In the middle of this period I went on holiday and squeezed in a ride on a terrible Rocky Mountain hire bike around brilliant trails at the Lac Du Salagou. Apparently a favourite of local French DH star Miriam Nicole the classic lake loop was more than I hoped for, with red, iron-rich, rocks and challenging technical sections that flowed beautifully and made me wish for a better bike. On flats with the cheap fork topping out every time it left the ground it could have been a frustrating ride, but actually left me wanting to explore more of the area.
It was the beginning of August before the Process got another chance to get outside. I felt by then it had learned its lesson and would behave so I gave it a quick chance in the Chilterns and at Swinley (to also check that everything was working) and then headed off up the M1 for a bit of a trip. I had tried to persuade people to come with me, but ended up broadly alone for the few days riding more technical fare.
First stop was at Cannock. This was designed to break the journey, but also to introduce a friend to the wonders of mountain biking. We learned a lot about the levels of fitness required, inspired a bit of work to happen on that front and still (I think) managed to have fun. Guiding round half of the trail was good form a social point of view, but I couldn’t resist a blast round the second half after pointing Dave back to the car.
From here I continued to outrun the rain and head North West into the mountains. A-roads revealing the solid peaks of Snowdonia easing closer and closer took me all the way to a campsite in Llanberis where I pitched the tent, worried about ever removing the car form the field I’d parked it in, broke out my new camping stove, had a mediocre shower and put myself to bed by something ridiculous like 9pm.
At half past four the next morning I was up and dressed and watching the light slowly coming in as I nervously packed a bag (properly for once), ate breakfast and lightly fretted. At twenty-past five I decided it was light enough and rolled out of the site into the silent village, then onto the brutal road ramp to take me to the bottom of the Llanberis path up onto Snowdon. The early start meant I would have plenty of time before the voluntary bike ban kicked in at 10, but made for an eerie and unsettling climb up into the clouds with the imposing bulk of Snowdon occasionally making its presence known. The climb is hard but steady on the lonely mountain side up to a point where it really becomes a hike-a-bike, and where I also met the first people also up there at the early hour. I pushed on up, with stunning views as the sun fought through the clouds, pressing on up the ridge walking and riding and eventually making it to the summit. There is a slight culture shock as you hit concrete steps and the café but early in the morning there were only a few people around and it would be hours before the café opened so it retains a sense of drama. This drama was heightened as the clouds parted for a moment revealing a view all the way to the sea, but then closed in again so fast as to leave me wondering if I’d imagined it.
Summit pictures taken and another layer pulled on I checked the map and rolled back carefully from the summit looking for the Snowdon Ranger path. This is perhaps the classic Snowdon bike route and mixes a steady climb with a more sporting descent.
The Ranger Path starts loose and open and closes to narrow rocky sections, steeply dropping you off the mountain. In good weather the views are spectacular but the clouds were still heavily down and I dropped through fairly low visibility until the technical level of the riding eased and I flew out into a sunny morning valley. From this point there’s a brutal grass climb (push) that rewards you with a rattling long steady descent through Telegraph valley and back to the campsite. At 8:30 I was back at the tent, packing it up and starting the drive out of the heart of Snowdonia.
By something like ten thirty I had arrived in the early spiritual home of mountain biking, at Coed Y Brenin. Here the original trails have grown into an extensive outdoor centre including walking and running trails as well as mountain biking to challenge everyone. I was unconvinced by the weather for the next day so decided to get a ride in here rather than saving it for the morning.
The MBR trail is a classic technical black loop, not for jumps and drops but for the punishing rockiness and climbing. It was great fun to ride and left me feeling reasonably ok about an afternoon sitting in the sun in a campsite.
The next morning I followed this up with the other short black route and dragged my developing cold around the Bull complete with technical rock-rolls and more rocky batterings to leave you grinning.
I arrived back at the car just as the threatened rain turned from drizzle to doing it properly and so got changed, and took refuge in the car and then on the A470 cruising back down through Wales as the rain set in steadily. I drove back with mixed feelings. I’d ridden some excellent rides, but hadn’t covered great distance and wondered if I could have, or should have, done more.
In Bristol I had other priorities, but squeezed in a classic blast round the Mendips, finishing the trip as I’d begun and guiding someone round a route I know well to introduce him to the riding on his own doorstep.
For those of you with an interest in my health the cold that hit me in Wales lasted well in to the next two weeks and would result in a wholly unsatisfactory struggle around Kent a week or so later.
A
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