Zach Sanford: Dirty English Jumps

After a rare snow-covered week in southern England seemed to be coming to its depressing, melting end, I went to bed resigned to the fact that temperatures were rising and that I may have done the last of my natural shredding. To my astonishment, a thick layer of gleaming white snow had transformed the brown earth of the park outside my London window when I woke the following morning. The order of the day quickly reverted to that of the week just past - make contact with shredders in the home counties, throw on the jeans and boots, grab my battered deck and hop on the train.

This day was no different to any other though, and despite a week’s preparation for the fresh snow, the English seem to have a pact of national incompetence when it comes to dealing with the rare winter weather. I began to speculate as I waited for information about the significantly delayed train for which I had made an ill-advised lung-busting sprint across Euston road in snowboard boots while puffing on a fag. Finding no reasonable explanation for the delay caused by one inch of snow, I resigned myself to the fact that I understand the non-shredding English just about as well as they understand me: not at all. I have been asked on numerous occasions in the past week, while snow was visibly on the ground, without a hint of irony, which dryslope I was heading to. Baffling.

When I finally managed to find an operating train heading to my destination, Bletchley, I got on in a hurry knowing that some snow-hungry British riders were waiting on the other end. After an hour layover and an egg sandwich, I boarded a second train that would bring me within walking distance of a suburban Milton Keynes (if such a thing exists?) BMX track with some snow-covered dirt jumps. While previous days had been dedicated to rails, rubbish bin jibs and mini-ramps, this one would hopefully mean a bit more time off the ground.

After meeting with the crew, Aly McMorland, lil’ Reese, a down bro going by Junior and Rennie, we set off up the road, one shovel between the five of us, in search of a bunch of premade barely covered jumps that hopefully wouldn’t require the use of said shovel. Before long we stood under the towering pine trees of a forest preserve, surrounded by dirt jumps of varying degrees of shredability. We quickly began flying about, finding gaps and hips, in particular one line with a gap and a hip which combined resulted in the most fun scoot of the day.

Aly McMorland

For three hours, we forgot that the snow might melt tomorrow and that evening university lectures would follow the session. We hooted and hollered and looked fruitlessly for more terrain. We dragged PVC around in the woods, which amounted to nothing. We speculated about, and eventually decided against, hitting what one in our party described as a “terrorist” step-down. Eventually, I had to leave the others and return to London in time for class. Though it was a long walk down the hill on my own, I didn’t mind leaving them behind. It somehow felt less like the last UK real snow day of the season because of it, and even if it is, I’d learned from the night before that it is best, regardless of one’s location, to always account for the possibility of a freak snowstorm and a few dirt jumps in the morning.