JOHN GOURETTE’S FORUM HOLIDAY
John and Barbara leave their adopted home town en route to the UK
Up until a few weeks ago I had never ridden an MTB in the UK. I left England’s green and pleasant, though somewhat wet, cold and windy land back in 1987 to become a thoroughly Euro “biker” as my French compatriots refer to MTBers. A copy of MBUK from my mum every birthday and Christmas kept me up to date with what the rad dudes in Britain were doing until an ADSL connection turned occasional bike site browsing into an addiction, with Bikemagic as my fix of choice. A foot injury forced me to sit down for at least ten minutes every hour and it wasn’t long before the BM forum users were as much a part of my world as my mates down the pool in Pau or on the pistes in Gourette.
And then came TransWales, and a planned brief trip to the UK turned into an opportunity to meet up with some of them…
LMIRL
Ignoring dire warnings in the press about meeting people through web forums I took up Dylan’s offer to show me around trails in the Midlands and trundled over to Kidderminster in the white van.
The Dark Side
Dylan Turvey’s Wyre Forest
The gathering darkness in Wyre Forest
A press on the bell produced no sound so I knocked loudly. “Are you sure he lives there?” asked Barbara. “Sure, someone posted a picture of him sleeping in that car,” I replied and thumped harder. The door opened a fraction but then jammed and Dylan, for it was him, cleared enough objects to allow it to be opened. The big man with the big cheery grin announced he’d be ready in a couple of minutes and was, re-emerging in what appeared to be winter kit on one of the hottest days of the year.
The trails started opposite the pub at Callow Hill with a singletrack descent that turned the cooling evening air into a refreshing blast. Trails that don’t seem to be man-made but wouldn’t be there if they weren’t characterise the forest. I suppose someone (probably Dylan) initially blazes the trail leaving scraps of clothing, broken mech hangers, wheel tracks and a trail of oil/blood that others then follow. What results is smooth sweeping curves though the trees, bracken and scrub that grow on the Wyre Forest hills. And hills there are, a fire road climb to get your breath back after each banzai descent. Dylan was finding storing up potential energy hot work and ran out of water. A murky mixture of ditch water and sterilising tablets solved his hydration problems.
“The Jedi” was tackled at dusk though we cheated by riding up it first and didn’t require supernormal powers to think our way down. Nice. Dan, the lost rider that had joined us for much of the evening, was pointed in the direction of the visitor centre when lights became essential. Our own lights proved woefully inadequate but Dylan had enough fire power for three and led off through the now spookily quiet woods. Our nocturnal guide no doubt knew enough trails to keep us busy all night but after a final high speed fire-road descent we headed back up to Callow Hill.
I liked the Wyre Forest a lot and Barbara loved it, commenting, “That was great, I didn’t fall off or hurt myself”. It’s not rad or gnarly, and it would be difficult to go huge; our sort of trails.
Follow the Dog
Cannock Chase with Phil Hadland
I first rode with Phil on a CTC club ride north of Birmingham in early 1974 so it seemed fitting to ask for his help in finding my way around the nearest forest to Brum. Full suspension had proved unnecessary in the Wyre Forest so I opted for a hardtail like Phil’s. However, unloading the bikes at the Birches visitor centre I noticed a group go past on six-inch bikes wearing full armour. Now if Dylan’s choice of bike and clothing had proved ideal for his local trails these guys might just be wearing that lot for a good reason. They were.
It started OK with some very twisty singletrack that I could have run a lot faster but then it started to get rough, and stony, and potholed, and rooty, and loose, and dusty, and then we entered the trees… Picking the bike up after a tumble I reflected that the only good choice of equipment I’d made was easy-bale pedals.
Thousands of riders on excessively twisty trails produce a lot of erosion and the locals obviously aren’t into maintenance. The next time a Brummy posts a pic of his downhill Orange on ‘that’ forum I’ll feel less inclined to make facetious comments. Apart from the potholes it was the jumps that caused me most concern. Each time the wheels left the ground a tree lay within inches of the natural trajectory. That’ll be a full set of armour to go with the downhill Orange then please. And a trip to the massage parlour to sort out the hamstrings post ride, now I know why there are so many in Brum.
Oxford coppices
After Follow the Dog and a triathlon my legs were feeling a bit sore when I got out of the van in Eynsham. I arrived early and left chiropractor Alan to sort out a few more backs while I turned the legs over on the road for an hour. The cool, sweet-smelling air and watery light of English summer evenings are perfect for sitting outside pubs or doing naughty things in the woods and this was an Oxfordshire evening straight out of William Morris’s News from Nowhere. Locals Alan, Fraser, Frank and Serge the Seal of Death made up the guiding party for the foreigners – myself and Mike Spence.
There aren’t any big forests or wilderness areas in Oxfordshire but the locals link woodland singletrack with bridleways and roads to produce a fine evening’s riding. We chatted along the easy stuff then Alan picked the pace up to brisk as soon as trails rewarded extra pressure on the pedals with excitement. Bomb-Hole Wood and The Perimeter Track were highlights, with surprisingly steep and fast trails respectively for such a flat county. Just as I was beginning to wonder how much faster we could go without crashing Alan demonstrated that the limit had been reached with a painless off. His chain however had found its way between the granny and the BB shell and was stuck fast. Nuclear DIY man Serge gleefully produced a workshop quality crank extractor from the bottom of his hydration pack; the JET reactor is in safe hands.
Discreet and confidential trails that would best remain so I think. I was reminded of my rides back home in France where access and erosion aren’t issues because the odd VTTiste is a curiosity rather than an invader. Make the most of it before the signs and fences go up, guys.
