Fat Lad Rides Again

After visiting the club guys who had entered the Bontrager 24/12 event I was adamant the pootle crew were putting in a team for the next 24 hour event. So after little arm-twisting Carol, Phil, Keith, stAn and I were in.

(Text in block quotes written on the day with weary fingers through bleary eyes.)

The Night Before

Taking leave from the daily grind, Mrs. Fat Lad and I loaded the car to it’s gunnels and with the statement “if I’ve forgotten it now, tough!” ringing in my ears we were away. Cruising down the dual carriageway to fuel up I ran a grubby hand through my long hair with a knackered sigh. “Bollocks!” I cried, “We’ve forgotten to shave my head!” Mrs. Fat Lad muttered something unpleasant under her breath and after the diesel purchase we about faced to trim my head.

Running late (for a change) we arrived at the camp site a few hours drive down the road with Phil in convoy. Sarah (not my Sarah a different Sarah… not going to get confusing this at all is it?) had already marked out a huge area for us all with red and white stripy tape and tent pegs. Chip and Amanda had made it there before us too and were busy erecting gazebos. Mrs. Fat Lad and I made a start on pitching our new tent and it was abundantly clear despite the engrish instructions we had no idea what we were doing. Amanda and Chip mucked in and we were soon settled in. Well not quite. We have bought an airbed. With a built in foot pump. It wouldn’t inflate. Soon there was to be several members of the club, a track pump and a still un-inflated air bed an hour and a half later. I gave up and we wandered over to the registration tent to sign in. There was no turning back now.

The setup was pretty good; there were plenty of trade stands and a few shops offering fairly decent discounts. Signed in, carrying my envelope containing my number and timing chip we sauntered back to the campsite to dress for a practice lap.

Chip and Mick (Carol’s hubby and a regular club rider) Pit Bitches for the weekend, joined us out on the very dusty course to spin out too. Earlier in the week my old Hope Minis decided that this week would be the perfect time to disintegrate. After a mad dash round Thursday afternoon I managed to get a good deal on some Avid Juicy 5’s. This practice lap was the first proper ride out on these brakes and the new 8” front rotor was taking some getting used to in the corners of such a dusty course. Piers clocked the route at seven miles-ish. The route consisted of a lot of riding over fields, some challenging singletrack climbs and a couple of fun singletrack descents. Back at the camp I moaned to Mrs. Fat Lad about sore nipples from the cheap jersey I decided to wear, while the girls broke the good news about our airbed. It was fecked. Marvelous, night before a 24 hour endurance event was to be spent sleeping on the hard ground of Derbyshire. Amanda bullied me into getting into warm clothes before I cooled down too much. Stomping into the tent with a sulk I exited it quickly. “You wind up bastards!” I cried with the fully made up and inflated airbed at my back.

The rest of the teams arrived and darkness soon fell around us. There was an interesting interpretation of the no camp fire rules (we used a portable barbecue) and while another barbecue did some actual cooking there were many beers drunk by all late into the night.

Race Day

In our campsite four teams pitched up together for the upcoming pain and joy.

For the Bad Brains Pootle Crew we had: stAn, Phil, Keith, Carol and the Fat Lad.
For the Bad Brains team we had: Glen, Piers, Jonny and Dan
For Return of the Black Sheep we had: Phil, Aid, Wayne and Keith.
And finally the fairer sex had West Yorkshire Rough Riders with: Sarah, Cazza, Claire and Joolz.
So there were a few of us about… Mrs. Fat Lad got her David Bailey groove on getting photos of the Pootle Crew team and the club members that were riding.

Finally getting my arse into gear I set about emptying the junk from my camelbak trying to bring it below the metric ton it normally weighs. (Later when one of the girls tidied up the camp site they thought it was rubbish and only Mrs. Fat Lad’s quick thinking saved it).

After the rider briefing Phil kitted up for the race start and we all wondered down to see him off. The event was to kick off with a Le Mans style start with all first lap riders having to run 1/2 mile from the start line to their bike in the coral. Democratically everyone but Phil decided he was our man for the run as the only Pootle Crew team member who rides on flat pedals.

