Going Back.

In the pursuit of the best riding out there I find that I often forget where I started out. While trail centres, the traditional wilder areas and what are now being called “Hubs” are great and give you access to some riding that you would have only dreamed about, or known about on that sneaky little path that you and your friends knew they are not where I began my love with dirt and two wheels.

Where I started was on the lanes and local paths around my parents’ house. I was lucky in that I had a hill to ride off form my front door and unmetalled access lanes to garages around the back of the houses to blast away at. I was close enough to the edge of town to link these in with some semi-legal and underused footpaths, and eventually a network of bridleways out of the south of Bristol. While this somehow sounds idyllic when I write it out, bear in mind that I did much of my riding around the carcasses of burnt-out cars and fly-tipped rubbish, as well as the sections I found which were secret gems. This was where I learned both skills and a love for mountain biking.

The reason I bring this all up is that I revisited a really local section of riding over the weekend. Although I felt a bit over equipped, and remembered my younger self in nothing that could be called technical wear, it was great to ride those sections again. Admittedly it’s all changed, with gates blocking sections of the lanes and other paths improved, and so less of a challenge, and, in one place, the path has fallen off the edge of a mud-cliff, but it still all felt like mine. I came back a bit muddy, very scratched by brambles and still able to climb the hills I challenged myself on. It’s still good riding, and it’s not on a built trail, it’s just for real.

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