Memories are made of this.

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Bearbonesnorm
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Memories are made of this.

Post by Bearbonesnorm »

As we were talking about missing riding and how it makes you appreciate rides past, I thought I'd share this. Hopefully it may help cure any boredom and maybe even make you smile a little.



The two women hovered round the room moving glasses and wiping tables. Each sweep brought them closer to our table but without ever quite reaching it. A big clock above the bar waved its hands at us attempting to gain our attention, yet still we sat nursing the dregs of coke, coffee and bitter. “Are you lot ever going?” one of the women eventually asked. She was right; it was a quarter to midnight, they had homes to go to and we had the seaside. There was a slight chill in the air outside but nothing that warranted pulling your jersey sleeves down or zipping it up. Eight or so bikes leant against walls and benches. Each sported a spartan set of luggage and a light coating of dust but any traces of mud were antique. Rain was a faded memory, a once in a lifetime summer had arrived and it showed no signs of leaving. The plan was a fairly simple one. It involved riding through the night until we reached the sea. Once there, we would spend a few hours lazing in the morning sun before turning tale and heading for home but not before a night out amongst the parched hills. I can’t recall whether Mike had volunteered for the job of chief route planner or whether he’d had the task thrust upon him but either way, he was in charge. With hindsight, it’s perhaps something of a shame that the rest of us had completely ignored the fact that Mike was perhaps the fittest he’d ever been; not so much whippet as mountain hare with a bicycle. It was a fact that would come back to haunt most of us at some point over the next couple of days.

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With final deliberations and resulting alterations made, we slipped out of the pub car park and into the night. Combine 20,000 lumens with the same number of childish whoops and giggles and you’ll understand why anyone staring from their bedroom window would have been forgiven for thinking some ghostly train was rattling down the old railway track that now serves as a cycle path. As the gravel topped roller-coaster stopped, the tarmac began. There was no foreplay, no gradual build up, just a wall of tarmac that silenced the whoops and giggles instantly and replaced them with the click, click, click of chains climbing cassettes. I took my mind off the situation by trying to work out the odds of maintaining current pace and keeping my homemade lasagne on the inside and I’ve got to say that they weren’t good. Having hopped, skipped and jumped his way to the top, Mike was waiting at the summit nob in hand, removing some of the excess fluid he’d accumulated while at the pub. I was still breathing out of my ears so in an attempt to snatch a minutes respite, I took the decision to join him.

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Riding through the night is one of my favourite things, some senses are heightened and others diminished so what followed was a pleasant yet sometimes surreal experience as we made our way across country. Mike had done his job well and although our route kept us off the roads and lanes, we made good progress but perhaps it was a little too good. Arriving at dawn to watch the sun break over a mill-pond sea is a romantic notion but the practicalities are somewhat different. In mid-summer dawn pokes its head up around half four which means three hours of thumb twiddling before the first cafe thinks about opening its doors. No, much better to stop en-route and watch dawn break over Traws nuclear power station. Stoves of various kinds were pulled from bags, “light you bastard” was uttered and within a few minutes caffeine was oozing through veins on its way to giving the sleep monster a final good slap. We’d stopped in darkness but left under a dull grey light and ever rising temperatures. The previous day, Porthmadog had recorded the hottest temperatures UK wide at over 30 degrees and we were heading straight towards the smouldering furnace.

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We formed an orderly line at the coffee machine inside the petrol station, then one by one ambled across the road to sit on the warm pavement and watch the town awake from its slumber. It was probably around seven when we saw a sign. It wasn’t from God and it wouldn’t point us towards spiritual enlightenment but it did say cafe open and would show us the way to breakfast. The lady who came to our table was very pleasant and attentive if slightly bemused. She went through the entire breakfast menu for our benefit but she could have saved herself some trouble by simply asking “ eight big breakfasts is it?”. By nine we were fed and fully prepared for the day ahead, the first two hours of which would involve lounging round the park. Although it was a glorious day and the town was swarming with visitors there appeared to be an invisible cordon enveloping our merry group and we were given an obviously wide berth as we sprawled out on the grass. The sun had burnt off any thoughts of sleep and you can’t sit on your arse all day so we gathered our belongings and set off pedalling once more towards the mountains. As ever, starting at sea level can mean only one thing. Actually, that’s not strictly true and while sea level does equate to climbing, in this case it wasn’t a single climb that lay ahead but four big ones that stood between where we were and where we were going.

