There comes a time in every man’s life when he must accept the simple, horrible truth: he is no longer twenty and realises that the mountain is no longer a metaphor—but an obstacle. Before I hung up my mountain biking gloves and retired to the smooth, civilized tarmac of road cycling, where the road, for the most part, doesn’t try to kill you, and it’s just the motorists you’ve got to watch. I decided—common sense unaccounted for—to take on Richmond’s Buttermilk Trail.
It’s called the “Buttermilk” because, back in the 1800s, before refrigeration and electricity, farmers would leave their milk cans in the cold water there to keep them from curdling on the way to market. That’s right. A place so cold and treacherous that dairy survived without modern technology. Naturally, I thought this would be a perfect place for a man in his forties with the bone density of a biscuit to throw himself down a hill at breakneck speeds.
Now, any sane mountain biker will tell you—before you tackle a new trail, you either ride it slowly first, or you walk it like a normal human being with a mortgage and a desire to see another birthday.
I did neither.
Because while my birth certificate says “middle-aged,” my brain still insists I’m a 22-year-old X-Games finalist with the cardiovascular health of a gazelle. This is, of course, a colossal lie. Because the moment I started pedalling, my lungs were making a sound like a punctured accordion, my thighs were screaming what the hell are you doing, my back complains louder than a French waiter, and I could swear my femur muttered, “Break me and I swear I’ll never heal.”
But logic, as always, was out for lunch.
I launched into the Buttermilk at full tilt, powered by overconfidence, half-remembered BMX tricks, and a breakfast of questionable decisions. And I must admit, at first, it was… amazing. Truly. The wind on my face, the fresh woodland air, the sun bouncing off leaves like something out of a shampoo commercial. I was flowing, riding through tree roots and wooden bridges like a man possessed—or delusional.
The woods greeted me with open arms—and subtle menace. Roots tried to grab my tires like nature’s tripwire. Squirrels froze in shock as I barrelled past, their tiny eyes blinking in disbelief. Somewhere up in the branches, an owl muttered, “amateur,” and went back to sleep. A deer near the trail lifted its head from grazing, looked at me—just looked—and then shook its head like it had seen this episode before.
Seasoned riders—fit, young, Lycra-clad maniacs—whizzed past me, but I didn’t care. I was in my own world. I’d been biking since I was barely out of nappies. I could strip and rebuild one blindfolded. I felt at home, even if that home now had the structural integrity of a damp shed.
It was glorious. Birds chirped, legs pumping like pistons. I was flying. I was fast. I was…
… at the summit of a drop I hadn’t seen coming.
Ten feet or more. A cliff disguised as a trail. A surprise courtesy of gravity, arrogance, and poor planning.
My brain screamed “Brake!” My heart screamed “Jump!” My bones whispered, “Please, not again.” I tapped the brakes. Not too hard—just enough to turn this from a plummet into a vaguely controlled descent. And then I was airborne. If birds were watching, they weren’t admiring. They were laughing.
Somewhere in the distance, a raccoon paused mid-trash-dig, stood up, and saluted.
I screamed. Not a manly grunt or a stoic shout. No, it was the full-body wail of a grown man who knows he’s about to become a headline. “Idiot Local Tries Flight, Fails Gracefully.”
But somehow, by the grace of luck, physics, or divine comedy, I landed. Two wheels down. Everything intact. I rolled to a stop in a clearing and promptly flopped to the ground like a Victorian fainting lady.
Two hikers approached. Kindly people. Looked like they were out for a gentle afternoon walk, not to find a middle-aged man sprawled like roadkill in board shorts. They asked, “Are you okay? Were you chased by a bear?”
“Anything hurt or broken?” one of them asked.
I blinked. Took stock. All bones accounted for. No visible blood.
And I said, “Nothing’s hurt. Just… my pride.”
Which, frankly, hurts worse.
And that was the last time I rode the Buttermilk Trail. Because as much as I love the thrill, I’ve also grown quite fond of being alive. And my knees? They’ve sent a formal complaint to HR.
Now, where’s my road bike and that nice flat Capital Trail tarmac that doesn’t try to murder me?
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A Kings 
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