Having rashly promised combustible bacon sandwiches for Driver Beckley, I stumbled out of the warm and comforting pit to be met by a heavy frost invoked with weather than was more North Pole than South East. No matter, clad in nothing more than minimal Lycra, I headed Oates-like to the shed where frozen components resisted the best efforts of a cocktail made up of heavy winter lube, a toothbrush and much swearing.

Deciding transmission that rotated was overrated, I hastened back inside where the temperate climate was emphasised by bacon smoking on the grill. Suitably fortified against the winter chill, Mike and I headed gingerly out onto the icy roads and straight into a difference of opinion over whether -5 was a good time to have the roof down.

Long John Silver decided to join the group

Sliding into a car park geographically close to Champneys but a million social miles away, we greedily accepted Frank’s homebrew coffee whilst trying to understand the equation that dictates how someone living 120 miles away always turns up before the bloke who can see the car park from his bedroom window. Still we had maintenance to perform and my freewheel only transitioned from unitary to binary once Tim’s De-Icer had mixed with Frank’s urine. It was so cold that only Frank, through years of military training, was able to go… Sorry, that’s too much information isn’t it?

The ride started inauspiciously, several miles of road work enlivened by patches of ice determined to demonstrate the true power of potential energy and a lazy wind that ignored our streamlined forms and penetrated every pore with its freezing embrace. Eventually we reached the trails, and with the traditional cry of “let’s off-road” the tedium turned to pleasure as gravity threw us downhill on a hardpacked surface that was just like summer riding. Except for the ice of course. The lack of skill is seamlessly transferred to any season. A fantastic descent through singletrack defined by bar-width trees gave way to a rain-washed gully festooned with sensuous curves and the odd fallen tree. All was forgiven as tall stories warmed the frozen air and ride leader Luke felt safe to gesture to a road climb denoting the payback for our pleasure.

“Let’s off-road!”

We passed a couple of riders less fit than ourselves, enough of a statistical improbability to make us gasp out loud. Well, that was one reason for the gasping, this climb being typical of the Chilterns – short but bloody steep. Only Tim, as yet unsullied by excess, and Nick, who spends far too little time drinking, reached the top without wondering if someone had swapped their lungs for a moist paper bag coated with tar.

What followed was some rock-hard frozen singletrack bringing us to a great descent we knew well. Which didn’t, of course, stop us from significant mincing as bad lines followed poor excuses. I’m pretty sure the walkers enjoyed the track almost as much as we did especially when we entered some kind of “are you dancing/are you asking” routine as simultaneous track crossings brought the real possibility of squashy human trail obstacles.

File under “mince”

An icy fireroad brought us into Wendover where a short road section saw us again heading up hill to Dunsmore woods. Mike was in need or Nurofen for unspecified ailments while the rest of us just took sugar on board in lieu of alcohol. Onward and upward to Dunsmore cross, we spotted an ideal time to chill out (literally) by the frozen pond. Talk of a whole pound on offer for anyone willing to ride across it, regardless of whether they made it or not was met by incredulity even after Nick employed his Foes as an impromptu ice pick. Obviously when bravery is absent mincing is not and Mike, in his best Max Wall pose, slid almost four inches onto the ice before calling it a day.

After Al had explained that the frozen unrideable moonscape representing Dunsmore woods was a bad idea, we opted instead for the opposite path and headed back into Wendover woods bouncing over frozen horses hooves and taking lines that were almost as dodgy as Keith Richard during his ‘forgotten’ years in the Rolling Stones.

Both feet on the pedals is faster – official

At the top of the Wendover descent, I somehow found myself near the front and treated those behind me to a foot out, heart-in-the-mouth moment as frozen ruts ate up my fork travel and spat me out onto an unforgiving bank. The sun continued to shine and we had the woods to ourselves as the bullshit flowed and the riding gradually took on an almost mystical quality with the low hanging sun flashing through the trees. Still, there was beer to be drunk and food to be eaten so we hastened on, via yet another drugs stop for Mike ‘Keef’ Beckley, out of Wendover and up the hill towards Lee.

We were happy to be pounding out the final miles to the pub on the road as they had little other than the odd ice trap to halt the stories of how brave we’d been in the previous two hours. After a couple more head ‘lying-in-the-bars’ moments as 2002 summer fitness became 2003 post-turkey stupor, we attacked our last off-road section with the sort of vigour and aggression normally reserved for those with more skill and less years. My anti-mincing technique of breaking large icy puddles so the next rider would fall into them were amusing to at least one person. That person being, of course, me.

Say hello to Ray

We arrived back at the cars with bikes only splattered with mud from a short unfrozen section and grins frozen by more than the cold. Much hilarity followed in a pub that’s unlikely to have us back but will always be the birth of a new magazine concept which, whilst complex and erudite, goes by the title “Which Baps?”.

Riding in ‘real’ winter is great. Shame we only get a week of it a year. Still in just another six months and we’ll have dry trails again.