Rites of Spring

Words: Daniel Benson
Photography: Joe Cox and Benson


Bees, trees and forties.

It’s interesting to see how BMXers go about boxing up their bikes. You could see it as a reflection of a person’s personality, but maybe that’s looking a bit too deep. Nevertheless it always provides some humour to the usual effort and stress of taking a bike abroad. Rob Hate’s ‘box’ was actually a medley of random cardboard he had discovered outside the kebab and chicken shops of Hackney the night before we left. The Fox’s box was in fact a tech roll-along case he’d wrangled off some pro skater. Mossy’s box was similar to Rob’s, although he hadn’t bothered to go as far to cover the seat up in any way. Mossy doesn’t give a shit though and it was probably the streetest looking box there and Mossy is one of the streetest people I know, which goes someway to backing up my point.


“Do you want to train this Marv?” “No Josh, it’s massive.”

Getting there was a piece of piss to be honest. Easiest flight-with-bike so far, and checking in to the hostel was fine until my card got declined. Still, after such an easy arrival you couldn’t really be pissed off. After all, we were actually here. In Madrid. And the sun was shining in cloudless skies. Apart from the Sheff’ boys, we all shared rooms. Later in the week this would prove to provide some interesting scenarios when Taliban and Jenkins woke to the sound of some girl being given a seeing to – all whilst Taliban tried to sleep to the beat of some dude’s drum in the bunk above. The hostel bar was a depressing testosterone-filled place that we would meet up to go riding or drinking in. The girls who came down here from other rooms were that irritating kind who act all nonchalant when in fact, yes, that is some fella checking out your pins and wondering what it’s like up that skirt. And you know it! Every night these girls would be there, like a pack of ugly wolves, lapping up these stares whilst appearing to cast them off.

The other ‘party’ hostel up the road that Jenkins and Taliban had been put up in was much more fun. The idea to go from Madrid came from Marv, although I’m not too sure how that came about because we knew very little about the place. Nobody seemed to dispute the decision though. It’s the capital of Spain and if the Spanish architecture we’d come across in Barca was anything to go by then Madrid would be full of things to ride, even if it took a little bit of searching. I don’t remember much about the first day other than we covered a lot of ground, Josh got ripped off for an ancient stem (that I, whilst having a bit of a weird turn almost swapped for that fresh piece of metal gripping my bars) and that Madrid was full of hills. This was a bit of a surprise for me. I had Madrid down as a vast dustbowl of a city that got too hot to think in during the summer. Maybe it was, but we were there in March. During the days we’d laugh at how the sun had caught our arms and faces in a typically British fashion then at night we’d wish we brought that hoodie as our lips got chapped. I think as British we cope best with those grey overcast days when it’s not too hot or cold. It’s a sad fact: I’m weather intolerant, although when it’s hot I can’t bring myself to complain like when it’s cold. We found some promising places during that first day, although I remember Joe Cox saying he was a bit scared that we wouldn’t find the things we wanted to because the place was huge. It was a fair point, during that first day I was surprised how big this place was. That first evening was always going to get a bit loose. We chose to all go out and eat together after drinking as we finished riding and then in the bar. We didn’t know where to eat so we wandered aimlessly down the hill as this was easier on the legs, towards the dubious looking pizzerias and kebab houses at the bottom. We ducked in the first one and watched through our glazed eyes as the other patrons left quickly. I think the staff wanted to do the same, but we were hungry and drunk and needed to consume more. Bringing around ten drunk boys into a ‘restaurant’ was always going to be problematic, so the best thing to do was to sit back and watch as Josh threw olive pips at Alex and Rob spilt (on purpose) the ice bucket that had being chilling his own bottle of wine all over the table. The pizzas came and they were still cold in the middle. They wanted us out that bad. We ate them because we were hungry and left without paying the whole bill.


