Author: Alex

I’ve changed my mind.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road Riding4 Comments

Had you asked me six months ago what it was I enjoyed about road riding, I’d have replied with the full Kelvin, followed by a swift slap to the chops for your impertinence. And assuming I hadn’t flounced off in disgust or a proper fight had ensued, my response would have far outstripped your interest.

Still since you didn’t ask, it goes something like this; it’s is MTB’s boring brother, it has no vibe, no life, no thrill. The only activity that is actually considered less cool than Mountain Biking. An evil of necessity. A pale shadow of proper riding; just about good enough to be better than driving to work. A tedious alternative to being fat and grumpy, only slightly less horrid than a Gym.

I felt pretty strongly about that. Fat men smuggling their love spuds into tight lycra or food-weighing twiglets obsessed by power output and peak performance. Heart rates without any heart. Fat lads without any fun. Wheeled sheep line astern, grim faced and suffering. Two words. No Thanks. Two more. Fuck That.

Something has changed. More than one thing. First there was Wog. Cheap, stout and, well, honest. Equipped with mudguards and treaded tyres, we struck forth into winter with a frozen grin and a never-say-drive attitude. Then riding without a reason to go. Long loops out through the Cotswolds, striking out still deep in the chilly season. A different types of fitness, looser trousers* and riding on days when the chunky tyred ones would be grim.

And my Brother, surprisingly. Ever since he insisted on entering a proper road event, I felt some sibling obligation to join him. Especially once the forms were completed with my witticism bringing the organisers attention to his medical condition – namely “noticeably porky“. To be fair he was. To be fairer, it was a cheap shot.

Doubt began to creep in a couple of months ago. After never-seen-before early season fitness, one accident put me on my arse and apathy kept me there. However much I told myself otherwise, you cannot taper from eight weeks before an event. Especially if tapering is nothing more than lying on the sofa sprinkled in crisp remains.

Those doubts became proper worries on receiving ever more positive texts from evidently shrinking brother talking of 20, 30 then 40 mile rides. Six of those in one week. I was genuinely shocked on actually seeing the fella (in the pub tho, he’s not gone entirely mental) missing half of his gut, and all of his extra chins. He’s also invested in a bike weighing the same as two slices of tissue paper providing motivation enough to keep him training.

Not me tho. One 100k+ ride in May, bugger all since. A few desultory long commutes, one quick hilly pre-breakfast 50k that nearly put me in hospital, and mountain bikes of course. But my “A” game was merely displacing the “I” in fit. Inevitably the day dawned and we turned up to everything I hate about cycling – all enclosed in the standard god-forsaken field with the standard air of worry, testosterone and ego.

Let’s count the bad things out shall we; Road Riding. Middle Aged White Men*. Timings. Competitiveness. Pain, deferred but coming. Boredom, Same. Too much lycra, no baggies, no knobbly tyres, no mud. Christ it was Mountain Mayhem without any of the hard to find good bits. And I properly loathe Mayhem.

Good things. Easier to enumerate. Not hungover. Unheralded restraint made me amusingly proud. Bike is light and lovely. After hauling Wog over hill and more hill, the Boardman is a thing of race honed beauty. Bro, going to be slow even with his outstanding efforts this year. Slower than me anyway. So however rubbish my performance, I can hide behind worthiness and brotherly love. “Well I could have gone mad, but it’s not really on is it?“. 100 kilometres not 100 miles.

Get it done. Get a beer. Get over it. Don’t volunteer again. Having spent too much of my spare time being pointlessly herded by officiousness, the organisation here is superb. From the staggered start through the cheery marshals and fantastic food, it feels quite special. And that’s before random spectators clap you on. Could get used to that.

We start slowly climbing into grey, drizzly cloud that looks nothing like the forecasted horizon splitting sunshine. The pace winds up as I grab a random wheel to suck, risking disaster with quick over-the-shoulder glances to check on the state of my bro. He’s going well but it’s too fast too soon, so we back off a little more and enjoy a non speedy spin. Riders are passing left and right and my competitive twitch is suffering delusional suppression.

“I’m not bothered” says me to the bro. He grins back knowingly. We hit the first proper climb and suddenly my narrowly spaced rear sprocket is a problem. Not for me right now, but I cannot ride at the pace of the monster 12-29 spinning on bro’s wheel. Crikey I’ve run less on an MTB! We agree to meet at the summit so I stretch my anxious legs passing loads and internally ticking my roadie-pals assertion that “most guys here can’t climb, you’ll beast the lot of them“. I know I’m as shallow as a tea spoon and I don’t care.

