I’m a road rider. It’s my day job, my occasional day off job, includes the odd track day and …. Yeah … as a road rider, I’m not too bad at it!
I first swung my leg over an off road bike about five years ago, and I have to say, absolutely loved it. It’s also probably fair to say that whilst I had a natural ‘life on two wheels’ ability that anybody who’s been riding for a while would have, I didn’t exactly shine as a novice dirt rider. After 25 years of road bikes, there were many things that were so ingrained in my riding style that I found change very difficult. I remember for example really struggling with the off road ‘push the bike underneath you’ style. After all those years of getting my weight inside a bike on a corner, I found it very difficult to do something that felt so alien. (That actually, was the slowest thing to click – it must have taken a year or two for me to ‘un-unconscious competent’ weight an outside peg and push a bike down below me whilst I stood/sat upright).
So the months ticked by, I spent the odd day at work off roading, did the occasional refresher course and got more and more into it, to the extent that earlier this year I bought myself a WR450 (from Halfpint on here). I started doing more green laning on my days off and generally having a bit of a play.
I loved it, and I slowly became reasonably competent. But let’s not kid anybody here – I’m just reasonably competent!
Boys weekends away are healthy! Twenty first century man still needs to go and do mammoth slaying stuff, (readers wives are you listening??!) so along with five buddies a plan was hatched to enter the WTRA Cambrian Rally. GULP.
The Friday before the two day rally saw us busy packing a transit and trailer. A 990, two 690’s, a CCM my 450 and a 250 were shoe horned in along with tools, petrol, bike stands, tubes …. the usual ancillary bumf that dinosaur hunters take with them.
Mindful of our impending sporting marathon we stopped for essential carb loading, paid our dues at the Severn Bridge and gripped one another’s hands tightly as we crossed into Wales.
Luckily I had packed my Brokeback Mountain shirt, so I was quietly confident that I’d fit in with the locals and we’d have no ‘An American Werewolf in London pub go quiet at our entry’ scenes, in the local pub.
The B&B was in Llandovery and was half an hour or so from our actual venue. Having booked into our rooms, the natural course of action was to decide which pub to spend the rest of the night in. After all – the forecast is shite, it’s been raining all week and as a novice competitor I’m about to hit Strata Florida with a weekend club racer up me chuff, so I might as well make it a real adventure and get completely wasted on Doom Bar and Oban ten hours before I start. Hic.
Despite my mild hangover on Saturday morning I made myself eat Breakfast. I even made myself have some sort of muesli with a banana before the fry up came. It was a struggle, but in the spirit of grasping the nettle and throwing my heart into the day, I slowly chewed, swallowed and reflected on the day ahead.
The weather was grim. We oo’d and ahh’d like tourists from our snug people carrier as the green green hills got worryingly hillier. The fan hummed away on the steamed up windows, and as we wound our way further away from civilisation, so the little B road got busier with transits, trailers and campervans.
After spending a bit of time finding somewhere flat where we could unload the trailer, we parked. One of the biggest faffs for me was the constant bloody loading and unloading. Obviously it had to be done, and there were no short cuts we could take, but it’s a hell of a lot easier if there’s just one of you!
We did our final bike preps, discussed tyre pressures, the pros and cons of being ping-ponged about on Welsh slate versus pinch flats, and I opted to raise my normal 15psi to about 20. We rode down to the start, signed in and got ourselves scrutineered. My front wheel bearings were highlighted by the guy looking at my bike. I had a quick wobble of my wheel myself. ‘Feck me’ he’s not wrong!
For those of you not familiar with what the Rally actually involves – let me explain. The course is about 35 miles and is a big circle. A fair chunk of that circle is the sort of terrain that you’ve seen someone like Colin Mcrae hoon around in a Suburu or the like; Forest fire tack made up of a sort of shaley slatey builders type one dirt road.
There is a tiny bit of public road where I’m able to steal the photo on the move. But there is also a fair chunk of river-bed, rock garden, muddy single and double track and of course the infamous water crossings that are the ‘Strata Florida’. So that’s the 35 mile circle.
Now within that circle there are two timed special stages. It’s just you, against the clock, and you take it in turns and leave 30 seconds apart. This weekend one of the special stages is all perimeter shaley road stuff, and the other is mostly double / single track mud stuff. So two very different surfaces against the clock.
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You are given an allotted time to start your 35 mile round trip, and you need to be at your first check point (your first special stage) at another given time. You have to be at your second special stage at yet another given time … etc etc. The timings shouldn’t be too difficult to keep – you shouldn’t need to race yer bollox off to get to your special stage, but you haven’t really got time to dawdle (and take photos!) and of course a mechanical will really impact on your time keeping. Day one is two laps, (70 miles) but the first lap is a sighting lap and you won’t be timed in the special sections. Day two is three laps (105 miles!) and again, the first lap is a sighting lap. The route between the special stages is known as the liaison route /section. So it’s liaison … special section … liaison … special section.. liaison .. finish. Clear as mud?? (Oh, and day two they reverse the route).
It’s time to go. Because we’ve entered as a team, and because we’re scared of the Welsh, we’re numbered together. (Apart from the 250 who sets off later in the day on his own - he’s an ‘ard bastard). It’s a deliberate plan, and we ride the liaison stuff together.
The only flaw in this is that I’m on a 450 and should really be in the sports class, not the rally class, I’m amongst 690’s and 990’s and the like but it’s no great shakes. We leave a minute or so apart on our sighting lap, and regroup on the move just around the corner. I steal the odd snap here and there on my little Sony cybershot, but otherwise hunker down in the pouring rain and follow the fluorescent arrows.
