Orangey Brew
Trail riding today was a total hoot. Martin led the way, I was riding shotgun (or sweeping the rear to be more accurate). This suited both of us. Martin was able to charge ahead at the pace he likes without having to worry about what was going on behind him too much, and I got practice in riding ruts.
The price I paid for this practice was stopping every wee while to help folks pick their bike up. There but for the grace of God go I.
Our riding partners for the day were Dave, Tim and Ged. Dave is a road-rider, and rides a Hayabusa (the fastest road bike ever built). This qualifies him fairly early on as "Dangerous Dave". Ged had no idea where he was going today, it was his 50th birthday and trail-riding was a surprise present from his brother Tim. This pair were like the Chuckle Brothers - both of them sporting beards, and both of them very quick to crack a joke and have a laugh.
We set off and up onto Salisbury Plain. I was taking some stick for my Camelback, but I knew I would need it later. The golden rule about riding off road is that you have to drink as much as you can. If you start to dehyrdate, then the first thing to go is your concentration and this can hurt. If you feel thirsty, then it's already too late.
We got to where the tarmac ended and the gravel began. Martin gave us the first lesson - picking up the bike. Deja vu.
We set off down some gravel trails. Nothing too serious at all. I realised very very quickly how far I have come. Only two months ago, I was exactly where these guys were now. They were wobbling, tentative and gingerly. I was up on my pegs, roosting away, thanking my stars that we were on gravel because it is grippy not slippy. My God, has it only been two months? The improvement in my riding was noticeable.
I have something in common with God. A few days ago (blogs passim) I said that God only knows how quick Martin would be on a 2-stroke. Today, Martin chose a 2-stroke as his steed for the day. I, and God, now know just how quick he is on it. Think quick. Now mutliply that by fast. Multiply the result by "how on earth do you take that track at that speed?" and you're sort of in the right ball park.
We went through the trees where, all those weeks ago, the mountain bike course was laid out. Tim hit a root and it chucked him right off into the brambles. I helped him pick his bike up, made sure he was OK, and then gave him the words of wisdom that I first heard in these very woods not so long ago: "Roots. Nasty little buggers". He wholeheartedly agreed.
We did some more woodwork, some open fields, some off-camber grassy slopes and some more tracks. With ruts. Lots and lots of lovely ruts. Ruts that you can bounce from rut to rut. Tank tracks. Land Rover tracks. God-knows-what-made-these tracks. Puddles. Mud. It's a boy thing.
We stopped for lunch and, strangely enough, everybody had fresh orange and lemonade. I only drunk half of mine, and opened up the Camelback to pour the remainder into.
"What you got in the Camelback then?" asked Martin.
"Some Lucozade istonic, some water, the remains of the Ribena I had from my last race, I think there was some lime juice in there and - very shortly - the remains of this drink" I replied.
There was some piss-taking about it fermenting and magic potions and stuff, and I commented that I had no idea what the resulting liquid was, but it tasted orangey. That was it. My orangey brew. Liquid Jaffa Cake.
We took off after lunch and the riding got harder. The hills got steeper, the puddles got deeper, the mud got thicker, the roots got higher. Everybody was having a great time. There were several offs, and I was right off my bike to help the guys back up whilst Martin surveyed the carnage from the vantage point afforded him by the greased-lightning 2-stroke he was riding. People were getting tired. Even Martin, em, "laid his bike down gently" at one point. I laid Queen Madge II down a little less gently and snapped (another) clutch lever in the process. It's always the clutch. Always.
We came back across some open fields, and I was encouraging the guys to lean forward and open up the gas to the stop - roost a little and let the back end slide. This was later declared as being the absolute high point of the day - worth coming along just for that. All they needed was a little encouragement, and a little introduction to the pleasures of roosting.
Everybody was thirsty and we had run out of water but, despite repeated offerings, nobody was brave enough to drink the orangey brew.
We came to a very, very, steep downhill. I explained how to ride downhilll, paying particular attention to the golden rule - "if it all goes a bit wrong, let go both levers and let the engine braking take care of it".
