The Nineteen Nineties Called, They Want Their Bar Ends Back...

Bar ends. At one time every mountain bike worth its knobblies sported a pair of bar ends, they were one of the 'must have' accessories to fit to your bike as soon as you got it out of the shop. Now though, they seem rare on newish bikes out in the wild, and if you do some Googlery you will find they are terminally out of fashion  - mountain bikes version of the Mullet no less. Not only that, but they look a bit odd with riser bars, look entirely wrong with wide bars, hook up on every passing branch, and fetch you an unfortunate one in the family jewels should you crash. That's what a quick mooch around the forums will tell you anyway. But who cares what fashion or forumeers say, especially when it comes to something functional rather than aesthetic.

I've got bar ends on all my bikes, but due to bank balance traumas, I didn't fit them to Fatso immediately, and boy did I miss them when climbing hills. I had also decided that money spent on mudguards was a higher priority, given how enthusiastically fat bike tyres lob mud around. But now at last happy hill climbing is restored, as I got some bar ends for Fatso this week, and knickers to the fashionistas!

But I don't get why bar ends are out of favour anyway.Turning my wrists ninety degrees when climbing or just ploughing along on the flat, feels right somehow, and of course you can pull back slightly on the bar ends and really put your back into powering forwards when climbing too. They offer an alternative hand position, and when bozzing along on the flat or dropping like a bomb down hill, you can tuck your elbows in – more aero!

Lastly, where else can you hang your hat or helmet when climbing a long piece of bad ass geography on a hot day? Eh? Case proven I think!

Bar ends provide a handy place to hang your hat whilst riding, or your shopping perhaps.

New bar ends installed on Fatso, and already mucky and slightly scuffed. These come without bar plugs, so I had to re - use the much sullied On One jobbies.

Anyway, I had decided that I needed to ride my other bikes and leave Fatso behind more, but well, having fitted the bar ends, well they needed proper road testing, didn't they...

The weather forecast for Thursday night and into Friday morning looked promising. Heavy overnight rain and battersome wind giving way around 10am to clear skies and bright sunshine, with the winds easing through the day. So I made the necessary plans to get out come Friday morning and get my knees in the breeze.

It's seemingly not often I say this, but by golly Holly (one of our local weather girls) got it spot on! Half past nine all was wet, windy, and full of weather wretchedness. By ten o'clock though, blue skies were to be seen out one side of the house, and the sun was breaking through – Bimbles are go!

Out and about in the countryside there was a definite feeling of 'just after what went before', as all around everything seemed to be brightening and warming up, while water could be seen trickling down hills, heard gurgling into drains and culverts, and felt dripping off trees. As usual, the rain left its mark in Tregassow Lane, in the form of a pop up lake or two, but I haven't seen these two stretches that frequently flood, so long or deep in water before. I've taken endless splashy photos in these wet patches in the past, so didn't bother this time, and Fatso and I just waded through, with the water level reaching just above the lowest height of the pedals. Even riding slowly, a fat bike makes quite some bow wave, so the surf was definitely up as I rode through.

The only thing to be heard on this part of Tregassow Lane was drips from the trees landing in the bushes, and water gurgling and trickling down the hill.

The wind was still blustery and fresh, but was at least a friendly blow – a westerly wind, and therefore warmish, unlike the away team winds that blow from the north or east – flipping cold beggars they are, I don't like them at all!

There was no destination in mind for this ride, it was to be a rumble around whatever loop I felt like as the ride progressed, along lanes into which I think I've probably worn a groove. Lanes I've ridden countless times before, but still provide ample peace and quiet, and just the pleasure of being out on a bike in the countryside.

Fatso bothering a fence post by what I know as Four Turnings Junction.

I did encounter one potential spot of bother though. Heading towards the hamlet of Boswiddle I found the lane completely filled with parked drop sides, and the noise of some busy work going on somewhere in amongst them. I was beginning to regret that extra mince pie I had at Christmas as I squeezed past the first truck and emerged to surprise the chaps patching the road surface behind it. A good bunch they were though, and after some brief banter one of them decided to save me squeezing past the second truck and backed it up for me, much to my relief, as the roadside bushes had proved quite strong and springy when trying to barge past the first wagon.

 Hmmmm... Looks a bit tight, but doable...

 Yup, it's snug alright. Now what was that about bar ends catching in bushes and trees?

Emerging from up the side of the truck and generator trailer I found the source of all the noise - Some jolly chaps patching the road.

