A great little ride up into the Black Mountains

If you’ve never been, Crickhowell is a pretty town just into Wales.  For mountain bikers – and anyone – it’s a great starting point for exploring the eastern Brecon Beacons and the beautiful Usk Valley. 

And that’s what I did recently, taking Darren and three of his friends on a guided ride from there.  I picked a route that I know well because I thought it would provide the right level of drama, experience and challenge for the group. 

Did it?  Well, Darren has kindly sent me this ride report.  I’m still chuckling but you have a read and decide for yourself.

Over to Darren…

Adventure MTB Ride Report: Black Mountains

(also known as “Steve’s Idea”)

There are many ways to spend a perfectly good day in Crickhowell. A gentle café crawl. A riverside stroll. A casual potter around the bookshops. Naturally, we chose none of those and instead joined Steve for what he reassuringly described as “a great little ride up into the Black Mountains.”

There were five of us in total: four mountain bikers of varying ability, plus Steve – guide, leader and part-time mountain goat disguised as a human.

The Group (or “The Control Experiment”)

We four riders represented a perfect spectrum of cycling ability:
The Keen One – clipped in before anyone finished adjusting their helmets, eager, slightly alarming
The Steady Grinder – sensible pace, lots of hydration, quietly dreading hills
The Survivor – strong on the flat, immediately suspicious of anything labelled “up”
The Optimist – confident, cheerful and about to make several regrettable life discoveries

And then there was Steve, who described the route using phrases like “just a bit of a climb” and “it flattens out later,” both of which would prove to be deeply philosophical statements rather than factual ones.

Phase One: Leaving Crickhowell (Hope)

We rolled out of town in high spirits, legs fresh, conversation flowing, everyone pleased with their life choices. Within minutes, the road pointed upwards… Then it pointed upwards more.

Soon we were climbing rocky paths that appeared to have been designed by people who actively dislike bicycles. The gradient increased steadily until it reached what could only be described as a “philosophical incline” – the kind where you start to question not just your fitness, but your existence. Steve, of course, floated ahead, occasionally pausing to offer helpful insights such as:
“It’s just round this corner!” (There were many corners.)

Phase Two: Forest Roads (False Hope)

The route shifted onto forest roads, which looked smooth and inviting and, from a distance, almost flat. They were not flat.
These were long, grinding climbs where progress was measured in metres per sigh. The group began to spread out:

• The Keen One disappeared into the distance
• The Steady Grinder settled into a rhythm of determined breathing
• The Survivor discovered the full emotional range of pushing a bike uphill
• The Optimist began negotiating with gravity out loud
  At one point, someone asked Steve how much further to the top. Steve smiled, nodded and said “We’re making good progress.” (This was not an answer.)

Phase Three: The Ridge and the Trig Point (Achievement & Mild Delirium)

After what felt like several geological eras, we reached the ridge and finally spotted the trig point.
There it was: a small concrete pillar marking the high point of the route and the location of our collective emotional breakdown. The views were absolutely stunning – rolling hills, vast skies, the Welsh landscape stretching endlessly in every direction.

We took photos designed to make us look heroic, carefully avoiding any angles that revealed:

• sweat levels
• facial expressions
• the fact that two people were lying down “just for a moment”

Snacks were consumed with the intensity of a survival scenario. Someone declared it “totally worth it,” and although nobody disagreed, there was a shared understanding that we would revisit that statement later.

Phase Four: The Descents (Redemption)

And then, mercifully, gravity returned to our side. The descents were everything we had hoped for:
*Forest tracks: fast, flowing, borderline whooping
*Rocky paths: technical, exciting, occasionally accompanied by involuntary noises
*Sheep trails: narrow, unpredictable, clearly plotted by creatures with no regard for braking distances
*Country lanes: smooth tarmac allowing hands to slowly unclench from the handlebars

Each rider interpreted “descent” differently:

• The Keen One attacked it like a downhill race
• The Steady Grinder rode with controlled confidence
• The Survivor found a groove and slightly over-enjoyed it
• The Optimist oscillated between exhilaration and mild terror
  Meanwhile, Steve carved effortlessly through every section, choosing perfect lines and somehow making the whole thing look as easy as riding to the shops.

Notable Incidents

• Several “I meant to do that” moments after minor wobbles
• At least one rider braking so hard they achieved a short career in archaeology
• A sheep observing us with what can only be described as deep disappointment

The Return to Crickhowell (Reality)

Rolling back into Crickhowell, we were transformed. Not stronger, exactly, but certainly more aware.

• Legs: unreliable
• Arms: vibrating
• Energy: somewhere back on the ridge

We leaned our bikes against a wall and agreed, unanimously, that:

1. It had been brilliant
2. The climbs were “character building”
3. Steve’s definition of “a nice ride” requires careful interpretation

Final Verdict

The Black Mountains delivered it all: brutal climbs, breathtaking views and descents that made every painful pedal stroke worthwhile.

Would we do it again?
Yes. Absolutely.
Would we believe Steve when he says “it’s just a little climb”?
Absolutely not.