I survive the first special stage (remember it’s untimed on the first lap) and it’s technically not too challenging –it’s perimeter shaley road stuff. (‘Technically not too challenging’ doesn’t mean I’m any good at it – I just find it easier than the genuine dirt second special section). I pass two separate bikes with punctures already, bloody hell – it’s only ten minutes into day one! We push on.
Strata Florida is part of the liaison section, and is famous for its water crossings. On a bad day, drop yer bike and you could seriously give it some grief. Two strokes full of water are pretty simple to clear (he says with in an air of mechanical confidence that over lays a complete mechanical ignorance). Suck a load of water into your four stroke though and it ain’t so funny. So the biggest challenge in the water, is surviving it mechanically. (Which some of us do better than others Chris you cock).
As we near Strata Florida, we’re given a choice by the marshals to divert around the worst sections. There’s been heavy rain all week and apparently it’s waist deep in places. Most people take the diversion and that suits me! That doesn’t mean we see no water though, there are still plenty of river crossings to be had.
The river crossings didn’t really phase me that much to be honest. Don’t go too fast, don’t go too slow, don’t look down and keep relaxed! Easy!! I watch the riders in front of me, note their line, try and remember where they’ve obviously hit a big hidden boulder and try to log that in my brain so I know where to expect it. That system pretty much worked, and I plodded through, revs slightly up and not being surprised by the mentally logged thumps to my front wheel. There was a good camaraderie amongst the riders. People were helping one another by pointing out the right line, if someone conked out, others were quick to help. A good feeling!
We climb out that general rock garden terrain. Thinking of pinch flats I avoid the sharp spades of slate that stick out the floor like those nine inch steel hinged one way plates found at car park exits. We hit muddier stuff and generally move away from rock into dirt..
I’m now really wishing I’d put new boots on the bike before we left. I still have the original tyres from when I’d bought it off Halfpint – the front still has life in it, but it’s far from new. It’s just not biting in the mud. That and my average riding ability means that these are the slowest sections of the whole course for me. The CCM and the 690’s are all on brand new Michelin enduro competition tyres. Bastards!
The second special section is long. It’s mostly mud and I struggle to get a good pace. My eyes keep wanting to drop and I struggle to keep my arms from getting tense. The front tyre feels ‘orrible in the soft earth. In between my heavy breathing I talk to myself all the way round! I’m slower than I want to be. I remember getting in a rut next to a load of pine trees. Thwack … thwack … the branches were slapping my face but I was stuck in my little trench for the next few hundred yards.
We finish lap one, dive back to the trailer, eat and re fuel while the cripple in the back ground whinges before doing it all over again.
Chris had hurt his back earlier that morning and I know he’s in pain. Having suffered with a terrible back for many years (miraculously cured once I stopped being a slave to the gym..) I see all the symptoms of how he holds himself and how he moves. He takes some Ibuprofen and we head off for lap two. The pressure is on now, because the clock is running in the special stages. I do okay, but it’s just that. Very average. In the liaison section Chris drops his bike in the water (the twat) and because I’m behind him and the poor little lamb is suffering, I prop my bike up against the river bank and wade over to help him pick it up. Amazingly it starts, the exhaust spews water out like a fire hose and he gets going. I quietly curse the clumsy fecker as my feet squelch in river water. I re mount and tuck in behind him.
We make it back to the finish, Mark hoists a minger all the way up the approach road and we all ride straight to the tea bar.
Sweet tea and a fresh cream scone in the rain. Luuuuverly. My twat suit had come up trumps in the foul weather, but my feet were absolutely soaked.
Les limps over to the tea bar. He’s hurt his ankle pretty badly. He’s wacked it on a rock mid corner whilst dangling a leg out (school boy error Lesley…) and the force has completely thrown him off the bike. He’s saying that it’s seriously hurting. (This injury turns out to be worse than first realised……). Mark has done bloody well. He doesn’t know it yet but he actually finished 6th in the Rally class. He was five seconds off Craig Bounds in T1.
We load up and head back to the Drovers in Llandovery which takes feckin’ hours, because our team is actually made up of delinquent, middle aged, mid life crisis teenagers. (I of course include myself in that category).
For the second time in a fortnight I stuff my boots with paper and ask a land lady for somewhere warm for wet kit.
After a hot shower we hit the pub again. Mark has liver and bacon for the second night on the trot (he might be quick but he’s got feck all imagination) and I regret not asking the waiter for a hunk of bread to wipe up my sausage and mash with.
Three pints, two scotches and tonight Mathew, I’m ….. ready for bed. We all fall asleep dreaming of the gorgeous blonde waitress with the best chest in town.
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Feck me it’s cold. I don’t do mornings very well, and go through the chewing and swallowing routine fairly quietly leaving all the breakfast table chit-chat to the others. We bid goodbye to our landlady, wake all the neighbours with diesel engines and credit cards on frozen windscreens, Les limps, Chris winces, and I stare gloomily out the steamed up windows as the sun struggles to rise.
Climbing deeper into the mist the frost seems to thicken, I can feel my body battening down hatches and I haven’t even got out the car yet. We all have a minor group domestic about where to park, and eventually elect to go back to the same place.