I turned left in Boswiddle and ground my way up the steep hill out of the hamlet, glad I'd finally fitted some bar ends as they really do make climbing easier, and this hill is just the starter on this particular lane, the warm up act if you like, the main course of a properly steep and long beggar lies a mile or two further on.

Before climbing the second hill though, I always stop at a small bridge over a stream in the valley bottom, as it is one of 'those' places that are just so nice to linger at for a while. Like Boswiddle Ford in the opposite direction, I don't think I've ever ridden through without stopping and having a wander about, a sit or a lean, a look around and a listen, even a coffee on occasion. It's not much of a spot to look at I suppose, but it's one of those places that feels right to me, somewhere I just like to be.

I always stop here for a good lurk. Plenty of evidence to suggest this stream was running a lot higher recently.

After that, it was all pretty straightforward. The long slog up the following hill was achieved quite comfortably, courtesy not just of the bar ends, but also of Fatso's low 2 x 10 gearing, and once Carland Cross had been reached, it just left a good old bozz along the old A39 main road – now a bridleway, then up one last short hill and home for a bowl of bubbling and glugging Chicken Noodle soup.

 The 'old' A39, now a Bridleway, runs alongside the new stretch of road (over the hedge on the right) down the hill from Carland Cross. 

There is nearly always a single piece of litter here, usually a beer or soft drinks can, but on this day, a Costa cup. Makes me wonder if it's the same person always passing on the way home or stopping for a break or something.

I might have ridden this route many, many, times before, but I still enjoyed every minute of it once again yesterday, which is what it's all about, and proves that you don't have to go somewhere new every time to gain satisfaction from a ride.

Tregassow Lane is roughly from point one to point two on this map, and Four Turnings is by point 3. The above photo on the old A39 is by point 8.
The full size map is hopefully Here

A Chilly Stove Fail and Some Roadie Chasing.

My bed was lovely, warm and cosy yesterday morning, all the more so for knowing that it was pretty chilly outside. The coldest it has been so far this winter in fact. But, having seen the forecast the night before stating we were in for a sunny, and most importantly, windless day, I had plans to go for a ride. Cosseting though my bed was, there was to be no extended loitering, and so I dragged myself out and into my usual cycling clothes, although this time with the addition of a pair of Long Johns... Embarrassing to admit to wearing, but lovely and warm, just don't get taken to hospital and no one will ever know...

I also added the handlebar bag containing the stove to Fatty, as I thought I might enjoy some warming coffee while out and about.

The target for today was only a modest one – another look at the Watts Nature Reserve just below the village of Shortlanesend. I only discovered this little off road delight back in September, but thought I'd pay another visit to see how things were after all the rain we've had.

Setting off soon reminded me of the delights of riding in chilly weather – a cold face and my ears... oh my word my ears were protesting very aggressively at their lack of protection. But the weather would be warming steadily as the day progressed so I carried on while trying to ignore the pain either side of my head.

The best route takes me past the entrance to Idless Woods, and indeed, I could lop a big chunk off the journey by going through the wood to Idless rather than taking the long way round by road. But, fun though Fatty is in the mud, cleaning him after isn't, and I fancied sticking to tarmac on this ride for most of the trip, although that can be pretty gloopy too.

Tortured ears apart, the riding was very enjoyable, as the weak but bright winter sun cast long shadows across the roads from the hedges and trees, and all was peaceful and quiet. Well until going up the hill out of Idless it was peaceful and quiet anyway. At the top of the hill is a riding stables and this being Saturday morning, a lot of parents were ferrying their offspring to the stables and whole new opportunities for breaking wrists and collarbones. That's assuming they actually reached the stables safely in the first place, the driving along the narrow lane and through several blind bends left a lot to be desired by nearly all the drivers I encountered. Defensive driving seems to be a lost skill for so many these days, having presumably been made irrelevant in driver's minds by all the safety gadgets loaded onto cars now. Time was when a blind bend on a singletrack road would be approached with a deal of caution and a warning blast on the horn, but now it seems most folk just drive through the bends, throttle open all the way and far too fast to stop if they meet someone else doing the same thing coming the other way.

Anyway, driving standards evaluated and suitably critiqued I reached Shortlanesend which is easier to say than it is to type as I get my e's and n's all in pickle.

A quick swerve across the main road and I was freewheeling down the long hill out of the village and past the recently finished estate of new build houses. Pink! Some of the typically boxy new build looking houses are flipping pink! Others are a sort of peachy colour. What an eye sore they all are on the otherwise green hillside.