I care a little more as those bested stream past my freewheeling wait. Soon enough Bro arrives and we crack on up and, occasionally, down merely killing time before the first of two proper climbs. This rises from the River Dart stretching 2500 riders up a thousand feet on gradients up past 1 in 4. 12-23 Al? Fine plan.

So it goes. Up, mainly. I leave the bro again and “go for the gurn”. I’m passing people everywhere, some walking, some looking deeply unimpressed, one on a carbon fibre monster decked out like a sponsors billboard. He’s really not happy. Especially since I’ve enough reserve breath for a quick needle, and he’s basically 30 seconds from an oxygen tent. I stick by his side until it’s clearly he’s gone, then give it a bit.

Until the next corner. Where I back off otherwise it’s a tent for two. Bro makes it without getting off which is a bloody fine effort and we fall off the summit into dark, dank and wet woods. Twice I’ve considered a sneaky overtake on some mincers in front, both times I’ve reigned it back. Half way down it’s a decision vindicated by flashing blue lights, concerned expressions and the brief view of a bloodied rider strapped into a spinal board.

We’re chastised but glad it’s not us. Back onto the moor lit by patches of blue puncturing the gloom. It’s a hell of a view and a hell of a ride. Slightly uphill, significant tailwind, I wind it up, direct bro right onto my back wheel and slide past a few suffering already. This is always my favourite bit in any event, when I feel better than most of the others in our class. It doesn’t last long generally but it makes most of the future pain worthwhile. Almost.

We’ve settled into a group now. I pass most of them on the climbs, they come steaming past as I wait for my bro. A few proper riders blast through at a pace that looks illegal. Or drug assisted. I ignore those and concentrate on taking the wind***. Eventually he’s bored of my pace – so sends me on my way to the food stop. Released, I go a bit mental knowing it’s less than ten miles and I’m barely sweating.

Good job it’s not eleven miles. I arrive with a sore knee, an absence of spare breadth and a stiffening hamstring. Hot now, sun fully out, lots of racing snakes downing energy drinks. Lots of people like me pigging out on the cake stall. We set sail for the safe harbour of race end only once our faces are stuffed and bottles refilled. I’m on a heady cocktail of energy drink and anti-cramp potion. It tastes horrid but appears to be working so far.

A couple of nasty, sharp and un-shaded pulls us out of Princetown. My bro is now in uncharted territory having passed his furthest distance. We’re still 40ks from home and his pace has gone from steady to slow. I’m chaffing but trying not to show it. My elder Bro has always been the sensible one, made the right decisions, weighed up the options. I owe him unconditional help without being patronising. We started this together, that’s how we’ll finish.

But he is sensible and measured and understands the difference between personal and important. So he insists I fuck off and leave him to suffer alone. I protest a bit. He then really tells me to fuck off and – because I’m not any of those things – I do with a couple of guilty backward glances. One more big hill but it’s all into a head wind, and I’ve abandoned the bloke I promised to pull round.

Still no point worrying about that now, I’ve people to catch and scores to settle. A couple of times already I’ve been passed downhill. That’s going to stop right now. Quick yomp up the latest climb with slightly creaking knees and I’m on the wheel of a clubman decked out in socks to helmet livery. We swoop down some epic steep hairpins before blasting through the trees at speeds rarely attained on mountain bikes.

A right hander looms and I’m so deep into fuck-it mode, ego has displaced me in the pilot’s seat. He hits the brakes, I fly by on the outside – giggling insanely – grab the brakes myself, feel the oh-so-thin tyres squirm, wait, wait, wait, got to pitch it in, look up Landrover approaching tight to the white line. Hmmm this could be lively, push hard on the left hand side of the bar, and pray everything I’ve heard about slick tyres and tarmac is true.

It is. Fly out of the corner like berms for road bikes and never see the fella behind again. Spurred on, I push on up the final climb not so fast now but ensuring I’m presenting a heroic bent to the many photographers camped out on the steep bits. Still very few go past with my Malvern-Legs driving me on. Irritatingly while all is well in lungs and legs, my back and neck are now demanding some recompense for constant battering. I can offer nothing more than 20ks left to go, but first a final descent through dappled woods occasionally sprinkled with damp leaves.

