round with the geriatric gaggle and exited soon after. Across the narrow road we propped the bikes up against a fence and then propped up the Church with our entry fee to the abbey. The very nice lady behind the counter asked us if we would like to put the bikes at the back of the hut to be safe. I momentarily thought of asking her the risk to them in such a serene place but instead I smiled and rolled them to rear of the kiosk.

We strolled into and around the abbey and after asking in hushed tones a nice lady if she would take a photo of us:

The abbey itself was beautiful and one of the most tranquil places I have ever been privileged to visit. The night previous I had transferred the OS map of Iona to my smart phone and we perused it in the light of the glorious late summer sun. The teeny map showed a road to be followed and so that’s exactly what we did. Past the ferry ramp and away from the main habitations we followed the coast of the road and turned a corner to haunting tunes carried on the breeze. Sat on the rocks playing a tin whistle, a young man serenaded the sea the waves previously his only audience. Awe struck we stopped, listened and soaked up the experience.

We tore ourselves away and pedalled to the tarmac’s end, following the path to the beach it transformed into. On unsteady feet I wandered down to the sea to unsuccesfully skim stones and precariously made my way back up to my love over large millennia smoothed pebbles on cleated soles.

We rolled back to the ferry launch to head back to Mull and our temporary home. Mrs Fat Lad was in her element once more rallying round the narrow roads and I believe only now the grooves from my fingertips have begun to recede from the passenger side dashboard.

By the time you have read to here it’s probably been longer than we pedalled that day. But what it lacked in miles it more than compensated for in beauty and history. Iona is a genuinely inspiring place and I have seen little that can compare to that serenity and grace that the island imbued.

If you must worship an almighty father figure in sheeplike obedience from a fear of your own mortality, this is the place it should be done.

Fat Lad

On the last short sleeve ride of the year the pootle crew’s ranks was swelled by a ghost of Bad Brains past.Memories in my possession of early club days shine brightly through the nostalgia, and most of them contain Technical Pusher in some frame of reference or another. Back when the Kona was all but stock he gave me valuable and real advice on the right kit. He was always there to push me forward on the climbs and to cajole me down the drops.

So as we were descending and twisting through the copse at bat’s arse fast speed, the red blinking cyclopean lights disappearing into the black; I was fired back through time a very familiar sight of Gezz and Technical Pusher rocketing away into the cloudless night.

Time cannot diminish the ties of friendship and as the laughs and daft conversations drifted into the cold night air the miles were eaten up by hungry knobblies.

The ride finished, a travesty of a decidedly un-British nature befell us and the post pootle pondering would have to wait for another time as the closed doors of the pub turned us away to our homes.

Fat Lad

For the second Sabbath running we had rode an absolutely stonking route. 16.5 miles of hills, thrills and bellyache. Taking in one of the most notorious climbs round these here parts, the week previous I managed to conquer it without coughing up any part of my respiratory system. However on this AM adventure it wasn’t to be as I spun out barely 50 yards into the ascent. In a pouting hissy fit I threw the bike on the ground and kicked a wheel for good measure. When I eventually hit the top my moaning and bitching was cut short by Amy: “Yeah but your rubbish now it better than your good this time last year” Thanks Amy, I think.

As it was my niece’s first birthday on my usual Pootle day I organised to go out for a spin with some of the regulars on the Monday with Picky taking the reins for the pootle the day after. After another truly awful day at the rudderless ship we call work, I was ready phnemoenly early again. While the grind is devastating for the soul, it’s great for getting me organised.

My legs were already aching on the stroll up to Pete’s. Glad for the flat already at Pete’s I gladly accepted his offered mug of tea while Amy got herself ready. Pete taking advantage of the dry conditions was taking his Harley out instead. We inspected the shoddy state of the rocking, creaking and groaning x-type bearings attached to the bottom bracket shell “Nothing money won’t fix” Pete lamented. Amy ready, the three of us wandered over to the car park to join the rest.

For this evenings off-road soiree we had, Picky, John, Amy, Little Al, new guy Daz and my good self. After chatting for an age Pete wandered back home and we all rolled off for the hills. Leaving the car park a patrol car passed by; I grinned and thanked Picky for organising our Tour of Morley escort for the night.

Definitely not riding on the pavement (sorry Bad Brains in-joke) we turned off to the simple joy of the gate open to the corn field descent. The incredibly warm and equally wet summer has turned some of our trails tropical in overgrown barbed and stinging foliage. Purely by mistake a couple of rides earlier we found an alternative way round. A perfectly rideable fairly steep run in, over a stream and up a steep bank the other side. When we decide on the best line through the stream it’s going to be good. One swift democratic decision later and it was decided to extend the ride and we headed over to the churchyard.

Approaching the steps Amy, Picky and John rolled through while us remaining cowards dismounted. The two old gents tending to the graveyard mocked us with taunts of “that young lass managed it” shamefully I remounted and shot off before I could be embarrassed any further. Climbing out of the valley I felt good despite the screaming coming from my thighs and quickly all regrouped we aimed for the next trail fix.

Not long on the tarmac Little Al flatted and it was all hands on deck (well Picky, the rest of us “supervised”). Tight turns performed in the road John launched himself over the saddle and onto the concrete trying to wheelie clipped in. For his reward he skinned his elbow! Muppet. All sorted we saddled up trying again for the drop. We were soon into the whoops and dips of the drop the expensive sound of Daz’s gears crunching into the humid night sky. Leaving the wooded playground I voiced doubts of my ability to middle ring the climb to the cross road tonight to anyone who’d listen but those fears were not realised. Picky chatted to me on the ascent and we both noticed the difference in his fitness mere weeks later.