Hmmmm... it might've been a lovely day for riding, but it was also turning into a day ripe for ranting as various things failed to meet with my approval. But never mind, as I was soon at the Nature Reserve where tranquility was assured and a hot coffee beckoned.

Ah, a photo at last...

 The entrance to the Watts Nature Reserve, easily missed unless you know it's there.

Right... let's see... nature reserve... River Kenwyn... Vulgar Primroses... Marshy bits... dripping wet bits... Good! Nothing about bikes being prohibited... crack on then!

The information boards outside and also dotted around the reserve promise all sorts of interesting beasts and critters, as well as various trees, bushes and other green things to look out for. But, even with helpful prompts, my tree spotting skills are non existent and there were no signs of life to be seen.

I actually got off and walked along the boarded sections as it is a tad embarrassing having your own personal thunder storm following you around, although Fatty makes less noise than the Voodoo did round here.

Off the boardwalk section, crossing a small bridge, and looking rather nervous for some reason.

The paths around the reserve are about half boarded and half natural, but thankfully the latter proved to be largely devoid of sloppy mud, so Fatty stayed fairly clean. After a lap of the reserve, and some run pasts for the camera, I found a nice spot to sit and have a coffee, right beside a babbling stream. Unfortunately this is where things went wrong. The Trangia is Swedish, and if anyone knows a thing or two about cold, it's the Swedes, so I was rather dismayed to find that the stove stubbornly refused to light. It was cold by our standards, but nothing drastic, at a guess four or five degrees, but the Trangia just wasn't having it. I have read they can be fickle in really cold weather, but surely not a problem in our 'a bit chilly' temperatures. I tried every trick in the book, although I did stop short of putting the burner down my trousers to warm it up. So a gas stove is in my cross hairs for my next shot of retail therapy I think.

Despite all the rain we've had recently, the reserve was refreshingly free of mud.

 When I potter along, I really potter... 

Grrrr... 

So, denied my intended Caramel Latte, I set off once more and started the bimble along the lanes towards home, including a goodly cruise along the shared path beside the main Truro to Perranporth road back to Shortlanesend. Back there (I'm not typing it again) I took a different lane back to Idless, and another real treat of a ride. This lane really is a proper back lane that appears to have been built purely to serve one farm. The upshot is it is utterly devoid of traffic, and wonderfully peaceful as it descends through a scraggy wood back to Idless.

The only feature along this stretch of lane was this wheel trim in a small tree. Was it put there or did it land there having flown off? 

From Idless I retraced my outward route back until the junction above Lanner Mill where I opted to go left and past St Allen Church, and back into my home port of Trispen via Truthan. It was going along the latter sections that I spied a fellow bi-wheeler ahead. I didn't really give him or her another thought until I caught another glimpse of them a little further on, and I had gained on them considerably.

What is it about bicycles that brings out the competitive streak in folk? I am the most uncompetitive person on the planet, not to mention also probably one of the least fit and able on a bike, but I still threw another log or two on the fire and got the hammer down – I was going to catch this fellow cyclist! I think he or she was a roadie, flying away from me on the flats while down in a crouch, but on the up hill bits I was reeling them in quite rapidly while they sat very upright, presumably on the tops of the bars rather than even the hoods, and grinding out a higher gear range than I have at my disposal. I don't think whoever it was was in hammer mode like I was, I think they were just cruising, but still - I had to catch and pass them... imagine the shame of the keen roadie being caught and passed by an old giffer on a fat bike of all things! But, sadly, it didn't happen. He or she turned right where I intended to turn also, which meant the chase was still on, but before I could make the turn I had to wait for a tractor to pass that had come up behind me, which set me back, irretrievably so as it turned out, as I couldn't get close enough again before reaching my turning for home.

Hayup... Target acquired, Phasers set to stun, the chase is on!

All in all though it was a good ride, and the enjoyable parts far outweighed the dodgy driving, the ugly new housing, the unwilling stove and the great roadie chase down failure.

These sort of roads and tracks are not at all what a fat bike is meant for, but I still find it a perfectly good bike to ride in such conditions, not being half as draggy as some folk claim, and I'm not bothered by a kilo or two of extra weight at all. I do love the comfort afforded by this bike though – the bars and seating position are just so for me, allowing me to feel I'm sitting in the bike rather than perched on top, and I love the solid, planted, and invincible feel of the ride.