It’s a lesson in road riding I get taught by a few whooshing past. I hang in there but it feels like I’ve pushed it a bit too far already. Finally we’re spat out into the valley and closer to home than I date think. Forgot my GPS so I’m asking riders how far we’ve got to go. Please don’t tell me it’s that far, because I’m suffering now.

12k a lovely man says. Then he sprints off. I sit on his wheel for a bit before being overcome by strange feelings of guilt. I take a turn, then a well honed lady with a toned arse does the same. We watch her for a bit before guilt trips back in. Three of us are now pushing bloody hard and it’s fantastic. Behind seven or eight show no interest in taking a turn. I’m blowing it out of my arse here and you’re basically freewheeling in the gas. That’ll not do at all.

Whispered conference up the front. Agreement in tight smiles. There’s one proper hill left and we sprint up it, calves screaming, respiratory system fully anaerobic, muscles demanding instant respite but still we steam on, hit the summit, glance back to see nothing but empty tarmac and broken men.

The last few k’s continue to hurt. I’m getting a count now, 4ks, 3ks, little hill..ow…ow..ow don’t back off, 2k, we’ve got to be there, round the next corner and we are. Slide to a stop, grin, shake hands, fall off bike. Even the freebies are great with a little bit of Dartmoor rock and a medal to add to the standard t-shirt.

My time isn’t brilliant, but it’s not too shabby. Bro comes in 30 minutes later which is fantastic and he’s properly – and rightly – impressed with his effort. We decamp to his house to drink beer gloating about those still out in the broiling heat. Half way though our second beer, we’re singing up for the “135k circuit of Kent” in September.

Road bikes you see. Rubbish. Really, terrible things. Entirely pointless. Can’t recommend them enough 😉

* Although this may have been my two month weekday prohibition of all things hop and grape. I’m back to normal now. And the trousers know it.

** I appreciate the hypocrisy. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

*** So much of road cycling is about getting out of the wind. It kills speeds and urks the soul.

Mental

On By AlexIn Photography, Road RidingLeave a comment

That is. Amazing how much bike technology has come on in the six years since this race. Nowhere near as amazing as the genius of routing the course through someone’s kitchen 🙂

Talking of mental, that’s a good description of my current vocational workload, and my cerebral state going into the Dartmoor Sportive. Good job we’re doing the girl’s race with only 110k/7500 feet of climbing due to my outstandingly slack preparation.

Which did include one ride of over 100k, and many, many nights sitting inside wondering which Pringles flavour was the most performance enhancing. The research is well and truly done, but the results are yet to be proven. Ask me Sunday, if I’m still alive.

2500 riders as well. Most of them wrapped tight in lycra, sporting zero body fat, preparing strange liquid concoctions and worrying over heart rate zones. Mr Bro and I won’t be like that. Aside from the obvious physical attributes we entirely fail to share with such riders*, we also share none of their competitive edge or medal chasing aspirations.

Already I feel my flirtations with the dark side of cycling have gone way too far. Not only do I own a roadie pair of bib shorts (that act as a homage to Freddy Mercury’s Spandex phase), but I’m unlikely to accessorise these skintight trousers-and-a-bit with additional willy-coverage baggies. Instead I shall stay-press the wedding vegetables for anyone to see.

So that’ll be use then. Testiclappers to the fore, while riding at the back. And there’s the whole riding in a group thing. Done this once. Nearly totalled everyone behind me. Was not asked to lead again. They’ll be scraping innocent racers off the tarmac with a spatula if I’m allowed anywhere near the peloton.

My strategy therefore is not just to be so slow I’ll not be bothering those who are taking the whole thing a bit seriously, but also to break road riding protocol by stopping in one of the many pubs for refuelling. Assuming they haven’t got pringles, I’ll settle for some dry roasted nuts** assuming they are accompanied by an ice cold beer.

But it would be wrong to say I’m not intending to finish. Oh no. That’d just be too rubbish even for me. So no more than two pub stops. Three, at the most.

* My bro especially although he’s slimmed down quite impressively this year. Bit of a worry.

** Looking at the forecast, I may be able to harvest my own.

Scary

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

Stuxnet: Anatomy of a Computer Virus from Patrick Clair on Vimeo.

