Author: Alex

Sunshine and Showers.

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

Not a terribly adventurous weather forecast for this time of year is it? A squillion pounds worth of powerful supercomputers running multi-threaded modelling software all expertly analysed by blokes with beards and yet this is the best they can come up with? So I’ve challenged myself to do better, and in no way felt hampered by having nothing more than a window, a rainfall measuring device* and many years of weather lore ingrained by being continually pissed on while commuting.

But I thought it was important to start small** and look for a niche opportunity to sell this fresh new meteorological service. So I bring to you “The Indoor Forecast” – now I accept the market is potentially only two children with no money of their own, a woman who has none of my obsession for stuff I can’t change and a dog, who while looking interested and keen, views weather as something that aids running, eating sheep shit and rolling in fox poo.

On the upside, it does give me an ideal opportunity to stop the kids’ pocket money and raid their bank accounts. The next obvious question would be “Exactly how hard is it to forecast indoor weather“. Well quite bloody hard actually Mr. Clever Trousers, especially when your heating system is essentially a NASA space shuttle only with more complexity and potential for catastrophic explosions.

We had great plans for our utility room, all scuppered by the installation of a Scud Missile masquerading as two hot water cylinders and a Swedish Heat Pump that has more than the odd blond moment. There is no room for anything other than shock and awe with the sheer quantity of stuff connecting the two. We have the output of 400 metres of under garden pipe at one end, multiple snakes of hot and cold water conduits disappearing through various apertures, electrical systems strung between the two and pumps, so many pumps pushing liquid this way and that. It is exactly like a 70s film set where the cat-stroking bad guy cackles”Ah Mr. Bond, marvel at my Destroy The World machine and see now that I cannot be beaten mwaaaahhhh”

So the bottom of the house is heated by underfloor heating, the top by big radiators, the bathrooms by huge steel towel rails all working off different circuits and powered by different, er, stuff. The hot water is another physics lesson in itself, and I’ve taken to wondering aloud if it is all really just magic, with careful examination of the darker spaces bringing elves and other magic creatures into the light.

“What has all this to do with indoor weather?” you demand. Well just this; on Monday evening, the local forecast at 21:45 hours was for a cool front passing through the kitchen (dog outside, door open), a warm channel of air being forced between two channels of high pressure (sure you can work that out), cloudy upstairs (steaming bath) and extremely wet on two walls where once there had been just dry plaster and fresh paintwork.

The outlook was not good at all. The threat of localised flooding was a real possibility, as were lighting strikes from frying electrics and definite impediments to travel unless one was packing an inflatable. At times like this, it’s important your first response gets right to the heart of the problem. Knowing this, and not much else I shouted to Carol “Probably worth knowing someting has exploded upstairs and we’ve Vietnamese boat people docking at our TV“. She instantly diagnosed the problem and dispatched me to Mission Control to shut down all systems.

Again, not as easy as it sounds. It goes like this; run into utility room and be faced with a barrage of flanges, wheels and valves, flashing me back to WWII films where the plucky brit single handedly attempts to put out a massive fire in a submarine engine room. In such films, rarely does the hero dash back into the kitchen for a chair much needed to ascend the North Face of the Scud. A riot of grunting, flipping and punching eventually created a tense quiet on the Western Front. The cascade was reduced to a dribble, which descrives well my soggy mental conditon as well.

The advent of a proper plumber brought guiltily forth a faulty “sealed for life“*** component that had decided it would rather be a hose than a pipe. We’re still awash in the sea of damp carpet, mouldering plaster and soggy floor, but had it happened an hour later, the forecast would have told of the kind of disaster that unstoppable hot water at mains pressure would create.

I am considering though a return to wood fires and tin baths. Or getting some new elves in. Elf and Safety you see – they just don’t go together. The forecast for the rest of the week is turning increasingly grumpy, with large clouds of depression and some internal wine showers at regular intervals.

* Bucket
* And work down.
*** Maybe of a mayfly. Lasted a total of four days.

Shh, it’s a secret.

On By AlexIn Other stuff3 Comments

I have just signed the Official Secrets Act* and frankly that’s a worry. Firstly, because even the most cursory examination of my past will not only uncover skeletons in the closet, it’ll will also cast a embarrassing light on why most of them have four legs. And the general proportions of a goat.

What is equally perturbing is exactly how difficult it is to complete the form. Not because it is particularly complicated, more the almost endless repetition of name, address and date of birth. I started to think this was all part of the test, and the spooks were trying to catch you out by asking the same question in many different places. And I’m not sure I will pass – because completing it on the wobbly train this morning has hieroglyphed my entry into a code as complex as Enigma.