We unload and change. Yuk! Everything is still sodden through. Although my twat suit is sort of dry on the inside, it must weigh an extra couple of kilos in rain water alone. My boots are soaked, and feeling cold wet and slightly grumpy, I gently blow on the dimming embers of youth buried deep in my heart and re-kindle the flame of school boy humour by drawing a cock in Les’s rear brake light. Sigh, I’m nearly 47 with teenage kids, and I’ve plummeted to these depths. This actually turns out to be an act of genius – for the rest of the day the only part of Les’s brake light that makes it through the thick film of dirt, is a giant red beacon of penis. It’s the little things in life that make yer smile on a frosty morning.
We head down to the start where the route has been reversed. For all my soft southern whinging about the cold, it’s actually a joy to be out so early. It’s going to be a glorious day.
Chris has bowed out with his back which I really do understand. He’s gutted not to be riding and is walking like he’s shat himself. We give him the decent camera and he takes on the role of team photographer.
We leave in glorious sunshine and frost, Although it’s cold and I feel, well, just damp everywhere, it feels really good to be out on the bike. Isn’t it amazing how much the weather can affect your soul. I have the whole day ahead of me and I’m really looking forward to it. Strata Florida? Pah … bring it on!
The water levels have dropped a tad and this time we grow some balls. Strata Florida is a blood bath!! I push on in front of Mark, Dave and Les to get some photos. My only real moment is when I arrive at a deep crossing and there’s no one in front for me to watch! I make a judgement call on which line to take and go for it. I’m almost across and then the floor suddenly drops away underneath me and it gets really deep. At the same time I hit a boulder with my front wheel, the bike turns into a bucking bronco and like a 16 year old kid pulling his first wheelie I hang on to the bike with legs flailing. The bike paws the air, I nearly fall of the back, and in hanging on for my dear life, the throttle turns wide open. The vicious circle of slide off the back, turn up the revs, bike rears higher …fall further off the back, twist the revs again, bike rears higher… kicks in. But I make it through unscathed.
On the landing beach in front of me, it’s awash with drowned KTM’s! Some are upside down with water pouring out their exhausts, others are spannering out their plugs. I help a knackered guy kick his bike over, but it’s well and truly drowned.
There is a fantastic scene behind me. With the back drop of a perfect blue sky, steam lingers in the air from the red hot bikes struggling through the water. It looks like a scene from the Great War. I think of soldiers in gas masks eerily looming into view through fields of mustard gas and poppies. One lone figure walks slowly out of the carnage on foot, rifle slung over his shoulder, leaving drowned and injured brothers in arms to struggle in the putrid poison. I’m rooted to the spot with my camera – all that’s missing is Barbers adagio for strings.
The other three make it through and we push on to the first special section. It’s not timed yet and the formality of waiting for allotted spaces and timing lights is relaxed. I finish my 35 miles, refuel and grab a redbull before doing it all over again. Only 70 more miles to go!
A few years ago I went on a mountain bike course. Hour one, day one, the instructor takes out his front wheel and talks about speed being your friend. He rolls it gently at a rough area of lumps bumps and bits of wood and the wheel falters at the first hurdle and falls. He does it again but this time rolls it much harder like a ten pin bowling ball. The wheel bounces over everything in its sight and carries on for another 50 metres. It’s simple stuff, it’s not a eureka moment for me, but it was good teaching. The imagery has always stuck in my mind even though at the time I thought it was a bit gimmicky.
A couple of years or so ago I was on my mountain bike on a tiny b road commuting home. It’s a steep downhill section, a genuine 30mph on a pushbike. As I approached the give way T junction at the bottom of the hill, I braked hard and both my front pads fell out! (Honest – this is an absolutely true story, there’s no poetic licence here!!). I shot across the main road (thank feck nothing was coming..) and thanked God out loud for leaving me a farmers entrance into a field and not a bunch of trees. At something like 30mph I careered into a lightly ploughed field like Frank Spencer in a dated 70’s TV sitcom. The bike and I bounced and thrashed along in a dead straight line for another fifty yards before slowly coming to a halt, but we made it completely unscathed and still clipped in! If you’d have sat me stationery on the edge of that field and asked me to cycle across it, well I’d have probably wobbled and fallen off within the first ten yards.
Ya’ll get what I’m saying here?!
The lights go green and I nail it. It’s a shaley downhill start into an eventual tight right hander. That leads into another 3/4 mile slightly downhill straight into a hairpin left hander. I’d over shot the hairpin the first time in the sighting lap and now I was doing it again! Flat out at about 80mph I couldn’t stop the fecking bike. FFS get a grip will yer! The shaley surface eventually turns to muddy double track and as I slow and faff I hear a thumping big bore single behind me. The guy comes past me on acid and I latch on to his tale and get a tow for a few hundred yards.
Mark talks about ‘controlled uncontroll’. For thirty seconds I get it, I completely understand and for the first time in many moons I experience a Eureeka moment. For as long as I can, I keep with the weekend club racer. With the increase in pace, all I can do is just stare at the keyhole of light, see the bends as they first come into view and then never look at them again - because I’m picking up on the next bit… and the next bit... and then the next bit. My head wants to explode. My brain can’t cope with the stress of what my eyes see and the speed that it’s just not used to computing at. But the bike is on fire! It’s not just coping with it, its suddenly floating over stuff with complete ease. It’s a paradox – the bike is actually dealing with the whole terrain better for being on the brink of out of control. For a moment in time I’m the pushbike on the lightly ploughed field, I’m just skimming the surface of all those furrows, I’m controlled uncontrol. Wow - It’s an amazing feeling; it’s loose, it’s wild, it’s unprecise and it’s got attitude. I relax and let the suspension do what the feck it likes underneath me. We’re flying! But I can’t maintain it. A mixture of fitness and brain ache, and I slowly lose touch with my mentor and the speed creeps down again. But it gives me huge confidence and I (relatively by my standards!) rail the rest of the section. I don’t know who you were buddy, but in thirty seconds or so, I learned a lot from you. Thanks.