Preamble

At the start the atmosphere was festival like with an undercurrent of tension and nervousness of the unknown ahead. The air horn cried out and the riders were off, the sound of hundreds of stiff cycling shoes echoing that of any equestrian meet. Phil made good time in the run and was out and away quickly. Lap order had been agreed earlier as Phil-stAn-Carol-Keith-Fat Lad and everyone was putting in quick lap times in the dry conditions. Already the Pit Crew were establishing themselves as the vital link in the endurance chain as I prepared for my first lap. Camelbak filled, club kit on and with the asbo style timing chip strapped to my ankle I was ready as I was ever going to be…

Feck me I’m nervous, nausea, I must have pissed 20 times by now. I go out in ten minutes and I’m not at all mentally prepared. The fast guys in the club are pulling 35-40 mins I’ll be happy to bring it in under an hour.

Mrs. Fat Lad and I wandered down to the coral, I mumbled something about needing yet another piss but my better half said it was just nerves. I propped up the bike and walked into the coral to wait for Keith. After a short wait Keith rocketed through the timing tent to me, handed me the baton (fancy name for a lanyard with a wristband attached) and I was off.

First lap

So, I’m back. Managed 58 minutes, it might have been quicker if I hadn’t needed a piss on the second climb. Sat drinking PSP and have just polished off some rice and chicken. Phil is out now and it’s 6:55pm

A distant rumble became a roar as Pete rolled up on his motorbike to see us all in action and offer any support he could. Phil wandered in from his lap with a split in his pedal casing as wide as his grin. Ambling back from one of the shop marquis later with some v8’s Pete and Chip got stuck in fitting them while he rested up. The rest of the laps were going well in the increasingly dusty course with no major headaches or upsets and the routine of ride-eat-rest was becoming the norm. Before my first lap I’d laid out all my clothes ready and I did the same in preparation for my next one. In my head it was the shining beacon of organization and order. Mrs. Fat Lad said it was something more akin to the results of a whirlwind in a tent. The collected consensus was for double laps at night so we could get some kip in and I chilled out by the fire as I waited for my go. Carol returned from her first night lap telling us how the dust at dusk (I know, I can’t believe I wrote that either) was just reflecting back the light from her lamp in the haze. We wandered down to the coral again and before long Keith was at the handover prompting my double lap start as Sharon and Mrs Fat Lad cheered me out.

Second and Third lap

Oh my word that was tough. First lap I was going strong middle ringing most of the climbs and feeling good. Three quarters round it started raining. Really raining. I’m piss wet through (even my arsehole is wet!) and the bike quite literally has about ten pound of mud on it. I had to stop several times to try and clear the tyres and a lot of the descents are unrideable. Sarah has just forced me into more rice and chicken and I’m finding keeping it down difficult. It’s now 1:45 am.

When I went out for my double night lap the nervousness of my first lap had been replaced with an eagerness to get out there and get the miles in. Taking over from Keith the need for the usual couple of miles to get my legs in had gone and I was in my own chunky way flying round. The atmosphere out on the course was still superb and I chatted to a few on climbs, flat and descents alike. I really was going strong and as the first few drops of rain fell I remember thinking “If we have this for ten minutes this course will go from being dusty and a little sketchy to being a superb grinfest.” It wasn’t to be. The rain just kept coming and I had to laugh as one of the RAF team guys rocketed past me with a fine rendition of “I’m singing in the rain…”

Getting within striking distance of the timing tent I heard the all too familiar “on your right” and as I wandered over to let the rider past I slipped on a root and hit the deck. My relationship with the ground is hardly a distant thing but to fall off just as a female pro rider who I admire rolls past me was just a bit much for my fragile male ego. It was clear as I wandered through the timing tent and back out for the second lap that the rain was not going to cease anytime soon and even if it did the course was going to be slimy for a good while yet. In the wet; challenging climbs had become impossible and some of the descents just plain dangerous. The wide grass tracks that made up the majority of the course were slippy yet rideable but the sections of wooded singletrack were becoming pockets of guerilla madness destined to break bones and bikes alike.

