Coed-y-Brenin and the group set my mind whirling on the
importance of kit. The speed at which
Jim and Milo moved could not be matched on poor Crank and I put this down to
suspension (rather than the more likely reason that the two guys were in fact more
skilled than me). Therefore I turned to
ebay.
A beautiful metallic brown 2007 Enduro was listed for £600 as
collection only and was located in Penrith.
I was happy to pay £600, but not much more, knowing that too much spent
would cause me to worry about how I rode the thing. I needed something with durability and with
the E150 forks the Enduro ticked all boxes.
My bid went in last minute. The
bike was mine.
This happened in November and I asked Baz if he could
collect it for me. His buddy Stan that
had joined us on the Seven Stanes made the collection from Penrith and
delivered it to Cockermouth. At
Christmas time Baz transferred it to Mark in Bedfordshire and in January, on a
bitterly cold day, I drove to Woburn to collect it from Mark.
There was something very fitting about the bike coming off
Mark’s car and touching down on Woburn’s dark peaty earth because it was also
the first place I had ever ridden Crank.
On that occasion I had crashed plenty, with the infamous over the
handlebar head slam into dirt when learning the power of hydraulic disc
brakes. This time I was not wet (or
muddy) behind the ears and looked forward to a fine ride.
The geometry was crazy.
When on the saddle and holding the grips it felt a little like I used to
on the Honda Shadow which was part cruiser and part street fighter. Then I set off behind Mark down our first
trail and realised the claim that this was “the only downhill bike that can be
ridden uphill” failed to mention that you needed to bust a gut to make this
happen. Man, it was tough going and for
a moment I regretted my decision.
That was until I turned it to face downhill and experienced
something altogether new. It was like
floating on a cloud, only this cloud was being thrown along by a Hurricane and
just wanted to get faster and faster.
It was a good day, with awfully tough climbing, a few
wobbles as I tried to adjust to the new geometry and a couple of crashes as a
result of almost bald tyres. Then later
the front break failed after having unscrewed itself from the frame and later
still the chain developed a need to jump from the front cog. We called it quits at this point, partly
because the Enduro seemed to be coming undone, but also because the snow had
started to fall.
Back home I inspected the bike properly. It needed a lot of help to get back to good
health so I replaced the battered triple with Blackspire, replaced the XO
cassette like for like, put on Nukeproof flats, Jagwire cables, Lizzard Skin
grips, Continental 2.3 vertical Protection tyres, replaced the disc brake pads
and bled the system. I also spoiled it
with a gold chain which then coined the name “Maggot”.
I still loved Crank and knew the bike was sound, hence why I
chose to attack the South Down’s Way on him rather than on Maggot. I still believe the entry for South Down’s
Way would have ended very differently had I not decided this, but Maggot was
slowly earning a place in my heart with a few trips up onto the heath where I
had honed my skills on Crank. Sometimes
my son would ride on the crossbar and on others it would be just me and the
dog, but nothing too strenuous. A trip
later in the year to Swinley forest to sample the new designated trails that
had been put together showed that Maggot really was a capable trail bike and a
trip to Chicksands really let it shine, but I knew it needed a real test.
When winter set in I sent out the email inviting the guys to
join me in Wales. The wolf pack were in
as soon as it was offered and I also invited along an old pal from my days of
living in Manchester. Matthew was a hard
core mountain biker and had recently completed the Great Divide trail so I knew
there wouldn’t be anything that could phase him where I had planned for us to
go; Afan Forest and Bike Park Wales.
Friday 15th
November
This trip was another of my planned babies and so detailed
for the group down to the finest detail.
I had booked us into The Farmhouse which is as it sounds and placed on
the edge of a Golf course and a 15 minute drive from Bike Park Wales. Afan forest was almost an hour away, but with
Bike Park Wales being scheduled for the final day of the weekend when we would
have limited time it seemed to make sense to put lodgings in that neck of the
woods.
My plan started out flawlessly:
·
Up at
6:00 am.
·
Dropped
Henry off at nursery at 7:30 am
·
Had an
eggnog latte from Starbucks by 8:00 am
·
Car valeted
by the local Polish by 8:40 am
·
In Costco
to buy consumables by 9:00 am
·
Back
home with a
car packed and dog walked by 11:30
am
From here it involved me meeting Matthew at the Farmhouse by
2:00pm so we could get our kit over to Bike Park Wales for some sneaky runs,
but as I came to the M4 at Reading and saw cars reversing back up the slip road
I knew plans were about to fall apart.
Unfortunately I had no alternative route to take and had to
crawl down the slip road onto my route.
It was painfully slow and 2:00pm came and went. I pulled over at a service station to let Matthew
know and as ever he was totally chilled.
I didn’t reach the Farmhouse until almost 4:00pm, but there was
no way we could let the day be a complete waste. A quick unloading of the car, transfer of
Maggot onto Matthew’s car, change of clothes and we were away.
