I’m not going to fall over…

“A little cheeky one won’t hurt”. “Stop mincing about and get across that river”. “Cold is it in that water?”. “That’s not a sandwich – it’s a food parcel”. The movie in my head was trapped in a playback loop. Widescreen, stereo and even the sensation of cold, clammy Lycra and the pounding of a righteous hangover forming the accompaniment to our all day breakfasts in preparation for a return to mid Wales.

The previously Magnificent Seven had become eight, with one dropout replaced by two. Still traumatised by our previous epic journey westward, a new strategy was devised. At 2pm the Managing Director and entire Marketing department took stock of an empty office, swapped knowing smiles, passed an executive resolution regarding on-site working practices and headed for the hills.

Whilst filtering onto the M4 well before the rush hour, it came as a shock to find that a thousand other work-shy individuals had chosen to do the same. No wonder this country is in such a shocking state. Thankfully, the congestion eased as we headed west and only two hours later, bridge toll grudgingly paid, England slipped away behind us. We congratulated each other on this much-improved route seeing ourselves safely ensconced in the pub only a couple of hours ahead. Roll forward two hours and we were still toiling away behind Farmer Jones running in his new tractor and wondering out loud if all the European grant money had been ploughed into road-narrowing schemes.

As the roads narrowed further to cart track width, we finally broke free of the traffic and bounced down the now familiar rain gully (it would be a gross abuse of the English language to call it a track) to the cottage. Paul met us with a smile and a beer, both of which were welcome, before tackling the eight bodies/four beds situation. There’s a school of thought which states that, in the spirit of fairness, all those who had slept fitfully on the camp beds last time out should have first shout on the real things. There is a second school of thought favoured by this author that argues (with the weight of English law on his side) that possession is very close to ownership. So it was no surprise to see my sleeping bag unfurled on what I have now come to think of, in legal parlance, as “Al’s bed”.

After our previous visit a trip to the pub was perhaps a brave move, but most avoided a repeat performance, sticking with a single digit beer intake. Amazingly we were well treated, even after cramp saw Mike leap from his chair and perambulate around and into furniture on stiff legs and screaming nerve endings. The old boy next to us recommended a potato in the sleeping bag as a natural remedy. Environmentally friendly, and once its anti-cramp duties had been dispensed with could also provide a healthy breakfast. With Mike’s feet we’re talking baked potato with cheese, and anyway our pooled root vegetable collection numbered exactly zero. Instead, I suggested chucking in a bag of plain crisps while Paul offered to cross dress a lettuce to resemble, in the right light, a passable King Edward. Eventually Mike plied the offending muscle group with beer until it exhibited the floppy demeanour of other such organs when under the influence.

The beckoning hills

Spanners at midnight

This should have been a cue to learn from our mistakes, cut our losses and head for the sleep of the mildly inebriated, in preparation for our planned epic starting at is-it-light-yet-o’clock. Unfortunately there was a bike languishing in the cow shed requiring an experienced fettle. Or rather, two. Some pointless scrote had stolen Nick’s bike a couple of weeks previously and, while he’d borrowed a perfectly servicable alu hardtail he’d also rather foolishly accepted my offer of the Inbred even after being told “I’ve made a bit of a mess of the crank arm”. A plan had been hatched to borrow some parts from the alu bike to get the Inbred back on its wheels. It all looked very straightforward.

With the application of beer, however, the cowshed was transformed into a makeshift field hospital with ‘mechanics’ arguing over exactly which part to hit with the big hammer. They did agree that something needed hitting, and hitting hard, before the donor bike could be brought into play. With no thought of the trauma this would cause, out came the Inbred’s recalcitrant bottom bracket after Andy discovered a tool he’d had for years but as yet had never found a use for (that’s like all my tools). It was wiped clean with a rag and presented to me like a newborn child before being branded “crappy-isis-cheese-shit”. The cranks went the same way and the attention of the Welsh Inquisition turned to the innocent donor bike.

I sloped off outside for a quiet smoke in the stillness of the valley, blissfully ignorant of the mayhem within. Finally there was a triumphant grunt accompanied by a commentary charting the conclusion of the Bottom Bracket Frenzy: “It’s coming, it’s definitely coming, just lean on that spanner, yes, easy does it, right ready, ready, wait for it, don’t rush, NOW, HIT IT, BLOODY HIT IT NOW. [CLONK] Yep, that’s got the bastard”.

Minutes later the mechanical maestros high fived out of the cowshed like successful transplant surgeons smugly wiping their hands and declaring that the patient was as good as new. Venturing back in I was reminded of a MASH facility with tools and unwanted parts scattered to the four corners of the shed and oil splattered onto uncaring walls. One bike lay supine in the middle of the room, freehub tinkling and sporting a full deck of components. The butchered carcass of the donor bike stared malevolently across at its working cousin. And all of this had been accomplished without the aid of the indispensable potato. We finished congratulatory beers and called it a day.

I love the smell of sheep in the morning

All of us with small children wearily acknowledge that a weekend lie-in only happens to other people. So as the little hand passed seven both Nick and I, programmed by rote to haul oneself out of bed and fire up Cbeebies before doing the kettle thing, sprung into action distributing hot herbal remedies to the tired and needy. After the sloth-like pace, of our previous visit, it was a welcome sight to see the fully assembled eight man Welsh detachment almost ready and somewhat able to tackle Andy’s wet’n’wild loop.

