Month: January 2009

Muddying the waters

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

We’re lucky living here at the epicentre of some fantastic and varied riding. Head north to the small but perfectly formed Malvern Hills, drive west for 45 minutes to confront the hard edged mountains of South Wales, or draw a 10 mile circle around our house to find cheeky singletrack hidden in vast Forestry plantations.

It’s almost as if I planned it that way. No really, there are people who honestly believe I am nothing but a slave to such a single agenda. And while my smug gloating of mud free rides all year round are based on the almost truth, occasionally I need to pay homage to the sloppy dirt embedded in every mountain biker’s DNA.

Today I promised riding pal Tim an endless vista of carefully crafted singletrack nestling between fast fireroad transits, spiced with roots going one way and cambers the other. What a rain soaked forest delivered was something significantly more muddy, and immeasurably more comedic.

This is a silly sport, and days like this remind you of exactly why. There are trails in this forest that could justifiably be charged with corporate manslaughter – all slick roots and jagged stumps. But most of our two hours of mud plugging were spent heading sideways occasionally backwards, and sometimes still on the bike.

That picture up there is taken from a carefully chosen position, into which I’d fallen trying to ride the same trail about twenty seconds before. My tumble from the bike was punctuated by a slippy slide of giggling and general tomofoolery. Tim – the bastard – only rode it, but then generously fell off one second later to make me feel a little less rubbish.

We felt better than that as well – once the ride was done, we couldn’t decide between Egg or Bacon sandwiches. So we had both. Tomorrow is forecasted -2 at 8am, which’ll be one hour after I’ve stumbled out of a warm bed. Stupid? Probably. Looking forward to it? Oh yes 🙂

The Wrong Stuff

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

It would not be unreasonable to suggest that a man with such an extensive collection as I, could ever be embarrassed by riding an inappropriate bicycle for the prevailing conditions. A pre-ride enquiry may be met with “Mild rock, light shale, short, sharp hills, soupçon of mud, occasional wet grass.Trees? Mainly Beech“.

These important variables could be simply plugged into a spreadsheet*, the mighty pivot table unleashed and correctbike(tm) shall be brought forth. Unfortunately such simple equations cannot factor in a mechanical ineptness co-efficient which renders bikes inoperable with just a few spanner twirls.

The Cove is perfectly suited to the Malvern Hills. It was also broken and the urgency of my need to repair it was not matched by any haste from the Post Office. My remaining choices were between the CX bike (Off Road insanity wrapped in thin rubber tyres), the DMR (gathering dust, goes uphill best on chairlifts), the full suspension Pace and the no suspension Kona.

The Kona has never been ridden properly off road, which – added to the nagging concern that I’d built it – made my wasting ten minutes trying to fit the light battery feel even more stupid. A desperate bodge brought forward the next issue where the light bracket was configured for the wrong bars and the missing widgets were hidden in a place known only as “fuck that, I don’t have time to look for them”

Pace it was then. I surveyed its’ appropriateness and marked it with a 2. Out of a 100. Five and half inches of travel both ends, short stubby stem, huge brakes and 2.5 inch balloon tryes stuffed with downhill tubes. Still the light bracket fitted and only when I attempted to heft it into the car did I think I’d been a little generous in the marking stakes.

Once I’d had someone help me upload it, the first 600 feet of climbing reminded me to get my imagination gland checked. Because it clearly needs recalibrating, as my fantasy of a relatively painless experience refracted through the reality prism and left me breathless and cursing. It wasn’t much better downhill either with too much squish and not enough feel.

I felt it alright for a while after, every time someone popped a big sodding hill into my personal geography. I felt as old as the Granny ring, and even though the Malverns don’t really get that muddy**, the sinking feeling was well and truly received as we plodded ever upwards at the speed of stupid.

Some days later, my riding buddy decided we had not suffered enough*** and enthusiastically set course for a second ascent of a hill locally known as “oh shit, not that bastard again“. The top of that was a long time coming, but from there it’s 500 vertical feet of giggly dirt starting fast and open, snaking through some woody singeltrack before the crux being a steep cross rooted plunge best tackled on one of two dry lines.