This isn’t the end of it either. I have been summoned to present myself to the security controller who shall doubtless be an ex-military type with waxed mustache and pefecftly shined shoes**. I fully expect to be given a dressing down on multiple points including poor handwriting, form completion outside the designated boxes and a lack of mirror presentation of the corporate brogue. I’ll be lucky if I’m able to run away before being shot.

If this invasion of my shady past wasn’t bad enough, I now find a second once-mighty-oak has almost broken my desk with it’s heft and girth. I don’t even know the answers to some of the questions on this 22 page form (with a similar sized document providing “guidance”) and it’s doubtful I’ll escape without the big rejected stamp and a citation for Lack of Moral Fibre.

It is mildy diverting to find all the forms must be completed by hand. There is absolutely no joined up process by which your details can flow between documents. So far I’ve been forced to remember how old I am a staggering eleven times. It does make you wonder exactly how efficient our Home Office is because you just know all this stuff gets re-keyed into five different systems, while the originals filed in some huge, dusty basement.

Is it any surprise that government officials lose secret documents on an almost daily basis? I mean there are so many copies in so many different formats, Why don’t we just open the doors to MI5 and invite everyone in for a look-see. And then we could interogate them or torture them or lock ’em in the basement along with my capacious files.

Still I’ll be alright. Because I know stuff now that I can’t tell you about. And no, it doesnt have anything to do with that goat, the tub of whipped cream and the spontaneous combustion of terrified ungulates.

* Has anyone signed the unofficial secret act? What’s in there then “Yeah try not to sleep with Russian Spies if you’ve a briefcase full of secret stuff, y’know?”

** And that’s just the women.

I do not love the smell of wet plaster in the morning.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

Last night our swanky new heating system suffered the kind of failure that can easily remodel your house, replacing solids with liquids. Assuming the crisis does pass, I will explain how three minutes of my life were exercised in rotating big wheels, flipping switches and winding flange levers. To ask if our heating system is a bit complex is akin to wondering whether Tesco is a tad busy the night before Christmas.

However, until then let me share with you some fine satire on the world of modern life and corporate speak. I’m sure you’ve probably seen it before, but it cheered me up this morning. And I really did need cheering up.

*TESTICULATING.
Waving your arms around and talking bollocks.

*BLAMESTORMING.
Sitting round in a group, discussing why a deadline was missed or a project failed, and who was responsible.

*SEAGULL MANAGER.
A manager, who flies in, makes a lot of noise, craps on everything and everyone and then leaves.

*ASSMOSIS.
The process by which people seem to absorb success and advancement by sucking up to the boss rather than working hard.

*SALMON DAY.
The experience of spending an entire day swimming upstream only to get screwed .

*CUBE FARM.
An office filled with cubicles.

*PRAIRIE DOGGING.
When someone yells or drops something loudly in a cube farm, and people’s heads pop up over the walls to see what’s going on. (This also applies to applause for a promotion because there may be cake.)

*SITCOMs.
Single Income, Two Children, And Oppressive Mortgage. What yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the kids or start a ‘home business’.

*SINBAD.
Single working girls. Single income, no boyfriend and desperate.

*AEROPLANE BLONDE.
One who has bleached/dyed her hair but still has a ‘black box’.

* PERCUSSIVE MAINTENANCE.
The fine art of whacking the crap out of an electronic device to get it to work again.

*ADMINISPHERE.
The rarefied organisational layers beginning just above the rank and file. Decisions that fall from the ‘adminisphere’ are often profoundly inappropriate or irrelevant to the problems they were designed to solve. This is often affiliated with the dreaded ‘administrivia’ – needless paperwork and processes.

* 404.
Someone who’s clueless. From the World Wide Web error message ‘404 not found’ meaning that the requested document could not be located.

*OH – NO SECOND.
That minuscule fraction of time in which you realize that you’ve just made a BIG mistake (e.g. you’ve hit ‘reply all’).

*JOHNNY-NO-STARS.
A young man of substandard intelligence, the typical adolescent who works in a burger restaurant. The ‘no-stars’ comes from the badges displaying stars that staff at fast-food restaurants often wears to show their level of training.

*GOING FOR A McSHIT.
Entering a fast food restaurant with no intention of buying food, you’re just going to the bog. (Loo) If challenged by a pimply staff member, your declaration to them that you’ll buy their food afterwards is known as a McShit with Lies.

*MILLENNIUM DOMES.
The contents of a wonder bra, i.e. extremely impressive when viewed from the outside, but there’s actually naught in there worth seeing.

*GREYHOUND.
A very short skirt only an inch from the hare.

* SALAD DODGER.
An excellent phrase for an overweight person.

