When pow drops in the South East of England, you get out and make the most of it.
It’s rare & won’t last.
It turned out to be the slowest ride I think I’ve ever been on, breaking virgin trail, with the winter sound of bursting air pockets, trapped in the snow beneath, as my tyre scythed through, looking for terra firma beneath.
With surprises underneath, I pogo’d a long, slipping and sliding, fighting for traction and momentum.
When things levelled out, the challenge intensified.
On a final descent, I ate shit.
Eyes squinting to protect against incoming sleet, my bike gave way, as I bombed down a run. Ejected over the bars, where I was once on the right hand side of the trail, I was now on the left; landing hard onto a bank, smashing my quad and forearm, bike continuing without me.
Looking up at the snow covered canopy above, I was shocked. I couldn’t work out what had gone wrong or how I had travelled to my prone location.
Jacket torn, no damage done, I locked the wheel between my legs, wrenching the bars round back into position. I must have gone down hard.
1 deadleg and drive train full of ice, I made my way home.
It had been a great challenge, a good laugh & a invisible war wound to take away. I’ll remember the day we had snow in Woburn Sands, that and sliding down the main road on my knees some 20 minutes later.
James Mackeddie 