But only one wet one really, the “sissy” line along the top misses out the off camber routes and steepest pitch. When those roots are damp, you may as well throw yourself off at the top and save the embaressment of giving it a try. Unless you have hauled too much bike for too long on easier terrain. Because then for twenty seconds, you can mainline payback and plunge brakeless down the fall line.

It is only then when you realise how astonishingly good modern full suspension bikes are. So much so that all manufacturers should be forced to name every model “Talent Compensator”. You don’t need the brakes, all you need are a couple of beers, a blindfold and a parachute. Every time I ride the Pace, the true extent of the performance envelope becomes clear. You will never, ever be as good as these bikes.

So shall I be selecting the big fella again this weekend, pushing it a bit harder, trying to find my limits, all that kind of macho nonsense? Of course not. the spreadsheet says “No” 🙂

* I haven’t done this. Yet.

** I am comparing them to the Chilters – twinned with Flanders – Hills where 20 seconds into any winter ride turns your comapanions into whinging swamp monsters, and your bike into 45 pounds of gloopy non rotation. Oh the horror !

*** I don’t feel he was speaking for both of us.

The dog ate my footwear

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, Road Riding2 Comments

A contemporary reworking of the classic excuse offered up by lazy school children who couldn’t at least be a little more imaginative. A bloke I was at school with would regularly regale the terrifyingly northern Mr. Baxter with tales of alien invasion, a small boys’ single handed saving of the planet and the unfortunate collateral damage of his “Algebra 20 Hard Questions” being discombobulated by a frazzling death ray.

He still received the standard punishment of detention and a meeting with Baxter’s much feared “metal slipper“, but fair play to the fella for trying. It was only last night I remembered my oft slippered pal, during some ‘excuse brainstorming‘ for why my next day London meeting would be conducted in suit trousers, formal shirt and flip flops.

The dog has previous, redesigning Random’s week old trainers into fetching open toed sandals with custom chew motifs. His recent freedom from overnighting in his cage allows access to all sorts of interesting things that can be slobbered, chewed and then eaten. This includes a book – appropriately entitled – “Natural Disasters” which he took some delight in shredding.

Already, I wasn’t in the best of moods after my first bike commute of the year. Exactly half of it had been fantastic, cold and dark but immensely satisfying and reminding me why cars are just so rubbish. As are trains, especially the ones run by London Midland that can apparently teleport between platforms.

Because otherwise, why would I be chasing trains all over Birmingham New Street with my bike on my shoulder and innumerable flights of stairs blocking my progress. Some thirty minutes after this jolly game had started, I had ended up parking the bike in the correct carriage, divested myself of outer garments and courier bags, plugged in traveling tunes and opened the paper.

At which point the driver gleefully informed us that this train was giving up at Worcester, and poor saps heading West of that better get over to platform 7 sharpish. My frantic reassemblage of commuting collateral begat an elbows out charge up two punishing stair sets and a plunge down the far side. Excellent training if I ever considered Cyclocross racing,* but not an absolutely ideal way to spend most of an evening.

Especially since the overcrowding on this final train morphed me into a bikey sardine, trapped between two overstuffed carriages. The next hour was gainfully spent shuttling the bike between suitcases, tired looking passengers and train doors as I’d hurriedly parked it in the main thoroughfare. I feel my smile of acknowledgment, when being politely asked to shift IT AGAIN, may have become somewhat forced after a while.

So when Murphy greeted me with his standard arse cantilevering tailwag and slobbery hello, I sternly rejected his advances with a steely accusing finger and an admonishment of “YOU. SHOE EATER. YES YOU. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?”. His confused expression suggested the evidence of mouthy shoelace had been planted, and it was all a stitch up. Honest Guv.