Normally, this would have worked. Except for Tim, whose throttle was sticking open a bit. This gave him a bit more speed down the hill than an adrenaline junkie would like to carry. A very steep, very rutty hill. Physics stuck his hand in the air claiming for a penalty when he saw this and the ref blew his whistle.
One particularly impressive downhill highside later, Tim is flat on his arse in the mud. Spectacular. Olympic gymnasts train for years to get height like that.
I threw my bike down and ran down the hill (that's her lying on her side in the tp left of the picture). I got my priorities right - first I made sure that Tim was OK, then I took a picture. This will be a 50th birthday to remember.
Tim was knackered. Shaken a little, but he still had the cojones to get back on the bike and continue down the hill. Before he did so, he said he was really thirsty. I spelled out the choices:
We made it down the hill and Martin gave us a nice choice. We can continue to the end of this track, where we would meet the road and the end of our day, or we could turn right and to a little bt more "technical stuff" (read roots, ruts and mud). He got no takers. Pity, it would have been most interesting to see him trying to get up some steep hills on a 2-stroke with no torque.
We made it back to AJP HQ in roughly the same shape as we started the day, even if a little bit more knackered. Bruises were compared (Tim had a particularly fetching impression of an AJP throttle grip on his right thigh) and tales were told.
Martin was kind enough to give me some numbers for the Chicken Run on Sunday. I told him that I needed "three sixes, and three nines" (my number is 96). The conversation went like this:
Martin then showed me a particularly cool and almost zero-effort way to tie the bike down in the van. We spent some time discussing Very Important Things like Dakar, the types of things you'd need to d to a bike to take it to Dakar, and some of the options about how you'd carry the extra fuel.
Came home to a wired Missus who was up to her lovely bits in camping gear and stoves and sleeping bags and stuff. She is a wizard at packing is The Missus. She has to be, because I am absolutely crap. I'd end up packing something like a dozen motorcycle books, no spare underwear and a pair of flip-flops.
Chicken Run on Sunday. Number 96. Need to beat the guy riding the AJP 125. I have started preparing the orangey brew, and have phoned the Solicitors to prepare the necessary restraining orders.
The price I paid for this practice was stopping every wee while to help folks pick their bike up. There but for the grace of God go I.
Our riding partners for the day were Dave, Tim and Ged. Dave is a road-rider, and rides a Hayabusa (the fastest road bike ever built). This qualifies him fairly early on as "Dangerous Dave". Ged had no idea where he was going today, it was his 50th birthday and trail-riding was a surprise present from his brother Tim. This pair were like the Chuckle Brothers - both of them sporting beards, and both of them very quick to crack a joke and have a laugh.
We set off and up onto Salisbury Plain. I was taking some stick for my Camelback, but I knew I would need it later. The golden rule about riding off road is that you have to drink as much as you can. If you start to dehyrdate, then the first thing to go is your concentration and this can hurt. If you feel thirsty, then it's already too late.
We got to where the tarmac ended and the gravel began. Martin gave us the first lesson - picking up the bike. Deja vu.
We set off down some gravel trails. Nothing too serious at all. I realised very very quickly how far I have come. Only two months ago, I was exactly where these guys were now. They were wobbling, tentative and gingerly. I was up on my pegs, roosting away, thanking my stars that we were on gravel because it is grippy not slippy. My God, has it only been two months? The improvement in my riding was noticeable.
I have something in common with God. A few days ago (blogs passim) I said that God only knows how quick Martin would be on a 2-stroke. Today, Martin chose a 2-stroke as his steed for the day. I, and God, now know just how quick he is on it. Think quick. Now mutliply that by fast. Multiply the result by "how on earth do you take that track at that speed?" and you're sort of in the right ball park.
We went through the trees where, all those weeks ago, the mountain bike course was laid out. Tim hit a root and it chucked him right off into the brambles. I helped him pick his bike up, made sure he was OK, and then gave him the words of wisdom that I first heard in these very woods not so long ago: "Roots. Nasty little buggers". He wholeheartedly agreed.
We did some more woodwork, some open fields, some off-camber grassy slopes and some more tracks. With ruts. Lots and lots of lovely ruts. Ruts that you can bounce from rut to rut. Tank tracks. Land Rover tracks. God-knows-what-made-these tracks. Puddles. Mud. It's a boy thing.
