This week I fought one of the hardest cycling battles of the year. It wasn't a frantic sprint to the line, it wasn't the cleaning of a highly technical descent and it certainly wasn't a personal best. It was against my central heating, and I won. The preceding days bought me a cold, an unnecessary car crash, a kitchen stuffed with Christmas food and the filthy cold weather that so characterises the British winter. Nature's winter eraser has eradicated all trace of dry trails and morphed my locality into a semi fluid landscape of mud, clay, flattened crops and fallen leaves.
The climate and the home comforts of middle England had coerced in a bold attempt to steal my riding motivation. I found myself deliberately wasting time, posting inanities to internet forms, peering in virtual shop windows and poring over the small print TV listings. Technology and low pressure isobars started to hoist the flag of victory until I was suddenly reminded of "The Know".
I can't remember which chain of thought led to my revelation, maybe a gradual piecing together of past memories, maybe a brief snippet of conversation or maybe I caught sight of the flagpole and used "The Know" as a final line of defence. "The Know" polarised me, it gathered my mountain biking paraphernalia and coarsely assembled me into semi-prepared cyclist. It dulled the pain of squeezing overdressed feet into rock hard winter boots and it allowed me to flatly ignore the sub-zero wind that pointed out all of the neglected repair jobs on my rickety garage. Buoyed by "The Know" I struggled with a poorly installed up and over garage door and threw my singlespeed onto the front drive. A garbled "farewell" was thrown over my shoulder to my wife and engaged in singlespeed I sped towards the nearest road/countryside interface.
It quickly became clear that I had made the right decision. This day was perfect for rediscovering "The Know" and a skywards glance confirmed this, clouds parted to reveal deep blue sky serrated by the trails of aircraft stuffed full with those oblivious to my impending meeting. The dark forces rallied and threw their final obstacle in my path as I drew closer to my first bridleway. I briefly regained my sense of smell that had deserted me mid-cold and identified the defining odour of a rustic country pub. Matured ale, wood smoke and fried steak pulled at my legs through my nose. These three sirens sang hard to tempt me away from the trail, but today I was strong, the scent of "The Know" filled my nostrils and spurred me on past the pub and into my first puddle.
The cold kiss of muddy water shocked my embarrassed calves into action and like the most determined posse of religious zealots the bike and I attacked the marshy track spraying clods and grass in our wake. As the mud deepened we passed a field of rain ravaged sheep whose jaded glance barely registered our heroic victory over the Wiltshire clay. Thirty minutes into the ride, things were starting to warm up and as I was getting closer to "The Know".
Pent up aggression surfaced as I attacked inclines, fought ruts and ploughed through that which "dare" resist me. Competitive urges were fed with glances at my stop watch and the setting and gaining of minor trail target times. My eyes gulped in the surrounding winter vista and my ears registered the silence shattered by my machine and its machinations. A long inclined track tested my recently gained singlespeed resolve as I fought gravity and pain in order to gain my first scenic outlook of the ride. At the top I paused, breathed and drank. My privileged eyes scanned the collage of countryside laid out below me and I pondered upon that which had brought me here. My bike and its assembly. Mines had liberated metals, which in turn had been mixed into alloys that were forged or milled into constituent components. Chemical synthesis had led to the plastics and a designer's board or computer had dictated every shape. Each component had taken a different journey form source via distributor to shop to my garage.
Thousands of miles had been travelled, thousands of hours worked and thousands of measurements had been taken and documented in order to ensure that everything fell into place. Energy had been liberated from coal, oil, wind, wave and the sun to make this bike. I myself had digested numerous magazines, internet forums, the advice of friends and years of accumulated knowledge in order to build this bike. My bike sat upon the Ridgeway, an ancient track carved over centuries by little else but t he fur wrapped feet of ancient man. Somehow, I felt humbled, and this harried on my journey towards "The Know". I sucked hard on my Camelback, breathed deep on the cold winter air and continued onwards. "The Know" was beckoning and it wasn't far away. I passed a horse and rider, we shared greetings our circumstances similar yet so far apart. She was sat aloft, well dressed, rested and issuing commands to her stead by a loose pair of reins.