Around half way through that second lap I passed a stationery girl on the trailside and asked of she was ok. Her light had died and in the true spirit of these events I stopped to give her a hand. With my limited technical abilities not helping any I gave her my backup commuter light to get her back to the start, wished her good luck and set off again. By now the course had become a heart breaking fight with the elements and mother nature was winning with ease. I was having to stop fairly regularly to clean the gloop out of my stays and the summer tyres orbiting my rims were next to useless. After what seemed an eternity I made it back to the coral and offered Phil the baton with words of: “No heroics Phil mate it’s f*cking madness out there”.

My spirits were lifted by the sight of Mrs. Fat Lad stood in the pouring rain waiting for me to get back. We wandered back to the camp site and my better half prepared some more carbs and protein for me as I stood by our makeshift fire trying to get some warmth back into my bones. Fed and watered I wandered down to the shower block for the lottery of warm water. I lucked out and the joy of washing the grime from my body was beyond words. Back at the camp I crawled into the tent to try and get some much needed sleep.

Meanwhile out on the track Phil was having a bad time. His first lap went well considering the conditions but on the second lap he bonked. Once again the kindness and spirit of this sport shone through as some riders stopped, donating energy gels/drinks to get him going again. Back at the ranch the grim reality of the conditions were fed back to those still awake.

I awoke a few times from my intermittent sleep with churning guts and had a few dashes to the toilets. I wonder now if I’m not used to the energy stuff or if the early nerves in day were catching up. Thankfully, the toilets were quite simply out of this world in terms of cleanliness, presentation and still having loo roll at ungodly hours of the morning.

Wandering back from my second squit trip I decided to put some warm clothes on and join those still up and about rather than struggle for more shut eye. stAn was up and waiting for his lap wandering round in circles. “Which direction do you walk in to cure nausea?” he queried. “Doesn’t matter mate” I replied. He stopped fairly soon when he then realized it was a Fat Lad thing and nothing scientific.

During the course of the event Mrs. Fat Lad had been in her element pootling round the venue with her digital SLR pointing it at anything that moved or not. A selection of her pictures can be found here. To enter an event like this you have to be a little bit mentally deficient, however to enter on a unicycle… Well you’ve got to be missing some fairly large chunks of grey matter form inside your skull.

Phil made it back to crash out in his tent and stAn shot out for his double laps. In these early hours of the morning with the rain still bouncing down around us the talk inevitably turned to thoughts of calling it a day. Fairly quickly we decided that we’d got this far and we would see it to the end. Waiting for my turn to come round again Mrs. Fat Lad and I queued for an hour to use the jet wash. Rant mode: seriously people, just clean your drive chain and wheels then feck off! Your not presenting it for inspection for the Queen are you? Really…

The rain just kept on coming and so did the consequences. Johnny returned from his lap with his XTR mech hanging limply form the bike with one half of the hanger still bolted to it. Carol was soon out on her lap and Keith and I started to discuss the plan for last laps of the day. It was about now as Carol was out for her last lap that the previous day’s started to catch up with me and the doubt started to creep in. Keith made his way down to the changeover for the last time as I wrangled with myself over my upcoming last lap. Talking it through Mrs. Fat Lad made the decision for me stating I was in no fit state for my last lap. I’m told I’d gone drip white and had difficulty following events happening around me (no change there then…) I gave stAn my final lap and he ran off to get ready giddy as a dog with two dicks. He fired down to the coral to let Keith know he would be replacing me and I went to get some more warm clothes on.

With a huge amount of relief I had some normal food (there is only so much rice and pasta a man can eat) and a hot cup of tea; thankful for the warmth penetrating my bones making me feel human once more and returning the colour to my cheeks. Watching the girls work their magic for the guys still racing I caught up on non-pootle crew happenings while munching down a bacon sandwich. Team Black Sheep had abandoned (quite understandably) the race during the night, and the girls from West Yorkshire Rough Riders had one member down but had decided to carry on anyway with some of the finest displays of superhuman effort to be very, very proud of. The girls had been 3rd place for most of the event in their section but slipped to fourth with the demise of a team member. With Jonny’s mech no longer attached the other Bad Brains club were also down to three men but were cracking on too.

