Star date: 22 February 2015 Location: Coed Trallwm, Mid Wales Event: Red Kite Winter XC Series Round 4 Weapon of choice: 29er hardtail 1x10 Greatest strength: Finishing Greatest weakness: Body, mind and soul Result: 5th overall, 2nd vet
The omens weren't the best:
I was in the throes of man flu
I was nursing bruised ribs
The forecast was for really foul weather
I'd been doing my own bike maintenance
So I really should have spent the day tucked up in bed mainlining Lemsip, but with the series title at stake, that wasn't ever going to happen.
Cracking photo (of another rider) courtesy of The Valley Photographer on her final mission. Another 314 photos of the event here.
The weather was, if anything, even more foul than promised, treating us to a crash course in
meteorology on every lap, as rain at the bottom gradually morphed into sleet and eventually into snow as we gained height, all topped off with an Arctic headwind on the most exposed
section. This gradually took its toll on both riders and trail. No winter wonderland and polar bears this time around: I'm convinced I rode over a hippo or two on the woodsy sections as mossy loam was churned into wallowy slop, and even the surfaced tracks metamorphosed into little brown streams that filled up all the puddles and ensured a proper soaking from both above and below, waterproof kit be damned.
Despite this, the first half of the race was fun: I didn't feel too bad, I was in the
thick of things, I was still warm and dry. But the second half of the race
was horrid: I got weaker and weaker, I lost touch with the leaders, I
was soaked from head to toe*, and my hands grew desperately cold. By the end of lap 4 I was struggling to change gear (not the end of the world in itself given my singlespeed leanings, but this is often swiftly followed by struggling to brake, which is never good news), so I stopped by the car for a
change of gloves - only to have a comic struggle to get the dry ones on as the lining clung Velcro-like to my damp fingers. It took what felt like a
couple of hours of whole-body wriggling and jiggling to get them half on and be able to ride off, followed by an entire climb of non-stop wiggling of fingers and thumbs to get them on the rest of the way - all of which served to thaw the whole of me out
quite effectively and see me through the final tortuous lap.
*In the name of science, I weighed my kit when I got home. Shoes, clothing and helmet came to
14lb! Once clean and dry, they were back down to 7lb, a difference of half a stone or three litres of water. Now that's what I call soaked. Maybe it's time to invest in some less absorbent winter kit...
I'd started pretty well. After a warm-up that consisted chiefly of hanging around the
wood-burner in the café, I chased former European 24-hour champion Huw Thomas up the first climb and into the first singletrack sections, with Jon Roberts not far behind. For a while it was the three of us together and I felt good. But come the second lap I started to drop back. Nick "Steady Eddy" Reese then passed me on his way to catch Jon Roberts at the death and claim the win; and on the third lap the Karate Kid appeared out of nowhere to give me the chop this time and finish an impressive third ahead of Huw Thomas.
Although it was frustrating not being able to put up a better fight, I was really pleased just to finish, especially as quite a few healthy lads didn't. Having all but drowned in the night in a sea of mucus, I thought I'd be firing snot-rockets left, right and centre before collapsing mummified half-way through, but my
nose miraculously dried up for the duration of the race - I guess my body
knows its priorities! Similarly, my ribs held up fine, despite a last-lap mishap that saw me skid into a tree trunk and somersault over the bars to land on my head some 20 feet down the trail. Ouch. All that hard work over the past three weeks developing revolutionary new sneeze-suppression techniques to protect my ribs was so nearly undone in an instant, but in the end I was fine. My heart was no longer in it, though, and I pootled back to the finish in
the manner of my dear departed Grandad, whose main claim to fame, apart from consistently voting National Front, was cycling between gas meter readings at less than
walking pace. And he then had the nerve to blame immigration for the country going down the pan...
My ribs were also the main reason I didn't take the singlespeed (again). But I was also keen to test my new 1x10 conversion*, which I'd done all by myself. This was quite a gamble, as I am notoriously mechanically inept. As a kid I
spent months making a bird-table at school, only to find one day that
someone had mistaken it for scrap and chucked it out. [Cue violins.] But I'm pleased and proud to report that the conversion worked perfectly. Put a clutz in charge of maintenance, and I finally get a race without any mechanicals whatsoever!