We pulled into the car park to find it almost empty and
no-one on the road to take payment from us so it was a free ride. We took the road route rather than the “Beast
of Burden” to the top and Matthew kindly curbed his pace on his brand new Whyte
t1-29 Works which was a true beauty to look at. My climbing pace was determined by the giant
Maggot beneath me, but I assured Matthew that the return to the bottom would be
a completely different story in terms of pace.
At the top we surveyed our options and rolled out onto
the start of Sixtapod. This started out
in the open on beautiful packed trail and then swooped off into the woods where a series of jumps, rollers and berms caught us by
surprise, mainly because it was pitch black beneath the trees. However, regardless of the danger we let our
machines fly and did not pause as we popped out at the end and charged straight
into Willy Waver.
Willy Waver was yet another blue run, but the
amount of flow it offered enabled our speed to increase so much that it almost
upgraded to a red. Jumps and berms, with
corners that could be tail whipped and jumps that encouraged more and more height.
This popped us out on a sort of road where the
uplift station stood empty. From here we
took Norkle which was by far the fastest so far and concluded with a huge berm
that spat us out near the car, but also at the mouth of yet another run. It seemed rude to end it there, so we took
what was offered and hurtled down through the series of berms and compressions
until we reached the lowest point of the centre and started the short, but
steep climb back to the car.
It was getting seriously close to dark now so
we headed back to the Farmhouse. We both
cleaned up – the shower room on the ground floor seeming like it belonged in a
sports centre due to the size of it – and started drinking. Not long after the rest arrived, popped their
bikes in the garage and started tucking into the pizza and beer I had sourced. Introductions were smooth, as I knew they
would be and so had begun the final adventure of 2013.
Saturday 16th November
We woke up full of beans and Baz got the Costco sausages
going in the pan while we dressed for the day ahead. Fed and full of coffee, we set off on the
long drive to Afan with me riding shotgun with Matthew and Paul bringing the
rest in his new Q7. What struck me was
the difference between the north and south of Wales. Our trip to Coed-y-Brenin had been on long
winding roads through the national park, but here in the south the roads
dropped deep into the earth and then climbed up and up to run along rugged
mountainous peaks before falling again to hell.
It was almost as if the south had tried to fit as much land in as the
north had, but was given less room in which to place it, creating these enormous
folds that gave a little, if not a lot, of warning as to how the day would be
at Afan.
The carpark at the trail centre wasn’t entirely deserted,
but it certainly wasn’t humming like Coed-y-Brenin had been. After lifting bikes down from cars and
slipping on shoes (I had reverted back to clipless pedals after a few scary
moments on the heath riding Maggot too fast and too hard), looking at the sky
and adding a layer or too to our bodies, we pedalled up to the bike shop and café
to get some advice.
“Riding all day?” The
question from the guy standing there was simple.
“Yes”, we replied.
“W2", he advised with a nod. “It’s epic.”
Trail: W2
Distance: 30 miles - 3,199 feet of climbing (and descending!)
Grade: Black
30 miles doesn’t sound much, but off-road and gradient
certainly make it feel a lot. Afan’s W2
trail was structured perfectly as a game of two halves. For two hours we climbed and climbed and
climbed, working our way on a mix of technical forest single track with
switchbacks, root and rock as well as
blessed sections of wide fire road. Now
and then a short descent linked parts of the trail, but the sense of climbing
was always there.
This split the group of course. Maggot had not made it any secret that he
refused to climb at speed and to make matters even worse he now decided to
refuse me the use of any except the middle ring. Any attempt to change down to use the Granny
Ring proper was greeted with a grinding and then a clunk as the chain spat off
onto the bottom bracket. I was
overjoyed, of course, but thankfully not climbing alone like I might have been
in the past. Matthew and I had not seen
each other for a long time and he thankfully matched me on those slow climbs so
that we could natter like old ladies.
Finally reaching the top of the climb we could see that the centre
was structured around a valley. We were
now on the ridge and managed to regroup, following an open trail around the
valley below, soaking in the breath-taking views. We passed a wind farm on our left and climbed
a little more on rocky, technical tracks past relics of old stone buildings,
now abandoned. Then there was nowhere up
left to go…
Descending at Afan on Maggot was like catching the wind
beneath wings and soaring towards the sun.
Despite the order of climbing involving me being at the back, when it
came to descending I was allowed to push through to near the front. Baz took the lead and Matthew followed. I came after on their tail, snapping at
Matthew’s back wheel, while Mark, Paul and Dan came behind at a far more
sensible speed.
