What's all this then?

The continuing story of a fat lad who's gone to the dogs.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Mur De Draycott

No need to fear...

Oh - Mind you -

Gulp - 35%!

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Heifer. Lump.

I last visited Coed y Brenin in September 1998. 32 years young. So my return visit 2 years shy of 50 was rude awakening. Half as old again with a lad half my age back then for company.

Many things have changed in the intervening period, not least my speed and agility. Perhaps more fundamental to the experience however was the sheer volume of trails that have been built and the quality of the experience that they deliver. No more clearly was this brought home to me than when my young charge and I descended a stepped rocky trail that rejoices in the name Abel, each slab looking like a short cut to injury. I spotted that we had traversed the fearsome rock garden that had long haunted my memories of the original trip and the Pink Heifer route that had been offered to us as an alternative to the Red Bull which had been occupied with a little bit of racing all those years ago.

This landslide of rocks would still have presented a formidable obstacle to anyone foolish enough to choose to descend it, yet the quality of the craic would have been both sadly lacking and all too real for the padded fully suspended folk who now populate this forest.

Without rehashing the well worn debates about the merits of natural v built trails, I can be certain that the 32 year old me rode 63mm of elastomer travel poorly over things that the 100mm air travel near half centenarian would both be better able to attempt and yet is so much less likely to. The groomed trails of Coed Y Brenin extant, manufactured to yield high grin volumes and gravitational pull fever, made older me feel like a trail god, when for old me it had been a dog trial. How could I wish to go back to being a mere mortal?

Wednesday, July 23, 2014


Reinvention is the mother of all artifice, said a dear friend of mine.

Well, if I'm not mistaken, this titular epithet best describes my current M.O.

I'll aspire, as time slides past, to live up to this handle. Make it naturally mine.

Unless I get some dynamite applied to my derrière!

...a gift from the other side.

"Dad, this is so fun" - ICBD, Harrogate, Yorks, July 2014.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

To Steep, a child.

I am not now, nor indeed do I ever remember being, pregnant.

This does not explain why I am to a degree, exhibiting some of the characteristics of a pregnant woman. Most recently, I appear to have been travelling the roads of Dartmoor with a developing child nestled somewhere about my abdomen, if on-line evidence, photographic, is to be believed.  Associating with slim cyclists apparently does not flatter.

I also appear to have developed the selective memory of those lucky ladies who have delivered with great pain, a delightful result. The toil has disappeared in the afterglow.

This seems in marked contrast to the experience of producing nothing more than a frustrating outcome at similar events in the Lake District and our venerable Somerset hills. Plainly Devon air has a magic all its own.

My hopes are that in future I can deliver similar sensations without the gestation period , or indeed the requirement for a swollen middle .

Silver - 7 hours 34 minutes 2 seconds. I'm honestly not competitive.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014


These are those:

Monday, June 2, 2014