Minus 5 on Bootle fell

Put aside the fact that MXGP has moved into a new phase of globe trotting, which is probably nice work if you can get it (Thailand anyone?) plus World Championship Indoor Trials and Enduro, there's a veritable explosion of outdoor events in good old Blighty – frost and snow permitting that is.

 

Much as I'd like to have been swanning around (sorry, working hard) in France or Spain for the indoor enduro or trials, I'm not picky.

 

Last Sunday, reality decreed I would actually be out on Bootle Fell in deepest Cumbria, for the Trad Trials Champs round, which as it turned out was very likely the coldest place in western Europe at that particular time.

 

Good job trials types, especially the observers, are pretty hardy beasts – and considering the wind chill that dropped temperatures to something akin to minus 5, I enjoyed several jolly conversations while attempting to fend off 

frostbite from frozen digits. 

 

This is because despite getting older – as people never tire of reminding me – I have not yet mastered the knack of becoming wiser.

 

And a thin veneer of warmish outer clothing – yes, I found a jacket in my car – disguised the fact that there wasn't much of substance underneath. 

 

Preparation is not my strong point and never has been. I'm still embarrassed to recall one foreign world trials round I'd ventured to without packing any substantial foowear, only to discover the venue was at least six inches deep in liquid mud. 

 

Hunting round the paddock after everyone had left the start I ‘borrowed' a pair of sparkling clean trials boots out of Nigel Birkett's van – thinking at the time that they felt a bit on the large side for Birks – only to discover later that they were in fact Martin Lampkin's spare pair! 

 

Considering the state they were in when they were returned to the van, Martin was very good about it.

 

Several years later at a similarly wet Belgian world round at the infamous Bilstain venue I was actually able to lord it over several Brits. 

 

Amazingly I had at my disposal a cracking pair of wellies and – revelling in my dry feet – came upon John Lampkin and Jake Miller, whose trainers were about two inches below the liquid mud.

 

I smugly enquired as to the state of their waterlogged feet when Jake, of course, instantly countered with the gem – with Johnboy nodding enthusiastically in agreement – that they were wearing waterproof knee-length socks!

 

Sadly, on the sensible clothing front that was to be one of my very few triumphs. 

 

Since that gloriously wet day in Belgium it has more often than not been me with the wet feet and backside.

 

Roll on summer...