The trails were thin and twisted, rocky, rooty and
undulating with peril perched in every inch of it. On one side if one dared look it was down
into the belly of the forest while the other side reared up with biting rocks
waiting for you to make the slightest error so it might taste the flesh of your
arms and face before spitting you out down the opposing drop. But there was no error as we flew over
boulders, kicking up spray of stones and mud on natural berms and putting way
too much trust in our wheels as we passed over rock bridges on ill cambered
corners crossing deep drops into ruinous rivers.
My face hurt from smiling.
My eyes watered from the cold air rushing over them while I dared not
even blink, but what I remember most of all is the ultimate control and grace
that seemed to be gifted to me through this battered old machine beneath
me. Maggot was a coin, with one side as
heads on descending, filling me with electric fiz and infectious insanity. The other side was a dirty, fat arse that
represented the climbs. Despite this,
the sides were by no means equal and Afan ensured this with how it was put
together.
On the final run of the first half the group split. We had reached a point where works were just
completed on a new descent and the options were to take the old route named “The
Darkside” which once served as a climb or to travel up a little further to take
on a route full of berms and jumps. An
elderly chap arriving at the same time recommended the Dark Side “if you don’t
mind hanging on for dear life” and me and Matthew followed his advice. Tempted by jumps and brand new berms, the
rest of the group moved up a little to the alternative.
The Darkside is unequivocally the most challenging and
exciting descent I am yet to experience.
From the moment maggot tasted the slop he accelerated and kept on doing
so. I was leading the way and didn’t
want to be holding Matthew up as there would be no chance of passing with the
steep drop less than half a foot from the trail so I pushed past what I
believed my limit and discovered my limit was still somewhere further out of
reach. Rock and stone littered track
bucked the bike as it skipped on the brink of disaster and then one jagged rock
reared out at my pedal throwing me off.
How I managed to launch my weight to counter it, to twist the bars back
onto my line and lose no speed is still beyond me. It had all been instinctual and one of those
moments that slowed down in the minds’ eye, saturated with colour and emotion
to brand a lasting memory into my genetics.
We were down quicker than the rest of the group and I was
still chuckling when they arrived. The
old man who had followed us hung around for a chat while we regaled the others
of the experience and they confessed that the new route was a touch tame.
From here we rolled to the café that marked the halfway
mark, ate a slightly heavy meal washed down with a bottle of stout and came
back to the trail to start a brutal climb.
Maggot was indeed back on the side of tails, limping up the highly
technical ascent like a wounded bear, pushing through rim deep slop and
skittering over large wet slabs that rocked as you passed the middle. The group waited for me at the top and were waiting
a while, but a short ride back around the ridge, past the wind farm again, led
us to the final descent of the day.
Tight packed forest again thrilled us and gaps opened
between the group as much for safety as it was a symptom of descending
prowess. Then with clear space between
me and Matthew and bravery creeping too high I thought to take a natural jump
off a slab of rock to add spice to a trail that really had enough flavour already. I flew from the ridge, releasing the
compression perfectly but only realising whilst in flight that the path turned
a corner. Extending my legs and arms I
tried to ground Maggot in time to take the turn, but gave it too much
beef. The front fork, all 160mm of it,
bottomed out and Maggot went down beneath me, slamming me into the curve
between trail and drop. My knee opened
up on the stones and Maggot, still attached to my foot, travelled down the slope
taking me with it.
I was lucky to get my claws into a tangle of roots to stop
the drop, but I was winded and could feel the heat of my open knee as the blood
began to flow beneath my clothing. I
hauled myself up, dragging Maggot on my foot, back to the trail. Once it was safe I twisted my ankle to snap
my foot free of the pedal and dared look at the knee. It was a proper hole and Mark arrived as I
took to my feet. He asked if I was okay,
having heard my cry as I slammed into the ground and with true Elliott bravado
I confirmed I was fine and remounted.
Despite knowing I was being untruthful, he allowed me to take the lead
and I let Maggot gather speed like before, but confess I was now avoiding jumps
instead of seeking them out.
Back at the trail centre we had a quick lunch and then
returned to the cars to kit the bikes out with lights. The plan had always been to ride a trail at
night, but the mood for this was low after the exertion of W2. Regardless, I pushed them into following the
plan and we set out on the small blue, fooling around for a while in the pitch
black on a mini skills area and then called it a day.
There was talk of finding a pub on the way back, but the one
place that seemed like a civilised stop seemed less so once we stepped out of
the cars. Our bikes were all too much of
a temptation for idle hands and we could not find a pub that allowed us to keep
them in sight. We therefore ditched the
plan and returned to the Farmhouse where we cleaned up and Barry cooked us a
splendid Carbonara before we started laying into the beers.
People drifted off to bed at various times and I continued
drinking. After a while I was alone
downstairs and started cleaning up the devastation from a Baz Chef session in
the kitchen. Beers slipped down easily
and the kitchen again started to shine like new. By the time I walked up stairs in was
5:00am. For some strange reason I patted
Matthew on the head as I passed him as if he was a pet dog and then climbed
into my bed already knowing it was nearly time to get back up again.
