After Saturdays debacle of a ride, I have to confess to loosing my mojo somewhat this week. I found it hard to drum up any enthusiasm to ride, even though most of the lads had been out during the week. My mum is poorly at the moment and I visit most nights and her condition is a real distraction to any form of enjoyment.
However, I knew I had to get out. The weather was spunking, the lads had said the trails were in tip fucking top condition, so I would forever regret it if I didn't bother.
Only Wors was out tonight, so, once again I braced myself for a leg ripping ride. I suggested Darwen Tower. Always a good ride and a fair distance for a night ride and he readily agreed. Before setting off, I had a quick look at the map and printed one off. I had been meaning to explore a possible route from the top of The Bastard to the Witton Weavers for a while now and tonight seemed a good opportunity to try it.
Down the steps into the valley and through the mills, up to the golf course and the little DH to Longworth Clough was nice and fast. We hit the road and turned along the singletrack past Delph Dam and past the church.
Here followed my definition of a nightmare. A 2 mile road climb up the A666. I hate road riding, as is well documented, but this was up a long, straight, busy road into a headwind, and I would have rather pulled out a kidney from my arse with a piece of rusty barbed wire. How people gain pleasure from this kind of thing is similar to the kind of perverse pleasure that we experienced later in the evening. The council hereabouts have taken it on themselves to fell the trees that lined the roads in this area of Bolton and I commented to Jase that it seemed odd that they haven't felled the lot really. Word has it that in this neck of the woods, they have felled them to prevent the local menfolk from entering the woods and bumming each other. Locals to the area will attest to its reputation, "Blow Job Alley" and the A666 "gay-by" are well known bumming spots.
Thankfully we reached Cadshaw and turned onto the rough track up on't moor. The Bastard was just as much of a Bastard as it ever was and left us gasping for breath. Here we got the map out and plotted our way along the moor to the white house on the hill. The first bit was a bit rough with no path to speak of but the views were exceptional.
After the White house we hitched up with the Witton Weavers on the east side of the moor. Bone Dry singletrack... ACE! We bumped into the only other jockster we saw all evening here, he was pushing his bike up the last steep climb and replied to our cheery "allreet" with "no, I'm fucked and need a pint!" Even though I didnt think it was possible, he was actually sweating more than Jase. We took the rocky tech drop this time, bone dry and great fun, we both flew down it. At the bottom, Jase confessed that the only time he had ever been down there was on the Rivi STW ride back in March last year and he shit it then. This time, he battered it. Its a mark of how much his riding has improved in only 12 months.
Up to the tower and we checked out the views of the Ribble Valley. Clouds had formed in the valley for almost its full length. An unusual sight.
Accross the moor to the Lyons Den descent. this is one of them wide open tracks that you dont really know how fast you are going until you put the brakes on. I nearly went straight through the gate! our back wheels were kicking up so much DUST!
Road to Piss Poor and I knew this would be fast. Wind was behind us and it was dry. I was right, we were flying down towards the Gate on Blow Job Alley.
Here, gentle reader, we were presented with a sight that will be forever etched on my mind with infamy. I was in front, hurtling towards the gate with Jase I guess about 30m behind. Our stealthy approach from an unexpected location clearly took the 3 gentlemen on our side of the wall by surprise. There is no easy way to describe what was occurring, so i'll just come out with it. FULL ON MAN ON MAN BUMMING! WITH AN AUDIENCE. Picture the scene if you will. A 50 odd year old rotund bloke, lets call him "the receiver" was on all fours, face pressed into the stone wall, as his young friend, who we shall call "the giver" pumped him. All this was being witnessed at close quarters by another, presumably, close friend who we shall call "the spectator". On seeing us hurtling towards them, the spectator obviously warned his friends as their hitherto bare bottoms where hastily covered up as the jumped up pulling up their kecks. It was no use however, we had reached the gate, some 20m from their location by the time they had sorted out their wardrobe malfunctions. They then proceeded to wistfully look over the wall, pretending I suspect to be soaking up the glorious countryside around them, however, unfortunately, Jase and myself had witnessed the full horror.
The worst thing about the whole sorry incident was the fact that after the gate, there was a smorgasbord of potential bummers, all waiting for their turn.
It would appear that the councils efforts to drive them away by felling the tree's has only served to push them into more public acts of "frantic coupling".
Anyway, after pissing our sides heartily, we continued over to Cox Green and through the old Tip. The rocky chute was hit a full tilt as was the singletrack through Higher Ridings.
Fookin great fun, nice a fast and a great spin out.
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