I don't need a fat bike at all, not like some folk in really cold places do, but it is still a heck of a lot of fun, which is what I do need from my riding. I need to ride the other bikes too though, and think I will bar myself from taking Fatty out again for a while just so they don't take root or seize up or something!

Crappy small scale map, but this link may work better Clicky and cross your fingers...

Or it may not work at all as it may require me to be logged in for some reason to see it. People need to share things beyond Faceache and Twitter you beggars!

Woodland Mud Plugging.

The weather forecast ahead of yesterday once again looked promising – sunny and with little wind. A welcome reprieve then from the daily battering we've been subjected to lately.

So, feeling up to having a ride, the only question was where to go? It's been a while since I've been into Idless Woods, my nearest bike friendly woodland, but also the boggiest at this time of year, depending on which path you take. But mud is all part of the fun isn't it? Well previous experience with my conventional mountain bikes has seen mixed results. Usually a lot of spinning back wheel and coming to a halt in a most unfortunate place, and having to dab a foot down into some burping, slurping, seemingly bottomless mud lagoon. I usually end up walking the bike through these muddy bits, while keeping my feet on the well trodden path to the side. I actually don't like going around mud holes, even on foot, as it makes the scar bigger, but I'm not treading anywhere walkers haven't already trodden, so I'm not creating any fresh damage as it were. But, it'd be interesting to see how Fatty coped on some of my favourite summertime paths that I usually swerve at this time of year.

As is often the case, the day dawned not quite how the forecast said it would. There were a few hefty showers while I was slowly booting myself up with coffee, and the weather radar on the internet showed a line of showers due to pass through within the next hour or so. I could sit by the PC or something and wait for them to pass, or man up and get on with it. I knew that an hour by the PC would finish up being more like three hours, so made the decision to get on out there.

Not only that, but I had a new jacket arrive in the week, an Altura Nevis 2 in whore's drawers red, so any rain that fell would be a good test to see how that fares.

My old yellow jacket is a cheapo jobbie, blagged for twenty quid, and has done me well to be fair. It only leaks on the elbows and shoulders, but is warm and windproof, obviously. But it is also a tad on the large size for me, being, well, a large size. Long enough in the arm, a bit too long in the body, but it makes me look like a Sumo at times. Being bright yellow it also blows the highlights out in photos something rotten, so when I saw the Altura jobbie in Medium for a bargain £32, down from £55 (the label on it when it arrived said £49) I thought it worth a dip.

Given the likelihood of precipitation, I once again donned my black overtrousers, so with them and my new red jacket, all I needed was a Bearskin hat and I'd have looked like I was on my way to Troop The Colour or stomp about outside Buckingham Palace.

Of course, clear days at this time of year also means lower temperatures, and outside it was about 5 degrees Centigrade, so a little chilly, another test of the new jacket as without that generous layer of air around my body, it may not be as warm.

Fatty is one heck of a fun bike to ride! Once again I had a grin like a Cadillac's grille on my face as I sped down the road from home, tyres rasping like a Land Rover and soaking up the broken road surface to give a smooth and controlled plummet down the hill. I was reminded however of Fatty's reluctance to corner on arriving at the right hander at the bottom of the hill, and needing to practically hang off the side to get the bike to turn. (ok, slight exaggeration there, but compared to my other bikes, it understeers - a phenomi... a phenoma... something you wouldn't think could ever be used to describe a bicycle's handling characteristics).

It's only a short ride to the woods, although it had now started raining steadily, so only a few minutes later I was pounding up the first off road hill of the day. I've never yet made it up this hill. It's steep, long, stoney, and has a water drainage channel meandering up the middle. Usually some loss of control threatens to unseat me, like hitting a stone and turning the front wheel in, or a loss of traction. Yesterday I still didn't make it to the top, but I got a lot further than ever before, and only bailed out where I did because I ran out of legs. This hill does drain well too, being on the edge of the tree line and open, so it wasn't particularly slippery. I bailed out on the next uphill section too when even the fat back tyre lost traction on the deep carpet of leaves and the spin was enough to halt me. The tyres were over inflated, still being set fairly hard (about 20psi) from last week's ride on the lanes. But, it was only on the really steep and slippery section of path directly under the trees that loss of forward drive was a problem.

