Singletrack

Pick a better day for weather, we dare you.
Andy, meanwhile, has brought his 26in hardtail. I note
he hasn’t fitted the bottle cage I bought him at Christmas.
True, the gift was mainly so he’d stop making me carry his
water (won’t fit in the camera bag, apparently), but I only
mention how hurt I am a couple of times. Anyway, he’s used
to a big 29er, and the smaller bike feels twitchy and awkward.
Conclusive proof that big wheels are better, or just a case of
unfamiliar bike-itis? He does seem slower than usual, but who
wouldn’t be with thousands of pounds of camera gear strapped
to their back? As both his speed and grin-size increase the
further we go, it seems he’s just getting used to the bike again.
The only wheel conclusion I reach is that Andy’s six-foot-lots
make the tiny wheels look pretty silly underneath him.
Pig-mucking, switchbacky fun.
In contrast, I am as happy as a pig in muck. I’ve got big
forks, a stupidly slack head angle and a large hill to play with.
Rattling through rocks on a big, wide track, I barrel into rock
gardens that ping me sideways and lean from line to line,
wheels scrabbling for grip on the gravelly surface. I take a wide
line round a cairn, essentially out of control but having a great
time. Was that a drift? It felt like a drift! (It wasn’t a drift.)
The track narrows to singletrack, just as rocky, but with
fewer line choices. I pick my way through a rocky gap and size
up a rapidly approaching drop/corner combo. Do I launch the
drop and hit the corner off the brakes? Do I hell. I carefully
lower my front wheel down the tiny step and creep around
the corner.
A couple of corners later and I’m in the swing of things.
Ahead is the highlight of the descent: a snaking line of
switchbacks and corners. As it comes into sight from above,
the white rock of the trail stands out from grassy green slopes,
twisting and turning, and you can’t help but get excited. And
so you should. Corner after corner, with enough room to pick
wide lines and just enough grip on the loose rock to skitter
through with a little speed and a big grin.
Then everything changes. The track funnels you down
a series of rocky steps in a tight gully and becomes crazily
technical. There’s no obvious line, just awkwardly spaced
drops past ankle-jabbing spikes. Just roll in and hope.
Al doesn’t fancy it, and I don’t blame him. I remember
the first time I rode the Ranger. Determined not to take the
chicken line on the grass bank, I had around 20 attempts and
20 crashes before sketching through the gully. How long will
it take today? Some walkers appear. I wave them through, but
they want to watch. Deep breath… and over the bars I go.
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