Pickled Hedgehog: “On The Up.”

Bike Park Wales is the future of mountain biking. Or its nemesis. A brilliantly executed response to the changing riding demographic, or a playpen for those who are missing the wider picture. Whatever, my third trip last week was another six hours of gravity-fed fun with only brief pauses slumped in the uplift truck. 

BPW is only an hour from my front door but it’s a million miles distant from my symmetrical riding world. This is a landscape chocked full of uplift vehicles, personal protection and dust abraded from mountainous rocks that can chart their origins back to the glacial age.

It would have looked far different back then. Featureless moraines were first replaced by natural scrubland and latterly man-planted forests. Now etched with a thin veneer of modernity drawn by clever, quick minds and dug by dumb, tracked vehicles.

None of this really registers when you nervously strap a mountain bike, somewhat more capable than you, to the trailer and take your seat in the bus. With a rumble you’re away, up a featureless fireroad which winds slowly to a wind-blasted summit.

There’s more interest inside than out at this point. Sufficient body armour to suggest a major military campaign awaits at the top of this hill. The squashy bits filling it out are full of jiggly knees, pensive expressions and studied nonchalance. It resembles a pre-match rugby changing room with less Ralgex and – thankfully – a few more women.

The blokes, of which there is still a heavy majority, spend the ten minutes of grinding gears establishing a virtual pecking order. ‘Yeah that guy with the matching race kit loaded his Capra onto the trailer so he might be fast, but that fat bloke with the new full face looks a bit nervous, he might be rubbish or, failing that, slower than me…’

It’s nonsense, of course. Regardless of the huge success of BPW, the midweek rider limit and extensive trail network ensures you rarely get to find out. Preconceptions are still worth challenging though, as one noticeably-well-upholstered, five-grand-bike-owning bloke held up even my – at best – adequately brisk pace on a couple of runs.

Having made the effort to hear his story, I found he was coming back off a big crash, so had booked a skills course to rediscover the flow he used to love. We’ve all been there and it forcibly reminded me that judging is best left to the professionals. It’s pretty one dimensional to categorise someone you’ve never met by the speed they can ride a mountain bike.

The uplift never lacks interest, because of this and so many other things. You’re thinking about the next run, the stuff you fucked up last time, the commitment you need but have yet to show, the consequences of it going wrong – mining the narcissistic motherlode of why you’re here, when your reverie is broken by a stranger asking if you’re having a good time.

Good question. Of course you are, because find me another opportunity to abandon my climbing legs and focus only on riding downhill. Ten runs, each dropping over 300 metres of vertical on trails snaking through woods, rock gardens, jumps, drops and other perfectly crafted hazards, designed and defined by the line between joy and fear.

This is about honing your skills. It’s not 45 minutes of effort for three minutes of fun. It’s hitting the same things again and again, trying a little harder, riding a little faster, trusting a little more. The bus back up might be boring were it not for the video playing behind your eyes. Selecting the next trail – go for a fast, easy one or something a bit more challenging. Pushing to the front or slotting in behind. Braking before that big kicker or lobbing fate into the driving seat.

It’s not testosterone that creates the atmosphere in that bus. It’s anticipation laced with apprehension. The next five minutes are going to be defining in some way; it might be validation, it may be a small victory or a missed opportunity. It might be whoops, it could be curses. And if it all goes wrong, it might end in an ambulance.

The bus swings around the last corner. It’s a trigger for heads to be helmeted, hands to be gloved, heart rates to be raised. It’s time for shitting or getting off the pot. You can hide on the way up but the time for pretending is over. The mountain awaits.

The bus stops. There is a moment of blissful silence. The door ratchets open and we’re piling out, cursing the low exit. Bikes are untethered from the trailer and we’re pedaling softly to the trailhead, some 200 metres away. Fear and anticipation flip your stomach because there’s nothing between you and the thing you pretend you might be good at, now.

Select a trail. Wind the pedal back. Glance at your mates. Flick suspension options. Nod. Deep breath. Stand on those pedals and push your insecurities into a box marked ‘not right now thanks’. Revel at living in the moment. Fix the trail in your mind. Grin. Crank, and you’re gone to a better place.