Estimated reading time: 8 minutes
“Big fat fingers wrapped up in woollen gloves struggled to maintain a grip on the elegant curve of the brake levers. It only took the slightest slither of winter frosty dirt to turn them into the smoothest, silkiest, non finger-friendly devices known to man. Centre pull brakes howled and the skinny tubular tyres refused to lock onto anything solid. The leafy undergrowth mocked my flimsy treads as I hurtled towards the icy peril of the off-camber corner. Only my wits could save me now, with one foot released from my Alfredo Binda toe straps I used it like a counterbalance, trailing it through the frosty undergrowth and ‘swoosh’, I was through the apex with hardly any loss of velocity. My gods had shone on me for another day, I was addicted to this new sport.”
Tomas van der Lubbeu. The Winter Cyclist (first published 1964)
With this passage firmly rooted in our heads we set off for some winter fun. The summer had
dragged well beyond all expectations and spoiled us. As usual we weren’t quite prepared for the first cruel winds of winter. Like every year, it sent most into hiding for a couple of months, but eventually after too many bellies full of ale and pie something deep down niggled away at our souls. Riding was well and truly required. Collectively, this merry band of bike bums had cracked, we needed to feel the ground move under us once more.
Sadly, all the good trails were covered in snow and those that weren’t, a mushy goo of wet and cold. We looked for some low level activity, something, sweet and sheltered to prevent the frost from turning us back off of biking for another week or two. After many rides around increasingly bland woodsy trails we were cracking once more.. until someone piped up, “anyone fancy a ‘cross ride”?
Our much loved ‘cross bikes had become second class citizens over the summer being reduced to occasional road rides and the inevitable pub ride or late night beer run. Neglected and disheveled they stared at us, longing to once more feel the rush of wind through their spokes. And after all, winter is traditionally ‘cross season, it’s just with no racers in our posse,
it kinda got lost on us. So off we ‘crossed in search of frosty climbs and icy descents just like our worshiped hero, Tomas van…
Because of the cold, we kept things low level and through some juicy woodland. A couple of miles out on the road to warm us and then it was head-first into it. Climbing on the hoodz we headed up into our blessed little retreat. Leafy covered, frozen forest bed played havoc with skimpy tyres and called on a balancing act of back-breaking virtuosity to save our pride on this a fairly gentle climb. Of the boyz out, only one had opted for a more traditional double chainset, how we mocked him as the triplers slipped into ultra low, thank the Lord of modern componentry.
Once climbing ceased and we opened out onto lavish frozen trail, the joy of big rolling skinnies was truly appreciated. While uphill the traction was limited, on the flat the big wheels quickly got up to speed and we were scooting along at a good canter. The miles passed quickly until we turned direction to move for our retreat.
“Winter wind…
Whispers to you that he wants to be your friend,
But, not waiting for your answer, he begins,
Forcing dangers’ way with his breeze”
(Stevie Wonder, Summer Soft)
The inevitable cruel wind of winter mocked our big gear frolics and quickly had us scrambling for Ultegra shifters, grinding down the gears quickly in a vain attempt to keep the cadence high and muscles warm. I say vain because I mean vain. The cold, near-halt experience we encountered sent the chill of the grave through our fleece and Pertex wrapped chests. Heads down and positions moved onto the drops, much grimacing and scrunching of wind burnt faces we headed once more for the cover of the trees.. But first the frozen field of snow and ice before we can finally breath again in the safety of the trees, lovely warmth- giving trees, jeesus we were getting all huggy and earth loving, we really had to get out of this wind, it was frying our brains.
The field of (ice) dreams soon revealed the strengths and weaknesses of skinny, highly inflated cross tyres. Where the snow was nearly frozen, the super hard treads cut deep into the surface, finding good traction underneath and holding lines with ease, the problem really rose where the wind and its evil twin, exposure, had chosen to freeze it hard. Sheet ice and high pressure tyres is a combination of utter terror. Add to this fiendish cocktail the frozen cantilever brakes and feet clipped into pedals and only one outcome was
ever going to prevail. The earth moved
once and again as rider after rider hit the deck with an almighty clatter. The bruising was almost visible through thick winter clothing. Throbbing muscles cried for mercy but were quickly told to shut their face as we scorched a path through the icy hell.
Freezing, skin-ripping gales turned to a seemingly warm zephyr licking at our battle scarred (scared) bodies. The comfort of our tall friends and most sacred of plants, the trees soon charged the batteries and once more we rode with vengeance. Mad rushes of heat making heads burn violently no matter how many supposed cooling vents our chosen protective lids had. The winter is indeed a cruel mistress. Still we were back on the
leafy confines of woodland
singletrack, what harm
could come to us here?
“I’ve seen the blackness of winter
I’ve seen death lurking in the trees”
(Gil Scott Heron, The Liberation Song)
Momentum once more became our friend, short climbs demanding bursts of thigh tearing effort and lung busting
oxygen debt. But the short inclines and fast twisted descents made for razor sharp handling that was only ever going to end one way. But we were going to have to wait to see who would fall foul to this fresh hell.
The trails snaked among our friends, the tall brown brothers and sisters of the woods, skinny, sneaky, slivery snakes in the woodland. Riding flat out on the dropped bars pressing hard on the front end for every corner in an attempt to maintain front wheel contact with the earth, for what it was worth. Icy ground and mulchy brown leaves required computer game reflexes and large vats of tepid luck to get
you through the bends. There didn’t seem to be any hard and fast rules either. If you were using the fat Michelin, ‘cross tyres, they tended to float on the top. If you used a narrower, more aggressive tread they cut deep and found the frozen underbelly of the track, a total lottery.
Finally it happened, it was one of those fast corners, sweeping off-camber and, like Tomas van had back in the day, a foot was stuck out to counter balance and stabilise the sweep. But to no avail. One touch too much on the rear brake coupled with what should have been a traction giving front weight shift was all the Ritchey Crossmax on the rear could take. Without
so much as a whisper of warning it had gone, clean and horizontal. Swoosh. The ground once more shook with a violent thud.
A minute’s silence for the ailing biker, then a quick dust down and we once more were back on trail, looking for a possible route out and home to lick our wounds. A more gentle decline this time until we reached the slippy wooden steps of truth. The front man was on them, only hearing the squealing brakes of the rest of the party
stopped dead in their tracks before the dull knocking of his wheels on rotten timbers. Like some great drum roll to the gates of a very dark place, down he went, beating out this other-worldly rhythm. Each stair seeming to suck the very life out of the fragile looking 700c wheels. But to our amazement he struck the last wooden stair and rolled out onto the trail, triumphant over evil. The others looked on in dismay, before one brave soldier
made the choice, he was walking. Soon followed by the others. Even with this leading example the group were broken, defeated en masse, a deadly silence hung in the air, the beating of the stairs by wheels now a long-gone sound.
The final leafy road before tarmac was taken at a ‘gentleman’s’ pace and the team even stuck together for the final miles of tarmac. Lessons had been learned, the winter may have won this time but it only took one beer to wipe the solace from the discontent faces of our troop. By the second it was, “ next time..” this and “what about..” that. It was indeed going to be a fine summer if the last days of winter were anything to go by.
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