The topmost path in Idless Woods. All that could be heard at this moment was the gentle pitter patter of raindrops in the trees. But this ride wasn't to be about absorbing nature's therapeutic properties, it soon became about enjoying the ride. Slipping and sliding about has never been so much fun.

Once at the very top of the hill, the path turns left and along the hill top until dropping later towards the main entrance. Along this top level though, it is also pretty wet and muddy. This was a hoot to ride, even at my slow pace. Those puddles I usually walk around I rode straight into with no worries at all about grinding to a halt through lack of drive. Yes the back wheel would spin but it was still driving forwards. Not always in a straight line, granted! As the back wheel spun, so at times we ended up pointing in seemingly two directions at once but it was nothing less than utter grinning fun.

A quick stop mid-puddle for a photo in the rain.

The rain had stopped again by now, and the sun had even come out! This was turning out to be another very enjoyable ride. Normally when I'm in the woods, I like to soak up the peace and quiet, stop and look around, and just take some time to 'centre myself' as they say these days. The woods are my favourite place to flee to in order to get some sanctuary from all the other crap going on, and I count myself very lucky to have two large woods to visit pretty close to home.

But yesterday, fun took over from relaxation and contemplation, and I was more concerned with seeing how Fatty coped with various sections and individual hazards – I was just enjoying the ride.

I've said it before, but if Fatty is anything to go by, these donut wheeled bikes really do make up for any lack of skills in the rider. They just keep moving forwards through pretty deep mud and roll over or through things that would usually throw me with my lack of confidence and skill into the scenery.

There was however one fly in my fun ointment, and that was my back. I did something along the way to set it off, what exactly I don't know, but this happens sometimes. I set off feeling ok spine wise, but something brings on the pain and stiffness and yesterday I was becoming aware of the fire spreading up my spine and across my shoulder blades. A couple of times I moved a little suddenly and pain shot up my back and left a lesser pain to ease through to and radiate around my Sternum. I don't understand how it all works, I just know it's painful and uncomfortable, and I needed to get home. Oh bums.

Having to head home earlier than planned.

So I had to pedal steadily and gently homeward, (the hill up from near the entrance I use to the wood had to be walked up, very slowly indeed) only stopping to take a photo and to arch my back to try and alleviate the pain. When my back plays up I must look a proper sight, as I get bent over more and can't move so freely. So with everything being a painful struggle, I peer out from under my eyebrows, head bowed, and with pain spread large across my face, and I must look very old indeed. As old probably as I feel on such occasions.

One last photo in the woods while trying to shift some back pain. Walking on the mud without slipping was considerably harder than riding on it!

Had my crap back not stuck a spanner in the works, I would've had a much longer ride, as enjoying it as I was, I was planning to head out of the main entrance to the wood and go on somewhere else.

But there we go, it's happened before and will happen again, so I just have to make the most of those occasions when everything does go to plan.

The day was turning out to be perfect for a ride, but I was heading home. But at least I got some good riding in. Better that than none at all.

As for Fatty, well the more I ride this bike the more I love it! I still want to take the others out mind you, but Fatty is a huge amount of fun and is also very different to ride.

The new jacket also did well. It didn't have to ward off a lot of rain as I was under trees for a lot of it, but ward it off it did. Doubtless there will be bigger tests of it's water repellent qualities. It doesn't cover my trusty bum bag though and that might be a problem, as the bag isn't water proof at all, and my main camera lives in it, but that no doubt can easily be sorted with plastic bags or something.

Not as far as it looks, this ride was a whisker over 5 miles. 

Round thing in the woods just below the figure 4 is an Iron Age fort.

I've no idea what the red square is other than it's where I rejoined the route I took on the ride out and started retracing my steps back home.

Meanwhile, the weather is set to get colder this coming week – let's hope we get snow and I'm fit to go for a ride in it if it does!

The Sin Bin – Forgetful Poop Scoopers.

Or should that just be flipping lazy poop scoopers? I'm not sure.

