To date, my mountain biking career has been peppered with milestones. The first bike I rode, the first set of suspension forks, the first ride with clipless pedals, my first race, my first trip abroad, my first serious accident. As my fortieth birthday approached I felt the need to bang in another significant mile marker yet strangely I found myself struggling for inspiration.
Over the years mountain biking friends and internet forums had opened my eyes to a wealth of opportunity. I had been fortunate enough to travel and ride extensively throughout the UK and abroad. I’d ridden most types of bikes and events over most types of distances. I was really struggling to pick a ride to celebrate my impending “vet”ness and open the door into what many would consider to be old age.
I was pondering this fact during the gaps in conversation whilst sat with close friends in a local pub. My finger lazily circled the lip of a half drained pint glass as I contemplated my dilemma. Meanwhile I overheard them enthusing over their preparation for an impending local half marathon.
I had known Neil and Steve for years. Steve and I had competed in Trailquests together ten years previously but his mountain biking career had lapsed into the occasional muddy Sunday morning, dragging his heavy Saracen through rutted Wiltshire byeways. Neil was another infrequent biker, but the kind of bloke who was always keen to have a go at something new.
Suddenly the pieces fell into place.
I had been handed a mission by whatever deity directs us as mountain bikers. Here were people with something missing in their life. If they were able to enthuse about two hours of beating their soles against tarmac, imagine their elation having ridden a fine stretch of singletrack. I’ve tampered with running myself in the past, but I have no memories of relishing the pavements that races took me over, or discussing a particularly tricky curb step with a fellow runner in the café afterwards. In fact, I can’t remember ever going for a post run tea stop. All I seem to recall is the elation/disappointment offered by the stopwatch or my position at the end of the event.
I leant over and rudely interrupted their conversation. “Lads, I’m forty next Monday, how do you fancy taking the day off work and having a go at something different. I reckon I might just be able to convert you away from that running lark”. They were three pints down the line and it didn’t take much convincing to get them to sign up.
And so my watershed mission had been defined. I would drag these poor unfortunates away from the stopwatch and man made paths and introduce them to our suburbia. I’d take them to some man made trails and give them a taster of the kind of mountain biking that we often take for granted, fast, flowing, challenging, accessible trails. In doing this I’d not only become a mountain biking philanthropist but I’d also get some answers to the man made vs natural trails debate. In short, my fortieth birthday ride would be the same, but different. Physically little would change, but I’d be with different riders and hopefully get a completely different glimpse at the sport that had helped define my life for the previous ten years.
A week later, and forty years old, I was unloading mountain bikes in the car park at Afan Argoed. My Santa Cruz Chameleon drifted off the bike rack when compared to Neil and Steve’s Saracens, both nearly 10 years old and lacking any lightweight components. I gazed in awe at Neil’s toe clips and Suntour forks, his bike was a retro vision fitting with my new retro age.
Within minutes they were both dressed and ready to go. This was very different from the car park messing about that I had grown used to. I still had air pressures to check, shocks to pump and disk brakes to adjust. Neil and Steve put me to shame with their simplicity. A quick slash and a sandwich stuffed into a coat pocket was all that was needed for them. In deference I chose to ignore my pre-flight checks and joined in with the spirit of getting out to the trails as quickly as possible.
We nipped out of the car park and chose the Penhydd trail as a suitable “man made” introduction. This gave me a certain sense of satisfaction, as years previously I had spent a cold winter’s morning lugging hardcore up to the top of Hidden Valley and whacking it into the ground. The trail started with a climb on easy fire road. Steve’s runners legs took him up it at a fair rate of knots, whilst Neil started to puff and pant a bit. I played yoyo between them as the gap increased, reminding Neil of those sneaky cigarettes in the pub, whilst trying to pretend to Steve that I could manage his pace easily.
