Trod by Cycle 2005

Club members who do not regularly attend meetings may not be aware that a small but perfectly formed bunch of fellow members meet on a weekly basis to enhance both their fitness levels and off road machine handling skills by hurtling around the Forest, often in the dark, on mountain bikes. Purists to the core this is usually followed by a small fruit juice at Headquarters followed by an early night for all. Other attendees of meeting look forward with enthusiasm to reports of these events and often express their admiration and the longing to join in if only they had the time. The desire to further test fitness levels and also to undertake valuable research on behalf of other club members these stalwarts dedicated a weekend of their valuable time, much better spent decorating or gardening, cycling across the legendary Monks Trod in Wales. For those of you unfamiliar with it we are talking about possibly the finest lane in the realm. 6+ miles of bog. This has been closed to motor vehicles since the end of 2004 and it was felt that it would be interesting to see what had happened in that time. The following is an unbiased and factual report of the weekends activities. (I hope you have a pinch of salt to hand! ed.)

Firstly the participants of the events should be noted. In pride of place, both in this list and throughout the event stands the "Senior Member" whose aristocratic bearing and shining mane serve to inspire us all to greater things. Other participants were the Stationer, the Chairman, the Retailer, the Engineer, the Organiser (author of this text) and last and also least (in mass anyway) Corgi.

The Organiser and the Engineer arrived at the start venue first during the afternoon of Saturday. There was concern that the tone of the event was set already as the weather could best be described as "welsh" and the mood was not enthusiastic. The pair were just settling down in their salubrious accommodation when much to their surprise a vehicle of some elegance pulled up outside on the grizzled visage of the Senior Member appeared in the doorway. In deference to greatness all removed themselves to the luxurious surroundings of his vehicle where tea and sell-by date cake were consumed whilst the features of vehicle were demonstrated. The hose flavoured water brought forth much comment as did the personal toilet arrangements. (Warning. Do not drink milk in this vehicle unless you see the seal broken on the container!)

Some time later the roar of a worn out diesel engine complete with the bouncing of valves and the rattling of door handles announced the imminent arrival of the two more members of the party. Shortly afterwards the sound of bald tyres tearing grooves in the bowling green like sward of the Wyeside camp site heralded the arrival of the Stationer and the Retailer. The latter was obviously greatly impressed by the high standards of his colleagues driving as he had attempted to become one with the vehicle and extracting the seat upholstery from a private part of his anatomy took some time! Apparently one can make Transits with 180 thousand miles go just like a Subaru.

The party, for day 1, was now complete. Such was the disdain for the rain and enthusiasm for the sport that it was decided that the everyone would share such a driving experience and loading their trusty steeds in to the afore-mentioned transit. A course was set for the byway that descends from the Elan Valley towards the centre of operations, Rhayader. To the disappointment of all terminal velocity could not be reached up the precipitous and torturous road to the start of the track. In the gathering gloom all disembarked and after some complicated ritual involving keys and alarms, action commenced. The first few minutes are best glossed over. Suffice to say the efforts to avoid puddles were both pointless and ineffective which was surprising as one would imagine that the graphic language must surely have had some point. After a mile of two the relatively level ground dropped away and a speedy descent could really take place. Those members of the party who feel it necessary to reinforce their failing manhood with rear suspension were of course in their element here. It was also at this point that the Organiser discovered that his earlier attempts to bleed his hydraulic brakes had actually resulted in a haemorrhage of mineral oil. Oh dear, never mind!

Arrival back at base was swift and soon the Engineer was on his way, ferrying the Stationer to collect his vehicle. It was at this point that the Retailer realised that all his dry clothes were at the top of the Elan Valley! Never mind the warm and comfortable accommodation offered by the Senior Members van awaited. Maybe so but access was denied by the fact that the keys were securely locked in the same place as the aforementioned clothes. The Organiser, as can be expected by such a title had no such problems but gallantly declined to take advantage of such a situation believing that a team spirit was called for to maintain the moral of all concerned. The Senior Member has an excuse of course.