Swinley
“Farnborough/Hants rides” thread
Paul D is another rider I met on a CTC run 32 years ago. He rides with some of the BM members from Jay 300ZX’s thread and arranged a meet in the Swinley car park. Rich arrived declaring himself fit to sit on a saddle a week after the TransAlps and newbie Sarah turned out to be an Anglo-Canadian triathlete despite a suspicious accent. Jay led off into trails that felt vaguely familiar. The Swinley builders obviously buy their dirt from the same suppliers as the Cannock guys. The same smooth-pebbled, poo-brown stuff but thankfully sans potholes. The berms work better too with hardly a pedal stroke needed to keep up the flow. The jumpy bits unnerved me though. Take-off ramps had funny cambers and the landings weren’t exactly straight or smooth. By the time we got to the jump gully I felt I’d already used up my quota of luck for the day and was happy to let Jay demonstrate what could be done there. I had six runs down the gully and each time bottled out at the final double. Excuses included:
- no hardtail jump bike
- not wanting to hurt myself before TransWales
- the incidence of MRSA in British hospitals
Wimp.
Next stop was the Corkscrew where it was Barbara’s turn to have a worrying almost-lost-it moment. She sessioned the problematic section while the rest of us played at riding the right and wrong way through the Corkscrew. Barbara seemed to be getting more and more and more annoyed with herself and was muttering things about pedals. A swap of bikes for one with flats got her moving again and I got told off for leaving her favourite pedals in Pau.
If Swinley trail builders read this I have a request. Please cut the trees down at the base rather than leaving 20cm sticking up. After a few close calls my pedal caught one that nature had cleverly disguised with bracken and was ejected from bike and trail. The parabolic flight path gave me enough time to get limbs arranged for a soft landing but that was the end of my confidence ration for the day.
The verdict: Swinley southerners aren’t softies.
Clent Hills
Fantastic views of the Birmingham conurbation
Straight outta Birmingham
A last minute phone call to Dylan to inform him of the forecast rain only provoked an enthusiastic, “We’re all hardy outdoor types, what’s the problem?” So Clent it was. Paul and Sinead turned up too but with only one bike between them. Do I really look that frightening in Lycra?
A Midlander for the first 18 years of my life, I was surprised to find myself riding quality singletrack within earshot of the Hagley road. The flowing natural trails were a treat after fighting through the trees (and stumps) of Swinley and Cannock. At one point Paul pointed down a steep bank and informed us that Sinead had ridden it sitting down and with both feet in the air: impressive. I opted for the usual feet on the pedals and bum over the back tyre approach.
Dusk slowly turned to dark and drizzle turned to rain to the delight of our guides. Night riding is obviously ‘in’ around these parts. To us it felt like winter had come early and we were quite pleased when Paul headed for the pub. I’m sure Dylan would have found trails to keep us busy all night.
So Clent then, apart from the brambles and head height holly it’s the perfect end to a perfect day for hard working Brummies.
The Peak
An all too brief chat with Derek
John and Derek, just minutes away from a nasty accident
With TransWales only a week away we headed up to the Peak for a final fix of LSD (long slow distance). Derek Hunter had responded to the call for riding companions on the Rides forum and arrived with lots of fitness excuses that he wouldn’t need and a very rigid looking bike that he had ridden in from Chesterfield. Glandular fever knocks people for six so Derek was pleased to be back in the saddle and able to press firmly on the pedals as we ground up to Mam Tor in perfect riding conditions. A photo stop at the top then it was into the descent picking a line through the ruts and rocks until – I binned it. Derek’s account from the forum sums it up with just the hint of exaggeration needed to transform a sorry tale into an amusing read:
Has the “curse of Rushup Edge” struck again? Bone dry conditions were perfect for John and Barbara to put the finishing touches to their already impressive fitness. Although unused to his SPD’s John came close to ‘cleaning’ the climb from Edale to Hollins Cross. With energy to spare he distained the traditional Northern flank of Mam-Tor for an aggressive summit variation. Simply to practice climbing technique. However, Rushup Edge was eerily quiet and the low dark clouds we had seen building in the distance started to roll in from the West. Soon we were all but surrounded in mist. With a sense of foreboding we began the descent towards the Roych. However, casting caution to the winds John was like a man possesed. No drop was too steep, no rut was too twisted. John took eveything the Peaks could throw at him and came back for more. Until… with only a few metres to go, the Peaks bit back. A stray rock deflected the back wheel, the front end washed out in a bank of gravel. With a mighty effort John tried to wrench the bike back on line. And then he was off, locked to his pedals in a tumbling, bruising tangle of bike and man. It was clear that the ride was over. With a knee like a balloon and blood everywhere John could barely stand, let alone ride. Bits hung off the bike. Brake levers at a crazy angle, the front wheel rattling in the dropouts. We patched John and the bike as best we could and staggered down to the road. Luckily there was a slight tail wind to help us as we returned to the cars. John gamely pedalling with one leg, the other – swollen and bleeding trailing behind him. With the bikes loaded and John lying flat in the back of the van, eyes clenched with the pain, I waved them off, thinking once more of “The Curse of Rushup Edge”.Ashby Canal
L’unijambiste (or the one legged rider)
Oh des regrets des regrets! Now if only I’d stuck to training on this perfectly maintained and picturesque piece of singletrack. Very pleasant it is too.
In your own backyard
So England is the perfect MTB holiday destination. English speaking guides, great singletrack, warm beer (so I’m told) and the perfect cup of tea. Why suffer 40° heat, dust and things you know shouldn’t be eaten on your plate when MTB nirvana is only a two hour traffic jam away? I love my local Pyrenean trails and was frankly surprised to find riding of equal quality hidden away in woods between the motorway and housing estates. Un grand merci à tous nos guides, ça vallait le déplacement. And thanks to all that make BikeMagic the fabulous resource it is – and that includes you of course!
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