Two seconds later, having conveniently forgotten his telling off, he dropped to the floor and began licking his willy in a “Bet you wish you could do this” happy manner.** This is the default position of the Murf assuming there isn’t any footwear to be chewily mangled. It’s hard to be angry with a pet which clearly takes so much pleasure in basting his testicles in slobber. I mean there is an animal which clearly knows how to have a good time, and no amount of telling off is going to change that.

I have avoided potential disciplinary being cited due to inappropriate footwear by ballasting myself down with the spare pair from the office. Climbing the last gruesome hill before home , I couldn’t help thinking if that dog continues to suffer “separation anxiety”, he’ll more likely be suffering “sharp rap on the nose with the remains of my shoe“.

Not that there is much left. He’s going to be pooing leather patches for days.

* Which I won’t. As I’ll die of heart failure or embarrassment.

** Not really. Fond of the dog as I am, there are limits to my affection.

Going Spare.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff1 Comment

I am. They didn’t. Next time I will. Even looking ever backwards to my fortieth birthday, I have yet to achieve a level of calm when multiple failures pile up on my personal highway. It all started with good intentions, as such disasters invariably do.

Firstly a slow puncture highlighted a problem with my spare tubes, of which there were many and the number that held air, which were none. Slackness personified, my standard approach of decadently replacing old with new was stymied by a lack of fresh rubber.*

An hour later, the kitchen floor was awash with a tidal wave of water, my entire patch collection had been deployed, and four tubes now leaked a little less air than before. Flushed with success**, I spent some time worshipping at the voodoo of the front mech, before retiring satisfied a pro-active maintenance regime would be rewarded by trouble free riding.

Which made the horror of an abandoned ride at 8am this morning all the worse. Firstly my cranks basically fell off, when the drive side bearing stripped itself of a thread and made a break for freedom**. My riding buddy responded with patience, a quick return to base plan and – almost immediately – a aurally impressive exploding tyre. Luckily he’d not flatspotted the tyre, unluckily he’d flatspotted the rim.

No time to fix any of that as I was under orders to be initiated into the local flying club at 11am sharp. I arrived ready to go with flight box, fuel, trainer, a whole shit load of funny shaped stuff for which I still cannot divine a purpose and a cheerful expression.

Which lasted as long as the first engine start took, which in turn took the prop and flung it across the field. The only modification I’d made to this pre-loved trainer was changing the propeller. Ahem. Things didn’t improve much as fixing that merely broke something else. I can’t say I quite understood the exact cause, but symptomatically opening the throttle sent all the control services into a St. Vitus Dance.

Apparently this isn’t good unless you’ve the plastic bag ready. I do have a spare plane but decided to leave it at home. My reasons are now as cloudy as this beer I’ve been forced to drink. Yes, forced you heard me right, because after having no ride to speak of, no sleep beforehand and no chance to marmalise balsa in the presence of experts, it seemed the right approach to the rest of the day would be to back away from anything expensive, and get drunk on the sofa.

To get my own back on fate, tomorrow I’m commuting by bike for the first time in three months. Unridden bike, uncharged lights, unused climbing muscles. But I’m confident that nothing can go wrong, because HAVEN’T I SUFFERED ENOUGH ALREADY?

I’d be pulling my hair out, if I had any.

* I did consider the obvious alternative, but even fixing tubes was better than sewing condoms. You experience may differ 😉

** But not for long. They were all flat again this morning. So I ate them to teach them a lesson

*** I’m going with awesome power of my thighs. Although it does explain why the fromt mech was a bit out.

Call that a shed?*

On By AlexIn Other stuff8 Comments

This a shed. I’m about to lay down a deposit the size of a decent bike frame to secure the rights to this flat-pack furniture on steroids. Four weeks from now, a huge truck shall abandon a few hundred planks, and a single sheet of badly translated instructions on our concrete slab.

My understanding that this grown up self-assembly wardrobe will somehow do exactly that, while I examine my giant erection with unconfined joy and some awe. Do your own jokes, I’ll be back in a sec. Finished? Right, moving on or – to be more precise – up, my real plan is to shirk any building responsibility by dragging my friends from all over England to assemble it for me.