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The first of these climbs was interrupted by a women selling ice creams from the back door of her cottage or maybe we interrupted her? Either way, after a corneto and five minutes beneath the shade offered by her gable end we were off once more and snaking our way up through the first abandoned quarries of the day. As the track steepened and became a narrow path, riding gave way to pushing. The sun was now high, the mountains provided no shade and the temperature had risen beyond what Wales had ever experienced before, yet for all the sweat and stinging eyes everyone emerged at the top happy and smiling. A sea of rolling green spread towards the horizon and somewhere down there, hidden within its folds was Beth Gelert and the promise of a big, ice cold milkshake. If the path coming up had been somewhat ill defined then the one going down was even more so but with the aid of gravity the hillside was soon awash with bicycles travelling in the same general direction albeit on different trajectories. Eventually we were funnelled through a gate and onto a steep, stony track that deposited us swiftly onto the main road. The trees in the valley bottom provided some relief from the heat but the ensuing two mile sprint finish to the village did nothing to cool us down. Walking into the second cafe of the day was an undeniable pleasure, the stone flags worked their magic and sucked the heat from the air. My ambitions of drinking a very large and very cold milkshake were duly met and I sat contently watching my comrades top up their calorie levels. In one way, I was in no rush to leave because I knew what was coming but another part of me couldn’t wait to get back out there and into the hills again.

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The Welsh Matterhorn stared down at us with what looked like pity spread across its western face. Thankfully we weren’t scaling the lofty peak merely brushing its flanks but even that still involved a climb worthy of note. The investment required to ride the track wasn’t worth making so we trudged our way up, getting nearer the sun with every step. Whatever little water still ran out from the hills was eagerly mopped up with caps and shirts to provide a cooling but short lived distraction from the heat. Our navigator had mentioned something about a lake after the descent that followed so reaching the top felt like cause for a tiny celebration. As the troops regrouped, I told tales of the fabled lake and its clear cool waters. The excitement was quite tangible as all fantasised about the regenerative powers these waters would surly have and so we eagerly set off to find them. It appeared that luck was truly on our side and seemingly out of and certainly in the middle of nowhere a tea shop appeared. We’d ridden past without bothering to stop, perhaps believing it to be a mirage but when the penny finally dropped a quick U turn saw us all in possession of cans of coke direct from their big white fridge. I rubbed mine over my forehead before stashing it deep within my frame bag in the hope of preserving its qualities for as long as possible. I genuinely can’t find the words to describe just how much I was looking forward to lying in the lake and drinking that very special can of fizzy nectar.

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Less than a hundred yards ahead, the track went over a small hill. My excitement got the better of me and I pedalled headlong towards it, the anticipation growing stronger with each revolution of the pedals. I crested the hill and at that moment, the bottom fell out of my little world. There was no lake, there was only more track and it went up before skirting round the hillside. “calm down” I told myself, the lake must be round that bend I thought. With my bottom lip still quivering a little, I carried on pedalling. As I rode, I began to realise that any chance of a lake appearing was becoming increasingly slim. The bend came and the bend went, my hopes were dashed and now lay broken on the rocks. I spun my legs and watched the valley floor shrink beneath me but I still couldn’t see the top, just three tiny specs in the distance that I took to be Mike, Andy and Burty. Two important things I’ve learnt over the years are, ‘shut up and get on with it’ and ’swear all the way but never quit’. I combined both pieces of advice and got on with it while swearing all the way to the top. I was greeted by Mike who’s penis was still in his shorts this time. He said something but I can’t remember what because I was too busy trying to locate my can of coke. I stuck my nail under the ring pull and gave it a tug. Pssshh followed by glug glug and it was gone. I now turned my attention to quizzing Mike who rather strangely had no recollection of ever mentioning where the lake was, just that there was one. “don’t worry, there’s a cracking descent now”, “it’s steep and rocky and goes all the way to the lake, you’ll love it”. Mike hadn’t climbed alone so I wondered where the other two were. “Where’s the track go now then, have the others already gone ahead?” I asked. Mike raised his head and when his head wouldn’t go any further, he threw his eyes upward as though casting a rope with them. I was a little unsure what his reply meant so allowed my gaze to drift upward and as I did it caught sight of Burty standing high above us with his bike slung on his back. I knew the answer already but still felt the need to ask, “this isn’t the top is it?” “Err no”. I lifted my bike and sat it over my shoulders then slowly began to navigate my way through the rock outcrops that formed a steep but hopefully final summit defence.