The rain was finally easing but not before Mrs. Fat Lad had run out of dry clothes. We wandered over to the course to shout on the remaining riders including stAn and James. James rides with the club on a lot of the main club nights and was riding the event solo. The timings showed him still in the lead on his final lap. As they past us individually we gave them a huge shout and a cheer. Throughout the entire event all the spectators had been superb really encouraging every rider pedalling away. The mental lift a few happy words give you beats a quick shot of testosterone any day! After watching the guys pass we wandered to the coral to see every one in for there handshake from the event organiser Pat Adams. Pat has an amazing reputation for organizing an amazing event and he had proven his reputation was well deserved once again. James rolled past and once more we shouted him on. Watching him shake hands with the big man the disappointment of not being able to do my last lap sank in and despite all I had accomplished that day I couldn’t help but feel a bit pissed off with myself.

With all the guys we were supporting back in we sauntered back to the camp site to start dismantling everything. Despite everything the pit crew had managed for us they still all mucked in to get the campsite away and tidy with startling speed.

We made our way back to the coral for the prize giving and while we gave every team/rider a hearty round of applause when on the podium we shouted our throats raw and sent our hands as sore from the vigorous applause we laid on when James was announced winner of the solo category. Poor lad didn’t know where to look.

The final places were as follows:
Bad Brains Pootle Crew: 48 out of 96
Bad Brains team: 25 out of 148
Return of the Black Sheep: 67 out of 148
West Yorkshire Rough Riders: 4 out of 9

I’m proud of that. And so should anybody who even entered the bloody event!

All dismantled the only thing remaining was to cram everything back into the car…. After loading the bikes onto the back of the car (and remaining injury free for the entire event) I managed to then twat my forehead on Mrs. Fat Lad’s spiky pedals… Muppet!

Aftermath

First I have to give the credit to the real superstars of the weekend. The Pit crew (colloquially known as the pit bitches…) went above and beyond anything that could be expected of them. Coming back to a warm fire, good food and smiles kept us all going with something amazing to return to. I am told of Chip, chief spanner bitch, getting out of his bed early in the middle of the night, getting dressed, ready and waiting to change peoples tyres over when the rain first hit his tent. That people, makes me feel very fecking humble indeed.

I could have slept for a week after once done and though I was pissed off with myself for the last lap I genuinely feel like I accomplished something riding what I did. I’m immensely proud of all the guys who entered and I swell with pride to call them all my friends.

Fat Lad

The daily grind was rapidly diminishing to a place in my mind where it could be lost forever as I pottered round the house getting ready. Mrs Fat Lad had two of her girl friends round so my usual wandering round my gaff semi/fully nude was out of the question. Dressed, I wandered into the batcave and fixed the flat rear tyre.

From the drive home and my aimless wandering round in preparation I mumbled something about the indecisive weather as the sky went from crystal clear to windy grey in an instant. Leaving the girls chatting and giggling about our impending wedding (10 months away now….. not shitting myself at all. Nope. Not one little bit. Ahem) I plodded up to the start point. I rolled up at Pete’s to make sure he was coming and then made my way to the car park start point.

I‘d had a text message form JohnD saying he was running late so I introduced my self to the two pootle crew virgins. Picky and Bob had been lurking on the Bad Brains Forum for a little while and had dragged themselves out for a go. John arrived not too much later and was ready with little faff. All assembled Gezz and I followed as sweepers, playing the noble riders making sure no-one gets left behind. To say that we got chatting and had not noticed the rest scoot off would be a scurrilous accusation to make!

Soon enough we hit the first off road section and while hoisting many bikes over the gate of this particular evening bridleway Keith stopped to put some wind in his tubes, everybody chatting whilst the pootle crews very own crash test dummy fettled away. Swiftly Pete was away rocketing down the field trying, I think, for the MTB minute mile causing a few to miss the turn off into the bushes and brambles to the right. Glancing to our right we could see Pete the other side of the small valley and we all made our way over the stream and up the short yet steep climb to him. We’re going to recon it soon as an alternative to getting torn to shreds by the brambles and nettle of the usual path by the bridge.