A tissue of lies shall promise unlimited food, beer and riding in exchange for ten minutes light work with a chisel. Apparently a competent DIY duo could assemble this in a week. Less usefully, nowhere is an estimate provided for six drunk blokes, one exasperated wife, and an impatient man skilled only in “powertool trigger revving”

But the completion of that building is right here; front and centre on the critical path of a thousand tasks that start with a big digger, and finish with financial ruin. The idea of a static caravan was put beyond possible use by a reasoned argument starting “WHAT? You’ve seen Grand Designs? Four of us in a caravan for two months would be Last Person Gouging with added Cutlery”

I’ve spent some quality time designing systems to hang bikes and hold planes. However, I’ve pulled back from that dark realm of sadness where humourless men speak of “A Steed Collection” and “My Hanger“. Instead I’ve sketched out a few ideas on wine soaked paper, and passed them over to the only person in the Leigh family with spacial awareness.

Now stop sniggering and help me out here. I have a problem with the siting of a rain water harvester.*** Anyone know what 6000 litres of litres of water weighs? Is it “quite alot?”

* Remember the film? “That’s not a knife…“. I had impure thoughts about Paul Hogan’s bit’o’stuff in that movie. Saw it again the other night. Hairstyles in the eighties, what were we thinking?**

** In my case “I’m going bald”

*** Oh yeah, livin’ the dream here, livin’ the dream.

CLIC24: 2009

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-244 Comments

After my fantastic performance last year, how could I pass up another opportunity to suffer in exactly the kind of event, I’ve come to loathe. I used to dislike 24hr racing on principle, but now experience has allowed me to really properly hate it.

Obviously I’ll be sharing my innovative training regime*, pre-event excuses and pointless bike preparation with you all. In return can you take a look at the Clic-Sargent site, and then if you feel – as I do – that it is worth supporting, my justgiving page is right here.

The event is the same format as last year. Although I expect this time it’ll be raining if we’re lucky, and hailing if not. But Neil – who runs the event – nearly didn’t run it because, tragically, his wife Helen died of breast cancer late in 2008. He’s a bloody hero for dealing with that, and organising this.

Which makes me doubly determined to raise as much money as I possibly can, even in these financially troubling times.

* Currently categorised as “cold, dark and grumpy”

Anyone have a plastic bag?

On By AlexIn Other stuff4 Comments

I shall very likely need one, after the first flight of the “Boomerang“. It is pre-loved which meant an evening of the kind of extreme dullness that only a wet rag can provide. Not because I really cared that the fuselage smelt as if it had been used as an ash tray, and a few – possibly vital bits – were hanging a bit loose.

No, the chairman, no less, of the club I’ve joined popped over and offered sage advice regarding which bits plug in where, and what not to touch if you want to finish your life with the same number of fingers you started with*

At the end of this, I was no less confused but probably better informed. I plunged in anyway, armed with some stinky foam and a vague idea of how flange A may interface with widget B. Less than two hours later, my engineering prowess had joined the radio to the receiver, the battery to the servos and – even – fuel into the compressed tank.

I did consider starting it but history predicts one of two things would happen.

a) It would explode taking the house and about a acre of field with it. I would be identified by flecks of surprised atoms floating across the charred countryside.

b) The bugger”d just fly off completely unharnessed by any radio signal. I’m still considering this as the safest way to effect the maiden flight.

Even after meeting me, the kind chap is still keen to teach me to fly it properly. Which I’m hoping to try next weekend assuming Murphy-Shoe-Eater hasn’t got to it first. This morning I was met with wagging tail, hungry expression and the remains of Random’s two week old trainers.

He did give me the “who me? what those? no, know nothing about those gov” expression, although this protestation of innocence was somewhat undermined by the lace hanging out of his mouth.

Anyway, it seems I have somehow ended up with three planes, one recently crashed, one ready to fly and one needing all sorts of trickery involving z-bends and micro adjustments. Sound like a job for the big hammer!