Our route planning normally takes the form of plotting straight lines between pubs via a robust attitude to land access rights, sparing little thought of the intermediate terrain. Andy, however, had turned up a day early to scout possible routes with a GPS, a laptop and a plethora of OS’s finest. Somewhat intimidated by all this technology we followed him up the valley past “Beckley’s Breakfast” – the site of the now infamous chunder – in search of Monks Trod. This mythical route over the mountains had been the subject of some eulogising in the pub the previous evening between the outsiders (that’s us with 10 toes) and the locals (that’s them with the banjo).

But to apply tread to the Trod we first had to navigate the flinty doubletrack through the river that on the last outing had seen me lying in freezing water trying to maintain a sense of humour. Being sober definitely helped as did the adrenalin hit once the pedalling stopped and the whooping started. Chasing Paul as the track headed downwards, it was clear that Fox Forx beat Rockshox Jetts up, down and sideways. As he bounced off rocks in a style caught between haphazard and suicidal I blew serenely by, boulders disappearing under four inches of plush travel. Eventually gravity caught up with Paul and pinged him up a bank ending in a sheer eight foot drop on the far side. One massive endo later he shuddered to a stop before rejoining the trail a little more cautiously.

Brave, and less brave

The river hove into view glistening darkly under overcast skies, cold water ready to ambush the unwary. But with senses maxed out by the fresh air and big skies, it wasn’t going to be me this time. Arrowing straight for the far bank, eyes on the prize and ignoring the increasing moistness of everything south of my ankles, I splashed down and through following a line that had seen Dave safely reach the far bank. Technically not challenging nor particularly deep this day, someone still had to bottle it. And Mincer Beckley was just that man, shouldering his bike and tiptoeing around the side. We’d hardly finishing lampooning his efforts before our first mechanical saved him from further schoolyard humour.

Dave is the first to admit that “preventative maintenance” is just a bunch of meaningless letters beginning with P so perhaps it was inevitable that his 32 spoke wheel was transformed to a 29 spoker complete with ellipsoid rim. Even the top mechanics from the previous evening’s transmission transplant team could do little, armed only with cable ties and incredulous stares. Dave admitted defeat and began the lonely trip back to the cottage on a wheel and a half before heading to Rhayader on four to find a bike shop and meeting us for lunch.

Eight became seven and downhill became uphill as we veered off the track onto a sunken path snaking up the side of the mountain. Monks Trod is an ancient path bisecting the hills and offering lung busting climbs and technical downhills – all we had to do was find it. We crossed a number of good surfaced tracks heading in the approximate direction of the summit some 300 feet above us. Andy’s route however, plotted by military satellites and a Polaris honed mind, successfully avoided these ridable options, instead charting a path through knee high tussocks and peaty bogs belying the good weather and plunging the unwary into thigh deep dinosaur turd.

“It’s not like the Chilterns” someone was heard to say as we humped the bikes over another stream disguised as coarse grass. They weren’t wrong. In the Chiltys a serious mechanical means the ride shortened by all the time it takes to find the nearest road, usually about ten minutes. Here a similar incident would leave you exposed and adrift in a hundred square miles of bugger-all. But thanks to Andy’s GPS we knew exactly where we were; three-quarters of the way up an ancient path, knee deep in water, wondering exactly when this “fun” we’d heard about would start.

Descent into madness

Very soon as it turned out. We wasted no time on the view from the zenith of the climb, instead heading straight down the side of the mountain. But there was no mental or physical respite, with a line choice between deep ruts or an off camber singletrack hugging the side of the mountain. What would Hobson have made of it? Just enough brainpower remained to keep the lid on an inner voice graphically describing what would happen if a 2in patch of rubber parted company with a slippery soil path. Halfway down, the upper track disappeared leaving us to sharpen up our rut technique. Quickly. Just as confidence was patching the gap between skill and ability, a rut resembling a fault line opened up in front of us. Anyone falling into there would have found their final resting place in Australia.

Back in the saddle, chasm successfully negotiated, the trail offered us a new challenge. A rocky stream bed compressed and guarded by ever-narrowing banks twisted and turned offering glimpses of the valley bottom. Riding this was 10% technique and 90% bottle – keeping the faith with the bike to save you from unwanted dental work. Once the water was past the height of the bottom bracket and both feet are wet at the same time, finesse is a million times less relevant than staying upright and dry. I’m sad to report that whilst most attacked the section with the false confidence of the apparently waterproof, there was some noticeable mincing. At which point we handed Mike the “Baton de Lesbos” and he never looked like giving it back.

Arriving alive at the foot of the valley, we relaxed tense limbs and regaled each other with unseen acts of bravery. Egos suitably stroked, we approached the clear, shallow but shiveringly cold river with arrogant struts and devil may care attitudes. Hardened by the terrain, we were tweaking the nose of terror and remained undaunted by the unremitting technical challenges presented on this route. Except for Mike of course. He stuffed the Baton in his Camelbak, dismounted and waded across the river wearing an expression of agitated distaste. The rest of us splashed in, hamming it up for Andy’s camera before spinning furiously to gain the far bank. Except the other Mike who fell broadside into the river while attempting to present his “Clint Eastwood” side to the lens. Having seen the pictures, that’ll be his arse then.

Part two >>