*Translation for non-biking readers: I threw away my front
gears. And spent an outrageous amount of money doing so. Why? Well, it leaves one less thing to go wrong and saves a tiny amount of weight. Also, 1x10 is very much en vogue, and as you can see below I'm a dedicated follower of fashion. Trust me, you can't get much more "now" than an elliptical narrow-wide chain ring and clutch mech.
Farmer Giles enjoys his moment of glory next to close runner-up and wannabe catalogue model Jon Roberts. Not sure why the Teen Dream is on the big boys' podium, though.
Limping home in fifth was enough to claim the series win and add to my burgeoning collection of bike-cleaning products from Muc-Off (no excuses for a dirty bike now!). Admittedly it was a slightly weather-assisted win, as Jon Roberts
missed one round after being snowed in, but I
did beat him the one time I had
no mechanicals or deadly agues, and I kinda feel I deserved it just for completing this last round. God,
it was tough. Racing at Trallwm is always tough - big climbs and physically demanding descents - but the weather on this occasion made it an absolute killer.
A massive thanks to
Neil the organiser and his merry band of marshals and helpers (Chris,
Shaun, Kyle, Amber, Michelle and the others whose names I don't know)
for running the races, Coed Trallwm Mountain Bike Centre for hosting them and Carol The Valley Photographer
for capturing them on film. It had everything you could possibly hope
for from a winter series - great courses, good company and some really
s**t weather. I was going to end by saying "Roll on next November!" but then I remembered this is Wales, so I won't have to wait that long...
Next up for me: Mondraker Enduro Round 1 at Coed Trallwm on 21-22 March and the Little Devil 60km at Nant yr Arian, Aberystwyth, on 29 March.
Star date: 19 January 2015 Location: Coed Trallwm, Mid Wales Event: Red Kite Winter XC Series Round 3 Weapon of choice: 29er hardtail with semi-automatic transmission Greatest strength: Persevering Greatest weakness: Chain Result: 5th
Finally a spot of proper winter weather and a chance to angst all night about whether I'd make it to the race at all. In the end, though, the main roads were as over-salted as your average bag of chips - other than the odd patch of ice and slush it was more like driving on the beach.
Coed Trallwm, on the other hand, had been transformed into a magical winter wonderland. Glorious sunshine, a three-inch carpet of fresh snow, Bambi off in the distance frolicking with some polar bears, stunning.
Q. How did King Wenceslas like his pizza?
A. Deep and crisp and even.
Messing around on bikes in the snow is just the best, like going sledging. You slide and skid about, not caring about your speed or the cold, and taking risks you never normally would, confident that if it does all go tits up at least you'll have a soft landing.
Racing in the snow is a different matter, generally progressing from tough to fun to scary to horrid as the race progresses. On the first lap, you have to contend with the unparalleled energy-sapping qualities of virgin snow, which really ought to have military applications. Even downhill, it can be like riding uphill through treacle with the brakes on - while pulling a freight train. On the second lap, the snow is nicely compacted; let the fun begin. But after that the course tends to mutate first into an icy luge track and finally into wet, cold, sticky, slimy, brown slush from hell. Apart from that brief interlude of perfection on the second lap, racing in the snow is best described as character-building.
Today, though, with a much-depleted turnout and the right kind of snow, it was surprisingly good fun to race on throughout. The packed snow/ice left by the organiser's 4x4 on the main climb offered surprising traction; the section of fluffy virgin snow at the far end of the course was short enough to be a fun challenge rather than a tortuous ordeal, the steep bits at the top becoming increasingly rideable as the race went on; and the snow offered surprising support and grip as I careered round the flat corners unclipped on the black descent, although I did have a couple of speedway moments. It was snow-free under the trees, though, which presented a challenge in itself as you dived into the gloom to find yourself worryingly snowblind. But ultimately I had more issues on the A483 than out on the course.
With neither Enduro Man nor Jon Roberts in attendance, I got to the start thinking victory could finally be mine. Don't I ever learn? Three riders shot off alarmingly quickly up the opening climb; I followed warily at a distance, assuming they'd run out of puff; which they didn't, so eventually I had to speed up, catching them near the top to form a mini-peleton. It was shaping up to be a five-way battle for supremacy.
