Autumn, the year’s last smile.

I’ve always loved autumn. It’s bright, colourful and usually pretty dry for mountain biking. Oh yeah, and of course it marks the anniversary of my wedding. Ahem. But this year my enthusiasm for Autumn is fading as quickly as the bleached out leaves on the trees. It has left a somewhat sour taste in my mouth and a blanket of slippery, sludgy brown leaves all over the grounds my bike and I usually frequent. A slip here and a wheel spin there and I’m ready to throw my bike off the nearest hill I attempt to climb. Every trail adventure makes me feel less and less technically apt, doubting my ability to tackle even the least aggressive corners and roots.

Despite this seemingly dark outlook, my mood is lifted today, as today revealed its first glimmer of winter. ‘What now?!’ I hear you cry, ‘How can this be uplifting?’ you ask. Well, don’t get me wrong, Autumn is a lovely time despite my first paragraph, but as it drags on with its ever-changing moods and unpredictable weather I can’t help but cling to the Summer’s riding and picture the previous season’s racing melt away with the fading daylight. The once warm and fresh woodland that I had trained for ‘that race’ in is now dark and dingy with an incomprehensible habit of holding vast quantities of surface water. Those bright green leaves that watched me completed my first (and last) smooth bunny hop are now lying face down in the mud. Waking up today revealed commuters scraping ice off their windscreens as I drag the road bike out the front door. A mist hung in the air to give everything a monochrome look. The scenery I passed on my bike journey through country roads revealed sparkling picture postcard images, and the fog allowed each scene to be revealed only when it was ready, giving me something to look forward to at each mile.

So what’s my point? Well, you see, Winter is a new beginning. We move on from the year’s racing and the Summer’s riding adventures. We talk about things like ‘base training’ and spending time with the family instead of the bike. We’ve stopped fantasising about that freak hot sunny Autumn day that would allow for dry trail blazing in a thin jersey and instead we look forward to the year of riding ahead and our dreams for the impending season of race to come. After all, there’s plenty of time to make a vast improvement on our previous results. So I guess what I’m saying is it’s time to let go of the past and start working towards the future. Get on your bike and dance over frosted mud patterns that suddenly seem the gripiest thing since you dropped your Marmite on toast upside down on the floor. Let the crunch underneath your tyres simulate a round of applause as you day dream about winning your next race. Slalom through the nearest dewy grass field and let your bike carve their signature for ramblers to marvel at like adoring fans. Commute to work on your mountain bike; you don’t want to drop down in an aggressive nose-to-tarmac position when there’s such beauty in the scenery around you. Sit up and admire the scenes you usually miss as the fog keeps its distance revealing wintery scenes one at a time and smile to yourself knowing that Spring is around the corner, but far enough away that you’ll be ready it.

Raise your mulled wine and flasks of black coffee to winter base training and the Summer joys it will bring you next year. Merry Christmas.

The Great Non-Adventure

Today was the day I convinced some work colleagues that they wanted to come out on a cold December's day for a bike ride. The moment I woke up I glanced over at the bedroom blinds for a sneak preview of what the weather had in store. Sure enough, golden beams of sunlight were fanning out from underneath like the intro to a Prodigy concert. I optimistically felt assured that the day would be a success.

A bowl of muesli later I peered out of the kitchen window for a more detailed inspection of Mother Nature's work and discovered that the clear blue skies that had presumable created my bedroom laser show were limited and patchy with ominous cumulus (Latin for bloomin' big grey clouds) were looming on the horizon. In my favour was the low-light sunrise of a sunny winter's day that will surely trick those colleagues of mine into at least packing up their cars with adequate steads. The large fluffy grey clouds that stood in between me riding with friends and me riding alone had a certain apricot and pastel pink glow that contrasted quite innocently against the bright blue sky as though chalked out by an Monet-loving artist. 'Aha,' I thought, 'That'll get them out their front doors at least.' and we all know that is the hardest part on a winter's day.

An hour later and I'd reached my destination with only a few threatening rain drops on the windscreen. I unload my bike in unexpected blustery winds - not the handiest of elements when you own the least most practical car for holding a bike (have you guessed it? Yes, it's a 1989 Austin Mini). As I perform my near perfected bike-removal yoga to extract the beast from the backseat of my miniature vehicle the gales have fun throwing my hair around my face and covering my eyes at key stages like a childish trickster. Fear of scratching my recently renovated antique causes the usually smooth process to be broken into stop-start act that took far longer than usually. tension in my gut is building. 'Stay calm' I thought to myself, hoping that the colleagues had noticed the change in weather.

So there I was. Bike in hand, hair in face, dressed for an arctic expedition in bright sunshine waiting for the others to arrive. I convince myself that they have parked in the next car park along and are happily spinning their way over to me oblivious to the once peachy clouds now closing in with a blackened centre. If  can get them lined up ready to go before it rains, it will happen. If not, then... well, the bike gods will decide. This got me thinking; there's a classic misconception that calling the ride off once you're already dressed up and unpacked is just as much effort to undo and return home as it is to continue on with the ride. My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Gloves off, puncture repair kit falls on the floor, text retrieved; 'stuck on the M4' it reads. Oh dear. Darn. 'They'll never get here before it rains,' I think to myself.

I decide to take shelter in the local leisure centre I'd parked at. No sooner had I sat down inside I heard an awful noise. People were running inside like a bomb had just gone off in the car park. I turned to face the window and witness the most epic downpour of slept and hail that I'd seen for some time. People were diving into cars head first and running into shops like mad men. I half expect an air-raid siren to sound. 'Oh dear,' I though to myself again, 'this is not encouraging'. I look over to my bike locked up outside and seeming sulking in the rain and imagined a wonderful scenario where the clouds part in a god-like fashion and sunshine burst out to reveal bluebirds and clear trails ahead. It didn't happen. In stead I realise the potential reality that would have to dismantle my bike again and perform vehicle-entering yoga in order to return back home without even having the satisfaction of a ride in my legs.

This fun-packed morning got me thinking. How naughty does Mother Nature have to be to put us off? I there a linear equate that plots the relationship between the state of the weather and the length of time a rider has been riding? I know I certain forgive Mrs M more than my less experienced colleagues, but where is the cross over? What would it take you to give up a ride when you actually want to go out for a ride?? For me, that day, it was the sad look on my colleagues faces and the prospect of me riding alone in hail. This probably my breaking point. A great lonesome mid-December non-adventure.