So the geeks will inherit the Earth eh? Or at least close it down/set fire to it/blow it up. I am considering how to make my own power source. Current ideas are harnessing methane potential of large Labrador or installing running machines and a big flywheel for use by children.

Other scary things include:

1) Dartmoor Classic on Sunday. Is Classic another word for “I’m going to hurt you mountain bike boy”?

2) Too damn busy to write anything.

3) Longest day has just gone. Can someone explain what happened to “Spring”. It seems like just yesterday when it was all dark/cold and miserable. Still we’ve that to look forward to now.

More soon. Soonish. Possibly not that soon.

Beacon Run

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

There is significant pointy geography jutting ever upwards in my riding life. Look over there to Wales with seemingly endless ranges of sharp peaks “ proper mountains – looming over deep valleys. Closer to home are the muscular Malvern Hills, reaching not so high but still at a straining gradient.

Largely free of mud regardless of season, packed full of rocky, open descents and cheeky hidden singletrack this compact range of lumpy loveliness has much to offer the keen mountain biker.

But it hides a dirty secret. While the South and North ends are stuffed with trail nuggets, the middle is “ let’s be honest here “ a bit dull. Hilly, Yes; Interesting, Not really. Which explains why it’s a bit of a mission to summit the Beacon on the North when starting from the other end.

That and it’s a bloody long way. Not in miles, not even in my newly chosen ego stroking kilometres. Horizontally it’s nothing, vertically however it’s a bit of a monster. The hills are canted to the North so four grunty climbs are not rewarded with a similar amount of descending. But those four are the quickest way across.*

Quick being a relative term. Quick for me with a level of riding fitness someway below my Winter peak. As I wondered if my lungs were blowing out of my arse, or had already been abandoned on a previous climb I couldn’t help also wondering if a bit less biscuit tin/cheese board/wine bottle action might aid my ascending prowess.**

The descending on offer did more than take a little edge off the gurning glumness even after sufficient rain to make Mayhem more of a nightmare this weekend*** The elbow of increasing articulation may be finally healing but still ignites the mental bushfire on the scary bits. Comes and goes, better bloody go soon tho otherwise I’ll be chopping out the cowardly gland with a blunt spoon.

We’d dragged the Beacon closer through application of pedal on gradient, the peak showing itself from various angles. First we’re left of it, then right but always below. Highest point in Worcestershire, made higher by my riding bud’s choice to first descend rather than take the easy way up.

Which provided an opportunity to heckle two slower riders who didn’t seem to find our tailgating inspirational. The Irony card was played once a freak mechanical sidelined me to the side of the trail leaving them to huff past. At which point, Jezz “ who is consumed by a Labrador fetch mentality “ hunted them down on the next climb.

By the time I finally made it up there, the same two riders were looking seriously pissed off. Which “ in my experience “ is generally triggered by a large man on an even larger bicycle racing by. A hypothesis confirmed by said rider, sat a little further up the trail, with the subtle manifestations of a man seeing only black spots in front of his eyes.

We scooted off ever upwards in the fading daylight for the traditional lean the bike against the trig point which is really bikey sign language for Thank Christ that’s over, I’m having a proper rest now.

Even close to the Solstice, our light abandoning decision was beginning to look somewhere between ambitious and foolhardy. Time to go. The Beacon Run is a proper man’s descent. Fast, rocky, occasionally rutted, enlivened by big holes torn out of the track and a level of exposure that would still induce vertigo in blinkers.

Good, fast run down, too late for random walkers diving for cover under the barrage of chain slap ordinance. Hero line over the big drop, sketchy on the marbles, hold it together and chase that setting sun. All that climbing? Worth every pedal revolution.

Quick conference, time for the long way home we think. Drop back into the valley before climbing back onto the ridge, but missing a couple of pointless hills. Flat out down the next one, where a quick glance at the GPS shows nearly 60k, and a look out front shows we’re going to beat the fast incoming dark.

Until Jez cases a drop and sacrifices a tube. Still nice place for a sit while he fixes it. Had it been Winter, I’d have left the bugger 😉 Tired legs propel us gently up the last proper climb opening up my favourite jump followed by my least favourite steps. Survived those, railed the following berm with reactions now perfectly tuned to trail pitch.

Into Narnia and into the dark. Proper dark with the sun setting, we make adequate progress only though trail memory and a sudden desperate belief in ESP. We hit the only really mud on the final trail link home which is fine because now we really can’t see anything at all, and it’s some manifestation we’re not riding in a cave.