Regrouped and with a quick head count I asked if anybody would like the shortcut, I grinned as nobody took up the offer and onwards we were again. As per usual I pussied the church steps. I really don’t know what my problem is with these, they are totally rideable but every time my overdeveloped self preservation instinct kicks in. If only there was some way to show this so you could make your own judgement, photos wouldn’t do it justice neither would my inane prose.

I wonder if the Gezzabelle helmet cam would do:

He’s a talented bastard! Makes me sick… Up the field on the other side we collectively set off again to Haigh woods. Pedalling past the British Oak pub we bottlenecked at the concrete step obstacle (even I can ride that one). As the crowd cleared Gezz lurched to one side slowly hitting the ground. Picking himself up and dusting himself down, crank held high in one hand he cried “You’ll have to stop!!”. At some point in the past the lock ring form his XTR cranks had come out, so, for the unluckiest mountain biker on the planet it was a long walk back to the car.

JohnD and I caught the rabble at the start of Haigh woods and we were hammering the trails again the sound of JohnD landing hard from every kicker behind me. Onto the tarmac again we managed to collect another puncture and while Pete assisted Bob with his rear flat Dave told us funny stories and dirty jokes.

Hitting the road it is a long drag up to he pub at the crossroads and into a headwind it was beyond unpleasant. Picky kept me company to the summit and it was quite clear Pete was taking no prisoners with tonight’s pace. We soon crossed the old waste ground and I asked Pete if he was planing the sides of the narrow gate I’ve historically had to really squeeze through. Or maybe planing my hips. It was getting clear that we needed to make up some time or it would be dark before we got to knife edge. Shooting down from the ruins Pete pinch flatted. The trail gods must need appeasing. With as many mucking in as was feasible we got to fixing the last puncture of the night. Nearly done I led the steadier riders ahead to try to recoup some time.

Cracking on I missed the train again! For twelve years (on and off mind) I’ve been riding round here from cheap steel framed wrecks to state of the art downhill bike and back to something in between and in that time I have never been in the tunnel as a train thunders across. Fair enough I could just wait there for one but that would spoil a good winge wouldn’t it!

At the foot of the better-climb-than-descent track Keith was missing from those who passed me. Turned out despite doing this ride more times than is worth thinking about he’d taken a wrong turn. It was becoming obvious to even my oblivious senses that this ride was rapidly descending into something akin to herding cats. Middle ringing it hard to catch up I took those fancying an easy life on the fire road while Pete led the lambs to the singletrack climb slaughter.

Pete and the rest were not far behind at all as I led the way to Nab Lane. Phil struggled passed me stamping his cranks in anger. I had to shout “Grab A Granny!” as I watched him heart attack his way up. With a swift breather taken it was time for knife edge. Rolling the tarmac I advised knife edge virgin Phil that speed was his friend… I don’t think he quite believed me.

Hopping into the now dark edge I deliberately played sweeper once more. After a few peaks and troughs of the wood I caught up with the group at the first rooted section. The track bottle necked I ran out of momentum slipping out there too myself. In an act of camaraderie I’d started this section with my lamps out. Solidarity is fine, but I like to see too. The fireballs lighted I followed the back markers to the start of the delight. On the final balance challenge out of knife edge Keith helpfully (he thought) shined his lights down the path and promptly dazzled Phil and I.

With the sun all but set now we spun up the delight. Gathered at the bridge I shouted us to move on a few yards out of the wind. Pete was mid conversation telling the fresh meat of a certain tradition at the peak of this climb and as if by magic Big Al’s Special Hill Medicine was being passed from rider to rider. I’m all for tradition and I’m also all for creating new ones and with that the jelly babies soon followed.

The fast flowing descent of Brownhills was interesting for those sans lamps and we were soon back at the pub for a beer or two. I’d managed to remember a t-shirt to change into but not any other shoes. Legs stretched out in the bar Keith asked how my new riding shoes were still clean despite the recent rainfall where his were already grotty.

“That’s because I don’t dab mate 😉 “

Fat Lad

This weeks Fat Lad Rides Again was brought to you by Mrs Fat Lad’s infamous Spanish Omelette, Cuba Libre and Pleased To Meet You by James.