* I’m considering offering this as a service to some of the more “local locals” to get them back to 4 per hand.

Scary… A photo essay.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography9 Comments

This is quite scary:

This breezeblock pillar was encased in a layer of bricks both cutting the room in half, and providing a sense of (somewhat overestimated) solidity, It made a 6m square room pretty useless with the fire frying your eyebrows, Wii tournaments ending when someone nearly lost an eye, and a vast expanse of space behind that was never used.

This is scarier still:

The old RSJ was acutally a bit rusty. That’s not what you want to see when it’s supporting two floors, the first of which is our bedroom. The plan was to remove the pillar completely, and install a monster steel spanning the entire room.

Which involves this scary place:

Yes now the house is held up with a couple of big pipes and a lump of wood. At this point, I backed out of the room and went in search of the insurance details. The act of a sane man, when confronted by a slight alignment issue:

Roger, fetch the bigger hammer

After much grunting, moving of hoists, technically advanced building techniques involving bits of slate, and a very, very large hammer, scary moved on to dusty.

Calm descended, and the ceiling didn’t. It was a little fraught for a while, so the fact that we cannot close three of the doors upstairs, and a few walls have authentic looking “adding character” cracks, it’s better than the first floor being amalgamated with the ground floor.

It did allow that horrible paint to display its’ full mustard gas effect. It really is even worse when you are in there. But once we’ve painted the ceiling and the joists, changed the lights, swapped the curtains and ripped out the skirting boards, it’s the first thing on our list.

Because after that, comes the heating laid under a new floor. Thankfully that is a) some months away and b) slightly less worrying now I have this beer.

Plumbing Hell

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

By now, you should all be familiar with my approach to any problem. First up is an all points bulletin explaining exactly why it isn’t my problem after all. It is, in fact, someone else’s problem, anyones, yours, hers, that badger over there. With that sorted, now sketch out some perfect solution that is long on fast talking and much waving of hands, but short on real world practicability.

At this point, I am essentially done, so hand it over to those with the skills and method to solve it, while staying peripherally involved to share in the glory, or prepare my exit strategy if it all goes to rat-shit.

And while this methodology has served me well in the world of work, it seems incompatible with the indescribably* complex plumbing system that has mutated from “these bloody storage heaters are rubbish” to “No that’s too easy, let’s install the new organic heating voles and back-pressure aware, quasi autonomous cosmic interface module”

I think you can probably guess which half of the project team is childishly excited by a plethora of technology which includes wireless control systems, high pressure pumps and great big bloody holes in the ground. The more practical half is left to worry about the kind of boring stuff which joins the many disparate parts into a working whole.

And while that keeps Carol awake, I’m naively convinced that integration of heat pumps from one supplier, flooring from another and the octopus mainline of pipes to somehow bring them together is easily solved with some money and more shouting. Sure there is some dim awareness that unleashing a seven ton digger may trigger a chain reaction of destruction that takes in flooring, hot water and heating which may be slightly difficult to reconcile into living conditions.

But like I say I’m not worrying about it because my skills lie elsewhere. Not sure entirely where, but it’ll probably involve a cork and an airy dismissal of some issue involving washing with a cold hosepipe. Carol has the plan firmly ensconced in her head, somewhat invalidating my multi faceted task spreadsheets, cleverly embedded with mighty pivot tables.

It has already started. Today four strong men propped up two floors with surplus circus stilts in preparation of the terrifying removal of a structural pillar, which long since paid architects assure us is probably not necessary. Having seen some mid demolition pictures, I’m advocating we sleep on the ground floor for safety. Or possibly outside in the car.

I’ve been busy designing my perfect workshop resplendent with custom designed shelves to create an aircraft hanger, and a bike storage facility with sufficient expansion space to deal with any future eBay/Wine interfaces. All that is left is to divine the x marking spot of intersecting lay lines. Because that’s where the beer fridge shall reverently placed.

