Single figures and some notable absentees. So was it:
1. The weather. Predicted to hose it down all evening
2. It was my ride?
Considering that most of our finest mutineers were feet up in front of Corrie, one would conclude that the latter was the dominant variable. Anyway, legendary status has now been granted to the nine (+1 later) Moos who manned up and faced the elements and the certain ride up Turners and down the Sirhowy – “He always goes over there – fuck that for a laugh boys, meet you in the Forge at 7.00.”
Anyway, much to everyone’s surprise and disappointment, it was the woods and the calmer conditions at the lower altitude, to which the group of Spartans approached. Griff, like a schoolboy looking through a Kay’s catalogue, was first up. Kirem, akin to an Erasure fan, took up the rear. A couple of trails were ridden, the old faithful quarry, just like Beaker after his recent surgery, was lacking in muck and rode like it was dry – loads of similes for that one, most linked to religious female types.
Onward and upward they rode and back to the boulders and then down the newly christened trail with no name (maybe ‘Clint Eastwood’ then!). A few of the Spartans had a lie down most notably Khalid who, like a women’s rugby coach, went down in the bushes. That’s enough of the similes now.
At that point we met experienced mutineer, Clarkey. Becoming so adept at mutineering that he’s now taking the piss by missing the start of the ride rather than the end. Next on the route was the famed climb of the Col d’Ocherwyth. With weather worsening, the vice decided that the barn just after the crossroads would be a suitable rendezvous point. Whilst there, Khalid nearly deposited excrement in his smalls after his first sighting of a sanitary owl in its native habitat. The red flash was clearly visible indicating that it was indeed agitated at this time. Back into remnant storm ‘Rachel’ we ventured and the comments went something like “it’s getting worse but it’s not too bad.” WRONG. The top corner above the cattle grid we turned and, holy crap, there’s 10 blokes in a hurricane. I don’t ever remember having to push my bike downhill because I couldn’t pedal either against the wind or through the slop. Such was our exposure, that we had to take shelter behind Crock’s hugely beaded jowls.
The final trail was the quarry and very well it certainly rode. Clarkey’s bars, being wider than a whale with a thyroid issue, proved more a hindrance than a help, although we were all pleased to still see him out after 8pm! Down the Oak steps and with no casualties we headed to HQ for refreshments. Beer and pastry products were consumed to conclude a tidyish ride considering the atmospheric and ground conditions. Was the first 2015 twat of the month decided tonight? Time will tell my friends. Fellow Spartans take a bow!