And Hereford's Nick Reese, lurking sinisterly in the background
Predictably, the Karate Kid shot his load too early, confirming every prejudice we have about teenagers, and ran out of steam on the second lap. F. Scott Fitzgerald had a good stab at writing his name in the history books to finish a strong third, while Andy McNab was readying his grenades for a final murderous push for victory when Merthyr Man heard one of his neighbours had been spotted in the car park. Fearing for his stereo, he flew off to finish over a minute clear.
And the weakest link? Well, I struggled with the pace from the off. After getting held up by a couple of the others on the early singletrack sections (a novelty that soon wore off), I eventually gave the Karate Kid the chop but just couldn't close the gap on the others to less than 100 yards. And then, at exactly the same point on the course as in round 2, my chain did a runner. I managed to fix it at only the second attempt and in less than half the time it took before, but combined with a mysterious flat tyre half a mile later, intermittently frozen gears that I'd naively done nothing about since the Frozen Devil, a saddle that wouldn't stay up, issues with ice in my cleats on the snowy top section, and general knackeredness... I was a spent force, once again suffering with cramp and limping round the last two laps to finish fifth, only just avoiding being lapped. All horribly reminiscent of round 2. A part of me really wanted to give up and go home - but then the rest of me just wanted to get back up the top and play in the snow some more!
Solve the Mystery of the Flat Tyre and you could win ... moderate gratitude from me and the adulation of both my readers. The scenario: All the air leaks audibly out of a nearly new tubeless tyre over a period of say 30 seconds while I'm riding on packed snow up a smooth fireroad. There are no tears in the tyre, the bead is still seated in the rim, the top of the valve is screwed in properly, and once reinflated the tyre stays up for the rest of the race (and has been fine ever since). So what happened? Answers on a postcard please...
See you at Coed Trallwm on 22 February for the final round of the XC series. And I really will be taking the singlespeed next time; I just don't know what's come over me of late.
Star date: 4 January 2015 Location: Irfon Forest, Mid Wales Event: Red Kite Events Frozen Devil 55km challenge Weapon of choice: 29er hardtail with 30 gears at times Greatest weakness: Stopping at the Drover's Rest Greatest strength: Leaving the Drover's Rest Result: 2nd, 3rd and 4th
It was always going to be on the extreme side, riding 35 miles up and down big hills in the wildest wilds of Wales in the midst of winter, plastered with mud, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, cramping all over and begging for mercy.
And as usual Red Kite Events had thrown in some pretty hostile terrain along the way that seemed hell-bent on killing you. Assuming you managed to avoid dying of boredom on the world's longest fire road climbs or drowning in the world's coldest puddles, the alternately muddy/icy/rooty/loggy descents then did their damnedest to fling you into the abyss - and that was even before you got to the malaria-infested swamps with their giant mutant leaches and man-eating crocodiles.
Now while all this dicing with death was of course hugely enjoyable, somehow I don't think it's what this event will mainly be remembered for.
Near the start at Coed Trallwm. Photo courtesy of The Valley Photographer,
who somehow contrived to get cold and wet despite never venturing more
than 30 feet from the café... Another 450 photos here.
Red Kite Events have long claimed to have the best feed stations around thanks to their partnership with the award-winning Drover's Rest restaurant in Llanwrtyd Wells. And with some justification, although A Cycling's home-made cakes and soup could definitely also stake a claim after the feast they laid on at Cross Mountain.
The problem with feed stations, though, whatever the quality and variety of the food, is that they are never going to be more than a couple of grub-laden tables perched in the middle of nowhere, generally the bleakest and most inhospitable point on the whole course, so you just don’t want to hang around. You quickly stuff a couple of flapjacks in your mouth, furtively shove a few more in your pockets that you then forget to eat (I once found a feed-station banana in a coat pocket when I got my kit out of the washing machine… and ate it), quickly top up your water and ride straight off again into the sunset before the wind-chill freezes you into Iceland party food.
Drover's Rest proprietor, award-winning chef and all-round good guy Peter James, a man with more letters after his name than in his name thanks to his services to tourism, came up with a solution. Why not invite riders into his nice warm restaurant conveniently situated halfway round the course – and, what’s more, feed them a proper dinner?
