One rock at a time
It always happens. Some free loader jumps on board. For a first class freebie flight through the woodland. Its normally the sharpest and jauntiest pebble of the land that floats through a triumphant arc and land in the bottom of my shoe. Slithering through a 2 millimeter opening with laser like precision. No other purpose than to stab the arch of my foot to oblivion.
I’d met my new nemesis on a little ledge of sun baked mud. After the ankle stroking heather, before the eye tickling hill roll, and besides the head swooshing tree jump. Perfectly placed on my favourite corner of my favourite trail. A corner that pushes your wheels upright and points you back on track in time for the next equally astounding turn. In a supporting way, I might add. Not like a Macdonalds bouncer, more like a sensitive tennis coach or an assertive baker.
How could such a small piece of a vibrant and perfectly sculpted natural landscape cause brain shaking pain. It shouldn’t be allowed.
Of course I didn’t stop to remove the stone from my shoe, that would be too sensible, I persevered. Thinking about the stone making its way home with me and the concept of stealing nature as I floated through trail nirvana. The stone stabbed all the wrong nerves, but did spark a genius idea “What if I bring it home?”. Not the evil rock of death, the Lego bricks more aggressive cousin, but my favourite piece of the hillside instead. Imagine if the whole trail magically fell into my shoe and ended up working its way home with me. My bestest ever trail. Picked up, carried away, and placed conveniently for my enjoyment whenever I want. Told you. Genius.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Imagine. No more commutes through traffic clogged streets. No more monotonous climbs through suburban foothills, just to get to the start of the trails proper. Instead, I’d be waking up each day to peak out the window, into the garden, at ‘my trail’. Dusting it off with one of them fancy archaeology brushes to keep it looking handsome. Kissing it good night after one last run and telling it stories of the next adventure we’ll be going on. We’d be the perfect happy family.
Before you go and drop something heavy on my lovely floaty dreams, I just want to say “I know, but its ok”. I know it’s probably ‘illegal’ in the conventional world of mountain law and riding rule. But that ain’t gonna stop me. It’s a fair swap. I’ve left large buckets of sweat, blood, and tiny Strava trophies on that trail. Some chunky memories lie in the bushes too. No doubt significantly and positively contributing to the emotional ecology. Memories of a dozen deer jumping the trail in front of me. Sipping my first coffee of the day and celebrating beating the sunrise as I sit cross legged in the heather. Smugly smiling whilst showing each twisty bit of trail perfections to visiting friends. Some of my happiest times. Therefore, I have concluded, that in the unbounded moral universe, I reckon it’s a fair swapsie and I should and will pursue this most glorious of dreams.
However, no heist goes to plan without… a plan. That bloke from mission impossible didn’t just coincidentally find a rope in the vents before flopping down to that computer thingy. He’d put in a B&Q click and collect order two weeks prior. Both Tom and I know that a plan is everything when it comes to succeeding in a heist of this scale.
Doubts are creeping in though. Where would I even start with pinching a whole hillside? If my calculations are correct, we’re looking at 320 acres of dirt, rock, heather, grass, trees, wildlife, other people, a few squashed and buried lilt cans from the 80’s. This is uncharted territory and I only have so much Tupperware. A once towering plan is now looking as flat as a plan-cake. It can’t be true. My dreams of a personal twisting heather mecca in the garden could be slipping away unless I think of a cunning plan.
Now, I don’t want to get myself all giddy again, but I think I might have an idea that could work. I’ll play the long game. Employ the stoic, mountain climbing, one pedal stroke at a time approach. All I have to do is grab a handful of heather or pocket a potato sized rock when I’m on a ride. Take each bit home. Then reassemble into my own dirty jigsaw. Give it a few decades and all those romantic day dreams of backyard trail treasures will be my new reality. When I ride from the kitchen to the start of the trail, cup of tea in hand, those years of pocket filling and dirt digging will be distant memories. It’s gonna work, I’m sure of it.
A few more sunsets have passed over my favourite trail, and I’m pleased to say the plan is now underway. The first of many rocks and heather patches has been placed beside the back door. In that moment, when the first rock hit the ground, I said to myself “probably should get around to taking that stone out my shoe now”.