Last weeks Fat Lad Rides Again was not brought to you by working for a living, still unpacking from the move and writers block.

There are worse ways to spend your Wednesday morning. Sitting outside the Mermaid chip shop, drinking in the morning sun, eating a banana, waiting for the already late stAn and I could think of a few involving the terminal at my work desk. All loaded up we set off in the Mud Bus heading for the far away hills of Ingleborough. There’s a fine Bad Brains tradition involving reaching the summit of the said hill in an alloted time to see the sun rise over the north Yorkshire horizon. Historically I’ve never been even remotely fit enough to have a crack at this but with the additional miles in my legs and slight increase in my speed noticed we decided to see if I could climb the near 1952 feet in the 80 minutes the other guys manage.

Quality tunes accompanied the journey and the usual shite that mountain bikers talk about made the couple of hours drive breeze along. Arriving at Ingleton, clouds covered the summit despite our positive thinking trying to will the skies clear. Coppering up to pay for the parking meter stAn shouted across with a smirk if four hours would be enough, I muttered something not for the faint hearted under my breath the promptly laughed with him that I hoped it would be.

Putting the steeds back together from the cavernous rear of stAn’s Mud Bus, he muttered something else not for the faint hearted as the realisation dawned he’d left his camelbak in the kitchen. So, it was time for a kit check for the Fat Lad. After stAn had deemed my sack to be full of goodness (sorry couldn’t resist such an obviously childish joke), he stuffed his jersey pockets with Isotonic drinks and we were away…

Out of the visitor centre car park and it was straight in at the deep end, following the steep tarmac upwards. stAn exchanged pleasantries with the red socks setting off at the same time while I plodded on just about managing a polite smile to them. Very quickly we were off road and it was clear from this early stage that the terrain and environment was going to be very demanding, insisting on my full attention. The exceptionally steep loose path soon gave way to a more gradual affair and I was happy to be in a pedalling zone I was comfortable with.

The track ambled upwards between dry stone walls as the elusive British summertime heaped warmth and sunshine down onto us. In a brief moment of respite the track turned downhill for a short distance, but it was soon back on the saddle to gain the required vertical feet. In time the track went from wide soft hill grass to the moor land rocks beginning a cycle of pushing/riding that would last all the way to the summit. Desperately trying to keep my lungs inside, I was starting to take more and more breathers. With my legs burning the red socks we’d chatted to at the start yomped on past, voicing words of encouragement as they passed.

Summoning the required energy I set off and soon leapfrogged the red socks again aiming towards the eventual goal. At the boundary of the “last humanly possible bit to ride” and “push from here on out” section I got talking to the red socks once more about my interesting choice (my carbon soled Nike XC shoes) of footwear for such challenging hills. After discussing the merits and disadvantages of clipless pedals with the assembled walkers I pushed on once more to try and catch up as the sight of a fluorescent yellow jacketed stAn disappeared even further into the horizon.

Getting to the higher reaches of the hill it was starting to get cold forcing me to dip into the camelbak for my jacket. I continued on pushing further trying to steer my mind to another place, where I could forget about the burning pain in my calve muscles. The terrain continued to get harder and harder and after only a few hundred yards I’d hoisted the Kona’s top tube over the top of my camelbak across my back. With chainstay in one hand and the handle bars in the other there was nothing to do but crack on and try and catch up.

By now the terrain had got seriously difficult and the weather was matching my mood perfectly as I struggled on through the cold fog, trying to find good footing while balancing my steed on my back. The trail turned into steps and through the fog and mist I could just about see the luridly yellow form of stAn waving me on. After what seemed an eternity I reached the summit! Well, that is a summit. Onwards some more then.

With more steep steps and the bike getting uncomfortable now, I plodded on reaching another false summit. To add to my aching limbs and my not too great mood I was now getting hungry. Wishing I’d had more for my breakfast, the remnants of my toasted banana and chocolate spread sandwich had long since been absorbed into my blood stream. With the desire to kill the club’s venerable and respected leader clouding my judgement I pushed on as the final ascent was within grasping distance.

