Singletrack

A Hopton, a skip and a jump.
Hopton Woods is touted by the Forestry Commission as the
“home of mountain biking in Shropshire”. Intriguing. And
there is loads of riding on offer – from relaxing blue trails up
to tortuous blacks, from whimpering-ascent cross-country
loops to arse-puckering downhill runs, all in one convenient
package. And our hangovers are wearing off – result! Steve
doesn’t seem to be flagging, disappointingly, and he’s still
raring to go. I have consumed a lagoon of coffee, so I’m also
raring to go and off to pee behind bushes every five minutes.
Hopton is a lovely ungroomed place. There’s a car park at
the trailhead, and that’s pretty much it. We’re just playing here
really; exploring the area, searching out interesting-looking
bits and pieces, pushing back to ride stuff again for the
camera, and it’s loads of fun. It’s easy to see why a place like
this would help to foster local talent. There are some hugely
rewarding and natural-feeling things to ride, and they’re rather
techy in places, too – you want rooty drops into tight corners?
Yup. Lightning fast blats through ever-tightening trees with
sneaky lines to get a little airtime? No problem. It’s all here.
And again, I’m struck by how much fun I’m having. It’s
taken a little time to get here from Clee Hill, sure, but there’s
a superabundance of awesome in just this one relatively small
area of woodland. No, there are no huge mountains, but here
at least care has been taken to wring out as much as possible
from each metre of trail.
It’s clear that many of these trails have been around for a
while. Could the existence over time of centres such as these
suggest an answer to our quest? All these places to ride – it’s
natural that folks would end up as pretty handy riders, isn’t
it? The two places we’ve been so far, coupled with the huge
edifice (literal and metaphorical) that is the Long Mynd,
might suggest so, but let’s look at one more place. Let’s go to
Eastridge.
In the Eastridge, astounding trails begin, yeah?
(Sung to the tune of In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia
– tenuous I know, but what the hell. If that doesn’t set off a
subtle earworm, I don’t know what will.)
[Aside – In the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll admit that
I rode Eastridge on another weekend with Jim and Simon.
Equally hungover, mind you. You think I’d learn.]
Jim, Simon and I now find ourselves at the car park at
Eastridge, for a last foray into one of the famous places that
Shropshire mountain bikers call ‘local’. Eastridge is home
to yet more downhill tracks, the odd enduro race, and some
fantastically entertaining ‘regular’ trails. My oh my, this stuff
is good.
Heat and foxgloves.
We start with a mellow enough tree-lined climb, before
things get truly brutal on a long, newly exposed zigzag
(called Goliath apparently) and everyone begins to melt as
the thermometer on this sunniest of days creeps relentlessly
towards 30°C. The descents are, as expected, wonderful. Deep
trails in thick woodland; each hip and lip seemingly designed
to complement your riding – I can gracefully arc from corner
to corner, pushing my weight just so to line up for the next
one. Descents lead to crests which scrub off just enough speed
to fall perfectly into technical sections. Fantastic.
Again, the trails have the look of ribbons carved over
time by riding, rather than laboriously maintained sections of
trail. There’s a strong sense that you’re 14 years old, playing
in woods, and it’s only over the next rise that some older
kids have built some jumps you’re going to take your Grifter
over. There’s an air of comfortable isolation, and the whiff of
infinite summer holidays. You could just ride here forever.
I wish I could.
Ah, a dormant land submarine.
94