One of the worst things you can ride through while out and about is a dog bomb. Actually, that is probably THE worst thing you can ride through. A freshly laid pile offers little in the way of traction, so if Bonzo downloaded his dinner right on the apex of a fast berm or something, you could experience a sudden loss of grip and a dramatic and smelly trip into the scenery. At best, you get to watch the squidged mess, looking like a melted Snickers but smelling far, far, worse, going round with every revolution of your front wheel. Plus, if your nose is as big as mine, (I suck in more cubic inches of air than most) the smell alone will have you gagging until you can find a way of getting the offending poop off your tyres. This always seems to happen in summer too, when the heat makes the smell even worse to stomach, and handy puddles to wash off the offending waste matter are hard to find. So you find a stick, to remove what you can, but even that process is full of peril as a little pressure in the wrong place can see the stick flick the dog log up into your face, or onto your clothing, somewhat less than desirable, especially if you're meeting up with friends or planning to visit a cafe. Or your stick might break, plunging your knuckles perilously close to the gooey, sticky mess you're trying remove. Even if you succeed in removing the majority of the fetid faeces from twixt your knobbles, there will still be a hefty pong hanging in the air from the residual smearing over the rubber.

All that is assuming the dog concerned had a healthy digestive system, heaven forbid you encounter the doings of a dog with a dicky tummy, and the resultant soft, near liquid, poop. Those beggars splatter all over the shop, and make like the worst sort of Catherine Wheel known to man as they fling foul particles in all directions with every wheel rotation. Run over some sloppy droppings and you'd better keep your mouth clamped firmly shut until you can pull over to commence cleaning operations.

So you'd think I'd be very appreciative of those folk who bag their pooch's poops into those twee looking little bags of doggy delight with the cute little rabbit ear bows on top. That's what I used to do myself when I had my much missed hairy arsed friend, I always scooped and bagged her emissions, but then I'd walk around with my little package until I found a dog poop bin, or failing that, a general litter bin. If those weren't forthcoming, well I carried it all the way home and put it in the household bin.

But that last bit about carrying it around is where I seem to to differ from some folk, who having gone to the trouble of remembering to take adequate supplies of bags with them, then done all the bending, wretching, gagging, and wondering just what the hell their beloved pet had eaten that meant leaving such a huge, malodorous and multicoloured steaming pile, then scooped it up and sealed the bag with that deft little pooper scooper's twist, then go and just leave the bag hanging from a branch, or on the ground.

Why do they do that? Are they planning on collecting it on the way back? Maybe, but it seems many folk then forget all about it, and/or fail to see the little packets they'd decorated the path with just a short while before. After all, people switch on their fog lights when driving, then forget they ever did it, despite the little orange light on the dash or switch warning them, and then drive around for weeks afterwards dazzling all and sundry with their forgetfulness. So they could quite easily forget what they'd done just a few minutes before, but I don't actually get how anyone can be that forgetful unfortunately, my mind is boggled by these folk. They must be always leaving all the lights on in their house when they go out, or drive to work, then walk home, forgetting the car altogether (actually, I know of someone who did just that, and reported the car as being stolen off their drive to the Police...).

Maybe it's just ignorance and laziness, and that is just as likely as the first option, unfortunately. If it is laziness, well the torpedoes would be better left unmolested where they were dropped, for nature to deal with, than wrapped in plastic bag and just left behind. Yes the bags do decompose, but it takes a heck of a lot longer. I'd rather take my chances with a freshly laid log than have the surroundings sullied by flipping plastic bags hanging from branches or just left right on the racing line, and a plastic poop bag is no more grippy than it's contents if you catch it with your front wheel while banked over.

That's not a giant bag of poop, just a low camera angle. Pretty colours or fancy scented bags (the wise scoopers use Nappy sacks - far cheaper than the 'dedicated' dog bags like the black one in the foreground here) don't excuse leaving your little packages of poop for others to clear away. 

A ride around the local woods will always reveal around half a dozen little baggies lurking unattended, and it really grinds my gonads, it really does. When I finally cracked and fetched out the camera for the photo hereabouts, it wasn't just because there were two little bags in one place to photograph, nor that one was a rather fetching colour. No, it was because these two were about fifteen feet from two, that is two, one each side of the track, dog waste bins. Yet here they were, just sat on the grass making the place look untidy. Too lazy to nip back to the bins I assume. Well if you're that lazy then a dog is not the animal for you. Go get a Goldfish or Stick Insect or something that is less tiring to clean up after you useless articles! 

If I was Prime Minister, and if I'd paid more attention at school I could be, I'd make it law that anyone bagging and then just leaving the little parcel wherever, should have their nose thoroughly rubbed in the bag by the local Forestry Warden. Or mountain biker. It's a simple enough task to undertake, why do some folk only manage half of the jobbie in hand?

In the bin the lazy, half witted beggars must go! Grrr.....

Bimbles 2016, Up and Running.

My first post of 2016, and it's a couple of days late, as this is all about what happened last Sunday. Oh well, better late than never as they say on the railways these days.

