Author: Alex

Things are not quite as they seem

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Despiteappearances, this is not some kind of sex toy with a built in satisfaction meter. No, it’s a rather more humdrum instrument for measuring lung capacity in litres/minute. That score represents a 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} improvement for me after a week of imbibing the steroid ‘donkey-stunners’. Although as a high water mark, it’s not that impressive, being at least 300 less than normal.

‘Normal’ constituting a respiratory system that doesn’t hacking cough and wheeze through the day, supported by multiple hits on the ‘pipe opener’ propellant and accompanied by swearing. Normal means running up stairs, attacking anything hilly with more than an old persons shuffle, and riding bikes with your friends without the worry of carrying a mobile oxygen tent.

Eventually boredom kicked in and I took the Mouse-Lung out for a ride. Lung-Fungus or not, the chance to go play in the woods on a sunny spring day was more than worth the risk of swapping riding for walking on the climbs. And it was fine. Mostly. The best way to describe that 45km ride with some 800 metres of vertical was magic.

Contextual words include muddy, slippy, tired, gasping and strolling. Absolutely no problem getting my heart rate up as smaller lungfulls of air needed greater oxygenation. No problem with 3 week unridden muscles, orrememberinghow to point the bike around corners. But once aerobic switched toanaerobic, everyone else cleared off into the distance and I hacked up behind just glad to be out.

Two rather obvious conclusions were reached; one was how fantastic it was to be riding bike with my friends again. Secondly how damn good my bike is – riding the same bike two or three times a week ensures you begin to take it for granted. Three weeks off and it’s like rediscovering an old friend who you’ve not seen for a while, and he’s buying the beer. It felt like coming home.

I suffered the next day. But I knew that was likely and happily paid the price for a few hours doing what I love. There have been a few times lately when the dark of the night was mirrored by a nagging horror that maybe things weren’t going to improve. Silly of course, as it’s not the first time I’ve been struck down by a nasty dose of asthma and it won’t be the last. But try telling yourself that at 3am in the morning with only the bedroom ceiling for company.

In the midst of all this angst and woe-is-me, I somehow managed to impress a client enough to be offered a three month project starting today in the joyous environs of Redditch. Obviously I’m extremely pleased about this for all sorts of reasons, many of them involved with continued eating, but also I notice that there looks to be a possible commute from Bromsgrove and some cheeky looking woods that must hide some quality night riding.

It’s an obsession I know. Hopefully a slightly healthier obsession that late. On a lung and prayer, I’m going in.

With friends like these

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

Whilst away on my Northern tour last week, a number of text messages were received recounting the truly excellent riding I had been missing. In the midst of such self-congratulatory smugness at their happy trails was some nonsense around birthday rides. In a moment of funk, my response was to state the date for yet another Orbit of Al and expect the event to be greeted by stashed beer, some kind of naked lady display and my own troupe of bike-carry-up-the-hilla’s.

My phone – until this point at the epicentre of an informational tornado – fell strangely quiet. H’mm I thought, the boys are working on that naked ladies thing. They weren’t. Oh No. They were plotting. The bastards. You see everyone who has ever shared one ride with me is absolutely clear on where I stand when it comes to racing. Generally in the change-over area, beer in hand, pointing and laughing at the stupid.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. Okay not tried very hard, but even so the gap between my ego and any kind of performance cannot be stretched even with the most angsty competitive gland. So like any proper racer, I gave up because a sixth circuit of a crap course while completely knackered, wet and bored isn’t close to being worth the reward of 324th place.

I’ve watched my pals race. Even turned up rattling beer cans* before being suffused with righteous joy when – last year – nobody seemed that bothered. The J-Lab (short for Jez the Labrador, we had to shorten it as he’s so quick nowadays, you’d not have time for a full name) went time trialling mad, Martin suffered an injury that wrecked his summer, others fell by the wayside while I continued in the vanguard of being absolutely disinterested in paying to ride close to where I live, and yet on far worse trails.

