It was Sunday afternoon when JP and I finally headed out for a ride and despite JP having more in his legs than me - he’d recently returned from back-to-back riding holidays - it was still quite mellow. While pretending he wasn’t, I suspected some crafty showing off going on, artfully done nonetheless. Recent inactivity was surely not the reason for barely hanging on to JP’s back wheel up even the slightest drag? Sadly excuses didn’t get me uphill any faster, so fair play to him I thought without a touch of malice – honest! Despite the pace and a need to tick trail boxes off our itinerary we paused for photographs (mainly at my behest). The light was nice and hopefully route fluency wasn’t terminally compromised by numerous photo-stops. When out and about, images look great on my compact’s tiny LCD screen. However, uploading them onto the PC frequently sees my enthusiasm and anticipation superseded by resigned disappointment. Pointless getting depressed about a lack of photographic skill or imagination though; I reckon a new camera and some better software is all that’s needed – now where have I heard that logic before? With scores of photos in the (digital) can, we eventually turned for home via one more choice bit of trail. The last essential box to tick: A lovely bit of woodsy singletrack with a fast bridlepath entry, including two modest launch pads for anyone eager. As you approach full speed it shoots off left, sky is replaced by the slalom through dense tree cover and you’re funnelled down a narrow, root infested rain gully. Get that transition from open bridlepath to pinball singletrack wrong or take it too fast and you’ll sail off the first big root and into an oncoming tree – ouch! Calming down slightly it reaches a streambed, running parallel and curving right. Then comes the occasional luxury of line choice, trees to duck inside or outside of, pressurised air between handlebar and tree trunk almost going ‘pop’. Leaning this way and that, crisscrossing the stream over a series of little bridges and fords it gradually levels out as gravity’s influence diminishes and you can take a deep, satisfied lungful of air. That’s how I’d imagined riding it, but reality and imagination are strange bedfellows. Going second on an unforgiving hardtail I had to ease off slightly behind JP’s 4in of rear travel knowing I would’ve ridden

Column: Trail of Gold

it differently. I meditated on appropriate tools as we barrelled towards the stream but suddenly all speed had to be scrubbed if we were to avoid parking our front wheels in a horse’s bum! Feet down we watched mournfully as a long line of horses and hi-vis waistcoats made leisurely progress down ‘our’ bit of trail. The wait for a clear run would be long and with no way round (without critically damaging mountain biker and horse rider relations for all eternity) our final highlight was slipping away. But I had another box to tick. Hopping the stream and jumping back on the bike I headed obliquely through the leaf mulch searching for alternatives. JP wasn’t convinced but I ignored his protests, scanning ahead, unsure exactly what I was searching for but convinced we’d make our way down somehow, anyhow. Then, much to my relief I spotted the flattened ground of an established trail, barely 18in wide and pointing downhill. Game on. Snaking sinuously between the trees we followed the trail downwards and I whispered praise to the Gods of singletrack. Suddenly a log at 90-degrees requiring an urgent bunnyhop thrust us into a clearing where the trail’s character transformed dramatically. It suddenly felt very different, like another place but I really liked it. With pale blue sky above our heads we wound through rust-tinged bracken, throwing bikes into the corners with dust clouds billowing in our wake. Like lonely sentinels and the only witnesses to our passing, a few dead trees broke the skyline. In a flash we were plunged back under the trees. Rapidly dilating pupils struggled to keep up with the action and we flowed through the curves, riding the crest of the trail. Then, as if by magic, we popped out at the bottom of that trail so recently denied. I felt a blossoming, familiar sensation; this shiny new thread woven into my mental A to Z of trails had become the new favourite. We went back for photos before finally calling it a day, feeling pretty satisfied with our handiwork. Inevitably they looked pedestrian on the PC, and I must thank JP for another fine addition to the photographic record of my genetic uncoolness – the camera never lies, eh? Still it’s another image to fire the memory and if the photographer or my (current) software can’t make me look cool, my imagination certainly can.

By Julian Birch

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