Alex Riley, 180 through a convenient gap in the hedge

We would always wake pretty early, although that first morning was the only one where I managed to get up in time for the breakfast. Cold pastry and a cup of tea in a plastic thimble… mmm mmm.
I found an extra hour in bed a bit more appealing those following mornings. It’s quite difficult to place all the happenings in linear order, as we seemed to do so much each day, but on that second day I recall aiming in the opposite direction from the previous day. We weren’t exactly breaking new ground in navigation. We stopped at a pretty shit spot to begin with, one of those you stop at because you’re not quite sure where to go next. It was downhill, full of glass and the ledge there was too rough to grind. Still, Joe managed to feeble, hop manny to hop into a steep bank which ran along the back of the bench (like Edwin in that Animal advert). The bad thing about this was that on landing he fell off and tore his palm up pretty bad. It was funny seeing Joe fall off, not in the haha way either, it’s just I can’t ever recall him taking a fall.

We would look over walls and fences, into schools and plazas with the hope of finding that rail, bank or ledge that we all individually had in our minds. Next we found a small park and Marv shot the Bs over a rail drop thing, then without much stalling we set off down, still stopping to look over that wall, slamming your feet down, not finding much, then pedalling quicker to catch everyone up. This was happening all the time, half the time you wouldn’t even notice then occasionally you would hear a “YO!” or “Wait up!”, or, in Alex’s or Marv’s case, “Oi yer scrat ends...” all had the same effect in the end. We had been told the train station was good, but this was a bit confusing because there were two. In retrospect both seemed pretty shit apart from the big set of stairs we came across on this day. I had Dan down for the halfcab, but he seemed keen for the fakie. The ground ran downhill slightly so he could keep his speed and there were enough of us to stop the passers by who seemed genuinely interested in this lad throwing himself down these stairs backwards. He took some slams too, which only increased interest, but Dan got it after a few goes and in typical Cox fashion pulled it perfectly. We chilled by a river for a while after this and I joined Josh trying to catch lizards under a bridge. Josh was still injured from before he left, so it was funny watching ‘the lousy punk’ entertain himself when he couldn’t ride. Everyone threw rocks in the water or tried to hit the bank on the other side, much to the disapproval of the old men sat close by, who thought we were trying to hit them... Josh probably was. The next spot we came across by chance. We took a right into a park, probably to get off the road, and came across some sweet double sets, kinked rails and manual lines. You could tell that some stuff was going to happen here – it was that kind of spot. Alex 180d over a wall to flat, not before bashing his head off the floor.

Richie hopped the two double parallel rails, Alex then threed the double set and Mossy did this sweet high and long feeble to tuck clearance. When we left Joe hopped a over a wall to high drop, simply because ‘somebody needed to do it’ – when no one stepped up Joe put the camera down and did it himself. Can’t say he doesn’t practice what he preaches.
Campo arrived in the evening. He had recently moved to Zarragona to help his old man build some holiday homes. For those who know Campo, I’m sure you can provide enough colourful character references on him, but for those who don’t I think the best way to describe him is having the presence of a frontman from some rock band. Like the guy from Les Savy Fav, minus the beard (incidentally, Campo is or was a singer in a band, but I thought of this comparison before I found that out). He has that presence that everyone warmed to, whether you knew him or not. He came bearing home-grown, taped in his crotch for those who asked, and surreal stories about his dad, Bandi Campo, and the Moroccan boy who helps build these holiday homes that he’d moved to Spain for. That night we all ate in our own little groups due to last night’s haggard events and all got drunk. It was funny hearing Mossy and Campo wax lyrical about Geoff Bebb, Bandi Campo, and living in Spain. Both of them seemed pretty pleased to be in each other’s company again. They would drift off into these conversations that half of the time made no sense to anyone other than them (and maybe the Coxes).


Josh Bedford, turndown gap.