So far, so groovy. But not now. The rapscallions have entered a team for Mountain Mayhem this year and my name (including that sneaky date of birth) is on the list. Much mirth is being displayed by 75{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the team, while the remaining 25{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} is more of your standing, arms folded, being grumpy.

Too late to back out now. I couldn’t deal with the humiliation. Might was well have that in a 24 hour dose at the event. Instead, I’ve turned my mind to race strategy. That being the two fit blokes go out on multi-lap epics while Martin and I eat sausages and drink beer. Already a key nutritional stipulation has been set; no less than three proper cheeses and a decent port.

Even so, it’s going to be grim. And if it is, I’m going to the pub. I’ll probably be drinking on my own tho with friends like these 😉

* before quaffing a couple and legging it. It was bloomin cold that year.

 

Fresh Air

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography2 Comments

Foxhall Ridge

Lots of it out there towards Wales, not much from the pilot’s seat. The return of MouseLung(tm) was not entirely unexpected, but this time shrivelled my oxygenating ability to properly scary lows. Asthma is a chronic disease – you don’t get better – but the management and drugs are so much better now.

Which makes my seasonally unadjusted attack very strange indeed. Always between January and March, a cold will spread to my lungs and for three days trips upstairs have to be carefully planned, with Ventalin lung openers carefully placed in strategic locations. Day four, it’s mostly gone and life returns to acceptable without wheezy lungs and a hacking cough.

This incident progressed as normal; a damp London Monday triggered some shortness of breath, before three days driving all over the country sealed my fate. Good job it’s not infectious otherwise a number of potential customers would be on the sick list.

Friday night though when the worst should be over, things started to get a bit hairy. Firstly the drugs stopped working – normally a hourly puff of Ventalin so opens up the passageways to allow enough air to ‘go lung’. But by 1am I was mainlining the bloody stuff with no obvious effect.

A further joy of an asthma attack is lying down makes it far worse. So I found myself leaning against a handy wall fighting for every breadth and remembering that panicking makes it worse. That happy thought just made me remember to panic really. By 3am, every muscle involved in breathing – and there are a surprising amount – ached, every breadth wheezed like a death rattle, and my entire focus was on dragging sufficient air into shallow lungs.

There’s a further irony with Asthma – at least some of the cause is pollution so the inhalers no longer have any pressurisation to make them greener to make. Meaning there is no propellent to inject the drug into your mouth. You have to suck it in as they say which is quite tough with a peak flow of a poorly mouse.

That was a long night. Followed by a morning of emergency doctor’s appointments, a rush on the local pharmacy and sufficient steroids to stun a small donkey. The improvement was nowhere near enough to place riding bikes in my immediate future, so instead I tramped up a very small hill to throw bits of foam into a bracing wind.

1000 litres of air being blasted into your lungs at 40PSI is probably not on the NHS treatment list but it worked for me. As did rattling down the pills with a Shiraz chaser. Today I’m left with about 75{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} lung capacity and a hacking cough that’d shame a 20-a-day man. It’s not what I’d call recovered, but no longer am I spending evening propped up against a wall wondering where the next breath is coming from.

Without modern drugs and treatment, Asthma is a killer. Without riding bikes and being generally healthy, it’d be debilitating in the extreme. I use it as an excuse when trailing uphills to my fully-lunged pals, but even I don’t really believe that. Except at times like last Friday night. That’d better be it for this year.

Outer Child

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Symonds Yat - Feb 2012

Sitting on the same train that transported me to my old place of work – some five months after getting the hell out of there, yet it feels both the same and different. It’s an hour later for a start which reminds me why I stopped travelling at bloody stupid o’clock to do something I didn’t enjoy.

Walking out of salaried employment is always quite exciting. No less so even when it’s your third attempt at naming yourself the boss, and pretending you might be better at it. While that is in doubt, I am certainly significantly more motivated, harder working and extremely focussed on what’s important.