Sunday 17th
November
We were up at 8:00am and finished off the Costco supplies. I had packed my car the night before… or was it morning… so very little required
other than getting dressed. My efforts
in the kitchen were gratefully received, but then Mark clocked the depletion of
real ale. Talk began of me potentially being
over the limit still and plans were being made for me to leave the car behind,
but I remembered that I had a breathalyser in the door from a previous trip to
France. Cracking open the kit, I took
the test and passed – ending any more nonsense talk (although it was touch and
go if I would pass and I did so by a very small margin).
Issue put to bed, I handed back the keys and we took the
short drive to Bike Park Wales. This
time someone was waiting for our money on entry and already the place was
buzzing. Vans littered the car park,
emblazoned with MTB brand names and team logos.
We congregated at the cafe and I said I wanted a cup of
coffee before we began, but Mark, Barry, Paul and Dan were concerned about how
much time they had and wanted to push on.
This seemed okay as they wanted to climb on the Beast of Burden and
because me and Matthew would take the road climb again we were likely to meet
and regroup at the bottom of the first run.
The reality is that we didn’t get to ride together. Me and Matthew got to the top and followed
the route down we had enjoyed so much on the Friday when we had first arrived
and this took us deep below the car park.
The rest of the group on the other hand had taken two runs down and then
returned to the top, putting the two factions at opposite poles from that point
onwards.
Me and Matthew took another long ride up and came back down
to the very bottom a second time, this time on different blue runs than before
- Melted Welly, Blue Belle and Bush
Wacker - and received a call from the others telling us to meet them at the café.
We watched Baz on the sections closer to the café as he
nailed a section of berms and rolled over to us with a big smile. Mark and Dan came a little while after at a
more sedate pace and joined us, but Paul was nowhere to be seen. At last, when we did spot him, he was
trickling along a trail and finally joined us, but without a smile. He was in fact shaking his head, looking down
at his bike and claiming it didn’t feel right.
A little inspection revealed that the wheel was not actually attached to
the frame and it was a wonder he had made it down at all.
We had lunch together and shared our stories of the trails
we had taken down, but my suggestion of us riding together after lunch was
quickly shot down. People needed to get
on the road to home and they felt that after lunched seemed a logical time to
disband. I was disappointed, having
missed the chance to follow Baz down a run to witness how close a person can push
his luck without dying, but knew distances were great and families demanding.
So it was the first two that arrived on that Friday who
would be closing the weekend with a final run and the last climb to the top
told my body that this really was the last run down. We set off down melted Welly but switched
from the blue to the red once in the woods.
This red was called Vicious Valley and the transformation from well
packed and wide trail to tight, twisting and fast natural track took me a
little by surprise. Add to that the
unexpected presence of rock step ups and root sprawls and the easy going speed
fest of earlier became a game of rapid thought and technical mastery.
Just before entering another red Matthew finally remembered
that he had his Go Pro with him! After all
the riding we had done, he remembers now on the last run, so we paused to let
him set up and then continued on.
Bonneyville had a very natural feel to it, with loose dirt bomb
hole-esque switch backs and long paths littered with humps that became jumps as
our speed increased. Bush Wacker took us
back to the cars and we packed them away before having a final coffee and cake
to close the day – chuckling at the very short piece of footage captured
because the memory card was utterly choked full.
Maggot had truly proved his worth, but as I drove home I
began to think of Crank and whether or not the experience would have been any
less joyful had I ridden him instead.
This thought continued in my head for some time and after a couple of
runs out with Maggot on the heath, a cracking all day visit to Swinley with
Matthew when he was down south on meetings with work (a ride hindered a little
by me losing my wallet and it then magically appearing in the pocket of my
camel pack) and a crash as I attempted to descend a long woodland stairway… my mind settled on an answer.
I loved Maggot for descending, but the type of riding we did
was more than that. I also remembered
harrowing Baz’s wheel on the Seven Stanes, particularly on the Spooky Wood
section of Glentress so Crank wasn’t unable to descend at speed. The difference was in the comfort offered by
full suspension. It was an element of
the bike that actually took away the need to be agile and responsive on the
pedals because it offered greater forgiveness whereas a wrong move on Crank
offered none. The truth was clear; I
wanted to ride a hardtail.
Maggot therefore received a cheap makeover to improve his
battered image when posted on Ebay and he sold for £180 more than I had paid
for him. I also sold Crank (which broke
my heart) to a young lad just starting out and pooled the money together to buy
the new 650 MTB Team hardtail Boardman.
A couple of rides out have given a glimmer of hope for future events,
but a real test is yet to be had.
Whether it was the right move or the wrong move really doesn’t
matter, as long as we continue to ride.
