Friday afternoon off work with a mate and a stolen afternoon in the pub.
Roused yesterday early by the bread knife to go to Drayton Manor with our son, some friends and their kids and, of course, my raging hangover.
Then this morning, I was up a 4:45am to go for a dawn ride with 5 mates. I can't believe there are that many of us daft enough to meet at the trail head for a 6:00am start and then ride for 4 hours. Spectacular morning and a bloody good ride too - including some special bridleways.
Nephew's 3rd birthday party this afternoon. Now I'm knacked. I'm too old for this candle at both ends shit.
Mountain Mayhem was a laugh. No hang on, it was bloody awful. I think this may have been the final straw in my 24 hour racing exploits, well, the last time at Malvern anyway. I was chatting with a team mate at about 1:30am in the pissing rain and we came to the conclusion that of the 14 events we had done between us, only 3 had remained dry for the full 24 hours. Given these things always take place in the summer, that's fucked up. Anyroad, what do I know, blah blah yadda yadda.
Whilst my post-bog-fest bruises and tweaks heal I've finally plucked up the courage to sell the susser (sobs). It was surplus to requirements and whilst it's a bit of a wrench, I'm sure I'll get over it.
So it’s about 7:30am on a Sunday. All my chores were done yesterday. I got out of bed at 6:30 to feed and change my infant son so that the wife can have a lay in. They’re both back in bed and I’m stood in the garage, chucking stuff in a bag. Shoes, check. Helmet, check. Waterproof (always – this is Northern England after all) check. It’s all here. Then I walk past my £2,200 XC full susser, the £1,800 “hardcore hardtail” and walk straight to the shonky, thrown-together rigid single speed and chuck it in the car.
This is fast becoming the usual Sunday morning ritual, but this time I actually stop with the bike mid-boot to think why my nice shiny £4K’s worth of technological innovation stays locked in the garage to gather dust every week, whilst the ramshackle collection of bits I usually refer to as my winter bike gets ridden to within an inch of it’s life. I can’t actually remember the last time I rode the hardtail. The susser only got used the week previous because I’d entered a Merida Marathon.
In my short drive to the trail head, to a back drop of Radiohead and rain hitting the windscreen I wonder if I’m wasting money. If I’m honest, the susser was a bit of an impulse buy. “I’m getting on a bit”, “I need something comfortable for races and long days”, even the pathetic “It will complement my other bikes” were used in my sorry excuse for justification, when deep down I just wanted a shiny new toy and lacked the will power to resist. It will get used for long rides – of which I do very few now I’ve a family to look after. It will get used for races, although I do less of those than I used to. So, say, 5 rides a year.
The Hardtail is less of a tragedy. It gets regular outings in the summer doesn’t it? I’ve always thought of it as my “main bike” and it still is. Isn’t it?
I think about a summary of my last 12 months saddle time. Winter – which here is defined as piss poor weather conditions and lasts about 6 months – all spent riding the SS. Short blasts and night rides, always the SS. Probably every other Sunday ride – barring away days and trail centre visits have been on the SS.
What’s happening to me?
As Karma Police fades, my thoughts turn to why I favour the thing. My self analysis reveals a deep seated and slightly uncomfortable truth. I actually revel in the added challenge on the climbs and the immense satisfaction of the ‘clean’ with no geared or air tuned oil damped virtual floating pivot assistance. I did that. ME. I’m awesome.
A part of me also likes having to pick lines. It keeps me sharp with the carrot of an adrenaline rush and the stick of sore wrists….or worse. It gives me warm nostalgic thoughts about the early nineties when most bikes were rigid and ‘picking lines’ was the most touted phrase in the MMB and MBUK articles.
Most of all, I like the fact that I can neglect it and it still loves me like a faithful old pet mongrel. It doesn’t require a beauty regime and the latest Teflon nanotechnology in a can to keep it working. It’s quiet, simple and honest.
I pull up at the agreed meeting point pre-ride and take my last slurp of tea from the travel mug. That’s it, decision made. I might as well get rid of the other bikes says Brain with a decisive lunge. Well, the susser at least, parries heart and then counters with the old classic – we’ll never recoup the investment. Brain raises guard and steps back, visibly shaken. Heart goes for the killer blow - our riding pattern and style will change one day and we’ll wish we’d kept them. Logic melts. Brain falls back into the endless loop of indecision to go round ad infinitum. Bugger.
The guys pull up and one by one get the bikes out of the cars. Predictably, and with the sense of irony that only fate seems to be able to pull off, all single speeds……