Working for yourself follows a standard risk/reward model – the highs are higher and the lows lower. Good days are really good, days when the entire support structure is two people and it’s all gone to rat poo remind you why this isn’t for everyone. We’re well into the reward side right now but it’s not been without rocky patches and I’m sure there are more to come.

Which beats stumbling out of bed at 5am wondering what the hell the point was. By some distance.

Some things haven’t changed. The monday blues has turned my travelling companions grey. This carriage is full of tiredness, apathy and grump except for one lucky fella who understands that growing old and growing up are simply kept separate through the application of silly.

Yesterday, with two riding pals of a similar vintage, we were giving the steep and loose start of a rocky trail a damn hard look* before it was announced this pathway to pain went by the name of “Two Headed Sexy Beast“.

I’ve heard people drone on that their children keep them young. That’s just not right; being a child keeps you young and if that means falling about laughing when the dog farts or giggling at trail names, I’m right in touch with my inner child. In fact I’ve entirely avoided the normal middle aged ‘second childhood‘ by entirely failing to grow out of my first.

Oh sure when presenting my business face, I’m as serious and professional as the next clone because one of the childish things I have given up is believing money grows on trees**. But even then, an inner conflict rages over whether to crack a joke or pull a silly face to make some other innocent laugh.

I honestly thought as I slithered up the greasy pole, this self destructive trait would slink away from my character taking humour, risk and childishness with it. Not at all, I expect to still be chortling at bum jokes as a dribbling octogenarian.

Until then riding will fill the void of boy-playing-outside glee. Especially if the trails remains tacky and super grippy, the sun continues to shine and beer is served without ginger at the end of the day.Because while there are frowning faces all around me this morning, I’m still carving perfect turns on drifty dirt laughing my absolute whatsits off.

It’s that kind of thing, plus what I wrote last time about family that are important. That’s what makes the difference between you and the next guy staring into his laptop screen. I like being good at what I do for a living, I like it more when other people are happy to pay me for it. But – and for 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of us I believe this holds true – it’s merely a filler between more fun stuff.

This is a busy week and I won’t see much of my family to the bike until Saturday. Which gives me something rather excellent to look forward to.

* before running away as befitting men of our advanced years. There’s being silly and being suicidal.

** not something yet grasped by my own children.

Random-11

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Jessie through the ages

Not a new chemical element, although if it were the description would go something like this: “energetic particle not bound to any obvious reference model. Becomes excited when mixed with world. Consumes other heavy elements without increasing mass including chocolate brownies, cheesecakes and waffles the size of decking”

So Jessie is 11. Hard to know what is more worrying – the fact that our youngest child is now double figures and a bit, or that the other one is three months from being a teenager. It’s time to complete the workshop still and raid a food warehouse for a million slices of bacon and one apple*.

Jessie through the ages Jessie through the ages

A graze through the pantheon of digital archives surfaced these images, which must represent about 1{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the total, most showing Jess pulling funny faces and looking happy with her lot. She even sulks funny.Dusty in my office today, because the random selection of pictures both made my eyes water and brought a lump to my throat.

I cannot understand how that time has passed. New Zealand was four years ago and yet it feels like last year, or the one before at most.

It seems no more than a few days ago, I could pick up both kids and invert them without the serious back injury attempting that with just one would incur today.

They are no less interesting as they grow older. They certainly are lower maintenance, especially if the never-to-be-broken-rule of not crossing their bedroom boundaries is strictly observed. And they both continue to be engaging, funny, loving and generally damn good kids.

It is easy to lament the times past, the loss of their wide eyed innocence and the increasingly distant orbit from your world. Or to fear the onset of boyfriends, disinterest in all things parents and – inevitably – their flight from the nest.

Jessie through the agesJessie through the ages

But that’s a stupid way to look at it. The bit we’re in control of is now, so let’s love every day that brings. Last weekend Carol and the kids were away and it wasn’t any fun for me at all. You lose the family rhythm, the pulse of slamming doors and running feet, the set-your-watch-by demands for food, computer use and sugary snacks.