I was slumped over my transport, hot, sweaty and filthy, exuding steam and snot as I fought its controls attempting to maintain velocity and a straight line. I was close to "The Know", she had taken a step towards it, but more effort was needed as I will explain. Trail gave way to road and a brief respite as I gathered myself in preparation for the final descent of the ride. I hopped a kerb and twisted through hedge to gain the bridleway and winked a sly "Hello" to Ladder Lane. Ladder Lane is the perfect summer descent, steep, rooty, rutted, technical and committing. The gradient lulls the rider into high speed and then challenges them with route choice once terminal velocity is achieved. In winter Ladder Lane is best described as a natural colon, veined with slippery roots, filled with partly digested winter foliage and ready to spit the rider out into a lavatorial field at the bottom.
This is the point at which you're expecting me to reveal the true meaning of "The Know". You're waiting for an epic tale of bravado and daring as the intrepid rider fought the greasy technical descent at speed and with courage, emerging at the other end bloodied but proud, ready for a celebratory beer in the pub afterwards. You're also waiting for me to describe "The Know" as a feeling of exuberance gained from conquering a technical challenge or overcoming a particular fear. But, I'm afraid it didn't happen like that and I'm also afraid that "The Know" is something entirely different altogether.
The truth is I dribbled down the descent in a frenzy of clasped brakes and dabbed feet. My bike skipped from left to right as its tyre lost purchase on roots and my knobbly tyres gathered leaves and mud. I survived the descent, ..... just. I rode on into a muddy field where all traces of the right of way had been ruthlessly erradicated by the farmer's plough, and my bike stopped. The winter mud and scattered foliage had combined to build a wattle and daub wall firmly adhered to my front forks. My wheels would turn no more and I fell sideways off the bike into a drainage ditch my arms lacerated with brambles that had kindly attempted to break my fall. I lay there wet, muddy, cold, hurting and completely and utterly alone. I picked myself up and started to laugh, my face split with a grin as wide as Renton's * I was in "The Know". You see "The Know" has nothing to do with achievement, conquest or valour.
It's not about rider skill, ability or speed and it's got nothing to do with distance, difficulty or terrain. "The Know" is the feeling of being in an uncomfortable situation, yet enjoying it. It's about taking pleasure from the participation in a sport that by design induces discomfort, yet learning to love it. It's the ability to lie there dirty, cold, wet and hurting and still feel privileged to be in that position. The ability to feel a sense of sorrow for those in their comfortable heated and air-conditioned environments and the fact that many of them will never have "The Know". They will never take that step into a slightly hostile environment and feel the masochistic pleasure that arises from the odd little "nip" the climate or countryside may deliver. Maybe I'm the only person who has "The Know", but I doubt it. Every mountain biker I talk to has had their own particular brush with the countryside and I find it rare to hear them discuss it with anything but a tinge of fondness, and often anticipation for the next tussle that they will experience. "The Know" comes to the fore when you discuss your escapades with one that has not been there.
They cannot and will not understand the pleasure you derive, they will shake their head and question your sanity, no amount of explanation will convince them that you are having fun. This is when you have "The Know". Don't get me wrong, sometimes our terrain bites harder than we can handle. "The Know" has risk and we as dabblers have to accept that our calling can be dangerous and may even take friends from us or us from them. But as a biker with "The Know" you have achieved a huge summit. Professional cyclists have their names upon trophies and within publications and we should respect their achievements.
However, you have broken away from "The norm", your name is inscribed within the tyre marks you leave on the winter landscape, your trophy is the feeling of sanctimony that arises from having taken a step that the vast majority of the human race will never take. You have ejected comfort and convenience in favour of another mad winter dash towards "The Know". You're special, and I salute you.
* At the beginning of the film Trainspotting the character Renton is stopped by a car as he flees a shoplifting incident. He finds his own personal "Know" as his face cracks into a wide grin and he laughs manically at the driver.
(c)Dave Barter 2004
This article was previously published in Singletrack Magazine Issue 14
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