Dry, dusty, trails


Flicking through issue 16 of the sadly defunct ‘Privateer’ magazine, I spotted what I miss.

Dry, dusty, trails.

Wales is to claggy mud, what Barbados is to steel drums. So often we are doused, saturated,  drenched. The mud flows in rivulets of streaming brown torrents. Clag collects between our treads and sprays up our back. The bike slips, slides and wriggles away. My ride last Wednesday evening was a war of attrition and the mud came out on top.

But not in that image.

Dust billows from the back wheel. I can’t see the face of  the rider, Mike Weir, but I know he’s grinning, face peppered with settling dust and small flies. The hill stretches out and away, endless. This is what got those first mountain bikers hacking down the Repack, clunkers bouncing and bucking and what kept them coming back. Can we have a little of that please? Just a little? The Beacons resemble bits of Marin County on a good day. When that day comes, I’ll be out seeking them, Camelbak loaded, suncream applied, searching for that 2ft grin.

Dry, dusty, trails.

In memory of Privateer mag and in hope of another publication filling the void.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s