Mud Mountain

The problem with having a mountain bike is that you have to bring it home covered in mud or worse after even the shortest of rides out and at whatever time of the year.

In the depths of winter it is not difficult to do this. In the better seasonal weather finding a soggy bit of ground or a large grubby puddle can take a bit more time and effort.

Today, mid february and in cold, misty and wet climatic condition I did not have to try too hard at all to get the bike and myself completely blathered.

Even on the city streets upon leaving the house the spatter pattern of urban grime began to take shape.

Vehicle engines leave a faint veneer of oil and fuel residues when they lean into a corner at a junction or come to a sudden stop at a traffic light junction or a pedestrianised crossing. Commercial lorries carrying building rubble and small domestic two wheeled trailers on their way to the Municipal waste site deposit bits of their loads into the gutter or farther out across the carriageway form where it takes on a creeping motion under passing wheels and footfalls back to the gutter.

A few tractors moving between the recreational parks leave a ribbed mound of dirt and soil which when diluted in rainfall becomes streaky and mixes well with the many other sources of rubbish on the carriageways.

After a couple of hundred metres the originally bright white enamelled finish on my cycle frame is indistinguishable from the filthy tarmac. As for myself, being faithful to the mountain bike code which dictates that I have no mudguards, I am spattered and spotted to face and over all of my practical, durable cycling gear.

It had been raining steadily for most of the early hours of that morning and I had stood in the shelter of the garage bay door to see if it would slow or abate enough for me to venture out on a planned ride out to the countryside beyond the western fringe of the city. That rainfall had been enough to fill up the main potholes on the route or accumulate over the drain grilles already full of water or struggling to cope if clogged up with the usual crisp packets, fast food wrappers or coagulated mass of cigarette butt ends.

There are some good, wide cycle only lanes working out from the central area but in busy saturday traffic and under the regular incursions of motorists into said lane it is a case of having to adopt a line very close and paralel to the kerb. This means a constant slopping and splashing through the newly formed puddles and in the hope that the larger pools are not concealing a deep trench or a collapsed manhole cover.

At frequent pauses in the ride at lights and junctions there can be looks, both horrific and amused, from motorists and pedestrians who catch a glimpse at my dirty face and generally soiled demeanour.

By the time I leave the suburbs behind my usually water resistant jacket and leggings are saturated and there is really no option other than to keep going and keep warm or otherwise stop and develop hypothermia. The other problem with having a mountain bike is that even if there is a firm intention to stay on the surfaced highways for the whole duration of a ride the temptation is always there, encouraged by knobbly tyres and a multitude of gears to go off road for a bit.

My usual circuit is quite flexible depending upon how I am feeling. The maximum loop which I regularly use for fitness and fun is forty miles but at key points it has default routes affording a short cut reducing the distance down to thirty or twenty miles. Unfortunately the deviations from the energetic full mileage are on old tracks, public footpaths, bridleways or ancient lanes perhaps last trod by monks or Vikings.

Today was a draining day after a busy week at work, a head cold and some, common at my age I am told, broken sleep patterns and so the thought of a quicker journey home seemed tempting. I was deceiving myself  given the aggregation of all of the potential sources of water and moisture that had fallen in the previous few hours or had just stagnated over a number of days or even from the last serious snowfall about 14 days ago.

The mud was gloopy and very adhesive on tyres and moving bike parts. As the wheels rotated they picked up yet more of the sticky mess which proceeded through 180 degrees before getting wedged between tyre and frame. The chain and transmission took on the look of a conveyor belt on a river dredger, the rear gear mechanism disappeared in a globulous ball comprising not only mud but horse manure and, I suspect, a few traces of dog dirt.

The combined accumulation not only stifled any forward movement but added considerable dead weight to the bike. I lurched along under a strained momentum in my legs only to find friction and density winning easily. This went on for the whole of the off-road part of the return leg of the ride. A large puddle gave some respite in that as I careered through it a good proportion of the debris was loosened and fell off in a resounding splash.

Beyond the puddle the liquified stuff just sprayed upwards into my face and on my back I could feel larger divots cascading down after having been ejected into the air like a golfer struggling in a sand trap.

It took a partial immersion of the mountain bike into the crystal clear, momentarily, waters of a stream as it formed a passable Ford on the edge of the nearest picturesque village for me to be reminded that I had left home, two hours prior, on a bright white coloured cycle.

What a great day out. Fun.