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The descent begin with a sheep track followed by a decrepit looking electric fence clinging to the occasional rotten post. Can’t be live I thought grabbing hold of it and discovering that it was very much alive and it was kicking, I lifted my bike over and continued on my way. The fence was a barrier between two worlds and grassy sheep track now became a hard packed path crushed into the spoil of countless mines. I hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards when a ghastly howl stopped me dead. It had come from behind and I turned just in time to see Stuart, bike held aloft, topple over the electrified fence having somehow got his testicles entangled within it. I gave him a cheery wave and carried on. Speed was easier to come by now and I followed the steepening track down through the old workings. The climb had now been forgotten and down below I could clearly see what Mike had described. It was wider than the single track I was presently on but it was far steeper and seemed to be paved with football sized boulders. Mike was right, I like steep and rocky, the first eight years of my mountain bike apprenticeship were served in the Peak District, so I find a combination of the two an enjoyable prospect; I heard it and felt it. I’d hit something edge on with the back wheel and holding my breath in the following seconds didn’t prevent the familiar wobble from developing. I looked down and was greeted by the sight of my tyre shooting its creamy load of sealant onto the floor. It gasped one last breath then lay there flat and dead. I pulled the wheel from the frame and then the tyre from the wheel. Whatever I’d hit had done its worst and removed a piece of tyre right on the edge of the tread. Andy rolled to a halt beside me having suffered a similar fate. We both knelt over our respective bikes and waved everyone by as they came past on there way towards steep, rocky nirvana. It became obvious fairly quickly that Andy’s tyre had faired better than mine and with the addition of a plug to the sidewall he was on his way. No plug was going to fix my tyre though, it would require major surgery the like of which would probably require crowd sourcing, so I put everything back together and started the long walk.

I was surprised to find Steve part way down but having not grown up in the Peak District he was less happy about the prospect of steep and rocky and had chosen to err on the side of caution. Pushing down the jumble of rock was a slow and laborious process and the flat back tyre prevented gravity from offering much assistance but we stumbled on in unison until the track smoothed and I told Steve to ride on. Pushing down the descent was bad enough but pushing along the flat track that contoured the lakes shoreline was tedious. In the distance I could see people splashing in the water, then I could make out bodies lay on the bank and finally I was near enough to recognise faces and hear the sarcastic round of applause in my honour. Everyone dug into their bags and a whip-round was held for my tyre; tape from here, a piece of plastic from there and some old inner tube from somewhere else. The bodging commenced and in no time at all my tyre was inflated. It should be said that the resulting repair wasn’t pretty and I harboured no belief that it would last more than a mile but for now it was up and I consoled myself with knowledge that worse had gotten me home before. My misfortune had delayed proceedings by a good hour and I knew that everyone besides me would be itching to be underway but how could I not go in the cool water now? Five minutes later, I was sat on a large rock by the shore fastening my shoes and wondering whether I’d ever see my penis again, even with the aid of a mirror.

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I don’t have a mobile phone but someone who has fully embraced the digital revolution had the foresight to ring what appeared to be the nearest pub and inquire whether they were serving food that evening. Please remember that this is rural Wales so the definition of ‘near’ is different to most places. It transpired that around fifteen miles stood between us and a helping of steak pie. It was late afternoon now and things were starting to cool off a little. A reduction in temperature should have helped us maintain a reasonable pace but a series of punctures inflicted on the same bike and I believe the same wheel reduced things to a frantic crawl - thankfully it wasn’t me. Although glacial, our progress did eventually deposit us at the pub. We rolled into the beer garden and surveyed the situation before us. The place was heaving, not a single table or chair was unoccupied. Usually, this wouldn’t be any cause for celebration but this evening was different. The pub wasn’t wall to wall with old farmers or tipsy teenagers, the clientele was much more interesting because this pub appeared to be the favoured haunt of attractive middle-aged women. I’m sure you can imagine just how popular this discovery made it to unattractive middle-aged bikepackers. With no tables or chairs available, we reverted to type and plonked our sweaty selves down on the nearest available patch of grass. I knew that Mike’s plan for the evening included riding to a long abandoned gold mine. It was to be found high in the hills and would involve both riding and pushing a considerable distance from where we sat. No one seemed in a hurry to leave though and by the time we’d ogled our way through two drinks and a meal, early evening had come and gone.