Peter James about to prepare dinner.
Let’s just get this straight. On a rare day when he was not up at Buckingham Palace collecting another MBE, Peter
closed his restaurant to the public for Sunday lunch
welcomed in over 100 muddy-as-**** mountain bikers
Just to make it absolutely clear, he took this:
and filled it with people looking like this:
Because after riding 30 km up hill and down dale through mud, puddles and the odd patch of snow, we weren't exactly dressed for dinner. OK, the restaurant has a stone floor, so all he had to do was go all feng shui and stack the tables out of the way, pop a buffet along one wall, and get busy with the mop afterwards.
But no. We arrived to find tables laid, napkins origamified, the works. Peter was offering us a proper sit-down meal… And all that protected his lovely restaurant from our muddy behinds was a sheet of newspaper on each upholstered chair (rather aptly, it was the Daily Mail, which is, of course, only fit to wipe your arse with).
Apart from the best china, Peter also laid on his hottest waitresses:
Oops, wrong pic. How did that get out of my private collection? No, I'm sure this is the one who served me:
It might as well have been one of the first bunch, though. After 30 km in wintry conditions, let's just say every extremity was verging on frostbitten...
It was all a bit surreal. “Tea or coffee?” asks one waitress. A cafetière magically materialises. We sit down, gingerly, as though we all had piles. We sip from proper cups, with saucers, and genteelly crook slowly thawing little fingers. “Fresh parmesan on your pasta?” asks another waitress. “Warm ciabatta roll and butter?”
We are, of course, ravenous and the food soon disappears. And then comes the big decision: to stay or not to stay. Leaving the welcoming bosoms of the Drover's Rest was not going to be easy. Baby, it was cold outside.
But then Jon Roberts announced he wanted to leave before his legs (at least I think it was his legs) stiffened up. So I had to go too. And so did Jared Linden and Nick Reese. Strange as it might seem, and it seemed very strange at the time, the four of us were halfway through a keenly fought race, you know. It was all rather like that Christmas Day truce in World War One when the two armies downed arms to play football.
And it must have looked like the Somme too by the time the other 100 riders had been through. I think everyone’s favourite restaurateur will have to scratch Cleanest Restaurant Furniture of the Year off his list for 2015... and settle for another trip to see Ma’am, this time maybe finally bagging that elusive knighthood for services to hungry mountain bikers.
St Peter James after we’d finished. (I know, wrong war, but hey ho.)
I think everyone loved the idea of a proper sit-down meal as part of the event – it’s great to catch up and swap war stories over a decent bite to eat - and everyone enjoyed it. But the consensus even among the more casual riders is that it would’ve been better to have it at the end after we’d cleaned up. I know for a fact that some of the riders doing the event are complete animals - you know who you are - but even they felt a little sheepish sitting there in a sea of mud and sweat fumes.
Meanwhile, the truce was off and it was back over the top. Young Jared soon disappeared off ahead; Jon, Nick and I were together for ages, but on the last big fire road climb I started to drop back due to cramp. Although I caught them up on a mad technical dash up what is normally a wild descent, packed with monster puddles and rocky steps and no end of mud and roots and all the other things I love about mountain biking, I then lost them again to reach the finish a couple of minutes adrift.
So in the end I was second on the morning’s official timed section; third before lunch; and fourth after lunch. Confused? I’m still pretty dazed as well.
The event was extremely tough. Too tough for many, with half the starters failing to complete the whole course. The descents were all pretty wild and a lot of fun, but in the Irfon Forest you do really have to earn them; it's not as compact as the Crychan Forest down the road, but then it does get you that much more "out there".
Red Kite Events supremo Neil Delafield tells me he wants to be known for extreme events where merely finishing is an achievement. And I have to say he’s doing a good job. I’m pretty fit these days, but I hurt every bit as much as anyone else out there by the end. I finished smiling but absolutely drained and riddled with cramp. I haven't been that knackered for ages. Nice one.
So I’m looking forward to the similar Little Devil event on 29 March starting from Bwlch Nant yr Arian near Aberystwyth.