I get to the end of the special section out of breath and with a heart trying to climb out of my chest. Mark and Dave are already waiting Mark’s rear light is swinging by a single wire!
He’s had a huge crash! The bloke is a complete loon and is one of those ex racers that has the ability to flick a switch in his brain! He’s completely cartwheeled his 690, ended up in the woods and thrown his chain.
The time it’s taken him to get out the woods and put the chain back on has cost him nearly two minutes compared to his first run on this section earlier in the day. At least he hasn’t hurt himself. He straightens his bars on a nearby post and we push on.
The casualty rate is rising, we pass more punctures and the bracket holding Dave’s exhaust snaps. The Liaison section seems to go on for bloody miles. I’m not tired, it just goes on and on and on.. And we’re still on lap two!
We get to the last special section, it’s the fast Colin Mcrae stuff. The organisers hold us there and wait for the clock. Ooh Gawd, I start to feel really nervous again! The top riders are up at the front and I feel completely out of my depth.
The lights go green and I’m off. Although I find it easier than the single/double track, the trade-off is that it’s much quicker and I’m surrounded by deep drops and pine trees. A mistake here could really hurt. I try and balance competitive spirit with a will to come home in one piece. I can drift the back of my bike a tad on pure dirt, but on this sort of builders type one surface and at this sort of speed I haven’t got the balls to slide my bike about in a corner.
I approach a right hander way too quickly. Fuck, it suddenly dawns on me that I’m too quick and I can’t stop the bike. I try to pitch it in to the corner but I’m carrying too much speed, I’m drifting wide and heading for a wall of pine trees. I’ve squeezed the front as much as I dared on the loose surface (there’s probably shed loads more to be had and I probably need to grow some..) and the back is already locked. I’m desperately looking at where I want to go, I make myself stare down the road and will the bike to turn but I’m getting wider and wider. I remember actually wincing! I start to screw my face up and I remember thinking what the worst might be. A broken collar bone? I remember thinking what the best way to crash will be and in hundredths of seconds elect to low side the bike into the trees with me behind it rather than stand it up and brake as much as I can (and risk going over the bars). I tense up, wonder whether I’ll really hurt my bollocks on the seat, the bike’s at 45 degrees, my right foot is firmly on the floor, I’m off the brakes, I balance the throttle and I brace myself.
Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhk ……… but the bang doesn’t happen, within the last few metres left of road, somehow, some bloody how the tyres hook up and the bike starts to drive forward. Holy fecking crap! I’m swearing like a mad man inside my helmet. I shout out loud calling myself a cnut and a fecking wanker, and carry on down the road half eleated at being such a speedway hero and half in total despair that I was three metres away from going home in plaster of Paris. I put it behind me and push on. It’s happened, it’s done. Forget it now.
Back at the start point we grab a quick cuppa. I don’t need to re-fuel, I drink half my tea but the clock is calling. I give my drink to a rider who rolls into camp having just finished his special stage. He’s really grateful, we exchange pleasantries and then I queue up at the clock for lap three.
It’s more of the same. Another 35 miles of water, mud, rocks and special sections. I'm determined to finish so there's no heroics and I ride in a steady rhythm. Dave does really well ..
Mark was on fire..
Les rode round the outside with his dodgy foot..
And yours truly was just pretty average!
I get to the very last special stage of the last lap. I’ve had a great time, I’ve not broken down, and I’ve not fallen off (just) and I tell Dave I’m going to cruise home and not push it. And that’s exactly what I do – take it relatively easy.
It’s ten minutes from completion, the heavens open and it starts to rain again. The shaley floor is wet, and I’m determined not to feck up with the finishing line virtually in sight. Dave passes me even though he started 30 seconds after me, I pass a few locked up skid marks that disappear into the trees on a sharp bend, see a lone yellow bike and rider deep down a gulley – they wave acknowledging that they’re not hurt and I sort of cruise home. I get to the end, we regroup and for the last time, after 175 odd miles, we ride down to the finish.
I remember feeling really quite emotional! I know that sounds really soft but I did. Two days of hard bloody effort pitched against the weather, keeping the bike running, and well … just surviving. There were plenty of folk that didn’t make the course. I sort of … well, I felt a real sense of achievement.
Sigh. We all shook hands with one another over a cuppa and sat in the rain chin wagging.
I felt chuffed to bits. With time against us (gotta get back to Kent yet) and the loading fiasco of chiefs, Indians and delinquents, it was back to the van for an hours worth of faffing.
Les takes his boot off.
Tomorrow he will find out that on Saturday he broke his ankle clean through. He’s now in a plaster cast for the next six weeks! I guess that makes Sundays performance all the more impressive.
Soooooooooooooo ……..
The burning question!! How did we do?
There were 168 entrants, but … there were a few who didn’t even make the start line on day one – let alone day two. But hey – that’s all part of it isn’t it? Mechanical sympathy? Getting to the end? Bike fitness?
The others did pretty well I’ve got to say, with Mark heading our team table with a 6th and 9th over the two days in his class.
Me? Well if you pitch me in the Sports class (which is where I should have been) I’m 45 / 104 day one and 41 / 104 day two.
Take away the handful of non starters and I’m coming in just under the half way point. Not bad for my first event ... but still just feckin average!