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In truth, we’d stayed far longer than we ought to have and not just because we were unnerving the other customers. Although pleasant, our extended break had given both mind and body time to relax and unwind. Add the combined effects of thirty degree temperatures and thirty six hours without sleep and I think we had fair reason to be gurning our way up the steep hill that lead directly from the pub. It should be said that some campers appeared a little less happy than others at this point and as I crawled my way up the climb, I considered the options. I crested the top and pedalled towards Mike who was happily riding in ever decreasing circles while he waited. “We can’t do the mine” I said, “don’t you want to go?” he replied looking somewhat quizzical. I was happy to go and I actually felt quite good, maybe even good enough to pull off another ‘all nighter’ or at least I was feeling stupid enough to attempt it but unity was at stake. “If it was you and me, we’d go” I said. Mike thought for a second or two seemingly digesting what I’d said before simply saying, “okay, how about the woods at Traws?”. That was that, a decision had been made and as everyone assembled we broke the news. No one questioned it and all seemed especially happy when it was mentioned that we’d only be a literal stones throw from the cafe when it opened in the morning.

We stood looking into the trees and Mike threw the first question, “is there any flat bits in there?” It was quite some time since I’d been ‘in there’, so rather than voice a best guess I suggested that the pair of us should go and look while the others held our current position. It was as black as the inside of a particularly dark bag once amongst the heavily leafed trees. We’d approached from different directions but were separated by no more than a few feet yet both of us was certain that the other had retreated back onto the track. After another few minutes of searching, I emerged back out into the moonlight just as Mike did and in unison we said something that the untrained ear may have mistaken for ‘duck fat’ or possibly ‘buck tat’. We were nearing the edge of the woods now and it wouldn’t be long until we broke cover which would mean devising another accommodation plan. Our last hope lay in a small piece of land that jutted out from the shore just before the tree cover ended. Patients paid off and we were rewarded with a fine spot that boasted a picnic table amongst its attributes. It was probably around midnight; bikes were propped against trees, buckles unclipped and bags emptied. Each rider conducted their bedtime rituals before lying down on the ground beneath or inside whatever they saw fit.

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The usual bouts of others coughing and farting hadn’t disturbed me from my sleep but the sound of a bumble bee hovering above me face had slowly prised my eyes open. I focused through the netting of my bivvy bag and could see the black dots of midges floating in the air on the other side. Judging by the light that filtered through the trees, it wasn’t particularly early. Aside from my friend the bee, I couldn’t hear anything. No zippers being unzipped, no snapping of twigs beneath feet and no tell tale ‘tick tick tick’ of a stove being lit. Either I was first awake or I’d slept through the usual cacophony that heralds a new day in bikepacking land and they were already at the cafe. I unzipped my bag and with a slight groan sat up. As I did other bodies did the same. Had the busy bee visited everyone I thought or were we all under the spell of some Voodoo zombie curse and destined to rise from the grave as one? The close proximity of the cafe dictated our pace and although far from rushing, there was no need to linger as we knew we’d be better fed there than from the contents of our bags.

We assembled on the decking behind the cafe and one by one filed inside to place our orders before returning back outside. Aside from a couple of walkers, we were the sole customers but that changed dramatically over the course of the next fifteen minutes. The first sign was the appearance of two blokes wearing hi-viz vests, the second was the unmistakable sound of road shoes tap dancing across a hard floor. It wasn’t a dozen feet that skittered over the shiny laminate towards the counter but two hundred. I’d always thought the cafe was far larger than it needed to be but this morning I was proved to be wrong. We all secretly breathed a sigh of relief that we’d got our orders in when we had and so returned our collective attention to staring out across the lake and wondering whether today would be as hot as yesterday. The first plates of food arrived and the usual sweet smiling face of the proprietor had turned somewhat sour. “What’s going on?” someone asked. “They’re holding a road race starting from the car park” she said with a slightly strained expression. We wished her well and vowed to keep our requirements and requests to an absolute minimum until the rush subsided.

I’m usually adverse to having a wee inside but given the circumstances I thought I’d best make some kind of effort. Gripping a piece of toast between my teeth, I left our table and shimmied my way through the cafe towards the toilets. As a child I was once hit in the face with a hammer and I still bear the scars. It was an experience that I can remember vividly more than forty years later but even something as ‘in your face’ as a hammer couldn’t compare to the attack on my senses that greeted me as I pushed the toilet door open. I can only assume that the thick smell that hung inside and dripped from the walls was a combination of too many energy bars, too much caffeine and an abundance of jangling nerves. Having just recently paid for my breakfast, I was in no rush to lose it by stepping inside; I took my hand from the door, turned and retraced my steps back into the breathable air outside. In my brief absence, it had been decided that we would ourselves play roadie today and utilise the old mountain road for the final but unshaven leg of our journey. It’s a lovely road that largely comprises one long gradual climb and an equally long and gradual descent. In winter it’s bleak and utterly desolate but this morning it would be glorious.