We would always wake up early. Maybe it was because we were in dorms or excited about the day (or you’re a postman, in Mossy’s case). We were normally riding by around twelve, although on this morning we hung around because Jon was due to arrive. We met him at the subway and he popped out in the same fashion if he was getting off the number 149 up Kingsland Road in London. Those who didn’t know Jon were introduced, Mossy said he was a ‘top boy’ for his Stone Roses T-shirt and then we went riding. I think, if memory serves me correctly (although I’m sure it won’t), we met up with a local rider called Tony who was happy to show us some spots. In fact, I think we met him the evening before and he took us to this amazing plaza in front of some museum or gallery. I guess after that, this spot became the place we would hang out at in the evening, like Macba in Barca or, well Devvy Green in Sheffield. Today though, we met Tony underneath a huge Spanish flag. This thing was enormous, right in the middle of another park or plaza. The Fox jumped over some old ladies off a ledge and I left the darkslide in whilst shooting a photo of Marv doing a 180 bars down a big three stair. “I didn’t think Mamiyas fired when the darkslide was in!” was my weak excuse to Marv’s head shake a few days later when Jon told him. Campo let loose a street whip in front of some paparazzi outside the Hard Rock café, then we went a bit further up the road and rode some amazing black marble ledges for about five minutes before security kicked us out.


“Saying I can’t sling ’em out of a tree like Mossy?” Campo, tree ride to fakie barspin to peep show.

I’ve got no idea what happened after this, not because I got hit over the head, but just because, like I said before, we seemed to do so much in each day. What seems likely is that Tony took us up to some steep banks that some of us vaguely remembered Sergio Layos riding and Dan Cox let loose a picture-perfect barspin popped in a tight spot. We got moved on shortly after this and I’ve no idea where to, but I’m sure when it started getting a bit cooler we would start meandering back towards the hostel to try and find some warm food.
Rob knew a girl who lived out here for a while so he’d been in touch with her before and asked her where to go out, and she told him about a couple of bars called Louie Louie and something else I’ve forgotten. We walked there, drinking some beers and kickin’ back in some square with the Spaniards for a bit, only to find that it was closed. We walked back and Josh convinced us to check out the Pirate bar, which was a pile of shit, but at least someone made a decision. We ended up back in the ‘fun’ hostel bar, where Jenkins and Taliban were staying, and all I remember here is seeing Rob neck a litre of sangria followed by a litre of beer. A drop in the pond for Rob I’m sure...
Friday rolled round and I think we chilled at the palace for a good while today. This is the equivalent of riding right outside Buckingham Palace by the looks of it. The place was grand and the guards by the doors didn’t really mind us sessioning the stairs or ledges. Dan was all over this spot, Alex seemed to like it as well. Joe did a smith on a flat ledge up three stairs to nose manny to drop two stairs. I didn’t actually see that to be honest. Me and Rob had decided to go and have a wander (something we were quite keen for doing) around the shops and find some cerveza. We came across a shop that sold make your own ship-in-abottle kits, but in a typically Spanish style the owner was having his siesta.
That evening I remember going out for a meal with Rob, like a married couple, whilst everyone else rode the museum plaza. After we ate we strolled down there to find Marv riding down a rail and Bowlhead, fresh from his new move to Valencia. Rob, Bowlhead and I didn’t have our bikes, neither did Tony or some other locals because we had got some tickets to go and see Lucero in an hour or so. We arranged to meet everyone at the venue once they’d finished riding and we set off up the hill to the gig. Bill Minns and some others from Blighty were meant to be coming across, but had managed to miss the plane so there were a few spare tickets going. Those who didn’t come in chilled outside on the pavement, right by prosy alley (the road where all the prostitutes looked for work and a street that, for some reason, we would always end up riding or walking along). Two German girls from Taliban and Jenkins’ room had come along, but didn’t come in for the gig. Not too sure what they thought about hanging out with some drunken BMXers surrounded by hookers whilst their mates got pissed inside. Lucero were good, but nothing like seeing them at The Windmill in Brixton – that was off the hook. Tony knew a place we could go to afterwards, but after drinking all day and Bowl and Tony getting the whiskeys in during the gig had taken its toll early and I was pretty much laggin’ by the time we got to the queue for this club. I remember Bowlhead calling me a pussy and laughin’, whilst I vouched to drink the big streak of piss under the table when I got to Valencia. We walked back down prosy alley, the Germans in tow, still not been in a bar and bumped into the singer from Lucero having a ciggy outside his hotel. Rob got talking and persuaded him to come for a wander and find a bar. This never happened, but the peep show always seemed to be open so that’s were they went. I’ve got to say I was quite surprised at those who were the ‘most active’ in visiting those booths. Since the second night a few hardcore peepers had been there every evening (or morning)...