Eventually the party gathered together and ventured into town for sustenance and shelter. Forethought by the earliest arrivals had resulted in a table being booked in a local hostelry and soon a hearty meal was enjoyed by all. Those who had ventured to try the local version of an Asian dish soon found that they were likely to need little in the way of exterior insulation in the night to come. Such was the Senior Members complexion that there was discussion as to the whereabouts of the nearest casualty unit. Well, one can't be too careful with the elderly. The evening passed as they do with much of the usual conversation for this group of intellectuals. If the UN ever need any help they know where to come.

The next morning came around too soon but 7:30 am saw the Engineer involved in the industrial scale production of a fried breakfast. Prior to this the Stationer had shown that when necessary he can cover the 100 yards to the nearest public convenience in 3 seconds flat, trouser dropping included. His graphic description of the reasons for this are not for publication but they did go some way towards explaining the strange noises coming from his van during the night. The breakfast process had also given the Organiser inspiration regarding his missing brake fluid. Did you know that Co -Op best quality cooking oil is compatible with Magura disk brakes? Brings a whole new meaning to the expression to "I've cooked my brakes". At about this time , when the traumatic amount of washing up was being done, the rest of the party arrived. The Chairman staggered out, looking suitably traumatised. Obviously Corgi had combined his wife's company car and his dubious car rallying past. The next half an hour were based around a degree of amazement when the Chairman appeared in Lycra (worse was to come) and the retailer whinging that he had to put on wet shoes and cycling shorts. Only 30 minutes later than planned the party was hurtling up past various dams to the start of the ride proper.

Every one was swiftly ready except for the stationer who had to return several times to his van to pump up his forks before finally carrying the pump with him. A mile or two of undulating Welsh lanes later the point where the Monks Trod meets the road was reached. At this point 3 of the group decided that here was the place to start. Two had a mildly reasonable excuse, e.g." I've done that bit before " or I'm told old for this but there was no excuse for the Stationer except for being a poof. Those who had a conscience, pedalled for another kilometre, waded the river and met up with the group again.

The Monks Trod is supposed to be all bog but the first mile or two is pleasant grassy going. It was here the heat began to be noticed with much lycra being exposed. One or two of the accompanying pictures will illustrate this if you have a strong stomach. Most of the group rushed off at a fantastic rate of knots but the Organiser with commendable forethought made the most of the beautiful weather and followed at a more sensible speed. The lesson has been learnt. Nobody else ever knows where they are so the Organiser is in a rather good position.

The going eventually started to take on a little of the true characteristics of the lane. Deep ruts hidden by reeds predominated although it must be said that they were nowhere as bad as they had been in the days when the lane was regularly ridden by motorcycles. In fact it was in many places unrecognisable. Despite this there were occasions for merriment. The Stationer went over the bars at least 3 times, the Senior Member avoided every thing wet and Corgi went his own way. Ethical purists that they are the Retailer and the Organiser tried to stick to the route exactly and managed to get filthy because of it. A short break meant more flesh and lycra exposed, the Chairman being especially graphic and grotesque in this respect. Bog after bog, hole after hole, curse after curse, the party plodded on. There is a point where the water is actually clean. A river crossing usually provides much entertainment to motorcycling onlookers as their colleagues flounder on submerged rocks. Today the river crossing provided a cold but pleasant place to wash the mud off. The approach to the river was a steep drop down a bank/track that was about half a mile long. The organiser, obviously encouraged by the Stationers stunts went over the bars twice, once resulting in a rather athletic sprint up a hill side and once resulting in a graceful slide on his chest. All deliberate and for the entertainment of the party of course. One notorious soggy bit resulted in Corgi (6") and the Organiser becoming crotch deep in liquid brown stuff whilst the Retailer danced about on a rapidly sinking turf wondering which evil was the lesser, bog or water.