The first stop of the day came much earlier than anticipated with a visit to the petrol station and a last minute ice cream. In our defence, it was already hot and there wouldn’t be another opportunity for refreshment until we finally reached the same pub we’d left late on Friday night. We formed a strung out precession as we wound our way ever upwards towards the top. A small river tumbles down the hills below the road and in all but the rarest of occasions it’s a torrent of foam and noise but today it was silent and the water gently trickled between the rock pools that form its bed. I stared down at it longingly. Some of the pools were still full and would provide the weary traveller with cool pleasures but we pedalled on. I was riding on my own at this point and was happily day-dreaming when something caught my eye. It was black and looked like a piece of material or plastic sitting quietly a couple of feet back from the roads edge. I hate litter and will stop to collect other peoples when the need arises, so thinking that this was what I was about to do, I stopped and bent sideways to scoop it up. I looked round for the owner, surely they’ll be missing this I thought while wondering and half hoping that whoever it belonged to might have wondered down to the river to cool off and would now be jiggling their way up the hill to collect it. There was absolutely no sign of anybody, we hadn’t seen a single person since we’d departed the petrol station. Who did it belong to? Why was it here? It was a puzzle I couldn’t answer so shrugging to myself, I pushed the ladies bra top down the waistband of my shorts and resumed my task.

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The long descent beckoned seductively from the summit and in a little over thirty minutes we’d be back where we started. I freewheeled into the pub car park and lent my bike against the same wall I’d lent it against on Friday night. I nodded to those of my comrades who’d arrived before me and walked inside to buy a drink amongst the Sunday roast lunchers. Our number had swollen to full strength by the time I returned and I took position on a low wall and basked in the sun and smell of factor fifty. I remembered the mountain top trophy and pulled it from my waist before throwing it across the table towards Mike. We must have spent an hour or more eating, drinking and simply letting the world pass us by before someone came up with the idea of actually going home. I looked at the faces gathered round the table. While undoubtably grubbier than when we’d last sat here, each looked happier and maybe even a tiny bit richer. The white streaks of salt painted across our jerseys bore testament to what we’d done and where we’d been although any innocent bystanders might have assumed Mike had spent the previous evening somewhere entirely different given that he was sat at the head of the table resplendent in his new black bra-top.
May the bridges you burn light your way
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thenorthwind
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Location: Newcastle

Re: Memories are made of this.

Post by thenorthwind »

Thanks for that Stu. I never thought I could be this nostalgic for simple things like sitting outside a petrol station eating an ice cream, but these are indeed strange times.
sillybigfella
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Joined: Thu Jul 14, 2011 7:14 pm
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Re: Memories are made of this.

Post by sillybigfella »

Great stuff, really enjoyed that.
I’ve been abart a bit
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burty
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Joined: Wed Oct 03, 2012 9:45 am

Re: Memories are made of this.

Post by burty »

that weekend always sticks out a one of my favorite rides ever stu :-bd
great ride and great company , roll on when we can all get out again
i believe its run to the sun 4 this year ,possibly/maybe, who knows
slarge
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Joined: Mon Aug 22, 2011 4:49 pm
Location: MTB mecca (Warwickshire)

Re: Memories are made of this.

Post by slarge »

Thanks Stu, brought back memories of Mike and me doing the recce ride. Didn't get mentally scarred by seeing Mike dressed up for a night out though! :-bd
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Richpips
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Re: Memories are made of this.

Post by Richpips »

Enjoyed that. Thanks.
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sean_iow
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Re: Memories are made of this.

Post by sean_iow »

I enjoyed that Stu and what a legend Mike is. It brought back my own happy memories of the 2018 HT550.

It was the morning of the forth day. Mike, Bas and myself had rode on late into the night to get close to Ulapool for the next days breakfast. I cant remember if Bas had stopped before us or pushed on further but it left just Mike and myself to bivi on top of a mountain(ish) near Loch Labharaig. The night before had been crystal clear with the moon so bright you could just about ride without lights on even at close to midnight.

As the sun rose in the morning and I awoke I immediately noticed two things, the number of midges on the outside of the mesh of my bivi bad and the amazing cloud inversion. Luckily my phone was inside my bivi with me so I would be able to reduce the time I'd have to provide breakfast for the midges in my quest to record this special moment. I plucked up the courage, prepared my phone and unzipped my bivi.... Mike had also noticed the photo opportunity and had also decided to sacrifice himself to the midge in a quest for the perfect picture and decided that there was no time to waste. As I bravely sat up to take my picture Mile appeared from his tent and...

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Ran into shot in just his shreddies :lol: His Picture is much better than mine, it must be the subject matter :wink: I did manage to get my picture though :smile:

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Adventure without risk is Disneyland - Bikemonger
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