Splitting Up
by Alec MacHenry

How do you tell her that it's over?

"It's not you. It's me, I've changed..." The hollow words echo in my head, as I remember that final frantic night together in Birmingham, trying to recapture the old passions, but realising that the spark had gone.

How had I come to this point? At first I'd lusted over those striking looks, the air of danger and potential, the lateral stiffness, the plush travel. It all seemed so right, carving the rocky descents, picking up lines that were previously taboo, riding faster, longer and harder; heady days. That first spring was magical, the rain and sleet were irrelevant, the trails were calling and together we were tempered in the mud and grit into a single unit straining up to Hawkswick Clowder, hammering down Cote Gill, round then just keeping it together on the ice-like wet limestone down from Grizedales to Malham. Even local rides on the magical singletrack on Black moor, skipping over White Moor, felt more "epic" and downright fun.

Then cruelly the honeymoon was cut short, we were separated. Outlawed from our natural environment, forced into deadening slogs on tarmac. We weren't ready for this. I became depressed, delusional, my commuter was turned into a singlespeed to try and squeeze some life out of the unforgiving black stuff. Suddenly months had gone by and there'd not been so much as tender caress of GT57 soaked rag between us.

When we started to go out again, we never really recaptured that initial magic, life had moved on, I couldn't stop standing up to push on the pedals, this was no way to treat her, she squirmed, I realised I was out of order, felt embarrassed, and tried to be more gentle with her. I didn't feel proud, but I'd tasted other pleasures, other possibilities. I suppressed these thoughts, tried to carry on as normal, "just me being a typical male", I thought. In the late days of summer we had some fantastic days, that courageous first opening at Coed-y-Brenin, felt like a privilege I shall always be grateful for, flying over Barden Moor, heaving up the loose and treacherous Lakeland hills, these were life affirming moments. But the urge was there, "push harder," it whispered, "there's something wrong..."

Perhaps things would have settled down if fate hadn't intervened a second time. Foot and mouth had seen my riding partners drift apart, but had thrown up an unexpected lifeline to my sanity in the form of the net. Well, more specifically forums, which allowed me to rant and rave with other, equally frustrated souls. One such soul suggested getting out for a ride. His fitness and riding style confirmed everything I'd been suspecting; I was complacent and flabby. The demons of insecurity stoked the fires and slowly my resolve was hardened.

What had once been plush travel now felt like a soggy disconnected waste of effort. I knew this wasn't so, professional racers won major competitions on full-suspension bikes, but it didn't help it feel any better and the call to push harder grew. Destiny threw a final can of petrol into the flames in the form of an irresistibly cheap hardtail frame. This was too much for me, the gears and bounce that I'd convinced myself were essential were abandoned, "let's see if I can push then."

Six months later I'm picking out lines through a hard-packed twisting roller-coater, the helmet light picking up the dust of the team rider I'm chasing, the twisted woodland shadows fly past my peripheral vision. This is pure magic, everything is flowing, the bike feels direct yet supple, I've done this section enough times now to hit the right lines almost sub-consciously, I'm absolutely part of this moment, this is exactly where I want to be right now, it doesn't matter that it's 2.00am in the morning in Birmingham, I am alive. The thought occurs that maybe this would be the right time to try and recapture the magic. Waiting to start the next lap, the bouncer is racked up. I'm tired and wired in equal measure, but the first climb confirms that this was wrong, what felt direct now feels disconnected. My knee starts to hurt and swells up, its over, I feel guilty, spoilt, but know what I have to do. "I've met someone else..."

In the back of my mind I hope that this new honeymoon will last a little longer, that I'm not just a shallow serial monogamist, that this time it's the real thing.