You see while there are many, many problems to solve, I’ve reverted to type and admitted my main interest is if I can have a go driving the digger.

* Don’t worry I’m going to try.

BMT

On By AlexIn Other stuff9 Comments

Tap. Tap. Tap – go the raindrops on the windscreen. My fingers chase the rhythm on the wheel – tap tap tap – as a sea of blurred red brake lights stretch from here to some far unseen clear shore. It’s before 7am on a dark, wet winters’ morning and I’m going nowhere slowly, stopped by the triple roadwork bypass which cones me off from my office.

This first set is allegedly close to completion according to the cheerful signs, if not the actual evidence dimly illuminated by a hundred headlights. But providing my commute starts at stupid o’clock, their constrained one lane twitchery costs me only a few minutes. This is more than compensated by the longest roadworks in history blocking the main arterial road into Birmingham. And what has backing up the traffic for miles, in either direction, achieved during the last eight months?

You want descriptive precision? No problem: nothing, nada, fuck all – the entire premise behind this pointless digging expedition is so a single bloke can perform daily digger burnouts in a vaguely up and down fashion. That’s not quite true, I did one see a second fella with a spade, but he was utilizing this traditional bastion of the manual worker for leaning on while puffing a cancer stick. Let’s hope it’s not the gas main then? Actually on reflection…

Tap…Tap….Tap now we’re moving but so are the windscreen wipers clearing the rain, but with an end of arc tap. But not all the time, no the mnemonic is broken by blissful silence luring the twitchy one inside into a state of near calm, but then TAP TAP TAP. I’ve tried all he speeds, I’ve tried shouting, I’ve turned on the radio but that brought forth Nicky Campbell – compared to which the entire fucking windscreeen could explode, and you’d still be up on the day.

How can that man be so far up his own arse* and still spout such uninformed pretentious bollocks, while simultaneously adding smug, patronising and condescending to his overflowing bucket of wrongness? Radio off, Tap…S I L E N C E… Swish…… TAP – God it’s the bastard love child of Chinese Water Torture and the ‘Get the Parent’ game babies play. Cry, Quiet, Quiet “YES YES YES SHE’S GONE” WAIL…OH FUCK YOUR TURN” – tell you what pass me the dentist drill for a bit of displacement therapy.

The final set of roadworks started today carelessly chopping out a couple of motorway lanes, inevitably on the busiest stretch. The next six months are laid out in front of me with cold, stationary cars and heated drivers. It’s some bloody cosmic hurry up to get me back to commuting, and it’d be a bloody privilege to listen to knees creaking, breath rasping and the imminent crumbling of some key, yet poorly maintained, bicycle component. But I’m holding out for light at one end, and a level of breeziness not troubling the Beaufort scale.

Tap..Tap..Tap, the sound of one mans’ desultory roadside drilling distorted by tightly sealed windows. There are those who’d question why anyone would live sixty miles from the office, but it’d be a dumb question because this is Birmingham we’re talking about. A 100 kilometers is about the minimum blast radius any sane person would choose to run away from England’s second city**

Now a creak has started from the dash, and is perfectly juxtaposed with the percussion brain damage of the wipers. I’m surmising it’s coming from the airbag, and seriously contemplate crashing into the lane weaving cock*** so firing the bloody trim into the boot. You never know, if my righteous quotient is significant, it might take the wiper with it.

Tap..Tap..Tap, calmer now heading home, on the forgotten Ross spur ‘where no cars will go‘. CD is jammed to rock 80s anthems and I’ve got a cruise control, 4 limb, all body drumming experience going on. Mercifully, the creaks and cracks have gone, except for the last of the daylight being inexorably crushed between dark land and a darker sky. But it’s 5pm and that’s getting pretty close to BMT.

Bike Mean Time is coming 🙂

* SO FAR, we’re talking a detailed examination of his small intestine here.

** 2nd to London. So not very good at all really.

*** He’s driving a BMW. So essentially a phallus in a suit.