I first swung my leg over an off road bike about five years ago, and I have to say, absolutely loved it. It’s also probably fair to say that whilst I had a natural ‘life on two wheels’ ability that anybody who’s been riding for a while would have, I didn’t exactly shine as a novice dirt rider. After 25 years of road bikes, there were many things that were so ingrained in my riding style that I found change very difficult. I remember for example really struggling with the off road ‘push the bike underneath you’ style. After all those years of getting my weight inside a bike on a corner, I found it very difficult to do something that felt so alien. (That actually, was the slowest thing to click – it must have taken a year or two for me to ‘un-unconscious competent’ weight an outside peg and push a bike down below me whilst I stood/sat upright).
So the months ticked by, I spent the odd day at work off roading, did the occasional refresher course and got more and more into it, to the extent that earlier this year I bought myself a WR450 (from Halfpint on here). I started doing more green laning on my days off and generally having a bit of a play.
I loved it, and I slowly became reasonably competent. But let’s not kid anybody here – I’m just reasonably competent!
Boys weekends away are healthy! Twenty first century man still needs to go and do mammoth slaying stuff, (readers wives are you listening??!) so along with five buddies a plan was hatched to enter the WTRA Cambrian Rally. GULP.
The Friday before the two day rally saw us busy packing a transit and trailer. A 990, two 690’s, a CCM my 450 and a 250 were shoe horned in along with tools, petrol, bike stands, tubes …. the usual ancillary bumf that dinosaur hunters take with them.
Mindful of our impending sporting marathon we stopped for essential carb loading, paid our dues at the Severn Bridge and gripped one another’s hands tightly as we crossed into Wales.
Luckily I had packed my Brokeback Mountain shirt, so I was quietly confident that I’d fit in with the locals and we’d have no ‘An American Werewolf in London pub go quiet at our entry’ scenes, in the local pub.
The B&B was in Llandovery and was half an hour or so from our actual venue. Having booked into our rooms, the natural course of action was to decide which pub to spend the rest of the night in. After all – the forecast is shite, it’s been raining all week and as a novice competitor I’m about to hit Strata Florida with a weekend club racer up me chuff, so I might as well make it a real adventure and get completely wasted on Doom Bar and Oban ten hours before I start. Hic.
Despite my mild hangover on Saturday morning I made myself eat Breakfast. I even made myself have some sort of muesli with a banana before the fry up came. It was a struggle, but in the spirit of grasping the nettle and throwing my heart into the day, I slowly chewed, swallowed and reflected on the day ahead.
The weather was grim. We oo’d and ahh’d like tourists from our snug people carrier as the green green hills got worryingly hillier. The fan hummed away on the steamed up windows, and as we wound our way further away from civilisation, so the little B road got busier with transits, trailers and campervans.
After spending a bit of time finding somewhere flat where we could unload the trailer, we parked. One of the biggest faffs for me was the constant bloody loading and unloading. Obviously it had to be done, and there were no short cuts we could take, but it’s a hell of a lot easier if there’s just one of you!
We did our final bike preps, discussed tyre pressures, the pros and cons of being ping-ponged about on Welsh slate versus pinch flats, and I opted to raise my normal 15psi to about 20. We rode down to the start, signed in and got ourselves scrutineered. My front wheel bearings were highlighted by the guy looking at my bike. I had a quick wobble of my wheel myself. ‘Feck me’ he’s not wrong!
For those of you not familiar with what the Rally actually involves – let me explain. The course is about 35 miles and is a big circle. A fair chunk of that circle is the sort of terrain that you’ve seen someone like Colin Mcrae hoon around in a Suburu or the like; Forest fire tack made up of a sort of shaley slatey builders type one dirt road.
There is a tiny bit of public road where I’m able to steal the photo on the move. But there is also a fair chunk of river-bed, rock garden, muddy single and double track and of course the infamous water crossings that are the ‘Strata Florida’. So that’s the 35 mile circle.
Now within that circle there are two timed special stages. It’s just you, against the clock, and you take it in turns and leave 30 seconds apart. This weekend one of the special stages is all perimeter shaley road stuff, and the other is mostly double / single track mud stuff. So two very different surfaces against the clock.
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You are given an allotted time to start your 35 mile round trip, and you need to be at your first check point (your first special stage) at another given time. You have to be at your second special stage at yet another given time … etc etc. The timings shouldn’t be too difficult to keep – you shouldn’t need to race yer bollox off to get to your special stage, but you haven’t really got time to dawdle (and take photos!) and of course a mechanical will really impact on your time keeping. Day one is two laps, (70 miles) but the first lap is a sighting lap and you won’t be timed in the special sections. Day two is three laps (105 miles!) and again, the first lap is a sighting lap. The route between the special stages is known as the liaison route /section. So it’s liaison … special section … liaison … special section.. liaison .. finish. Clear as mud?? (Oh, and day two they reverse the route).
It’s time to go. Because we’ve entered as a team, and because we’re scared of the Welsh, we’re numbered together. (Apart from the 250 who sets off later in the day on his own - he’s an ‘ard bastard). It’s a deliberate plan, and we ride the liaison stuff together.
The only flaw in this is that I’m on a 450 and should really be in the sports class, not the rally class, I’m amongst 690’s and 990’s and the like but it’s no great shakes. We leave a minute or so apart on our sighting lap, and regroup on the move just around the corner. I steal the odd snap here and there on my little Sony cybershot, but otherwise hunker down in the pouring rain and follow the fluorescent arrows.