Top 10 on the timed section (I only came second because Jon fell off):
Star date: 14 December 2014 Location: Coed Trallwm, Mid Wales Event: Red Kite Winter XC Series Round 2 Weapon of choice: Loadsagears 29" hardtail Greatest strength: Finishing Greatest weakness: Chain Result: 7th
A forecast of wet and windy weather sorted the men from the boyos even before the infamous first climb. Most of the Valleys crowd cried off to go Xmas shoplifting instead, leaving it to a select bunch of hardier mountain men (and woman) from Welshie Wales and Hereford, home of the SAS, to step up to the plate - and smash it.
And a right mountain man I was too, not having shaved for a month and starting to look a little like a cross between Kenny Rogers and a bearded collie:
Kenny Rogers
Bearded collie
I mention this not out of vanity (cough) but because it dictated my choice of steed for this race. As you know, singlespeeds and beards go together like gin and tonic, Hale and Pace, priest and choirboy, Robson and Jerome. So, being the contrary sod I am, I took the geared bike.
And I really wish I hadn't, because if I'd taken the singlespeed I wouldn't have lost half an hour to a mechanical...
Squelch.
Photo courtesy of the newly rebranded Carol Cobbett. RIP CAC Photography; world domination awaits for The Valley Photographer. Another 507 photos of the event here.
The course was a longer version of the previous round's loop, chopped and changed quite a bit to break up the long climb (except on the first mini-lap) and extended to include the top of the black descent and a tricky where's-my-line-dude boggy section. The rough-cut rooty sections were in and riding better and better. Fun but testing.
I finished the first climb clear in second behind the Enduracell Bunny, Rob Williams, but then made a mess of the bog (so that's where my kids get it from) and first descent, allowing Jon Roberts to catch me. But Mr Enduro was still only 150 yards ahead, so as Jon and I headed down the second descent together I started thinking maybe we could have him this time. Which is when my pedals suddenly stopped working.
Suspecting a dropped chain, I pulled over to find ... no chain at all. The bugger had snapped and fallen off somewhere. Trudging back up the trail to look for it, I actually managed to walk straight past the damned thing despite its sparkly shininess, but luckily an eagle-eyed Nick Reese spotted it on his way through to catch and pass Jon and finish a strong second in the race. So then I just had to run/walk/scoot/coast half a mile back to the toolbox in the car and set about repairing said chain.
First I pushed the pin out of the wrong end of the chain, so I had to take another link out. My sausage fingers then struggled for about three months to get the PowerLink chain connector to engage. At which point I found I'd wound the chain the wrong way round the rear derailleur and had to start again. Disconnect, wind round, reconnect. Only to find I'd done exactly the same thing again. Turns out I was the weakest link...
Random fact: Anne Robinson is disturbingly like my mother, which may explain a lot.
By the time I finished and returned to where I'd left the course, I'd lost the best part of a lap on the leaders. While there was no chance now of getting a result, there was still the small matter of whether I could avoid the further humiliation of being lapped. It was a close-run thing, with Mr Enduro closing me down rapidly on the last descent, but I was damned if I was going to let him catch me, and he didn't.
My reward was an utterly miserable final lap. It was now raining properly and very windy in places, I was cold and tired and unmotivated, and the climbs were a punishing ordeal. Still, I made up half a dozen places by the finish and even scraped onto the vets podium (yes, at my suggestion Red Kite Events have invested in an actual proper mahoosive podium to help boost my self-worth) and got to take home a can of shiny spray to go with my can of degreasy spray and can of oily spray from round 1, so I guess it was worth plodding on.
I now totally get why beards and singlespeeds go together. It's that whole back-to-basics crusty Paleo thing. Simple, lazy, easy, natural.
Beard: No farting around at the start of the day. You just get up and go.
Singlespeed: No farting around at the end of the day. You just chuck it in the shed.
Beard: No worrying about a power cut when you've only done one side.
Singlespeed: No worrying about snapping a chain, derailleur or cable.
Both: You feel inexplicably drawn to real ales.
On the other hand, there is that nagging fear of errant sesame seeds taking root, and the various females in my life wasted no time in informing me that not only did I look like a tramp but I felt like a hedgehog. Which reminded me all too clearly of my horror as a teenager when I first discovered that ladies' nether regions aren't at all soft and downy like their feline namesakes. So, with regret, I've now gone back to the full Brazilian.
