I am, needless to say, a bad mountain biker.

I did a little bit of mountain biking in my teens.  I was never terribly good then.  I somehow never quite had the lack of regard for consequences that most teenagers seem to have.  Then I quietly drifted away from it, and then my bike was stolen from my back garden in Swansea.  Some years later I took advantage of the Cycle to Work scheme to get a bike without tax and got myself a hybrid, reasoning that I didn’t mountain bike anymore but that bikes were a good way to get around.

Almost immediately after that, some friends suggested going mountain biking, and I hired a rather nice hardtail and headed out onto the trail.  It was one of the Afan valley ones, as I recall.

I remembered how much I loved mountain biking.

After a time hiring bikes and riding whenever I could, I bought myself a mountain bike – a Calibre Two.Two, as raved about by the magazines – and took to riding again.

I was (and continue to be) somewhat helped out by my brother, who was into mountain biking before I was and whose interest never waned.

I currently live in South Wales, and ride whenever I can.  I don’t have much confidence in my riding.  I have distinct rough edges.  I, for some reason, can’t turn right while climbing.

I am, in short, a bad mountain biker.


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