The impromptu hugs, the laugh out loud views of the world, the face-palming stupidity of one family member**, the DVD scrum for which film to watch; all of that and the hundred other little things than sound like nothing but spell family.

Jessie through the agesJessie through the ages

So Jess might be a year older, but she’s still my little random. For a while anyway.

* I am on some kind of healthy diet currently. My weight fluctuated nearly 5lbs between going to bed and getting up. Which tells me to weight less, I need to sleep more. Could be onto something big here.

** I think you can guess who that individual is. I like to think of myself as quite a role model.

Tunnel Of Glove

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

Boardman CX - First ride

That’s it, right there. Documenting the maiden voyage of the good ship “pointless-niche” had me gloves off camera in hand. It was with great care the soul stealer was returned to its’ padded pouch, which may explain the lack of available ‘what the fuck have I left this time’ brain capacity to solve the difficult equation concerning a lack of hand shaped fabric and cold fingers.

I worked it out of course. Eventually. About a mile down the track. Which developed into a three mile round trip attacking the original location in some kind of frenzied pincer movement – as is the plight of the navigationally challenged man. Desperation even caused me to flick the GPS to ‘map‘ where all manner of symbols and lines randomly lit up the screen.

Moth like was I transfixed right up to the point where it became apparent I had absolutely not a single clue how this was going to help me. Or even what it might mean – “green probably trees/looks up/yep lots of those/white probably roads/looks down/nope none of those/excellent let’s go *rimmer red dwarf salute* THAT WAY”

Boardman CX - First rideBoardman CX - First ride

Otherwise a successful outing measured by if you first do not succeed, redefine exactly what you mean by success. Which starts simply by stating that riding bikes on a school day* is always a good thing especially if your friends are torn between office window looks of longing, and the email ping of some smug bastard serially sending you photos of dry singletrack. If and when I’m sent down to hell, I’ll probably not bother to appeal.

The bike though was a tremendous success despite Halfords finest efforts to sabotage it with cunning incompetence. Take tyre pressures as an example each rated at 75 PSI which – if you have a special kind of mind – equals 150 for the pair to be metered out as you feel fit. Say why not 90 in the front, 60 in the back? The headset was almost tight enough to stop the fork falling out, but the threaded slack had been taken up by the brake callipers leaving both wheels shorn of any motion.

No matter, we were soon off to test the efficacy of the ride more/drive less ultimatum I delivered to myself about a week ago when crafting new buying bikes angles. First impressions were excellent, road bike stiff, adequately brisk on the road even with knobbly – if still terrifying thin – tyres and brakes that did something other than fire up your imagination of head on collisions. 15 minutes later we ‘had wood‘ where my guess at tyre pressures was exposed first by a wet root and then by some swearing.

A quick hiss and prod returned some grip to the strange experience of riding off-road on what looks like a road bike. It doesn’t feel like one tho, nor does it ape the characteristics of a mountain bike. The best way to describe it is – well – spaniel.

A bar width track carpeted in Winter’s colours of dead leaf and live mud must be investigated and RIGHT NOW. A choice of an easy line or some ambitious slick root complex is no choice at all. The bloody thing is possessed by an irrepressible spirit of fun, it’s going to get you into trouble and while you might come out bleeding, you’ll most likely be laughing all the way to the fracture clinic.

Going home isn’t as rewarding as going long so best just hang on for the ride, close your eyes when your inner accountant screams “I can’t get over that, I don’t have a£500 suspension fork”, open your mind to the possibility of direct simplicity. But don’t be fooled that fun is analogous to immortal.

Riding cross bikes on woody singletrack, hanging onto the drops, carving lines by thought alone and remembering to breathe is, of course, a splendid way to spend your time, but it’s also transient.

