My last ride on the Holy Roller was a bit of a disappointment - possibly even a disaster. The uni is a Pashley 26 MUni, with a Holy Roller 2.4" tyre, and I had fitted it with some 125 mm cranks in an attempt to make it a fast cross country machine. It didn’t work., and I spent a frustrating hour or more in Sherwood Forest, swearing a lot.
Well, today, after a surprisingly good day at work (no, that isn’t the deliberate mistake, it’s just weird) I decided to give the Holy Roller another chance, but on some less extreme territory. This would be an opportunity to compare it directly with the Coker. The tyre profiles are fairly similar.
I park some distance away from the skateboard ramps and follow an easy bit of flat single track across the field towards the river bank. I turn right and ride downstream towards the water sports centre. The Holy Roller feels light, nimble and responsive compared tot he Coker, although a little wallowy compared to the Road Razor. (The Road Razor’s rolling diameter is only an inch or so different, the cranks are the same, but the tyre is skinny and hard.)
Instead of following the river bank all the way, I take a parallel path: uneven single track through longish rough grass. This brings me to a new wire fence that blocks my way, but someone has cut the wire in the old fence to my left and I ride through the gap back onto the rolled grit path. Ahead of me are two horse riders - half an apocalypse worth - and they don’t look like they’re going to give way. However, as I beetle towards them, legs spinning and face set in a mask of grim determination, the lead rider turns her horse onto the grass at the side and beckons her companion to do the same. I thank them as I pass.
As I reach the gate to the sailing club, I decide to turn right along the narrow winding path that leads to the road. A young woman is cycling along it towards me. I stop and idle, and she stops to wait for me. A well-intentioned stalemate! I beckon her forwards, and she thanks me and says, “Well done.” I smile and set off down the path, round the first corner and find nettles on both sides, stinging my bare legs. I jokingly shout, “You never mentioned the bloomin’ nettles” and the lady laughs, back, “Yes, there are quite a few, aren’t there?”
Up and over the little flood bank, and onto the road which leads into the main entrance of the Water Sports Centre. From here, it is familiar paths; the zigzag ballast path up the side of the slope that overlooks the lake, the swoop down and across the tarmac, the short grunt up the back of Scoreboard Hill, the moment of triumph as I reach the highest point, the moment of alarm as I take a steeper route down than usual and nearly lose control… the swoop up onto the large grassy hill, the tricky little dip under the metal “arrows” sculpture, the burst up the steepish little slope to the highest point and the easy cruise down the low ridge to the grassy pimple at the end…
A marquee has been pitched on part of my normal route, so I drop down from the grassy pimple by a steeper route than usual, then ride over towards the white water course. Then I ride up the ballast path to the hill that overlooks the course, and ride the skyline, looking down at the canoeists playing in their brightly-coloured plastic boats in the standing waves a few metres below me. I used to do that, but it never gave me this sense of freedom.
I swoop down the steepest part of the hill towards the lake, then grunt up the next little hill, back down and onto the low, rough-topped little flood bank that runs between the white water course and the road that runs beside the rowing lake.
So far, I feel good. The uni feels just right for this sort of thing. It doesn’t demand the same intense concentration as the Road Razor’s 28 mm tyre does, but it is less forgiving than the Coker. The GPS showing speeds around 8 mph (12 - 13 kph) as I cruise, with occasional bursts up to 10 mph (16 kph).
I follow the wide grassy track next to the river, leaving the rowing lake behind me. A few anglers are out, and their cars are parked untidily along the river bank. I deliberately miss my usual right turn and carry on for another half mile or so until the track turns away from the river and passes some fishing lakes. These are part of the general Water Sports Centre complex, and, like the rest of the centre, are flooded gravel or sand pits. Surprisingly, there are no anglers here, and I have the place to myself and can admire the occasional heron standing in the shallows, and the ducks and coots going about their business on the clear water. It looks almost inviting enough for a swim…
But I resist the temptation, and tonk along merrily until I come to a locked gate. This is one of the strange things about anglers: a gate, a territorial marking, a boundary… someone has spent time and money putting this gate here… but in the space of a few weeks I have now ridden up to it from each side without ever going through another gate or past a “Private, keep out!” sign. The gate exists to restrict access between two places that are equally open to the public!
Not wishing to dismount, I turn back and try a number of side tracks hoping to find my way back to the main rowing lake. On the third or fourth attempt, I choose the narrowest but most worn track, struggle up a little hill past brambles and nettles, and then scoot happily along until I pop out near to the head of the lake.
More regular sections follow: the little slope down across the bridge to the island, the narrow wooden footbridge back, the long haul up the deeply rutted badly-overgrown slope (did I mention injuring my wrist here once?) and onto the hill at the back of the water ski lake. Complacent, and thinking too far ahead, I lose concentration and UPD at the highest point. 4.8 varied miles to the first UPD, in just over 30 minutes.
Although I try to keep it closely-guarded secret, I think I know you all well enough by now to confide in you that I have a slightly obsessive streak in my personality. The first UPD of a long ride is sometimes like a release of tension because after one UPD on a ride, it is no longer a UPD-free ride, and the difference between one and many is not as important as the difference between none and one.
Until now, I have been riding with great skill and care, but perhaps picking my routes to keep the risk of a UPD as low as reasonably possible. Now I feel free to be more adventurous. I swoop down the steepest part of the hill to the side of the water ski lake, down a little drop onto the paved path, and weave carefully between the waiting skiers. (No, not in between the ones who are on the water, as someone suggested last week, because that would make me Brian Clough. Or, at the very least, Jesus.)
I zip over the single-sleeper bridge over the ditch, then along one of my favourite little green tracks to the main lake. To my surprise, there are anglers along the bank of the rowing lake. I turn along the edge of the lake then, on a whim, I turn towards what I think of as the impossible hill. I think of it as the impossible hill for two main reasons.
I have several attempts at riding up the hill. The grass is rough-cut and long enough to conceal ruts and bumps. I can’t keep up momentum, and never make it more than a third of the way up. Eventually, tired, I try something else, following the tarmac track that leads round to the back of the hill. As I ride along that, two young boys on bicycles pass and a conversation ensues:
“Wow. See that man on that? That’s sick.”
(Fortunately, I am sufficiently au fait with the vulgar patois of the young to recognise this as a term of approbation.)
“Yes, I saw him on it last week.”
(Unobservant young oaf! Last week I was on the Coker, and, the time before that, on the Road Razor.)
“'Ere, mister, aye do you ride that?”
(I mishear him…)
“Because it’s fun.”
“No, how do you ride it?”
(Er… like this?) “Practice. Lots of practice.”
“That’s dead good that is.”
“Thanks. One day I’m going to try two wheels like yours.”
“Hahaha!”
I love children, you know. Although they are starting to make my patio look uneven.
I don’t make it up the back of the impossible hill, either.
)