It’s way past 11pm as I wearily roll the bike back into the workshop. I’m a shower and some faffing behind a much needed bed. And in just over five hours the alarm is going to be all loud and spiteful.

Who Cares?

* Unless you choose to ride along the ridge. Which would mark you out as some kind of lithuanism lesbian.

** Probably. But what’s the option? Lettuce? If the day has come that dinner is essentially crinkly water, I’ll need to up my alcohol content somewhat mitigating a salad day.

*** For those racing. Not for those turning up in wellies, grabbing a beer while pointing and laughing.

A spot of summer

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

"Summer" walk in the woods

I was doing so well. 4 rides in 4 days. Then I wasn’t doing so well. No rides in the following six. Some would call it tapering, those -with a working knowledge of my lazy gene – would call it absolutely right : rain stops play.

With work shuttling me all over the shop, when others could ride last week I could not. And when I could, I couldn’t be arsed. It’d was all for change this morning with a repeat of two weeks ago combing much needed miles in the legs and fab-a-dab-a-dosy singletrack in “the Yat”.

Except it rained And never stopped. The issue was tho when it started. 8am and I was poking about in the workshop looking for excuses. Rain hammered on the roof, so I answered with a text declaring a lack of impermeability and motivation. Text’d returned sometime later spoke of good times had by all which didn’t cheer me up at all.

Before which, my penance was to include the entire clan in a soggy dog walk through our local woods. A wood that Jess and I regularly have much fun swishing between trees on two wheels. For a mad moment I considered adding bike-age to our already considerable payload of kids, dog, wellies and sulking but a brief outbreak of sanity stayed my hand.

Instead we wandered the bike trails marvelling at the volume of unrelenting wet from upstairs and the slickness of anything unearthed from the puddle strewn ground. On a scale of “loving the experience”, the dog rated a hard 10, me a guilty 8, carol about a 6 due mainly to a lack of water repellent headgear and the offspring a number somewhere near Kelvin’s absolute zero.

"Summer" walk in the woods "Summer" walk in the woods

"Summer" walk in the woods "Summer" walk in the woods

"Summer" walk in the woods

Not riding did open up a window into which I transferred thirty odd photos from a time so ancient, not only was my hair brown but it was also mostly on my head. My lazy edit before publishing to a squillion bored wibbly viewers was mostly driven by a level of self awareness that is grounded in the sure knowledge that having people laugh at you is nearly as good as them laughing with you.

More of that soon, but if you really can’t wait to point and giggle, try my photostream.

Don’t expect much of a response from Mr. absence-of-anything-approaching-dignity here. I’ll be hauling woger wog up some steep hills in a desperate attempt to avoid the Lantern Rouge at the oh-God-It’s-So-Close Dartmoor 100.

Funny that.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Remember Winter? Cold, wet, dark and miserable?. The four seasonal horsemen of the apocalypse ride out from November through March before hibernating for the summer. Which is why we ride when it’s warm. dry, sunny and lovely. Yes?

No. I reckon those four cloak-billowing mounted dementers have their eye on summer. And like the fifth Beatle, someone forgot to tell “Windy” he’s not welcome. And not just because of the smell*

In about two weeks, I’ll be hauling my non-spent-much-time-on-a-saddle arse around and over this. Not the proper Man’s event to be fair, but still 120ks of hills, more hills, occasional cake, cocks on road bikes, rain and – of course, wind.

Headwind, chest-wind, toe-wind, all over wind experience. The bastard mix of a sprinkler powered by a Saturn-V rocket. For approximately ever. But this wind is not my excuse for doing absolutely no training whatsoever. My other excuse is generally I was too busy riding mountain bikes to waste time on tarmac, but no that’s not right either.

All winter I rode. Looked out of the window in the dark and calculated – from the sound of wet trees being smashed against car roofs – exactly what riding apparel would be appropriate for two hours battling my least favourite season. Then, ignoring all that, just wore everything I owned. Including a lifejacket.

But I still went. Most of the time it was fine, occasionally it was shit, but off-season fitness has a smug rating that’ll carry you past those who’ve given up, got fat, pre-moaned how hard it’ll be come BST. You plan for the worst and hope for the best. It’s an excellent strategy and has served me well.