I survive the first special stage (remember it’s untimed on the first lap) and it’s technically not too challenging –it’s perimeter shaley road stuff. (‘Technically not too challenging’ doesn’t mean I’m any good at it – I just find it easier than the genuine dirt second special section). I pass two separate bikes with punctures already, bloody hell – it’s only ten minutes into day one! We push on.
Strata Florida is part of the liaison section, and is famous for its water crossings. On a bad day, drop yer bike and you could seriously give it some grief. Two strokes full of water are pretty simple to clear (he says with in an air of mechanical confidence that over lays a complete mechanical ignorance). Suck a load of water into your four stroke though and it ain’t so funny. So the biggest challenge in the water, is surviving it mechanically. (Which some of us do better than others Chris you cock).
As we near Strata Florida, we’re given a choice by the marshals to divert around the worst sections. There’s been heavy rain all week and apparently it’s waist deep in places. Most people take the diversion and that suits me! That doesn’t mean we see no water though, there are still plenty of river crossings to be had.
The river crossings didn’t really phase me that much to be honest. Don’t go too fast, don’t go too slow, don’t look down and keep relaxed! Easy!! I watch the riders in front of me, note their line, try and remember where they’ve obviously hit a big hidden boulder and try to log that in my brain so I know where to expect it. That system pretty much worked, and I plodded through, revs slightly up and not being surprised by the mentally logged thumps to my front wheel. There was a good camaraderie amongst the riders. People were helping one another by pointing out the right line, if someone conked out, others were quick to help. A good feeling!
We climb out that general rock garden terrain. Thinking of pinch flats I avoid the sharp spades of slate that stick out the floor like those nine inch steel hinged one way plates found at car park exits. We hit muddier stuff and generally move away from rock into dirt..
I’m now really wishing I’d put new boots on the bike before we left. I still have the original tyres from when I’d bought it off Halfpint – the front still has life in it, but it’s far from new. It’s just not biting in the mud. That and my average riding ability means that these are the slowest sections of the whole course for me. The CCM and the 690’s are all on brand new Michelin enduro competition tyres. Bastards!
The second special section is long. It’s mostly mud and I struggle to get a good pace. My eyes keep wanting to drop and I struggle to keep my arms from getting tense. The front tyre feels ‘orrible in the soft earth. In between my heavy breathing I talk to myself all the way round! I’m slower than I want to be. I remember getting in a rut next to a load of pine trees. Thwack … thwack … the branches were slapping my face but I was stuck in my little trench for the next few hundred yards.
We finish lap one, dive back to the trailer, eat and re fuel while the cripple in the back ground whinges before doing it all over again.
Chris had hurt his back earlier that morning and I know he’s in pain. Having suffered with a terrible back for many years (miraculously cured once I stopped being a slave to the gym..) I see all the symptoms of how he holds himself and how he moves. He takes some Ibuprofen and we head off for lap two. The pressure is on now, because the clock is running in the special stages. I do okay, but it’s just that. Very average. In the liaison section Chris drops his bike in the water (the twat) and because I’m behind him and the poor little lamb is suffering, I prop my bike up against the river bank and wade over to help him pick it up. Amazingly it starts, the exhaust spews water out like a fire hose and he gets going. I quietly curse the clumsy fecker as my feet squelch in river water. I re mount and tuck in behind him.
We make it back to the finish, Mark hoists a minger all the way up the approach road and we all ride straight to the tea bar.
Sweet tea and a fresh cream scone in the rain. Luuuuverly. My twat suit had come up trumps in the foul weather, but my feet were absolutely soaked.
Les limps over to the tea bar. He’s hurt his ankle pretty badly. He’s wacked it on a rock mid corner whilst dangling a leg out (school boy error Lesley…) and the force has completely thrown him off the bike. He’s saying that it’s seriously hurting. (This injury turns out to be worse than first realised……). Mark has done bloody well. He doesn’t know it yet but he actually finished 6th in the Rally class. He was five seconds off Craig Bounds in T1.
We load up and head back to the Drovers in Llandovery which takes feckin’ hours, because our team is actually made up of delinquent, middle aged, mid life crisis teenagers. (I of course include myself in that category).
For the second time in a fortnight I stuff my boots with paper and ask a land lady for somewhere warm for wet kit.
After a hot shower we hit the pub again. Mark has liver and bacon for the second night on the trot (he might be quick but he’s got feck all imagination) and I regret not asking the waiter for a hunk of bread to wipe up my sausage and mash with.
Three pints, two scotches and tonight Mathew, I’m ….. ready for bed. We all fall asleep dreaming of the gorgeous blonde waitress with the best chest in town.
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Feck me it’s cold. I don’t do mornings very well, and go through the chewing and swallowing routine fairly quietly leaving all the breakfast table chit-chat to the others. We bid goodbye to our landlady, wake all the neighbours with diesel engines and credit cards on frozen windscreens, Les limps, Chris winces, and I stare gloomily out the steamed up windows as the sun struggles to rise.
Climbing deeper into the mist the frost seems to thicken, I can feel my body battening down hatches and I haven’t even got out the car yet. We all have a minor group domestic about where to park, and eventually elect to go back to the same place.
We unload and change. Yuk! Everything is still sodden through. Although my twat suit is sort of dry on the inside, it must weigh an extra couple of kilos in rain water alone. My boots are soaked, and feeling cold wet and slightly grumpy, I gently blow on the dimming embers of youth buried deep in my heart and re-kindle the flame of school boy humour by drawing a cock in Les’s rear brake light. Sigh, I’m nearly 47 with teenage kids, and I’ve plummeted to these depths. This actually turns out to be an act of genius – for the rest of the day the only part of Les’s brake light that makes it through the thick film of dirt, is a giant red beacon of penis. It’s the little things in life that make yer smile on a frosty morning.