Dan Cox interrupting a romantic day out with a tight barspin

The Sheff boys had to go home on Saturday. Everyone got a bit emotional, like a scene from Stand By Me. Lots of hugging and handshaking. We f—kin’ bonded! Lots of “yeah I’ll come up and see you...” said with a naive sincerity that would fall by the wayside when the chores of everyday life kick back in on our return. Campo had left the day before and that felt bad enough, but now another six or so had gone, halving our band of merry men.
It was later in the day when they had left for the airport so by this time we had done with riding, or at most went down to the plaza Tony had taken us to earlier in the week. Me and Rob were determined to make the most of Spain’s capital and we headed back to the bar that had been closed a few days previously. It was open and good fun. We needed a club though, so upon leaving we would ask (in various drunken English accents) “where – is – the – discotheque?” The same name came up a few times and it turned out to be the place that Bowlhead and Tony had gone into the night before. A couple of people had said on the way down that it was ‘the best place in Madrid’. I hope that was an overstatement as it resembled the sort of night you might visit whilst roadtripping around grim northern towns. Still, it was fun and they would pour the measures in such a haphazard fashion that you would often get more spirits than mixer. People started leaving at three or four, but Rob and I still had a couple more gears to hit before we peaked. Six rolled around and we were on our own. The lights came on and some Spaniards took a liking to the drunken English and told us of a place that opened soon where the taxi drivers drink when they finish their night-shift. I came round in a strange place, Rob still out cold, clutching a Mr Bean teddy. That day we went to a flea market that I can’t recommend enough. There’s so much interesting stuff there. I bought a suitcase that you could fit five Forties in perfectly. It became known as the cerveza case. For the rest of that Sunday we kept it stocked with beer whilst taking in Madrid’s many parks and leafy avenues. We were living the life, and we made sure we both knew it.

Photogenic? Josh Bedford, wallride over a rail

Rob and I staggered back whilst everyone was sitting in the hostel bar. We both looked suitably haggard and found ourselves in the uncomfortable position of being amongst sober people when drunk. That night we went back to the Fun hostel and talked about what had happened in the day until time took its toll and sent me to bed.
It was Monday and we had to leave our rooms at a certain time. It always seems so harsh but, really, eleven o’clock isn’t so bad. We left our bags in the room for people in limbo as to what to do next, such as we were. Me and Rob ventured downtown and everyone else went riding. We had designated a time to meet back at the hostel and start breaking our bikes down. When Rob and I arrived back, people had already started breaking down bikes into our boxes. Walking down the road you get that strange feeling that these care-free days will be over soon and to be honest I wasn’t ready for it. We got to the airport, checked in and left Jon by the check-in desks as his flight wasn’t until the following morning. The flight back was largely uninteresting and I resigned myself to reading the in-flight magazine over and over again. We touched down at some shithole airport somewhere outside London and the weather was so dismal that I felt like crying. Rain made our boxes limp (or not, in Richie’s case because his bike was on its way to Malaga by mistake) and we got stung for tickets. The sun came out the next day and it stayed out for a week or two. We said that we had brought the weather back with us (which sounded just like something from a Peter Kay sketch) and it made the acclimatization back to normality all the more bearable. It’s funny just how much fun trips like this are. You begin to question if it would be easier just moving out there, see if you can make that fun permanent. Until I make my mind up, work provides the money to fund such ventures, and as long as that’s fresh in my head it makes wet days riding or shit days at work all the more bearable.


Benson, keeping it ’98 with a gap and a Christmas jumper.

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