Already the benefits of man made trails were becoming clear. Neil had a hard time battling the gradient, but the compacted fire road gave him one less thing to fight against. Had this been a rutted, steep bridleway I think he would have been pushing. However, the consistent, well drained surface allowed him to get a rhythm and grind up the climb, not pretty, but he made it. At the top Steve was still looking fresh. As the more accomplished runner of the two, he seemed to find the climbing easy. It was time to challenge his abilities downhill, so I chivvied the two onwards to the beginning of Hidden Valley.
Hidden Valley defines the Penhydd trail. Its fast sweeping singletrack switchbacks eke out the maximum possible enjoyment as the rider descends into the valley below. It’s technical enough to require a degree of concentration but forgiving, so the rider can push the speed up a bit and really give it a go if they are feeling confident.
I took off first and stopped halfway down to take a few photos. It wasn’t long before the others came snaking through the trees. Well, I say “snaking” but as snakes don’t have vocal cords I think I might need another metaphor. Neil and Steve were whooping their way down the trail, neither of them had ridden terrain like this before and they were relishing every lump and turn.
I looked down at my £1000 hardtail and indulged in a wry smile. Here was living evidence that enjoyment was to be had no matter what bike you stuffed between your legs. I was actually quite envious of the two of them. They were having as much fun as I was, however, their bank balances were probably £700 healthier than mine.
We tipped our hats to the trail builders and set off again for some more. Steve and Neil had taken a bite from the good stuff and were starting to show signs of a hunger for the gnarly. There was a lot less moaning on the next set of climbs as they realised that each ascent was there for a reason. The trail builders were lifting them up as efficiently as possible in order to maximise the time spent twisting down hill.
A few rocky sections created a pause in celebrations. The short travel forks on both of their bikes offered little help and both riders hit the deck, but this did little to abate the enthusiasm. In fact for me it was refreshing to hear a rider own up to their own mistake rather than blame the tyres, suspension set up, brakes etc… These two weren’t aware of all of the technical advances available to them. They were simply lost in their own enjoyment of the ride. They had no expectations as to how they would perform, and this lack of expectation freed them to enjoy the ride for what is was, rather than what it should have been.
I found myself caught up in their ride rather than mine. Their enthusiasm was giving me more pleasure than the trail itself. I stopped focusing on how I was performing and simply willed the two of them on. And it got better. Their legs were diminishing but the smiles were noticeably wider after each section of trail. A river crossing bred laughter and we shouted each other on to the final descent and a reluctant walk down the steps to the car park.
Neil and Steve were tired yet elated. I gently suggested another trail but was brushed aside by the essence of baking wafting out from a café door. It wasn’t long before the traditional ride post mortem began, triggered by large mugs of tea and freshly made rolls.
I casually mentioned that some riders considered man made trails were wrong and that all trails should be ridden from the front door. Neil and Steve were aghast. They had really enjoyed the flow of the Penhydd trail, they’d enjoyed its rideability and the fact that casual mountain bikers such as they felt challenged by it. They had ridden every inch of the trail without a push or a drag. And to top it off the ride ended with instant hot food and drink. It seemed that Afan had done more to drag them back into mountain biking than any muddy wet winter Wiltshire trail could possibly achieved. Steve began to plot his return with family before we were even a mile from the car park on our way home.
As we sped back towards the Severn bridge I took time to ponder the mission I’d been handed. I’m not sure that I converted two committed runners away from pavement bashing, but I think Afan allowed them to experience the promise a mountain bike makes when sat gleaming in the bike shop window. And that’s exactly where it fits in my take on the “man made trails” debate.
In fact the person converted was me. I had become caught up in achievement and forgotten the simple pleasures to be had in riding your bike whilst not giving a toss how fast, how hard or how difficult your riding should be. I’d succumbed to the virtual arms race of equipping my bike with the latest gadgets and gears and forgotten that it’s just as much fun to ride when you do it with others and take pleasure from their enjoyment rather than your own.
So when you’re sat staring at the blank piece of paper that’s destined to become next season’s objectives. Think of those friends who haven’t ridden for a while, think about what they and you are missing and drag them out for an hour or two of “who cares” mountain biking.
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