We stopped for lunch and, strangely enough, everybody had fresh orange and lemonade. I only drunk half of mine, and opened up the Camelback to pour the remainder into.
"What you got in the Camelback then?" asked Martin.
"Some Lucozade istonic, some water, the remains of the Ribena I had from my last race, I think there was some lime juice in there and - very shortly - the remains of this drink" I replied.
There was some piss-taking about it fermenting and magic potions and stuff, and I commented that I had no idea what the resulting liquid was, but it tasted orangey. That was it. My orangey brew. Liquid Jaffa Cake.
We took off after lunch and the riding got harder. The hills got steeper, the puddles got deeper, the mud got thicker, the roots got higher. Everybody was having a great time. There were several offs, and I was right off my bike to help the guys back up whilst Martin surveyed the carnage from the vantage point afforded him by the greased-lightning 2-stroke he was riding. People were getting tired. Even Martin, em, "laid his bike down gently" at one point. I laid Queen Madge II down a little less gently and snapped (another) clutch lever in the process. It's always the clutch. Always.
We came back across some open fields, and I was encouraging the guys to lean forward and open up the gas to the stop - roost a little and let the back end slide. This was later declared as being the absolute high point of the day - worth coming along just for that. All they needed was a little encouragement, and a little introduction to the pleasures of roosting.
Everybody was thirsty and we had run out of water but, despite repeated offerings, nobody was brave enough to drink the orangey brew.
We came to a very, very, steep downhill. I explained how to ride downhilll, paying particular attention to the golden rule - "if it all goes a bit wrong, let go both levers and let the engine braking take care of it".
Normally, this would have worked. Except for Tim, whose throttle was sticking open a bit. This gave him a bit more speed down the hill than an adrenaline junkie would like to carry. A very steep, very rutty hill. Physics stuck his hand in the air claiming for a penalty when he saw this and the ref blew his whistle.
One particularly impressive downhill highside later, Tim is flat on his arse in the mud. Spectacular. Olympic gymnasts train for years to get height like that.
I threw my bike down and ran down the hill (that's her lying on her side in the tp left of the picture). I got my priorities right - first I made sure that Tim was OK, then I took a picture. This will be a 50th birthday to remember.
Tim was knackered. Shaken a little, but he still had the cojones to get back on the bike and continue down the hill. Before he did so, he said he was really thirsty. I spelled out the choices:
- Orangey brew
- Thirsty
We made it down the hill and Martin gave us a nice choice. We can continue to the end of this track, where we would meet the road and the end of our day, or we could turn right and to a little bt more "technical stuff" (read roots, ruts and mud). He got no takers. Pity, it would have been most interesting to see him trying to get up some steep hills on a 2-stroke with no torque.
We made it back to AJP HQ in roughly the same shape as we started the day, even if a little bit more knackered. Bruises were compared (Tim had a particularly fetching impression of an AJP throttle grip on his right thigh) and tales were told.
Martin was kind enough to give me some numbers for the Chicken Run on Sunday. I told him that I needed "three sixes, and three nines" (my number is 96). The conversation went like this:
- " I need three sixes, and three nines"
"You mean six sixes"
"No, three sixes and three nines"
"Six sixes"
"No, my number is 96. That's 9, 6, 9, 6, 9, 6"
"No, you idiot, a 9 is just an upside down 6"
Martin then showed me a particularly cool and almost zero-effort way to tie the bike down in the van. We spent some time discussing Very Important Things like Dakar, the types of things you'd need to d to a bike to take it to Dakar, and some of the options about how you'd carry the extra fuel.
Came home to a wired Missus who was up to her lovely bits in camping gear and stoves and sleeping bags and stuff. She is a wizard at packing is The Missus. She has to be, because I am absolutely crap. I'd end up packing something like a dozen motorcycle books, no spare underwear and a pair of flip-flops.
Chicken Run on Sunday. Number 96. Need to beat the guy riding the AJP 125. I have started preparing the orangey brew, and have phoned the Solicitors to prepare the necessary restraining orders.
Download the Manic Mission Information Pack for the full story ...
posted by 2009 Dakar at
Friday, August 31, 2007
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