Late last week, Craig, my next door neighbour and general banter dispenser, rang asking if I fancied a bike ride. He had been looking at the weather forecast and found a window around mid morning on Sunday, that was showing only showers rather than the continuous horizontal lashings of late. Admiring his optimism, but not holding my breath, I agreed to the idea and the date was set for the first ride of 2016.

Saturday night was a bit of a sleepless one for the usual reason – a brain that won't switch off from fretting about stuff. So being awake half the night also made me aware of what was going on outside – weather was what was going on, and lots of it. Lots of rain being thrashed against the windows by lots of feisty gusts of wind. The bike ride was looking dodgy to say the least.

But, come the daylight, there were more sunny spells than rainy ones, but I still donned my wet weather over trousers before setting off. If I'd had a life jacket and Canoe handy I'd have taken that too, so convinced was I of the likelihood of ship wreck or at least a thorough soaking at some point in the proceedings. 

Thankfully, on assembling alongside Craig's van at the appointed hour, I saw he had elected to take his old Giant hybrid, a bike I owned for a while and christened 'Lump' because that's exactly what it is. Craig now owns it again and has had it resprayed satin black, and also added riser bars and a Brooks sit upon. It's still a brutal looking bike though. 

I say thankfully because I was expecting him to take his Bosch powered, electrically assisted mountain bike again, and I can't keep up with him when he's on the rinse and spin setting.

Lump looking evil wicked mean and moody in the car park at Wenfordbridge.

The starting point for the ride was to be Wenfordbridge – terminus of the Camel Trail and old railway line that runs all the way from Padstow (of Rick Stein fame) through Wadebridge (not famous at all) and Bodmin (of St Lawrences hospital fame, locally at least). But, as it turned out, we weren't going to be heading along the trail this particular Sunday, Craig fancied getting onto the nearby Bodmin Moor, so we'd be riding on the roads rather than trails, but that was fine by me.

The inscription around the frame bangs on about how the babble of the River Camel can be heard now the clatter of trains has gone. This was Wenfordbridge, a branch line in the middle of nowhere, not Clapham Junction! On this ride though we weren't following the route on the map, we were going up and off the top of it.

Setting off, a theme for the outward stretch of the ride soon became obvious – hills. Upward ones. Nothing silly steep, just long hills to grind up. Still, something to look forward to on the return trip we agreed.

Leaving Wenfordbridge and...

Straight onto the first climb of many on this ride.

One of the hazards of rural lanes, a country dumpling. Looks like the horse concerned had a good breakfast, which was more than I had.

A quick stop was made in the village of St Breward where the local shop (for local people) was open and Craig stocked up on energy drinks and Snickers bars. Despite all the Christmas decorations around the village, it still seemed a bleak place to live in the weak winter sunshine. You need to be a hardy soul with your hat tied to your head to live in some of the places we were to pass that day for sure. 

The commercial centre of St Breward.

On the wall beside the village shop. A very good idea indeed too.

Heavy looking skies... it's bound to rain, surely.

It may not have been raining at the time, but water was everywhere on and around the lanes. If it wasn't running down or across the roads, it was sitting in mini pop up lakes in the fields and everything was sodden and saturated. Even the sunlight was watery. Pulling up at the kerb on this ride soon became 'coming alongside' with pulling onto the verge 'running aground'.

 Typical conditions for a lot of the ride - narrow and twisting lanes, wet roads, cloudy skies with weak sunshine breaking through.

Also typical was the amount of water encountered, thanks to all the heavy rain of late.

The lanes twisted and turned, and dipped and climbed up onto Bodmin Moor which despite being a pretty windswept and bleak place, seemed to be teeming with folk out for a Sunday drive or walking off their Christmas calories. It was hard to get into a riding rhythm at times as we had to keep pulling over to allow cars to pass, the roads being too narrow to just trust to fine judgement and wing mirror avoidance.

A quick stop on the moor.

A pair of giants on Bodmin Moor.

We eventually came to a crossroads with Camelford sign posted to the left and Davidstow straight ahead. As they're a funny lot in Camelford and likely to want to eat us for dinner or something, we opted to head straight over and onto the exposed hill top road past Crowdy Reservoir and on towards Davidstow.