You’ll get found out eventually; a big root, a dodgy line choice, a big ask for grip that isn’t there, an unwise squeeze of the brakes on a tiny contact patch and it’ll be “hello Mr Tree, can we be friends?” Hard work as well, but in one two hour ride, nearly 10 kilometres of singletrack led clueless and the spaniel from one end of the forest to the other with more than a few unridden tracks saved for next time. That’s a forest I’ve walked/ridden in for three years, but always considered lacking any decent trails.

One ride doesn’t tell you much. But it’s a ride that wouldn’t have happened on any other bike. And for that, we’re already into the positives. Soon – oh God please let it be soon – Winter will be over and there will be sun-hardened singletrack ready for an early morning raid, a lunchtime skive or a post work blast.

Boardman CX - First ride Boardman CX - First ride

A few more rides like that and we might have found ourselves a new Rog 🙂

* I am sort of on holiday this week. Which so far has seen me spend 17 hours working in London on Monday, and about the same here yesterday. This is because nice people want to pay me to work on my days off and I want to make sure the family are not rendered destitute. It’s a virtuous circle. Only not round. or very virtuous.

Woger And Out

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography, Road Riding1 Comment

Cotswold Road Ride

This isn’t the first time I’ve have waved goodbye to bike called Wog. The not very amusingly named Roger The Pink Hedgehog went rental-expired a few years back- having fallen out of favour for reasons long forgotten and predictably nebulous.

Christening bikes is a pastime for those of us emotionally stunted enough to transfer human emotions onto tubes of welded alloy. Of the many and varied wheeled hardware to pass through my brief ownership, only two have received a name – that name being Rog. Or in the case of the Ribble, Wog because Woger Wibble is amusing alliteration for those mentally struggling to reach double figures.

There’s something more tho. Both Wog and the previous MTB incarnation has a certain personality missing from other bikes. The Pink Voodoo* was too short, too steep and too pretty for abuse metered out from a savage like me. Yet it was such a great bike to ride imbuing the characteristics of a special-needs spaniel.

Wog lacked that playfulness but in the 1000k of road riding we shared, I couldn’t help feeling it was curiously honest and steadfast. Heavy metal that rocked through wind and rolled through rain and snow without ever missing a beat. In terms of pointless value per mile calculations, it stands podium tall compared to the Mountain Bikes. Still so does a Chieftain tank.

That robust personality wasn’t enough to save it of course. Once commuting duties were over, a plan was hatched to snatch cheeky rides in the middle of home based days – so to extend my knowledge of local geography by exploring all those many-times-passed interesting looking lanes. Heavens Above, there was even some consideration of proper long loops to measure improvements in fitness and speed.

In four and a half months, I have managed exactly three road rides. One with Jez-the-Labrador which was a proper Himalayan epic when compared to the not-very-many hateful hours spent wondering why solo road riding wasn’t my thing.

Some of that is not having anyone to talk to other than myself – frankly I prefer to inflict that on others, and the rest is banging along on tarmac for no reason other than “it’s better than the gym and I’m not buying a turbo trainer” has a similar motivational quotient as throwing myself into a vat of boiling monkey puke or a day in London**

I appreciate that other, apparently sane, individuals love the solitude of the open road, hurting themselves in order to beat themselves, pouring over statistics and then sharing those results with others recent released back into the community. I understand this happens, but I don’t understand why – although it may explain exactly how come morris dancing isn’t a capital offence. We’re a tolerant society without a doubt.

A bike hook with no bike however is something worthy of further consideration. Questioning others sanity while quivering at the prospect of owning less than five bikes might seem a little hypocritical, but that empty space is merely a metaphor for a new niche to be filled.

Rationale and logic are strangers to my bike owning obsession, generally replaced by much hand waving and inability to resist shiny marketing. But the slowdown in Al’s revolving door acquisition strategy suggests that at least a cursory review before Mr Magpie throws money at a solution. That solution generally looking for a problem. So here it is.

Bookended by fantastic trail riding to all sides, our little bit of Herefordshire is still always a drive away from the good stuff. That’s 30 minutes of faffing, trailers, kit assemblenge and motoring to a distant start point. There is some riding closer but it’s too far a road-trudge on the MTB to sample its limited delights.

