My Sixteenth Week as a Budding Author

As mentioned last week, I’ve hit the north for a week of family holiday followed by a second week of hard graft on the bike. Helen had booked us a campsite in the village of Newcastleton just over the Scottish Border. We levered two protesting kids into the van and almost made the whole journey in a single motorway marathon. But I bottled it just before Carlisle when a campsite sign tempted me off the hard shoulder and into a sneaky late night glass of wine.

Arriving at our destination the next day a quick tally showed that the whole family, all of their bikes and most of the van had made the journey intact. The site was conveniently located two miles from one the of 7 Stanes mountain bike trail centres and I tentatively volunteered to give it a quick recce to check that everything was in order. Exeat granted, I’d abandoned the family in record time, not even making it past day one before heading out on the bike on my own. I justified it as “research” given that Helen and the kids were planning on riding the trails the next day.

It was a two mile road climb up to the centre followed by over twenty kilometres of trails that were interspersed with a decent amount of climbing. I’m fairly used to that sort of thing, but I was having misgivings about bringing the family up here. I had visions of my kids expired by the roadside beaten by the gradient. Or worse than that, my camelback with two bikes strapped to it. The next day they were to teach me a solid lesson in underestimation.

On my return I tentatively mentioned the hills but the collective decision was a vote for a full day’s mountain biking. And so began our first ever family cycling holiday! Suffice to say that Helen, Jake and Holly nailed the hills the next day and Jake nailed the red run as well. We even went to the pub for cider afterwards and sat outside in the sun each miming our own epic moments on the trails.

This established the pattern for the rest of our week. We’d spend the day either walking or cycling and then indulge in a hugely calorific treat at the end of it. This was made all the more bearable by the fact that Scotland decided to have an identity crisis for a week and became Spain. The sun shone every single day and temperatures rose beyond twenty degrees. To make things even more salubrious, Newcastleton appears to hold the mantle of being the world’s friendliest village.

Everywhere we went people said “Hello” and the vast majority of them stopped for a little chat as well. This seemed to transgress age and gender, a five year old boy commented on my “nice bike” whilst a silver haired octogenarian lady informed me that she had her “eye on my buns”. This had me slightly worried as I was carrying sausages at the time, but a quick glance at her zimmer frame on castors reassured me that a quick getaway uphill would see me distance her.

The place would have been idyllic if only the campsite had been in possession of more than one men’s toilet. A problem exacerbated by the large population of older men bearing newspapers. I’ve always been a quick “in and out” sort of chap. The toilet is not somewhere I enjoy spending quality time. This is in marked contrast to the Telegraph wielding oldies who seem to use it as a public library. I did feel slightly guilty in the mornings as I’d sprint from the van, cut in front of one of them and bolt the door before they could claim it as theirs.

“I’m sorry mate, I ate a hell of a lot of carbohydrate yesterday and will be done and wiped in three” is not a conversation that one can have in modern society.

My own personal highlight was the Glentress mountain bike trail centre. In fact the highlight was the fact that the others appeared to want to go there as much as me. I need to check Helen’s legs for hairs as she seems to be taking to mountain biking like a slug to lettuce (please see previous post concerning cliches). Jake had got the bug as well and pleaded for a day’s hire of a proper full suspension bike. Holly’s moaning was only at level 3.5, which is almost elation on the pre-teen-girl-away-from-Facebook scale.

We rocked up at the centre after an early start and Jake headed straight for the bike shop. The owners skillfully guided Jake past the Islabike hardtails and stood him in front of an Orange Five. To the uninitiated this bike costs about the same as a new pair of breasts and has a similar effect upon the looks the owner gets post purchase. A few quid lighter, we hit the trails. Or to be a bit more specific, I hit the Black trail and mistakenly pointed the others up to the Green by waving randomly at a large hill. Helen, Jake and Holly subsequently took on about 500 metres of steep fire road climbing instead of the nice easy switchbacks to the top that I rode.

Guilt drove me hard round the Black run and I was back in about two hours, not a bad time. The others thought I’d suffered some weird injury to my face which was fixed in a permanent clown grin. Dry, dusty empty trails in Scotland, this just doesn’t happen. While I was talking to Helen, a young lad shot up a ten foot high ramp, landed a tabletop and gracefully rode the drop off down the other side. I asked Helen where Jake was, she pointed to the lad that had just nailed the skills park!

So it was time for some proper father-son bonding. Jake and I set about the rest of the trails with a vengeance. The bike was a little too big for him so he was finding it hard on the climbs. But my promises of “rad” downhills kept him going. Following him down I was torn by two emotions, bursting pride and lingering regret. The regret being that it would clearly only be a year or two before youth and talent would see me firmly in his wake. Sadly youth and talent are both missing from my mountain bike skills quiver. In fact, shuffling about in it, all I can find is puncture fixing and slickrock, one of which is completely useless within the UK.

Holidays are also a good time for fathers to pass on a few life skills to their children. Some fathers discuss string theory over the campfire, others explain the offside rule whilst watching a game of footy on the TV. I haven’t got a clue about either, so instead I taught Jake and Holly how to get over five bar gates. As a public service I have uploaded a short instructional video that other parents may use for the same purpose. The video begins with how to do it properly and then ends with Jake and Holly’s failed attempts. This is cruel I know but it is important that I maintain some weak form of kudos before my kids are better than me at everything.

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Dave

21st April 2011

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