I used to be able to jump. Long hot summer holidays with time on my hands and ten-speed racers to abuse. Our chosen jump spot was a worked-out quarry with all manner of interesting topographical outcrops to get you airborne. It seems a long time ago and of course it is. Now the very idea of launching myself into space on a spindly steel frame with slick tyres and cantilever brakes is ludicrous. With age comes an increasing mortality fear, so while in 1978 the inevitable sky-ground-sky or takeoff-fly-smack-into-a-pointy-rock incidents (which represented the majority of my attempts at jumping) left me with nothing more than skinned knees and increased determination to get it right next time, nowadays it amazes me that I ever made it past puberty.

Twenty years passed with little interest in MTB airborne gymnastics, and it wasn’t until last year, at the dual course at Aston Hill, that the heights to which this ‘sport’ has risen became apparent to me. Mincing down the dual course after glancing nervously at the four feet of suspension travel making up the steeds of the grinning quartet of, well, children at the top, it became plain that this two decade lapse had reduced my leaping skills to quiver, brake, stall, stop. Then, the first of these fully armoured gravity dwarfs, rather than spoil the obvious enjoyment of his run, dispensed with the normal two dimensions of my mountain bike world and overtook me using the third. He soared over my head, even having time to flick a contemptuous V sign, before executing a perfect two- wheeled landing at some point over the horizon. My return to jumping was over before it had really started: Too crap and too chicken.

And then something happened. As I entered my 35th year, certain goals were established under the broad title of “do this stuff before you are too old” [operative word being ‘before’. Ed]. I declared to my riding buddies that we should broaden our boundaries both geographically and mentally; enter at least one race and, of course, learn how to jump. They pilloried me unmercifully advising me to meet impending middle age with a little decorum. So until last weekend the only jumping in my life was teaching my two-year-old how to fall off a trampoline, but then some wags at Swinley forest built a jump course…

Alex’s only pic

Somehow I persuaded the others to join me to try out our skills. Jumping, like every sport, defines itself in jargon – kickers, tabletops, landing zones and all that before you get into the actual types of jumps. As my only jump style is ‘take off, clench buttocks and pray for a safe landing’, I dispensed with all of that b*llocks straight away.

We’ll take over from here shall we Alex?

We sent Nick down first. He belied his XC-Jayboy persona with a smooth, stylish run through the jumps, leaping obstacles with irritating ease.

To hone my technique I’d asked him for a couple of pointers; speed is your friend he’d offered, which in the spirit of advice-taking everywhere, I’d completely ignored.

My first run was reminiscent of equestrian dressage as, cresting each ramp, I would stop, worry and then gently roll onto the downslope at 1mph or less. Nick urged me on chanting his ‘faster, faster’ mantra provoking me to attack (or at least threaten in a mildly aggressive manner) the final jump.

It’s hard to describe the ludicrous parody of a porpoise which depicted my effort, but try this: imagine an old and tired seal flopping wearily onto a rock before sliding head first onto the beach only finally coming to rest after head-butting a cliff face. It was like that only slower, less elegant. The much sought-after ‘phat air’ in this manoeuvre was that being forced from my arse at high velocity.

Undeterred by my evident lack of bravery and skill, I decided that my prowess-bypass was the result of trying to clean the entire section. So followed three more attempts at the final jump, three more seal flops each one even lamer than the last.

Embarrassed and frustrated, I winched the bike back to the top mumbling ‘sh*t or bust’ which directly translates to ‘jump or hospital’.

we have lift off

Up and over the tabletop, accelerating toward terminal velocity, I nudged the bike directly at the centre of the kickers. The ground disappeared and unexpectedly we were airborne.

look, one hand!

Now ennobled by false confidence, I pedalled furiously toward the final ramp in an adrenaline-fuelled charge. Forks compressed, elbows bent, manic grin in place, we launched off the lip heading for, what I somewhat childishly imagined as, low earth orbit.
My riding pals were even duped into believing I was styling it up as my foot unclipped and my unfettered limb flapped around in the breeze.

My God, we were flying and it was actually no surprise to find myself alive and ecstatic after a couple of bounces in the landing zone.

There the story should end. But it doesn’t. Flushed with success we ribbed our earth-bound pal Jay to give it a try. He really, really, didn’t want to – but was not as determined as we were. Eventually, wilting under our onslaught, he set off like a sack of spuds in charge of a rollerskate. His first two jumps had the advantage of being very safe, due entirely to the speed with which he hit them; think of an elderly tortoise chasing down a wilting lettuce and you’ll get the idea [?!].

hmmm

His lack of pace saw his steed rear up like a frightened horse before plunging onto the downslope with his head gently caressing the stem. Surfing on his front wheel, brakes locked out, perpendicular to the ground but STILL clipped in, Jay executed a landing that had “big stack” written all over it – In 9-foot high neon letters.

ouch

It was, without doubt, the most impressive endo I have ever seen and was it not for the naked terror on his face, it would have looked like blatant showing off.

Gravity, who was sharing a ringside seat with fate, decided enough was enough and kicked back in, resulting in a crumpled, dusty heap of mountain biker and bike.

Jay emerged from this dustbowl shaken but defiant – he was happy to have given it a go, glad he’d given it his best shot but no, absolutely no way, was he going to try again.

So will I be selling my lightweight full suss for a jumpy hardtail, searching out jump sites and buying body armour? Er, no. But whilst it’s absolutely clear that white men can’t jump, there is something rather compelling about it. I think I’ll be back.

So let me end with this, until last weekend the language of text messaging and SMS had been pigeonholed into something for the under-12s. Not so, as my new- found friends may say “CU M8, IR A XC-JUMPBOY.”