According to my OS browsing, there are 10 promising small woods within a seven mile radius of home, but having explored them all, none provide enough fun to schlep out there especially as another ten car minutes takes me to the Malverns or the FoD. But link them together with a bit of road and suddenly a hybrid loop takes the kind of shape which needs filling by a new bike.

But not an entirely new niche. I’ve had a cross bike before, took it off-road once before shackling it into the commute. That one ride was both eye opening and terrifying in equal amounts. Cross bikes are fast – not as fast as road bikes on road and not as fast as MTBs off it – but bloody quick nevertheless.

What they don’t do well is stop. I believe the designers believe you should use your initiative and a handy local obstacle to arrest progress. So my desire for another cross bike was mitigated by not wishing to trouble Hereford A&E again this year. Then those clever marketeers squeezed a set of disc brakes to entire the unreconstructed mountain biker.

As a plan it has much going for it. Ride from home, explore all those interesting tracks in the wood perimeter, bash out a few road mies if nothing else is on and join Jess in rigid trail riding. Will such a plan survive first contact with reality? History suggests probably not, but no point dying wondering eh?

Whatever I do, I need to go riding again. Managed exactly one ride this month mainly due to still-hurty rib but also ice, snow, mud and apathy. But It’s only when you stop doing something that you realise how much you miss it. I might try that in other areas of my life where excess feels like normal; things that immediately come to mind are alcohol and work.

Boardman bikes of course come from Halfords. So if I order one from there, what’s the worse thing that can happen?

* which somehow excuses naming the poor bloody thing.

** of the two, hard to say which is less appealing. I might have to google monkey puke because it’d have to be VERY BAD to be worse than a day in our fine capital

Cracking ride

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

.. in more than one way. Firstly the audible retort as ice turns back to water under the weight of the bike, and secondly the rather unpleasant sensation of rib grinding on rib. 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the ride was hard, fast and mercifully mud free. The remaining 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} was terror stalking the night.

Stalking my night certainly. Understandably cautious, my only ambition was to remain right side up and no more damaged by the end of the evening. One cracked rib is unfortunate, two could be considered careless. And painful.

There’s talk that frozen conditions turn the trails into summer. And on the surface that’s true, because that surface has the consistency of tarmac not custard. But summer it is not, there is absolutely no give to the ground, there’s no feeling of the tyres biting under the crust while you’re pinging off frozen geography. It’s more like riding on rock, which is all fine and lovely until someone loses an eye.

Because you are not being apprehended by Mr Mud and his Tyre Dragging Associates, speeds go up right up to the point where the trail goes from mostly grippy and frozen to ice and snow. Leaving absolutely no time to consider any coping strategy other than to close eyes and wonder if A&E is on speed-dial.

We had a few of those, which made a tense Al a little bit tenser. Post crash, it’s always going to be a battle for fun to displace nasty thoughts about further accidents. But I’d much rather be riding on mud free trails with an element of icy risk, than sludging through endless tyre-high slop.

No one else was. Hills to ourselves I assume because duvets had claimed the naysayers. But cold is only a state of mind; even at -3, cycling gear is so good now we both remained toasty but un-sweaty for the whole two hours. Only when we stopped, did the freezing wind creep in to chill bones. We didn’t stop much.

Enough was definitely enough for my ribs and associated sore bits. Fantastic to be back on the bike in proper winter conditions without being totally sideswiped by a fear of crashing again. First ride in four , I’ve actually stayed upright the whole way around. I did avoid one big jump in the grounds it was of a similar size to the one that had me off, but it’ll still be there next time.

As will I. Winter can stay wintry. I’ve done mud and mud’s done me. Seasonal transition from cold and frozen to warm and dry is coming.

Ever the optimist.

Head over wheels

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment
Haydn's Birthday Ride
I could blame the bike. But it's more likely me.