But I still plan to singlespeed the next round of the XC series. See you at Coed Trallwm on 18 January.
Star date: 30 November 2014 Location: Coed Trallwm, Mid Wales Event: Red Kite Winter XC Series Round 1 Weapon of choice: Carbon 26" singlespeed Greatest strength: Determination Greatest weakness: Legs Result: 2nd
Conditions were perfect for the return of Britain's most laid-back race series. Dry, mild and sunny. In Wales. On the last day of November.
One obvious cloud on the horizon, though, was the presence of Rob Williams - no chance of a win then! Since leaving me for dead on both the climbs and the descents last time he was up this way in January (see here), the former World Cup downhiller has been busy setting KOMs at Bike Park Wales and getting himself crowned winner of the 2014 European Enduro Series. Respect - we were in the presence of royalty. Otherwise, though, it was the usual rag-tag bunch of around 50 amateur racers and weekend warriors.
Letting the boy racers sprint off ahead at the start, I settled into the usual steady rhythm up the usual 20-mile fireroad climb and soon started picking off the overambitious, hitting the top clear in second place with Rob Williams way off in the distance. Which is how it stayed for the whole five laps.
Auditioning for Planet of the Apes.
Photo courtesy of Carol Cobbett at CAC Photography. Another 1,057 photos of the event here.
With no other riders ever close enough to worry about, the only real battle was with my mind. Am I the only one who goes through a stage several times every race where I ask why on Earth I'm putting myself through this hell and decide to give up racing for good? I felt terrible on all the subsequent climbs and put it down to the usual scapegoats (too much geared riding, stupid choice of bike, old age, general decrepitude) but in hindsight I probably just went out a bit fast. Although I could barely turn the pedals on the last
two climbs, turn those pedals I did. For some reason my oxygen-starved brain decided I owed it to the various lappees I was still passing not to hop off and walk. But trust me, I wanted to.
The highlight of the day (apart from beating Jon Roberts for the first time this year) was the first descent: a fun new line through the trees (all roots, moss and loam) followed by the top section of the sketchy old-skool enduro descent (see here) and rounded off with a blast down the rough surfaced tracks of the trail centre's black descent. A really uplifting mix of tricky 'n' techy and fast 'n' furious that made all the climbing worthwhile. All told, the course was very well balanced and I really enjoyed it.
Apparently a tweaked version of the same course will feature at round 2 on 14 December. And I hear whispers that the long fireroad climb might soon be broken up with some sweet new technical singletrack...
Mildly apprehensive at times but not scared witless throughout. Progress.
Star date: 25-26 October 2014 Location: Coed Trallwm, Mid Wales Event: Empire Cycles Enduro Round 3 Weapons of necessity: 26" XC hardtail on day 1, 29" XC hardtail on day 2 Greatest achievement: Trying Greatest weakness: Failing Result: Mid-table, again
Once upon a time there was a national downhill racer called Neil. Like anyone who gets their kicks riding bikes off cliffs, he must have had a screw loose to start with, but after one face-plant too many he tragically had to hang up his Lycra and spend the next 15 years muzzled and under constant sedation in an institution (contrary to popular belief, not actually the Drover's Rest).
Eventually released as part of Care in the Community, an ostensibly cooler, calmer Neil began organising grass-roots MTB events - but with a difference. Events with an unusually chilled and welcoming vibe but with a lurking menace and an undeniable sadistic streak. Yes, behind that urbane and amiable facade, there still skulks the mentalist of yesteryear.
First came a series of relaxed XC events peppered with the odd totally demented descent - and now, many beers later, a series of relaxed enduro events also peppered with the odd totally demented descent. Like the family Rottweiler - tickle my tummy then watch me savage your baby.
This event is very much a case in point. On the one hand, it was chill-out central. All five stages were within spitting distance of the Coed Trallwm trail centre café rather than dotted around a big loop, so it was a case of ride what you want, when you want, making things even more sociable and relaxed than ever. Timing was suitably old-skool in the form of synchronised Casios, and I particularly liked how the only sponsorship presence, a rail of (highly recommended super-soft organic bamboo)
T-shirts, was largely left unattended because Trail 42 were taking part themselves.