The final push for the summit was more akin to rock climbing than walking. The wind was now howling round me turning the bike on my back into an aluminium sail buffeting me around. Shouldering the bike at first then using it as an anchor to pull myself up I struggled on with the end so very close in sight. With a few tired steps I climbed the remaining boulders and made it to the flat grassland at the top. Literally leaping on the saddle I fired over to stAn with the biggest fecking grin you have ever seen on my fat little face. Pootling over to the cairn I was tired beyond belief but I was incredibly happy to have made it.

Getting to the top had taken longer than the 80 minutes target that had been set by quite a way but sheltering at the cairn it was the furthest thing from my mind. Chatting with the assembled walkers at the top stAn swapped routes and tails while I pulled on my base layer from my kit in preparation for the descent. I split my butties with stAn and after a brief rest and chat we were back down again. On a clear day you can see all the way out to the coast but with the cloud cover so low it wasn’t to be. Interestingly Ingleborough is the only hill fort the Romans couldn’t conquer. I know why.

We headed back down and the carrying down was just as interesting as getting up but a lot less tiring. A hell of a lot quicker than getting up, we were past the carrying sections and onto the rideable. Coming up the hill with full kit/backpacks I rolled past a group of teenagers and one of them gave a passing “I wish I was doing that” with a solemn face. The height gained at such a cost passed quickly beneath the knobblies, rolling quickly down the hill side.Next thing I know I’m on the ground with the Kona, skin missing from my left knee. Making my way back to upright I started cramping up in my right calve, back up I tore off the last scrap of skin throwing it onto the grass. I think what happened is that the chain came unseated onto the frame and like a total fuckwit I looked down to see what was what, then, ground. You live, you learn. Getting back I resolved to be careful but not be shaken. The most embarrassing thing is I wasn’t that far from the walkers…

I caught up with stAn who had just turned his bike back round to come looking for me, I told him the tale and we were rolling again. Descending this monster of a hill the terrain was testing me and the bike to our limits. Legs still wobbly from the crash we pushed on. Hitting a rock section it was clear it was about time to clean the rotors and pads of my disc brakes once more as I bounced from rock to rock trying desperately to stay in control. I popped the front wheel rolling off the few steps without problem and from there out it was fast track to the road and then the payback buzz of knobblies on tarmac back to the car.

Back at the Mud Bus I quickly changed and we headed into Ingleton for a pint. After finding a cash point we entered the world’s most grim watering hole and made short work of our ale telling tall tales of the ride simultaneously. To satisfy a long running joke between Mrs Fat Lad and I purchased her a pencil from the visitor centre and we were soon back on the road.

Earlier in the day stAn had informed me of a pie shop on the way home and I asserted my will on him demanding we drive there with haste! Pulling up in Gargrave we entered the butcher/pie shop and it was like teleporting into Royston Vasey as Briss served me up a pork pie! :

For the League of Gentlemen fans out there, yes, I was dying to ask for his special meat. (Transatlantic readers, get a copy of League of Gentleman from somewhere it is the most warped yet very funny thing you will see for a long time…)

The desire for fatty pastry and pork related products sated we hit the roads once more for another helping of talking shite and good tunes.

This ride was by far the hardest thing I have ever had to do on the bike yet also the most rewarding. These milestones keep coming and keep being defeated but I’ve still got a long way to go. I’ll just keep turning those cranks and see where I end up.

Fat Lad

Sneaking away early from the daily grind Mrs Fat Lad and I perused a new gaff for us to cohabit. It’s rather nice and we sorted all the paperwork there and then. Mrs Fat Lad will tell you all sorts of things about central heating, double glazing, gardens, blah blah blah but what sold it for me is the garage….. My very own workshop/hideaway/batcave… I wonder how cheap I can pick up a workstand for?

Back at our current abode I cooked up some pasta and pancetta for us both and after devouring the product I couldn’t seem to get going. On a usual Tuesday night I can be observed rocketing round the house at 90mph cleaning chains, filling camelbaks, getting changed etc but tonight I was perfecting the arse grooves in my favourite chair.