This post is sponsored by the Order Of The Mong, of which I am both a certified practitioner and disciple, first class. Eleven years man and older man dutifully returning to the shrine of stack, the crack-cocaine hit of damp earth and hard stump. Clicky ankle, wonky shoulder, much stitched knee, partially repaired elbow, broken nose (twice) and various bone pieces floating about in a fully organic game of Operation.

It’s barely worth donating my body to medical science, there really isn’t enough left.

We’ve suffered two months of trail conditions so dangerous I’m considering suing for attempted murder. Eight weeks when every ride has been more about survival than fun. It’s hard to know what is lacking the most; grip in the viscous mud or sanity for those riding upon it.

Not now apparently. Lovely and dry. Fast and mud free. Summer quick, joy bloody-well unconfined. Stacked full of happy texts- my phone greeted me as I lumpily scrolled through the messages. I wouldn’t know of course being sidelined with a rib somewhere between badly bruised and cracked. Sodding painful either way. Well I wouldn’t have known had not my riding buddies felt the irritable urge to pass on the happy news. More than once I couldn’t help noticing.*

I’m not sure which accident cracked my rib. I do know there were a few of them; crashes that is not ribs. For which I am quite properly thankful since while breathing isn’t optional, it’s certainly bloody painful. Coughing I’m trying very hard to avoid through the art of displacement. Which works to the extent that the I sneeze instead. And that’s eyes-squeezed-shut, deep breath (bad idea), forearm chewing unpleasant.

A week into the month of mong, a many-time ridden drop had been planted with an unseen obstacle of old fence wire. I say unseen, it glowed brightly in my helmet light during my post crash stumble looking for reasons why me and the bike were separated by a few feet and a sore shoulder. Ten minutes, and many metres below, was around the time it became apparent that search had failed to pick out my new and expensive GPS lying on the ground.

A tired retrieval called time on that ride. Two days of honest appraisal suggested this new crashing phenomenon was clearly not my fault. I refused to blame over-caution and lack of commitment instead pointing a grubby digit at Mr Slick and His Many Slithery Trails.

An omnipresent being with a sick sense of humour, he carpeted the entire Forest of Dean with sufficient danger to ensure barely a gnat’s whatsit between rider and victim. There’s many ways to tell this story, wandering off the narrative to point out my extreme bravery on some earlier jumps, a fantastic foot-out tank-slapper save and various acts of riding skill passing entirely unnoticed by everyone but me.

But in the end, I just fell off. Over a jump. Again. Not sure why, various explanations – none of them creating a time-shift to have another go. Over the bars. Again. This time with an obvious injury that was going to take more than a pint to shake off. Tried that anyway which made the next couple of mildly scary mid trail jumps pass without incident. Beer is indeed for winners. Or whiners.

We had many more to celebrate Haydn’s birthday. It wasn’t until three days later, when considering hacking my own nose off to prevent further sneezing, did I accept this wasn’t residual soreness. A quick visit to Rob-The-Prod** suggested I’d probably live, but it’d be a few weeks before aged bones were pointing in mostly the right direction.

There’s something to be learned here; it’s not something obvious around old men not being able to jump or treating conditions with some respect or some need to brush up on basic skills. No, because that would make this my fault, and the logical conclusion from that is it’s time to do something easier.

So I’m going with the alternative version. Firstly consider a pre-beer ride to boost confidence and consider any further accidents some kind of bike related issue.

Oh and investigate one armed activities until spring. I’m thinking Darts what with it being a) a recognised sport and b) held in the pub.

* Possibly in the same way they may notice their bikes custom-motif’d with a key scratched message “Yes, right you fuckers, I got it okay?”

** My unofficial doctor. MTB’r and proper quack; “ibuprofen and wine, go ride next week, try not to fall off, it’ll hurt“

Smart Arse

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

Strong opinions over the nonsense of business casual and the horror of clothes shopping have been aired only occasionally on the Hedgehog. But generally with appropriate vent and venom directed at how such experiences demean, de-bank and deepen a frustration that it is time wasted when one could be riding bikes.

