Going downhill fast

Professionals Wanted: cycling the Afan Valley with a motley crew

It's a sunny yet chilly day as we load the bikes onto the Warwickshire County Council minibus and prepare to leave Stratford-Upon-Avon for South Wales.

For seven thirtysomething teachers, this end-of-half-term ‘jolly’ has become a regular fixture on the school timetable. The ritual of kissing goodbye to the classroom and escaping to a remote wilderness where we can free-wheel down the hillside, with the wind rushing through our hair, is a tried and tested one. But this weekend is going to be different: we are destined for a professional mountain bike centre in the heart of the Afan Valley.

Now, for six of us, this step up should not pose too much of a problem. After all, we've previously returned unscathed from treks in the Coed Y Brenin forest in North Wales and the woodlands of Cannock Chase in Staffordshire. However, on this occasion, one of our number is a debutant. A fortnightly visitor to our school, IT Support Technician Karl is a laid back and likeable character who looks more suited to busking on the London Underground than attacking the obstacles and gradients of the Afan Valley cycle treks. Indeed, not only is Karl a regular inhaler of full-strength Benson & Hedges cigarettes but he also owns (and has brought along) a two-wheeled contraption not dissimilar to a 19th century Penny Farthing; a bike which would do well to survive a two mile return journey to the newsagents, let alone survive four treks in two days.

We arrive at our destination just as the sun is setting behind the mountains. It's typical of South Wales that this stunning valley oasis is situated only a stone’s throw from Port Talbot: a sprawling coastal throwback to the industrial age. After setting up the tents and creating a reasonable fire, Karl entertains us with his guitar whilst the rest of us relax with a cold beer; his rendition of Street Spirit by Radiohead is actually very good. His oral joust with the cigs certainly hasn't done his larynx any harm - but what about the legs?

In the morning, the valley is bathed in sunlight and we decide to get an early breakfast to set us up for the day. Weekend bikers are emerging from their tents all around the valley and are filing into the mountain bike centre for a full English. We unload our bikes from the minibus; it's embarrassingly obvious that those around us are better equipped for the trials ahead.

Glancing around, we notice the latest goggles, pads, skin-tight vests, helmets, gloves and body armour from bike makers like Scott, Trek or Specialized. It's also clear that there are an awful lot of full-suspension bikes. Most of us only have front suspension and the feeling of inadequacy is heightened by the sound of chuckling and the shaking of heads by some of our neighbours. And then, Karl emerges from his tent.

For his first ‘professional’ biking trek, Karl has decided to wear dark green cut-off jeans, Adidas trainers and a retro Specials t-shirt. At least he has a helmet, even if it doesn't fit very well. Despite the equipment snobbery, we press on and soon we're ascending the first mountain. The routes are all fairly similar and generally involve a two-hour climb up the mountain side followed by seven or eight-staged descents of varying difficulty. It's clear after just half an hour that Karl is going to struggle with the pace. His breathing is laboured, his cheeks are burning red and his inner thighs are sore due to the cut-offs.

After the first hour, about half way up the mountain, we've already stopped to wait for Karl five times. Our PE teacher (and mountain bike specialist) is concerned about his health and suggests that he should go back down to the campsite. Karl promptly falls off his mount and collapses into a nearby fern bush.

Two treks and several hours later, we arrive back at the campsite tired but exhilarated. Karl has somehow managed to acquire some wood for the night ahead before collapsing into his tent. Throughout the evening our songs and jokes and stories are perforated with painful groans and, at one stage, Karl even needing assistance to surgically remove his jeans.

The second day is similar to the first: the six of us enjoying two thrilling mountain treks while Karl, back at the camp, plays mum by washing up and preparing the food. We later discover that while we're away, Karl has had time to contemplate the important things in life, like why we are here, whether there is anybody else out there, does God really exist? And finally, why did I bring cut-off jeans and a bike with no suspension?

The two treks are even more difficult than those on the first day. Exhausting, gradual climbs and nerve-wracking descents are exacerbated by the fact that it's another unseasonably hot day. And so, dripping with sweat and tired and thirsty, we return to the camp to be greeted by ‘mum’, who is forcing a smile despite the aches and pains. Karl doesn't play his guitar that night. “The joints in my hands have locked because my bike doesn't have suspension,” he says, between swigs of beer and another full strength cigarette. It's the most fun us teachers have had from a suspension gag for years.

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