Until April when all was lovely, dry and even sometimes light in the evening. Remember April? Part of a new summer that starts end of March, goes for six weeks before plunging into Autumn. You want proof? CLiC24, 2am, 2 degrees, 40 knot wind, May 16. It’s enough to encourage emigration. Not to France tho, it’s not that bad. Yet.

And since then, troughs of Atlantic lows have swept our unprotected Island with some rain, much wind and and a daily precipitation of can’t be arsed. “Bit Windy? Nah, don’t think I’ll bother” “Chance of Rain? Fuck that, it’s summer”, “Trip away? In June? Are you mad? Is drowning something you’re keen to experience?”

Stupid really. I’ve missed too many midweek rides with great excuses wrapped up in better lies. I don’t think it’s the dodgy elbow, it certainly isn’t a lack of fabulous trails to ride, nor is it my standard “can I be arsed lament” that gets blown away every time I actually can.

It’s none of those things. It isn’t even about bikes. Needs working out tho until which riding seems a bit less important that it was. That’s not funny, but it’s odd and it needs dealing with.

I am plotting with such vigour, I shall be purchasing a fluffy, white cat to stroke.

* Clearly re-incarnated from a wet Labrador.

Elbow

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

FoD - June 2011

Heard one song. Bought the album, refusing to get involved with some new-fangled “listen before buying” nonsense. Listened to the other eleven songs. Confused. Quite Northern. Otherwise, properly odd. Anyway moving on, the elbow under discussion is the right one that’s still wrong.

It sort of works which places in firmly in the category of “the remaining vaguely articulating bits of Al’s battered body“. I’ve learned to manage around always-sore ankle (casing jumps at chicksands), clicky shoulder (over the bars @ Swinley Forest followed by beating it for a week in the Atlas Mountains under pain relief called “Denial“), Dodgy Knee (opened up on Chiltern Flint and about 2mm from long term crutch use) and unrotating neck muscles (age, decrepitude, posture, computers and beating it repeatedly on the ground).

But having an elbow that – at full deflection – signals the brain to “stop the fuck with that right now” is getting almost as old as the rest of me. Regardless of that litany of injuries, mostly I’m a fast healer going from scar tissue to occasional whinge in a week or less. Pretty much the operating model for lumpy middle arm, but after starting well and getting 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} better, the last 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} remains stubbornly unfixed.

So closing doors, carrying buckets, reaching on top shelves* – you know sort of life stuff is immediately followed by a whispered “fuck that hurts“. Spotted by my long suffering and hypochondria abused wife, a quick examination revealed a lump that’s probably a chunk of grit I’ve illegally nicked from the Malvern Hills. Smart money is back to the Docs for some x-ray and remedial proddage. Al’s threepence is on further denial and stellarising the wound.***

Still three rides this weekend have left the joint sore, but the owner pretty chilled. Firstly out with my never-stop-improving youngest daughter who is starting to show a worrying velocity in the singletrack. Luckily I can still cheat enough to catch her, but she’s going to have the beating of me before too long. She does crash a lot though, but refuses to blub or blame afterwards. I’m starting to think she may be adopted.

Jessie Haugh Woods June 2011 (6 of 15)

Then a tour of local riding for my good mate Jason who- despite being a Kiwi and therefore quite odd/a worry to sheep – is an all round good egg in the don’t whinge/get on with it mould. So even after lunching himself on a rather tasty cheeky trail in the FoD, he was still keen for an 8am appointment with some Malvern Pointiness the following day.

FoD - June 2011

Ace it was, dodged the showers both days, rode some silly trails, talked a load of old bollox, had the occasional moment of blind terror and many more of “did you see that? that hip jump? you saw that right? that was awesome?…. you didn’t see it? right. Fucker“. Fired up warm things on the BBQ and cold things from the fridge which has made Monday Morning come round far too bloody quickly.

Reminded me of one thing though. Why we live here. It’s bloody fantastic. Even with a dodgy elbow. I might have mentioned that already.

* not that kind of shelf. We’ve the Internet for that kind of thing.

** A spoonerism devised under medically challenging condition during a Scotland Roadtrip. Don’t remember much about it, remember having to explain to the landlady why the bedsheets had the appearance of a double-bloody homicide. Went with “goat sacrifice” as it was less embarrassing.

The fat lady has sung..

