RUST magazine: RUST Tref Special

ust enduro
hillside. slipping and slithering, I soon reached the back of a queue and
peered around the riders ahead to see a bike on its side across a short
stretch of rock steps.
With a clear path and a modicum of momentum it looked straightforward
and as each rider scrabbled and footed their way along I planned
my route. The left side looked safer – you could dig the bike into the hillside
if it went wrong – but it featured the larger steps. I plumped for the
right… until I was within a few metres when I realised that the side of the
trail had disappeared down the hill. If you messed up you’d do likewise!
switching to the left side robbed me of precious momentum and I was
forced to hop off and perform the shove of shame in order to get the
yam over the ledge. It wouldn’t be the last time that morning I’d have to
dismount to counteract a wildly spinning rear wheel…
In the shade of the tall pines
Out in the open, the sun was beating down hard and the trails were
bone dry. It would’ve been hellish dusty if it wasn’t for all the rocks!
Loose rocks; slabs of rock; rock set deep into hard-packed tracks: rocks
everywhere. yet the terrain wasn’t scorched beige – that parched look
that’s trendy amongst the hills of southern europe. Instead the rolling
uplands of the Lozere were joyously verdant, carpeted with lush grass,
adorned with the deep dark green of pine forest, all speckled with the
bright yellow flowers of gorse and broom.
as the course headed west it constantly rose and fell, with just
enough opportunity to take in the views between technical descents
or climbs that’d keep your focus dead ahead.
What started with a couple of switchbacks over cambered rock
slabs soon turned into a steep-ish singletrack slog over large loose
rocks, ledges and tussocks of grass. hemmed in on both sides by
dense broom bushes, no doubt hiding a similar minefield, there was
nothing to do but follow the bikes in front.
The climb seemed never-ending, a relentless pounding through the
upper body from the rocks beneath my wheels. ‘FFs!’ I shouted into
my helmet in its unabbreviated form, frustrated with my lack of bike
fitness and the constant lumping over each mound of stones at
walking pace. I was trying to maintain some distance, but the pair in
front were making a real meal of it.
rather embarrassingly, yet equally fortuitously, the riders took my
outburst as aimed at them and pulled to one side, allowing me just
www.rustsports.com