PLAY TIME

EXCEPT FOR CRASHING, OF COURSE, I CAN’T THINK OF A TIME MY FACE HAS EVER HURT MORE THAN MY LEGS ON A BIKE RIDE. Hurting, that is, from the permanent grin I’ve had plastered across my chops all day from chasing Olly Wilkins down his local trails. It’s a brain overload – trying desperately to keep up, emulate all the sneaky lines he knows so well and marvelling at his execution of them, all at the same time. I don’t reckon I’m exaggerating much by saying Olly is one of the most stylish riders the UK has ever produced. He’s got this knack for taking any jump or turn, attacking it with 100 per cent commitment and ending up with something way cooler than you’d ever imagine. Never has getting out of shape on a bike looked so good. It’s practically impossible to take a bad photo of the guy – just don’t try and control the gurn, because, as you’ll see in almost every image of him, he’s always wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his holler of excitement almost audible. Evidently this energy is highly infectious, because I’ve only been hanging