Unsurprisingly then my bi-annual weary trudge into the 1960s Ross tailoring experience had the feeling of a small boy being dragged into boring shops selling scratchy unwanted uniforms. Even in these time of personal austerity, a trip to some warehouse/discount suit emporium is not an option for a man beholden to a body shape clearly assembled from the discarded limbs of proper sized humans.

Wrest me into a cheap suits and I have the look lot a man recently demobbed or released from prison. While donning an expensive suit suggests I shall be returning there forthwith to serve time for the theft of expensive garments.

It’s not much fun being a funny shape. Children regularly point and tug an embarrassed parents sleeve ‘mum MUM that man there, is he standing in a ditch?‘ on being confronted by my stumpy legs. Which when coupled with gibbon like arms and various non standard pointy out bits determines the only off the peg clothing item that may fit snugly is a black bag.

Not being blessed with easy dimensions, an almost entire adulthood of dragging bicycles up and down hills has left me with wide thighs, broad shoulders and a relatively slim waist making things even more tricky. Finally , large arse – model’s own – ensures I am bit of a project for even the most skilled man with a tape measure.

Trousers to match a wide fitting jacket finish about a foot south of my feet, and have a clown sized waist ready to pour custard into. Slim fitting troons cannot get past the fabric ripping girth of my thighs. A ‘tight gusset’ is never a good clothing experience, especially when a very camp tailor is having multiple reach-arounds to ‘bring sir into line‘*

This Ex-saville row man is a salesman of rare skill. Once he’s sized me up, he spends so much time selecting a suit that might not be appropriate for a sack race, my gratitude ensures the exorbitant cost never gets a mention. Which is good, as I really don’t want to know – handing my credit card over with one hand while hiding my eyes behind the other.

So happy – if financially sideswiped – with my purchases, I immediately washed my clean and sharp linen on facecloth**, whence predictable castigation began from friends who claim to have one suit bought for a wedding, and now used exclusively for funerals. Surely, they quipped, a largely self-employed man should be all non-too-corporate Richard Branson jumpers and booted jeans.

Well yes in theory, but in practice, not really.

Because all these casually dressed fashionisters have some product to sell. Those creative types can wander about dressed in cardigans and crocs still being taken seriously, because they are essentially a conduit to something a customer can see and touch. Me? I’m basically selling me. It’s not quite as dodgy as flogging houses on the moon or electrical warranties, but it’s still a bit of a reach.

Anyone who has worked in a consultancy organisation will tell you there are quite of lot of frogs to kiss. To be successful, customers have to feel absolutely comfortable with you as an individual. And to trust that you won’t spend their entire IT budget on asking them the time, writing it down and re-presenting it as an amazing new strategy. Essentially, especially with prospective clients, you are selling the shizzle. And you want to make sure they buy it from you and not anyone else.

Part of that is wearing the uniform. There are those who treat suits as a status symbol, others who don it as armour protecting them from their staff, even the odd conflicted individual who cannot undertake ‘work’ without dressing up.

I’m not like that; my preference would be for shorts all year round with a few fleeces thrown in for Winter. I’d love to turn up to a customer in ratty converse baseball boots and a frayed-T. But not as much as I would like to eat.

It is odd when you take time to think about it. We have uniforms at school, tribal wear from nursery onwards, more expensive uniforms for all our working life, and even pensioners seem to struggle to shake the habit***. Easier to be a sheep than a wolf I guess. Safety in numbers when you’re lost in the crowd.

For now, I’m following the herd. I don’t often wear a tie tho. Rebel without a cravat, that’s me.

* This old school shopkeeper stops just short of asking which was Sir dresses. But you can tell he really wants to.

** My favourite idiom for FaceBook. A guilty pleasure that has about the same intellectual value as looking out of the window.

*** Except for accessorising a shirt and tie with a hat. It must be a constant frustration to the milliner trade those most of their clientele are somewhere between a purchase and a funeral.