Singletrack

A sprinkling of magenta on a cloudy Scottish day.
We chose right. Bikes hoisted onto shoulders, we made quick
progress up the slope. Thankfully, it was only a temporary
blip as the ground levelled off a bit and we alternated between
hikeabike and sections of rideable trail. By this point, we
were well and truly shrouded in cloud – another mountain
speciality. However, the schoolboy error omission of map and
compass was not to prove to be our undoing. The path was
well trodden so getting lost wasn’t really on the cards.
It’s not a mountain ride unless something goes
wrong.
Looking at the trail that would rank high on the rockus
technicalus scale, I expressed my genuine respect that Dave
had ridden it all those years ago. There were two short but
steep sections that I definitely wouldn’t be attempting unless
I was keen to repeat Dave’s disappearing bike trick. “So how
did you get down the last time?” I asked, expecting to be told
of secret singletrack coming off the summit or a tale of epic
derring-do and skill. “Oh we just headed cross-country…”
I must have looked slightly crestfallen. Had we come all this
way just to ride down grass?
As it transpired, Dave had a good reason for not taking
the rocky trail down. “By the time we had gotten to the top,
my mate’s bike had broken. Unable to ride it, I ended up
having to give him a backy while he carried his broken bike
on his shoulder.” Ah yes, the stuff of legend. Now this was
more like it. It’s not a proper mountain ride unless something
goes wrong and you manage to get yourself out of a pickle.
We both laughed at the thought of Dave and his mate riding
uncontrollably down the mountain on an early ’90s, less than
slack, rigid bike with only rim brakes to slow them down.
My mind wandered back to the joys of cantilever brakes on
wet rims – frantic grabbing at handfuls of brake lever only
to be met with the sound of grinding and squealing as I was
propelled ever faster forward. Ah yes, the good old days.
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