16

Nutty Deals a Face Plant

IF YOU KNOW anything about me by now, you’ll know I was never going to make a great mountain biker. You’ll also understand why that hasn’t stopped me trying.

The concept of the mountain bike originated in California in the 1960s. Two decades later, my first machine was still viewed with suspicion in the UK, even by me. Off-road, despite its inherent promise of carefree rides up hill and down dale, it was a real bone­shaker whose topographical range severely belied its ambition.

Nutty, as it came to be known, earned its ‘mountain bike’ status solely by dint of possessing a rugged frame and fat tyres. Unlike most of today’s models, it spurned suspension, which was still expensive, experimental and, according to the received wisdom of the time, counter-productive to handling.

At the merest suspicion of damp ground ahead, Nutty would squeal to a halt in terror and catapult me over the handlebars to ingest soil samples from a variety of Highland ecosystems. Uphill, like its owner, it refused to change gear under duress and baulked at any gradient above one per cent. Downhill, we both closed our eyes and waited for the inevitable crash.

A brief mountain biking lexicon will give some insight into the nature of our adventures. Bogging out is when the front tyre grinds to a halt in mud. This can propel the body forward off the seat and result in a crotch-tester. A cheese grater is a fall that grinds off skin against gravel, asphalt, bike parts etc. A handplant is a crash where your fall is broken by cheese grating your hands.

An endo is an abrupt and unorthodox end-over-end dismount, usually resulting in a face plant or, at the very least, a severe gravity check. Crayonning is peppering the ground with bits of skin. A rockectomy is the removal of dirt, gravel and whatever other parts of the environment are embedded in the skin. A mandibular disharmony occurs when your jaw and the handlebars attempt to occupy the same space and time.

Nutty and I nevertheless bonded over a series of tough multi-day off-road bike packs through the Highlands. This was helped by the fact that, reluctantly, I agreed to push it much of the way and even carry it over the worst ground. With Nutty over one shoulder and panniers over the other, to balance weight, it was hardly the kind of enterprise those pioneering Californians must have envisaged for their invention. But then they had probably never envisaged attempting to ride the rocks, heather and bog that constitute a typical Scottish mountainside.

Such was the punishment inflicted on Nutty and myself that on one rattling downhill suicide plunge the seat bolt snapped in two and the saddle sheared off, leaving a jagged metal tube projecting alarmingly upwards towards one of the body’s more sensitive areas. Fortunately, I was turfed sideways along with the saddle and received only the usual cuts, bruises and soil samples.

Still a long way from road or rail, I cycled the remaining miles by sitting behind the tube, on the rear rack, and reaching forward to steer with my fingertips. I don’t need to tell you that was a nerve-shredding ride… but I was more than happy to reach the roadside with only my nerves shredded. It was because of this incident that the bike earned its name The Nutcracker.

On occasion, my fellow masochist Simon was crazy enough to accompany me, and this had its advantages. When cycling through swarms of midges, for example, it was comforting to have someone to curse with, although we would have swallowed fewer had we kept our mouths shut. And on one particularly infested evening, we turned on each other in frustration, only half in jest, as the beasties drove us to a frenzy while we attempted to pitch the tent.

On another occasion, I was grateful to the Fates that conspired to visit a puncture on Simon during a bike pack through the roadless country between Dalwhinnie and Fort William. At Corrour Station, the only respite en route, he had to board the train to Fort William with his bike and, in so doing, was able to take all my equipment with him. This left me with a gleeful, pack-free run though the wilderness to rejoin him.

Nutty and the author contemplate the main ascent on Comyn’s Road

Another time, the laugh was on me. Juddering down a rough single-track beside a swollen stream, I hit a baby-head (a rock the size of… you guessed it) and was unceremoniously catapulted into the fast-flowing current. As an expert faller, thanks to many years of practice both on foot and in the saddle, I am conditioned to roll on impact in all circumstances. This time I excelled myself by managing to roll in the air, avoid some looming boulders and land safely on my back in the water with a satisfying splash. Drenched though I was, I was proud of my gymnastic dismount and couldn’t understand why Simon was doubled up with laughter.

By such means, sometimes alone, sometimes with Simon, Nutty and I explored the Highlands until our joints creaked. Meanwhile, technology moved on, and there came a point when I could no longer ignore the ease with which more modern machines swept past us, their riders changing gear effortlessly while bouncing imperiously aboard new-fangled suspension frames.

Nutty, I’m sad to say, ended its days in the scrap yard. I trust that, wherever it is now, it approves of the new generation of models it begat. I hope too that it wishes me well on my continuing attempts to bond with my new mountain bike on terrain for which the wheel was never going to be fit for purpose.