Most of the stages presented little to worry about either, lightly spiced-up versions of the centre's existing descents that were well within the average rider's
comfort zone. While competition was fierce at the sharp end with
plenty of intimidating Transformers-style
body armour floating around, the majority of us were indeed average
riders there for the challenge, for the craic. Desperately hoping to put
in some good times, of course, but not overly surprised or bothered
when we didn't.
All of which made for a bong-tastic weekend of coffee, chat, ride, cake, repeat. And check out the views:
On the other hand, there was the utterly bonkers demolition derby of a first stage. That Neil just can't help himself. Talk about a baptism of fire. An insanely full-on steep muddy rootfest that belonged in a downhill race and so-like-totally sorted the men from the boys, with even the best riders taking the odd tumble and us lesser mortals being batted around and spat out the bottom as though caught in a giant pinball machine. I make no apologies for focusing on this stage. It was the daddy of the descents, completely overshadowing the rest, and was all anyone talked about all weekend.
Big kudos to Steven Sproat for daring to share this chest cam footage of stage 1 (Sunday's version), as I suspect that, like me, he will never trouble the podium at the World Enduro Series.
Warning: Contains bad language (but not nearly as much as I used).
Before I give the wrong impression, let me stress that the stage was mental-fun, not mental-dangerous. More Insane in the Brain than Killed by Death. Yes, it was very steep in places, but there were no kamikaze road gaps. Everything was rollable. You could always just stick out a foot or two (and now and again a hand or a head) or hop off the bike and run/scramble. What made it so challenging, and so much fun, was that it was just so unpredictable. A never-ending succession of off-camber roots, sketchy drops, steep/tight slidey turns and just plain ol' mud meant that you never really knew what was going to happen next. One minute you were slithering over/round/down said trail features without any major problems; the next, you suddenly found yourself pointing back where you came from - or up at the sky - and wondering just how you got there. And as error piled upon error, initial four-letter frustration morphed into a kind of giggly hysteria. I finished my first practice run declaring it the best descent ever.
Although parts of it had appeared previously in XC races and the first
round of the enduro series back in April, the trail pixies had clearly been dropping acid all summer, adding some wild new features and extending the track right down the hill to create an absolute monster of a run that felt completely fresh.
The top section had undergone a major makeover to make it more durable
in wet conditions with some strategically positioned mini rock gardens and chicken-wired
timber offcut steps, plus a few extra little ups and downs to make it a full 3D experience. I first described it in February 2013 as "a twisty, turny beast of a section, all stumps and roots and steps down
onto a deeply corrugated traverse which was rather like riding on oval wheels" - and that still pretty much sums it up.
Looking up the middle section. It was steeper than it looks.
The middle section was where it got steep. Really steep. And slippery. Really slippery. Imagine a series of tight switchbacks, some rutted or bermed and some with no support at all, down a 1-in-3 ice rink. It was mental. I mean, what sane person would choose to slalom down a ski jump on a f******* bicycle?! Ultimately there were still sufficient traces of the lush loamy leafmould of summer to offer a modicum of grip on the steepest parts, but the super-techy entry down a drop and straight over a big lump into a tight bermed-right-to-flat-left zigzag was pure clay, freshly buffed into a leap of faith. The coaching manuals tell you that if you point your eyes, hips and front wheel where you want to go, that's where you'll go. Well, whoever wrote that had clearly never ridden this track! Despite repeated attempts, I could never quite flick my body round fast enough for the second turn, with the result that the bike wanted to carry straight on down the hill - backwards. The natural, indeed the only, response was to send out an urgent steadying foot or two. But pride was restored only temporarily, because in these conditions my shoes were like superpowered mud magnets and instantly doubled in size, so it was then like trying to ride in a pair of these:
Struggling to clip back into your pedals while navigating tricky off-camber roots is the last thing you need at the best of times - and certainly not when it's just about to get properly steep:
Looking down part of the middle section at the one ski-turn that didn't cause me any problems. It really was steeper than it looks.