Over the old landfill I took the lead to avoid the newly installed hindrances with the new route pedal worthy all the way. Up to the ruins my legs ached and asked my conscience for forgiveness but I overruled and we pushed on. Used to playing sweeper on this ride I took the descent path too early, the rocky loose descent replaced by the mundane switchback we found ourselves now on. Amy retaking the lead she lead the quicker guys up the stack and down the technical slope the other side. At the top Daz hesitated and Picky and I guided him down. “Roll it!” Our resident defender of justice called out and cranking on to our next section I discussed with Daz how it isn’t just your fitness that goes when you have time off the cranks.

Past the stream crossing and Little Al’s lamps had decided that they’d had enough. With warnings of knife edge to come he extinguished them completely hoping to save enough charge. Again I missed being in the tunnel as a train thundered above spinning over to better-climb-than-descent. I middle ringed it but much slower than usual as Sunday mornings pacy affair caught up with me.

We arrived at the gate and Daz very kindly lent Little Al his commuter light and it was no rest for the wicked as we attacked nab lane. The lead struts making a good impression of my legs were totally gone now and I twiddled up the steep tarmac snail like in speed and rhythm. Crossing the busy vehicular arteries running through this light industrial haven we soon caught up the rest at the nearby summit. For a long time we gazed through the sticky night at the lights below blazing sodium orange to the stratosphere. Banter flowing no-one possessed the desire to push on.

Some made the move and we rolled to knife edge. Amy took the lead and I played sweeper with Little Al just ahead of me. By the first roots section, luck was not on his side and his lights decided they were just not playing anymore. As I stropped through the boggy tree lined floor it was abundantly clear that summer was gone till next year. Little Al followed closely behind as we rolled up and down the slimy tracks. At the first off camber section there was a clatter and an “oof” to rival our dearly departed Keith. Back in the saddle we struggled on catching the rest at the start of the delight.

A quick inspection of Little Al’s injuries and Picky leapt in with his first aid merit badge skills to the fore. Little Al’s forearm looked grim covered in blood and grime:

but turned out to be just minor scrapes. At the trailside we were still none the wiser so our boy in blue bandaged him up quickly. With no safety pins or surgical tape to hand it was to be insulating tape to finish off the job.

All fixed up I let the other guys pedal away into the darkness as I struggle up the delight on legs that really did not want anymore. The gap finally narrowed betwixt me and the group we stopped at the other side of the bridge for Hill Medicine and Jelly Babies. Picky and Daz, athletes both, took the opportunity for a smoke (if you want to berate them there’s a comments box below…)

Our two tar lunged athletes finished we carried on over the moor to Brownhills. At the entrance we gave Little Al the final say if he wanted to ride the not technical but very quick descent. With the affirmative in place we clipped in to go when Amy’s lights decided that they too had had enough tonight. I made the decision there and then to call it a night and we headed for home peleton style on the roads.

Back at the car park I had to skip my pint and slice of cake to do the dutiful son bit and repair my old man’s computer. Big Al’s Printer Service to the rescue. That right if you’re ever in need just think of my BAPS.

Fat Lad

Epilogue

On Tuesday I had way too much party food and birthday cake but it was even [ital] worth missing a pootle for the site of this

It won’t be long before she’s out on the trails and beating her uncle Fat Lad to the summits….

Picky’s first pootle as ride leader went well I’m told and he even carried on the fine traditions of the pootle with fire water and Jelly Babies. Well done that man!

This is why I ride; when good friends and riders radio in to let us know they’re running late and we take the opportunity to chat away, discuss new kit and how despite the weather the good turnout.

This is why I ride; with time fleeting and the sun escaping over the horizon we set off at break neck speed to compensate.

This is why I ride; splashing and grinding through the resulting mud of our British “summer” spinning the wheels, grinding the chain through Yorkshire grit laden gloop.

This is why I ride; exchanging pleasant cheery “Evening!” and “How do”s to the inexperienced couple braving the trails on bone shakers for smiles and knowing nods.

This is why I ride; the usually reliable Rock Shox upfront in desperate need of a service bouncing me from rut to groove with little control, but the grin’s still fixed firmly in place.

This is why I ride; standing in the twilight, living the surreal now, looking over the rural set of Emmerdale instead of watching it, sinking into the sofa to be passively entertained.

This is why I ride; the rock and granite bolder lined switch-backed descent pushing the limits of both bike and body rolling through intact on the other side.

This is why I ride; pushing my legs the best as I can, wrenching out every last joule of energy from Sunday Morning Epic tired limbs up the bridleway summit chaser.

This is why I ride; the three stooge-esque way we climb the gate through a field filled with cows. Cajoling a bovine fearing rider into the middle of the pack so we can carry on, the laughs and giggles of the approach fading into the night.

This is why I ride; for the climbs that I always find that last little bit for.

This is why I ride; for Jelly Babies and Special Hill Medicine. The mixture of sugar rush and burning chest an event always eagerly anticipated.

This is why I ride; sneaky cheeky pitch black light haloed swooping and sweeping paths, the rush of trail whirring beneath knobblies.

This is why I ride; post ride endorphins thinning out, the burning muscles and tired limbs are no comparison to the level of satisfaction radiating through my aching body.

This is why I ride; “You lot been out on the bike then!” says the pretty bar maid with a grin at the assembled muddy faces queuing up for ale to accompany the mountains of cake. The laughs and jokes flow like the ride as we shelter from the brisk night temperatures of British summer.

This is why I ride; standing in the piss dribble excuse of our shower scrubbing the salt and trail souvenirs from filthy skin. Trail buzz fading away in time to my diminishing ability to stay awake.

This is why I ride; because I need to. I have to. This is my fix. This is my reason to be. Where the mountain biker ends and I begin is a point lost forever. If you ever find it, keep it, I don’t want it back.

Fat Lad