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

RC Slingsby Capstan - finished

But not flown. In fact, reposing on the lawn is likely to be the closest the poor woody bugger gets to a landing that doesn’t end in a deep analysis of the sub-soil. My bro and I destroyed the first one some *CRIKEY* 30 years ago* through multiple arrivals that were only charitably differentiated from crashing if all the bits could be found.

To offset my legendary flying skills, I thought it best to install a pilot both scale like and sanguine. Having found myself creatively compromised, I turned to the kids who delivered in spades.

RC Slingsby Capstan - finished

Apparently Eric the abandoned-naked-doll Pilot flew well from the bedroom windows during innocent young girls’ games of “lob stuff at the lawnmower“. That was enough for me, and he’s been properly installed with pillow AND blanket. Looks pretty damn relaxed right now although that’s likely to change come first engagement with aviation.

Now she’s a fat old bird, that’s for sure. Statuesque I like to think, but even the most heroically partisan would struggle to call her pretty. The full size version attracted a legend that it generally landed before the flying tug that had hauled it aloft. This was due to a glide angle kindly compared to a brick or shot duck. Having flown the very same full size, I’m here to tell you that is no legend. Shot Brick more like.

Back to the micro version, it’s not exactly bristling with technology. Just two servos driving rudder (yaw) and elevator (pitch). For those not of an aerodynamic persuasion, what we’re saying here is the only thing that’ll get the big old bertha turning corners is if the builder hasn’t cacked up building the wings properly.

With me being the builder, you can guess at my confidence that, post chuck, it’ll merrily bulldoze downwind – occasionally wagging the capacious arse – before finishing in someone’s tele. Having come through the roof. And the first floor. Excellent, report back on that.

And delving into my other bag of excuses, the temptation of buying my way into talent has a pinnacle that looks something like this:

Still in one bit!

Pre-loved or not, that’s a shit load of cash to chuck into thin air. First couple of flights were packed with incident as it zoomed around the sky with indecent haste, leaving my thumbs some few hundred feet behind. Neither landing was great if I’m honest, with the better of the two being the one I couldn’t see once said flying cash disappeared behind the hill. Still intact tho, not quite sure how.

So switching back to something that goes very slowly and doesn’t turn round much is likely to be a bit of a challenge. Still based on how old apparently I now am, that’s probably some kind of metaphor.

* That can’t be right. Maybe now I’m so old, my memory is addled or the cerebral loaf has a wither in the mathematical deduction lobe. Whatever, it cannot be 30 years ago. Unless I was a couple of years old and chewing on the transmitter. Yeah, that’ll be it. Phew.

Perfect Timing

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

Matt - Symmonds Yat.

Which is pretty damn impressive – considering the processing delay between shutter depression and image capture on my ickle trail camera is such that it’s best to click way before the rider is even in sight. Or born.

That’s Matt making a mockery that 40lb freeride bikes aren’t perfectly fine for 50k forest bashes. The trail is one of many built but the Dirt boys out of Monmouth, and the jump is where my riding pal David first came up short and then ended up in hospital with a nasty back injury. He’s back riding well now, but as a reminder that these trails are a step up it’s compelling.

It’s as if a bunch of naughty boys have taken the rather lovely – if safe – Forest Of Dean, roughed her up a bit, stuck a ball under her jumper, given her an aggressive haircut and a hint of menace before sitting back and asking “right then, fancy taking this on do you” to a bunch of nervous fifth formers.

As a metaphor, I accept it needs some work. Steeper and deeper here, bigger climbs, increasing gradients, bigger obstacles, fast flow then slow’n’techy, surprisingly rocky and often loose- it’s a patchwork of outstanding trails where confusing confidence with ability will end in a proper accident.

It is a place – as our American Cousins would label – to bring your A game. I don’t have an “A” game and having failed to shaken a bastard cold this week and some unreconciled crashing concerns from the elbow smash a month go, an entire new alphabet would be needed to position exactly how rubbish I was going to be.

Game tho I was. Started a bit wheezily on a 15k jaunt from Ross ensuing the car for some old-school tarmac/dismantled railway bashing. Surprisingly enjoyable because of the unending beauty of the Wye Valley, and there’s something simply right about not driving to ride.

It’s all a bit winch and plummet once you’ve hit the heights of the trails proper. Three iterations demanded the thick end of a thousand metres climbing from your legs, and some level of skill and commitment when it all went grinningly vertical.