We head down to the start where the route has been reversed. For all my soft southern whinging about the cold, it’s actually a joy to be out so early. It’s going to be a glorious day.
Chris has bowed out with his back which I really do understand. He’s gutted not to be riding and is walking like he’s shat himself. We give him the decent camera and he takes on the role of team photographer.
We leave in glorious sunshine and frost, Although it’s cold and I feel, well, just damp everywhere, it feels really good to be out on the bike. Isn’t it amazing how much the weather can affect your soul. I have the whole day ahead of me and I’m really looking forward to it. Strata Florida? Pah … bring it on!
The water levels have dropped a tad and this time we grow some balls. Strata Florida is a blood bath!! I push on in front of Mark, Dave and Les to get some photos. My only real moment is when I arrive at a deep crossing and there’s no one in front for me to watch! I make a judgement call on which line to take and go for it. I’m almost across and then the floor suddenly drops away underneath me and it gets really deep. At the same time I hit a boulder with my front wheel, the bike turns into a bucking bronco and like a 16 year old kid pulling his first wheelie I hang on to the bike with legs flailing. The bike paws the air, I nearly fall of the back, and in hanging on for my dear life, the throttle turns wide open. The vicious circle of slide off the back, turn up the revs, bike rears higher …fall further off the back, twist the revs again, bike rears higher… kicks in. But I make it through unscathed.
On the landing beach in front of me, it’s awash with drowned KTM’s! Some are upside down with water pouring out their exhausts, others are spannering out their plugs. I help a knackered guy kick his bike over, but it’s well and truly drowned.
There is a fantastic scene behind me. With the back drop of a perfect blue sky, steam lingers in the air from the red hot bikes struggling through the water. It looks like a scene from the Great War. I think of soldiers in gas masks eerily looming into view through fields of mustard gas and poppies. One lone figure walks slowly out of the carnage on foot, rifle slung over his shoulder, leaving drowned and injured brothers in arms to struggle in the putrid poison. I’m rooted to the spot with my camera – all that’s missing is Barbers adagio for strings.
The other three make it through and we push on to the first special section. It’s not timed yet and the formality of waiting for allotted spaces and timing lights is relaxed. I finish my 35 miles, refuel and grab a redbull before doing it all over again. Only 70 more miles to go!
A few years ago I went on a mountain bike course. Hour one, day one, the instructor takes out his front wheel and talks about speed being your friend. He rolls it gently at a rough area of lumps bumps and bits of wood and the wheel falters at the first hurdle and falls. He does it again but this time rolls it much harder like a ten pin bowling ball. The wheel bounces over everything in its sight and carries on for another 50 metres. It’s simple stuff, it’s not a eureka moment for me, but it was good teaching. The imagery has always stuck in my mind even though at the time I thought it was a bit gimmicky.
A couple of years or so ago I was on my mountain bike on a tiny b road commuting home. It’s a steep downhill section, a genuine 30mph on a pushbike. As I approached the give way T junction at the bottom of the hill, I braked hard and both my front pads fell out! (Honest – this is an absolutely true story, there’s no poetic licence here!!). I shot across the main road (thank feck nothing was coming..) and thanked God out loud for leaving me a farmers entrance into a field and not a bunch of trees. At something like 30mph I careered into a lightly ploughed field like Frank Spencer in a dated 70’s TV sitcom. The bike and I bounced and thrashed along in a dead straight line for another fifty yards before slowly coming to a halt, but we made it completely unscathed and still clipped in! If you’d have sat me stationery on the edge of that field and asked me to cycle across it, well I’d have probably wobbled and fallen off within the first ten yards.
Ya’ll get what I’m saying here?!
The lights go green and I nail it. It’s a shaley downhill start into an eventual tight right hander. That leads into another 3/4 mile slightly downhill straight into a hairpin left hander. I’d over shot the hairpin the first time in the sighting lap and now I was doing it again! Flat out at about 80mph I couldn’t stop the fecking bike. FFS get a grip will yer! The shaley surface eventually turns to muddy double track and as I slow and faff I hear a thumping big bore single behind me. The guy comes past me on acid and I latch on to his tale and get a tow for a few hundred yards.
Mark talks about ‘controlled uncontroll’. For thirty seconds I get it, I completely understand and for the first time in many moons I experience a Eureeka moment. For as long as I can, I keep with the weekend club racer. With the increase in pace, all I can do is just stare at the keyhole of light, see the bends as they first come into view and then never look at them again - because I’m picking up on the next bit… and the next bit... and then the next bit. My head wants to explode. My brain can’t cope with the stress of what my eyes see and the speed that it’s just not used to computing at. But the bike is on fire! It’s not just coping with it, its suddenly floating over stuff with complete ease. It’s a paradox – the bike is actually dealing with the whole terrain better for being on the brink of out of control. For a moment in time I’m the pushbike on the lightly ploughed field, I’m just skimming the surface of all those furrows, I’m controlled uncontrol. Wow - It’s an amazing feeling; it’s loose, it’s wild, it’s unprecise and it’s got attitude. I relax and let the suspension do what the feck it likes underneath me. We’re flying! But I can’t maintain it. A mixture of fitness and brain ache, and I slowly lose touch with my mentor and the speed creeps down again. But it gives me huge confidence and I (relatively by my standards!) rail the rest of the section. I don’t know who you were buddy, but in thirty seconds or so, I learned a lot from you. Thanks.