Leaving things until last minute as always I eventually pulled on my jersey and squeezed into my riding shorts. Although, it was too much to hope for me to get the spare chain from the container of degreaser, clean and put on the bike. The one snaking through my cassette and chainrings would have to suffer for a few more miles yet.

Sticking my head out of the door I rapidly re-entered the house to redress, the two weeks of British summertime had visited us briefly with warmth. I trundled up to Pete’s and upon arrival I demanded to know what he’d done to the weather. He mentioned something about it being just like the winter only without needing our lights.

With the rain falling and the football on it was only the party faithful out. With the grim skies above we set off sharpish and arriving at the cricket club (after MartinGT nearly deposited himself in the stream) we decided to cut out Haigh woods with no riders bringing lights.

We followed the path by the club and as a result of the recent rain the high edges of quarry had avalanched down blocking the route. Gingerly climbing over the rocks and mud we eventually got onto the bikes and we pootled on once more. The rest of the path was really overgrown and I was glad for the long sleeves of my rain jacket. Emerging at the top and onto the tarmac of Quarry Lane Pete had to break the news gently to my fragile mood that he’d dropped a bollock taking us up the hill by mistake and we’d have to descend the remaining tarmac to get to the tip section. With a grumble or two from me we made our way back to the recon mission and were soon at the narrow gate squeezing my lard arse through limited space with a grimace. With either the descent to the ruins or the “long-cut” ahead of us it I declared “fuck that!” and quite clearly not feeling my usual self we scooted on. Heading down from the ruins to the stream MartinGT finding himself in a literal (rather than my metaphysical) rut cartwheeled over the bars producing a fine claret from his leg.

Amy not wanting to be outdone, at the next steep banking toppled over backwards after not making it and also not managing to unclip. At “Amy’s path” it was Keith’s turn to say“fuck that!” and again we were on the main path pedalling along. Heading up the climb to Birkby Brow I was feeling strong but just couldn’t push myself to do it quicker. I wasn’t tired but my get up and go had got up and gone. I plodded on as the other pedalled a little in front of me chatting and enjoying the evening. Entering Knife Edge woods in the solitary ray of hope for the night I sailed through the off-camber challenge of roots and rocks without a single dab. From there, all that remained to be conquered was the delight, once more I felt strong but couldn’t find it in myself to push hard.

By the top of Brownhills all that was left to do was congratulate MartinGT on his improving pace and scoot off home to to get changed for a drink at the pub.

Fat Lad

Footnote:

Fat Lad’s missing mojo was later found on the very same trails two days later and also a new found quicker pace to join it.

For other, perhaps even more worthy, cycling/MTB journals this wouldn’t merit more than a throw away sentence. A few discarded words of soapy routine maybe, but a whole post? Definitely not.

You all should fear for the very existence of the universe and the fabric of the cosmos itself. That’s right Fat Lad has cleaned his bike. I don’t mean the usual rinse down with the hose it gets every week or so, but a real life, honest soapy water, sponge and bucket job:

Don’t adjust your monitors those really are my shorts.

So in a few short hours it went from this:

to this:

href=”http://www.bigalsplace.co.uk/fatlad/gallery/cleaning/06.jpg”>

href=”http://www.bigalsplace.co.uk/fatlad/gallery/cleaning/07.jpg”>

Mmmm Shiny. I even turtle-waxed the mother-feckin frame. Don’t worry dear readers this is not to become a regular fixture.

On pulling out the trusty steed from Roachy’s van on the Sunday moring jaunt from Oxenhope, Amy summed up the sentiment of everybody present:

“Bloody hell. It’s clean”

Footnote:

I asked Big Worm on Juancho’s Blog the following question:

Dear Big Worm,

I often get criticism from my fellow pootle crew riders about the cleanliness of my bike. Although mechanically sound it has a fine veneer of mud and is what I would call Trail decorated. Big Worm, sometimes, their words hurt.What should I do your holy-invertebrate-ness?

Fat Lad

And got the response at the link above. Strange how these things come together.

I now ask, nay, demand that you add Juancho’s Blog to your rss feeds/bookmarks/favourites whatever as it’s like a transatlantic mirror of these here parts and is consistently well written.

You have been instructed,

Fat Lad