I was reminded a bit of the Climax black run, not because of terrain or surface but more because these are trails built by people who can ride a bit and they demand that you do too. Nothing insanely dangerous* but superbly flowly if you’re pushing on a bit, frustratingly difficult if not. But anyone who builds not one but TWO dry stone wall jump/drops into a single trail is a bloody genius, and deserves a tip of my virtual hat.

Most of the stuff was new and riding unsighted – chasing a vanishing Matt – had me thinking back to when I started riding. Everything was fresh, nothing was recalled, experience turned into joy and then into memories. It got me gabbling, pointing and a little bit frightened. There’s a single world for that: Alive.

Happy to be so after a final trail off the ridge which saw Matt roosting* swathes of red dirt sliding his back tyre. Seemed a good time to finish the singletrack if not the ride. No first we had to find a pub not full of bank holiday angst and barfing kids. And our joy of riding into such as establishment was hardly metered by the shock of two pints costing nearly a tenner. Mainly as that was Matt’s round 😉

I rode to work with a stinking cold last Monday and that was good. I rode in the Malverns with the arse end of that cold in the wet, damp and single digit temperatures on Thursday and that was great. I rode today on about 70{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} lung and 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} competence and that was bloody outstanding.

This seems unanswerable evidence I just love riding bikes. Long may it continue.

* Well there are a couple of things. Walking works well at this point. It’s a case of “how brave am I feeling? Quite Brave, Very Brave, No not that Brave actually on reflection”

** I know. I know. But honestly, it’s the perfect word. It was ground zero at at a roostage convention.

Trigger’s broom

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Triggers Broom

A milestone has passed. Or – now I’ve gone metric to create the illusion of travelling further – a kilometre stone. 1250 of them to be precise. That was the point at which the previous ST4 waggled its twangy arse for the last time, and collapsed into a heap of iron fillings. The horror of finding the bottom bracket had destroyed the frame by ripping through the internal threads stayed with me right up until Orange admitted it was a bit rubbish and sent me a new one.

The plan for the original bike was to replace my Cove Hardtail so saving the cost of procuring a whole flange of expensive and shiny new parts. This was not entirely successful; within six months everything but the seatpost and saddle had been replaced by the aforementioned new and shiny, and the Cove was brought back from the shed.

Now I’ve replaced the seatpost and saddle. Fiscal irresponsibility sprayed faintly with lazy logic is a dangerous way to approach a web browser. Undeterred that such a part was unavailable from any UK reseller, I went all free market and ordered directly from the Fatherland. Two days later after various helpful emails including “Ihr aktueller Bestellstatus: In Bearbeitung“*, a box bearing clever hydraulics and an fairly eye watering invoice was swiftly transferred onto old trigger up there.

And it’s ace. Being a serial seat dropper, it’s removed the tedious need to dismount and dick about with QRs for a 30 second descent before trying to find the right pedalling position again to prevent ones knees exploding. So most of the time you don’t do it, and that is an exercise in joy limitation. I remember from my skills course Tony pushing the idea of moving down not back, with all the benefits having a low CofG can bring.

So it’s clever. Don’t ask me how it works I’ve no idea. First ride, this was clearly the case with my incessant fiddling taking twice as much time compared to dismount/sigh/adjust seat/get back on. And the marketing boys have missed a trick here – “X Fusion HiLo”? Sounds like a second rate cartoon character. Since to operate the “drop“, one must reach down and tickle ones’ wedding vegetables before releasing the lever, surely there is scope here for something more manly.

I’m going with “gruntbuster tacklegrabber” which is pretty unbeatable. The rest of the bike is pretty damn good as well. Which considering that most of the time I’m at the business end of the spanners, and it’s been thrown roughly to the ground on a number of occasions is a testament to the robustness of the new frame.

Sure it’s not exactly light for a four inch travel bike. And it’s probably a little bit slack for jedi-speeder wiggly tree action, but the limiting factor by some horizon stretching distance is the rider. As it is in 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of cases, which is why magazine reviews are informative, generally well written and almost entirely useless. For me, the only thing about a bike that matters is does it put a big grin on your face every time you ride it.

Certainly does. And with the “tacklegrabber” installed, that grin’s going to get even bigger 🙂

* Which I translated as “Congratulation, we’ve shipped your product” or “For information: We’ve annexed the Sudenland”