Davidstow featured an RAF base from 1942 until 1954, and following its decommissioning, even staged some Formula One motor racing, but parts of the old airfield are still in use today for light aircraft and microlight hedge hoppers. The road took us along what would've been an old runway or taxi way up to a junction, and there we decided we'd come far enough, and it would be prudent to turn back due to the time and me not having any lights on the bike.

 This is actually a ford, and I usually love bombing through fords like some big kid, but not this one, not on this day anyway. It was running fast and deep, and those fat wheels might be at a disadvantage for slicing through running water. So I bottled it and took the bridge.

We were following part of National Cycle Network's route 3, which is also part of the Velowest routing too (a link up with routes in Europe).

So after a quick snack for Craig, we turned to head back the way we'd come, straight into the wind. By crikey that was eye watering, snot blowing, head buffeting, ear billowingly hard work. Trying to speak was hard enough, actually hearing what the other had said impossible as the wind was like sticking your head in a jet engine... maybe. Perhaps.

All the effort of trying to make headway into the wind also saw me raising quite a sweat inside my many layers of water proofing but I wasn't going to stop and start disrobing – guaranteed to make it rain that would be.

The noise of the wind also made keeping an eye out for cars coming up behind more important, as on the way out we'd hear them well before they got close. Now we quickly discovered we couldn't hear traffic behind at all, even when it was up our chuff. At one point, finding some Sunday driver behind us, we both nipped onto the sodden and bepuddled grass verge to allow the car past. On rejoining tarmac Craig (who had been behind me) told me that I'd just floated over the grass, while he'd nearly gone over the bars as his wheels dug straight in. I love the Fat Bike!

We did swap bikes at one point too. Lump was just as I remembered, long and tall, like riding a five bar gate, and with hairy scary brakes too. The brake blocks were well worn down, and the brake cables in need of adjustment too, so after the hydraulics of the Fatty, the wet, tired and emotional V-Brakes on Lump proved a little bowel loosening at first. I could only just reach the pedals at their six o'clock position too, so getting power down was rather hard. Getting back on Fatty again was like coming home to a comfy chair, a roaring fire and a steaming cup of coffee. Comfortable and reassuring. As for Craig, I think he needs more time with Fatty, preferably off road, as I don't think he was won over, but they are a Marmite bike for sure.

What goes up must come down, and despite the buffety headwind, we enjoyed the long bits of downhill on the return trip. Mind you, given the woeful brakes on Lump, I'm not entirely sure Craig always meant to be going as fast as he was. He did stop and adjust them but it made little difference.

Getting near to Wenfordbridge again, we encountered the only rain of the ride, a brief, and light sprinkle of a shower, that was over in about 30 seconds. Despite all the turbulence, we had been really lucky with the weather on this trip, amazingly so really.

Before going back to the van we stopped on the bridge over the River Camel at Wenfordbridge to look at the swollen river below, and once again were bemused at how much traffic was out and about. Crossing the road here was more difficult than crossing Westminster Bridge in rush hour, or so it seemed.

The bridge that gives Wenfordbridge its name, in a rare moment of no traffic. Plenty of water though. 

The River Camel at Wenfordbridge running fast.

So that was the first ride of 2016, and a great one it was too. I didn't take as many photos as normal, as with company I can't stop as often and dick about setting photos up, but some of the scenery was pretty special, in a rugged and bleak, lots of sheep and moorland kind of way. The bikes stayed pretty clean too, the roads being remarkably clear of all the mud and farm slurry we get on the lanes around home. There was also a distinct lack of wildlife to be seen too. A quick spin around my local lanes always leads to at least a couple of encounters with Pheasants or Squirrels, even Hawks or Buzzards or whatever they are (I can never tell). This trip we just saw lots of Sheep, Horses and cagoule wearing walkers, and no sign of the legendary Beast of Bodmin Moor either (though other folk might've thought they heard its mournful and chilling howl at times, but it was just us grinding and groaning up another hill or into that wind).

We'd ridden a whisker short of twenty miles, at an average of seven mph, and both enjoyed it immensely, although Craig has since reported being absolutely knackered once he'd got home.

One last thing – I tend to switch the GoPro on and off on a ride, as and when I encounter picturesque bits or whatever, and it is set to take a shot every 1.5 seconds. Well I forgot to switch it off on the way back, and had 804 photos to download. They took some looking through to sort out I can tell you, I relived every hundred yards sorting the good from the dull and disastrous.

Again, not a detailed map but I'm working on it. 10 miles each way was the journey, and we went out and back via the same roads.

Anyway, ride number one of 2016 is in the bag!