The End Of A Trail

Somewhere under all that brash and rubble there was once a bike trail. It was short and led nowhere and comprised a series of jumps and berms wriggling between rotting conifers in a dank industrial plantation on the edge of the moors. I didn’t visit it very often because riding it was, frankly, at the very limit of my ability, and it was usually so wet and covered in slime and pine needles that it was rarely worth the trek to have another crack at its gaps and chicanes. I don’t think I ever saw another rider up there, indeed I rarely saw so much as a tyre track to indicate that it was still in use at all. Whoever built it clearly abandoned it some time before I was shown it by a friend, four or five years ago.

The last time I visited it, in early summer, the foresters were in the process of harvesting their cash crop, and the chainsaws and massive machinery of industrial wood-processing were making short work of the trees. I hadn’t been back up since, until I decided to take a detour off today’s ride to see if anything remained of the unknown diggers’ work. It quickly became clear, lurching over the detritus left by the felling, that everything had been obliterated. I couldn’t even see a trace of the dry-stone walls that the builders had incorporated into their jumps, let alone the minimal berms or kickers or gaps.

This small trail was built in a working wood, unofficially and without regard for sustainability or safety, and if it was tolerated by the landowner that was the most that could be said for it. It is no great loss, objectively, as even local riders obviously used it rarely, and its destruction only occurred as part of the normal process of management of the land upon which it was illicitly constructed. Still, I am sad that it has gone.