Column: Rail to Trail

Rail to Trail Philip Diprose ponders the advantages of the other set of wheels that get him to places – those that run on the train tracks.

That’s it, the ride is over. You’ve finished a classic selection of the trails in your local riding patch. Sweating and smiling you bid a farewell to the gathered throng of muddy compadres who have joined you. Now all that stands between you, a nice warm bath and a guilt-free evening of beer and curry is the journey home. What does this journey mean to you? Most people fit into one of three categories: First there are the ultra-lucky, those who are already standing outside their house at the end of the ride, or are only a mile or so from warm clothes and processed snacks. These sickening folk can smugly pootle home in a matter of minutes. The second category is probably the largest. As the sweat cools and your temperature drops you peel off your muddy gear before slinging the bike onto the roof or into the boot of your car. Either that or you’re slinging it into someone else’s car; usually with less care and attention than if it was your own. And then there is the third category. The railway children. Those of us who for one reason or another use this public transport to get from A to trail. I am one of these people and there are a fair number of us out there. We blend in with other riders very easily when we get out to the woods, but in the bright lights of the station we stick out like sore thumbs. Pushing bikes against the flow like brightly dressed salmon in a sea of ‘normal’ passengers. Nods are exchanged between random other riders as they gravitate towards the couple of platforms that head towards the decent riding. You see people getting onto the same train, and departing at the other end, off to ride their own favourite routes. There are a number of reasons why I choose to use the train to travel to my preferred riding spots and I think they may well apply to a number of my carriage-bound companions. First there is the fact that it’s too far to ride. I live in London (yeah, scoff why don’t you?) and good riding isn’t exactly on my doorstep. If I were to ride to the Surrey Hills it would take me a couple of hours by singlespeed. Add to that the couple of hours to ride back and you haven’t got a very long off-road epic. And that’s assuming that I make it through the city centre traffic without clipping something with my 26in bars.

It is also environmentally sounder than driving each time. As a sport which has vaguely green connections it does feel good not to be going out of my way to make things worse for planet earth. For a sport/pastime/ lifestyle choice that needs greenery and countryside to exist it kind of makes sense to be as eco as possible. I know that no one is perfect and I’m as guilty as everyone else for road-tripping to Wales, but these are my local rides. Bizarrely the train is also quicker and far less stressful than the cross-town drive. So with tickets in hand we’ll wander to Platform One and try and get a good spot on the train. Recently there has been new rolling stock and for the first time in years the powers that be have included a couple of bike racks in the design. Sadly we usually have more than two bikes and each trip involves a Krypton Factor challenge to try and find a better way to fit four bikes into the space for two. Settling in for the journey the city’s grey slowly gives way to the countryside’s green. We then start to look out of the window and anticipate the conditions for the ride ahead. Every time is slightly different, from smiles at a solid frost or a bluebird sky, to the frown of dense mist or drizzle. Reactions to us from the other passengers run the whole spectrum of emotions, from barely contained contempt to fascination and a slew of questions. Old guys who used to ride and are intrigued by the advances that bike technology has made over recent years, “Disc brakes and suspension you say?” The less positive reactions from other passengers are almost understandable though. Especially on the way back from a wet ride where the cascading slop from our wet and muddy bodies encroaches very close to those who are scrubbed up in their best togs ready for a Saturday night on the tiles. White jeans just inches from a mud encrusted pair of Endura tights are always going to create an almost palpable air of tension. I’d love to have my favourite trails on my doorstep, but as that isn’t going to happen anytime soon I’m happy with the lot I’ve been given. A dedicated bunch of friends who’ll stick to their promise of meeting under the clock to catch the rail to trail express. It may not be the easy option but for the time being it looks like it is the age of the train for some of us.

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