After a couple of hours the end was in site. The promise of a level smooth gravel track tempted the party on. Those members who had previously ridden the Trod on motorcycles could not believe the ease and speed with which they had completed it. It was noted that the summer had been very dry as proved by the low water levels in the reservoirs and also that the bogs had not been carved up by motorcycle users. Most noticeable of course was the fact that what would have been a motorcycle swallowing hole was skipped over as lightly as thistledown. In some ways it was all rather anti-climatic. The need to carry the cycles for miles didn't happen and the more girly members of the party actually came back only slightly mucky. An interesting phenomenon was the reaction of both the Retailer and the Engineer to the mud. Everyone else took on a rather earthy colour, ending up with a artificial tan like effect similar to that antiques chappy on the telly. The aforementioned brothers skin took on a corpse like pallor that looked decidedly unhealthy.

Although the past couple of hours had been nowhere near as arduous as expected it was a welcome change of riding surface that greeted the party when the gravel track that leads over to the Claerwen Dam was intercepted. In a fit of optimism this had been "written off" as a quick blast down the reservoir. Not so. The surface is rough and nothing like Forest gravel tracks. It also goes on for ever. This is aggravated by the huge inlets that break up the shoreline. To get to what appears to be a relatively close point ahead often meant a mile long diversion up some unending valley. A more careful investigation of the contour lines would also have indicated the fact that a considerable amount of height was lost and gained. It was on this leg that the party split according to its inclination. The Retailer hightailed it off into the distance whereas the Organiser ever appreciative of the finer things in life travelled at a more reserved pace. The view was great and at the dam the party reassembled to discuss the beauties that they had seen... The young lady in the orange bikini top was very much at the top of the list!

Gravity was now to help. From the dam the tarmac road dropped like a stone to the start of the final lane. This was not without its dangers as several homicidal tourists did their very best to eliminate some of the finest motorcyclists known to man. The Stationer made a substantial attempt to remove himself from the planet, being more interested in the physical antics of a couple by the river below than the road ahead. Suffice it to say that the male was strong, his female partner gymnastic and the Karma Sutra was no competition. What a shame they still had their clothes on.

At the start of the final lane the Organiser had to admit that its inclusion was based on the rather flawed, 20 years stale memory rather than substantial investigation. The climb, especially the muddy bank was unwelcome to all. Judging by his look of disbelief, the farmer inspecting his sheep had not seen such a group of fine athletes for some time.. The high point reached, all that remained was the final drop to the road. The usual, fully suspended suspects led off, followed by the wiser members of the party. Corgi, no doubt forgetting that he was really part of the latter group for the day as his full sus bike was at home, did his very best to come from the back of the bunch to keep up with the heroes at the front. The consensus of those he passed was that his gyrations were not entirely of his choosing. Dignity and skin was preserved but it was probably a good job that the liner of his shorts was already a rather mud stained, unwholesome brown.

The last leg was welcomed by all. The Retailer and his Stationary side kick were still rather competitive and shot off as if their tails were on fire or the Stella in the van was getting warm. The Organiser, concerned that they might get lost on the flat, bowling green smooth ex railway line, gave chase. Walkers, berry pickers, dog walkers and wildlife all were passed by a blur of spinning alloy and chrome. The Tour de France had nothing on this. The final hairpin bend over a bridge and into the car park loomed. The Stationer, a master of dirty tricks went wide, surely the Retailer had it? The Organiser sensing that keeping out of things was the better part of not getting stuffed into the wall or bringing up his fig rolls kept out of it. But no, with a move worthy of Mr Rossi at his best the Stationer cut inside, shoved a foot into a wheel and there it was. Victory at last.

Livingstone looking for the Nile, Blashford Snell crossing the Darien Gap, Hilary on Everest. The party now knew how they felt. Victory was celebrated. The Stationer passed around warm Stella and savoury pies. Corgi and the Chairman washed their bikes, well it was Angela's car they were using. Celebratory photos were taken, wet gear was chucked into bags and scratched and dirty legs were washed. The party went their separate ways. Fond farewells were said. Backs were slapped and the Stationer left the car park in a cloud of tyre smoke.