It was one of those rides where everything came together. A ride where the little things that make you question the time and effort you put into riding are burnt away by the fire and intensity of it just being flat out fun.
At 4pm, I was “working” but already thinking about the ride. The sun was out, and it had been out for over a week. Trail conditions were bound to be good. I was actually due to meet my riding buddy Adam for the first time in a long time. I’d had a long fun ride at the weekend. The stage was set for a cracking ride.
5pm and I dropped the pretence of working, eating a light dinner so that I’d feel good on the bike. Tonight was a Cross bike night – no need to get in the car, and the new trails at Swinley Forest are so smooth that grip isn’t an issue. You just have to get your feet right.
The sun was adding a golden hue to the roads as I sliced through the traffic of outer London and onto quieter roads. As I approached the turn-off for the first uphill, I saw a couple of roadies coming from the opposite direction. They took my turn ahead of me. “I’ll show them who’s boss with my knobbly tyres.” Big-ring, sat-down, dribbling a little, I chase them up the hill. Harder than I expected, goalposts move. Now I’m thinking that maybe I’ll just get a tow up the climb. I get on the back and say “Hi!”. The two roadies are friendly and working together, taking turns on the front and we get up there faster than I ever have with CX tyres.
Soon enough, they’re turning off again on their own route and I’m still bound for the forest.
In Swinley Forest, it smells of pine and dust hangs in the air. Newly developed trails now rollercoaster over the hills. I meet Adam and he goes into the first trail fast. Shockingly fast. I thought he hadn’t been riding much recently. Riding with my hands in the drops and the saddle tucked down from its normal position, it takes some concentration to hold his wheel through the first few hundred metres. When I hit the berms too low, I can hear the brake pads rubbing as lateral forces deform the wheels.
Before long, I’m in front of him, and pedalling everywhere to make sure it stays that way. Where a few weeks ago, I’d been searching around at the back of the cupboard for some power, it was now at my command. Where there had been uphills, there were just brief surges on the pedals and into the next corner. I was picking what he called my “Cross lines”. That one inch wide smooth line between the roots, that dainty hop over the gravel. Pitching into corners for the sake of friendly rivalry and throwing sparks off my pedals as I got my feet wrong and grounded them on the exit of corners.
No messing – it was an incredible ride. The pure joy of singletrack in the right company – it can’t be beat. That’s why this sport never gets old.