I get to the end of the special section out of breath and with a heart trying to climb out of my chest. Mark and Dave are already waiting Mark’s rear light is swinging by a single wire!
He’s had a huge crash! The bloke is a complete loon and is one of those ex racers that has the ability to flick a switch in his brain! He’s completely cartwheeled his 690, ended up in the woods and thrown his chain.
The time it’s taken him to get out the woods and put the chain back on has cost him nearly two minutes compared to his first run on this section earlier in the day. At least he hasn’t hurt himself. He straightens his bars on a nearby post and we push on.
The casualty rate is rising, we pass more punctures and the bracket holding Dave’s exhaust snaps. The Liaison section seems to go on for bloody miles. I’m not tired, it just goes on and on and on.. And we’re still on lap two!
We get to the last special section, it’s the fast Colin Mcrae stuff. The organisers hold us there and wait for the clock. Ooh Gawd, I start to feel really nervous again! The top riders are up at the front and I feel completely out of my depth.
The lights go green and I’m off. Although I find it easier than the single/double track, the trade-off is that it’s much quicker and I’m surrounded by deep drops and pine trees. A mistake here could really hurt. I try and balance competitive spirit with a will to come home in one piece. I can drift the back of my bike a tad on pure dirt, but on this sort of builders type one surface and at this sort of speed I haven’t got the balls to slide my bike about in a corner.
I approach a right hander way too quickly. Fuck, it suddenly dawns on me that I’m too quick and I can’t stop the bike. I try to pitch it in to the corner but I’m carrying too much speed, I’m drifting wide and heading for a wall of pine trees. I’ve squeezed the front as much as I dared on the loose surface (there’s probably shed loads more to be had and I probably need to grow some..) and the back is already locked. I’m desperately looking at where I want to go, I make myself stare down the road and will the bike to turn but I’m getting wider and wider. I remember actually wincing! I start to screw my face up and I remember thinking what the worst might be. A broken collar bone? I remember thinking what the best way to crash will be and in hundredths of seconds elect to low side the bike into the trees with me behind it rather than stand it up and brake as much as I can (and risk going over the bars). I tense up, wonder whether I’ll really hurt my bollocks on the seat, the bike’s at 45 degrees, my right foot is firmly on the floor, I’m off the brakes, I balance the throttle and I brace myself.
Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhk ……… but the bang doesn’t happen, within the last few metres left of road, somehow, some bloody how the tyres hook up and the bike starts to drive forward. Holy fecking crap! I’m swearing like a mad man inside my helmet. I shout out loud calling myself a cnut and a fecking wanker, and carry on down the road half eleated at being such a speedway hero and half in total despair that I was three metres away from going home in plaster of Paris. I put it behind me and push on. It’s happened, it’s done. Forget it now.
Back at the start point we grab a quick cuppa. I don’t need to re-fuel, I drink half my tea but the clock is calling. I give my drink to a rider who rolls into camp having just finished his special stage. He’s really grateful, we exchange pleasantries and then I queue up at the clock for lap three.
It’s more of the same. Another 35 miles of water, mud, rocks and special sections. I'm determined to finish so there's no heroics and I ride in a steady rhythm. Dave does really well ..
Mark was on fire..
Les rode round the outside with his dodgy foot..
And yours truly was just pretty average!
I get to the very last special stage of the last lap. I’ve had a great time, I’ve not broken down, and I’ve not fallen off (just) and I tell Dave I’m going to cruise home and not push it. And that’s exactly what I do – take it relatively easy.
It’s ten minutes from completion, the heavens open and it starts to rain again. The shaley floor is wet, and I’m determined not to feck up with the finishing line virtually in sight. Dave passes me even though he started 30 seconds after me, I pass a few locked up skid marks that disappear into the trees on a sharp bend, see a lone yellow bike and rider deep down a gulley – they wave acknowledging that they’re not hurt and I sort of cruise home. I get to the end, we regroup and for the last time, after 175 odd miles, we ride down to the finish.
I remember feeling really quite emotional! I know that sounds really soft but I did. Two days of hard bloody effort pitched against the weather, keeping the bike running, and well … just surviving. There were plenty of folk that didn’t make the course. I sort of … well, I felt a real sense of achievement.
Sigh. We all shook hands with one another over a cuppa and sat in the rain chin wagging.
I felt chuffed to bits. With time against us (gotta get back to Kent yet) and the loading fiasco of chiefs, Indians and delinquents, it was back to the van for an hours worth of faffing.
Les takes his boot off.
Tomorrow he will find out that on Saturday he broke his ankle clean through. He’s now in a plaster cast for the next six weeks! I guess that makes Sundays performance all the more impressive.
Soooooooooooooo ……..
The burning question!! How did we do?
There were 168 entrants, but … there were a few who didn’t even make the start line on day one – let alone day two. But hey – that’s all part of it isn’t it? Mechanical sympathy? Getting to the end? Bike fitness?
The others did pretty well I’ve got to say, with Mark heading our team table with a 6th and 9th over the two days in his class.
Me? Well if you pitch me in the Sports class (which is where I should have been) I’m 45 / 104 day one and 41 / 104 day two.
Take away the handful of non starters and I’m coming in just under the half way point. Not bad for my first event ... but still just feckin average!
and most of the crossings had dropped probably a good 6 to 12 inches by the start of the second day - 