If only it had been straight down the hill. That way you could just cling on and pray. And on the Sunday it was. But Neil the mentalist had other ideas on the Saturday, cruel ones, adding in an extra zig-zag round a tree over a ten-inch root that was desperate to grab your chain ring and catapult you into the air. Again, I never made the second turn. Logic and physics told me I was going to carry straight on and crash into a tree, and I don't like to disappoint, so that's exactly what I did. The bit pictured above, though, was more straightforward, at least at a snail's pace, and I managed to slide down with a degree of control and even dodge the trolls to get onto and over the bridge at the bottom unscathed.
See,
I said it was steeper than it looked. This was the 180° Turn from Hell. Unfortunately the Root of All Evil is partially obscured here. #DavidBailey
They thought it was all over - but there was more. Brand new for this event, the bottom section began with a couple of really big man-made features...
OK, not actually Kim Kardashian's bootilicious buttocks, but a huge speed-scrubbing "bus-stop" up and down a pretty sheer 10-foot bank, followed by a 20-foot loose stony drop that did its damnedest to send you into a tree stump.
... before going all natural along a muddy, rooty, mossy, puddly straight section full of boggy wheel-grabbing holes to the finish.
What an absolutely mental, brilliant, exhilarating descent! It's amazing what mountain biking can do to your brain chemistry - I can't believe any drug could deliver that kind of high. Depending on how much of a pickle you got yourself into, it offered somewhere between three and five minutes of 100% wholegrain downhill goodness, and for my first one-and-a-bit runs it was pure magic.
Then came the hiccup. I'm not sure what happened. Somehow this:
Turned into this:
Both shots courtesy of the cannily but cruelly positioned Carol Cobbett from CAC Photography.
And before I knew it, I was lying on my side with a tree stump poking me in the kidneys and ribs and threatening to do this:
I exaggerate, of course, but it still hurts a fortnight later, and I'm still struggling to put down any real power through the pedals. That said, I'm not sure the physical injury slowed me down that much in the enduro. A timed run is a bit like sex: your mind is on other things and temporarily switches off any aches and pains you might have. The mental wound was a different story. I eventually limped down the rest of the descent, legs akimbo, balance awry, never expecting to make it round the corners or up the bus-stop or miss the stump after the big drop - and I didn't. I arrived back at the café a quivering, nervous, simpering wreck. I had completely lost my bottle, my marbles were threatening to go the same way, and I just wanted to go home.
Regular readers will know I'm no stranger to a bit of a wobble at the top of an unfamiliar steep drop, and I like to think that's an entirely normal and natural response. But this was more serious, not so much "I'd
rather not" as "I can't". I still had to do two timed runs of that descent, though, so I desperately needed to man up somehow. I started with every biker's first port of call - cake - but appeared to have developed immunity. When the shakes eventually receded to the point where I could carry a coffee and only spill half of it, I retired to a quiet corner of the café and tried to go to a place of inner strength, only to find I didn't have one.
Turns out I'm not a man but a wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie.
I did eventually summon up just enough courage to go back over the top, and I even squeezed in an extra practice run between my two timed runs. Every time, though, however much I told my body to just do it, my newly liberated inner
wuss just said no. I was rigid with fear even on the easier top
section, which caused me to skitter all over the place and stall constantly, and when I got to the
steep section, my feet wouldn't
stay on the pedals no matter how hard I tried and how much
verbal abuse I gave myself, which was rather a lot. It was deeply, crushingly humiliating. That hill well and truly had the better of me.
In wartime, I'd probably have been shot for cowardice. Fortunately the penalties in enduro are not quite as harsh and I had a chance to redeem myself on the other stages, which I did, making the top 20 on the pedallier ones and ending up mid-table overall out of about 80 riders. Which isn't too shabby, considering that enduro is not
what I normally do or what my XC bikes and XC tyres were designed for. And on balance I did actually enjoy the weekend hugely - a well-organised event, great tracks, great venue, great atmosphere, no caveats.
I always knew I'd left it a bit late to become a World Cup
downhiller, and I think now I have to accept it might never happen. That said, time heals all wounds, including dented pride, and I'm actually now itching to have another go at that descent. And when I do, I'll f****** have you, you b******!
I'd like to dedicate this post to fellow Red Kite Events regular
Jason Moseley (clearly no relation) who managed to break his leg in two
places on a fire road the weekend before the event - get well soon, mate!