* SWAMP-DONKEY
A deeply unattractive person.

* MONKEY BATH.
A bath so hot, that when lowering yourself in, you go: ‘Oo! Oo! Oo! Aa! Aa! Aa!’.

* MYSTERY BUS.
The bus that arrives at the pub on Friday night while you’re in the toilet after your 10th pint, and whisks away all the unattractive people so the pub is suddenly packed with stunners when you come back in.

* BREAKING THE SEAL.
Your first pee in the pub, usually after 2 hours of drinking. After breaking the seal of your bladder, repeat visits to the toilet will be required every 10 or 15 minutes for the rest of the night.

* TART FUEL.
Bottled premixed spirits, regularly consumed by young women.

* PICASSO BUM.
A woman whose knickers are too small for her, so she looks like she’s got 4 buttocks.

Stolen brazenly from Julian who is old mate and recent hedgehogger.

The future’s bright, the future is…

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

It flies! Retro colours, rubbish pilot

.. orange-ish. Had you going there eh? Thought I had bought a new bike. No, that particular item has not even reached the debating table, and the assertion that “it is easier to apologise than ask permission” is somewhat tempered by the potential loss of testicle to the rolling pin of fiscal stimulation.

Make of that what you will. Anyway another glider has been committed to aviation which is not as mundane as you may think. Because I* built it, covered it, plugged it full of electronics and even flew it on its’ first – and nearly last – flight.

The plunge into the valley below was, this time, not a direct consequence of my stick twiddling skills. No, the major factor was launching into a autumnal abyss not troubled by any actual wind. Cutting out the technical stuff, gliders without wind are generally slightly aerodynamic bricks soon to become many, many unrecognisable shards of splintered wood.

To my amazement I managed to land** some 15 metres below my feet in some handy bracken. Subsequent attempts at flying above the ridge have been mainly successful and, so far, I’ve returned home with the same number of pieces as I started with. In the same shape. This is pretty contrary to my flying career so far. Probably just got lucky.

Every time I stand on the slope, I think “I really should be riding my bike”. I have been riding, but it’s not exactly a priority for my spare time. Saturday we had a proper MTB ride in the woods with the kids, except they had a great time sliding between trees, and I less so chasing them on Shanks’ pony, much encumbered by tyre-chewing mutt.

I think the solution would be a new bike. And possibly a novelty testicle.

* Except for the difficult bits. Carol did those. Natch 😉

** Verb used in the context of “was available for re-use” rather than anything you’ve experienced in a proper aircraft.

Not My World

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

NWM(hm)* encompasses that every increasing slice of life’s pie chart entitled “what the fuck?“. This vast swathe of nonsense starts at politicians, ends at people who confuse wealth with entitlement and pinpoints swaggery, arrogance, stupidity and downright lunacy at all points in between.

It’s quite a big slice. Give us representative examples I hear you ask. How long have you got I would reply except I have a real corker burning hot right here, right now. I’ve been extremely fortunate this year spending only a few days away from home thereby avoiding the cockmunchery of business class, business dinners and business hotels all wrapped in self importance and toe curling obsequiousness.

Last week that my world stopped while this started. One night in our dirty Capital starting out well with too many beers with too few old friends**, and ended meandering in a slightly inebriated peramble back to a new hotel shadowed by the magnificence of St. Pauls.

A nice man with a top hat and eastern European accent clearly felt I was in not state to operate a door and wafted me into reception. Where three more of a similar geographic landscape fell upon me and my luggage offering all sorts of services and smiles, somewhere in the middle of which might have been a room for the night.

Dignity is something I’ve long been separated from. And I have some history here both in a deficient self control gland and a hatred for contemporary hotels. But even with all that and headful of rubbish beer, I still delivered sufficient upright bearing to refuse assistance in carrying a very small bag and a very tired body up a single flight of stairs.

Nodding vigorously at the retention of my working class credentials, I dodged two more hotel-borg on the extended stroll to my room – the hotel being quite large and me failing to decipher the oh-so-arty hieroglyphics masquerading as room numbers. A lucky break and a repeated key stabbing action gained me access to a space both clearly brand new and evidently decorated by a man who was so NWM he probably arrived in a designer spaceship.

Of the many terrors this “hybrid third place delivering joy on many different soul levels” holds for the common man, the second most scary was represented by the bed. Or more precisely what was on the bed – to whit 12 cushions. And there were two beds . TWENTY-FUCKING-FOUR cushions? What is going on here? Clearly some kind of haberdashery arms race between competing hotels “Yes Gervase, they may have tassles spun from the testicle fur of a Arabian camel ,but who has covered the entire room with 70s wallpaper stuffed with foam? Hmm Hmm?”

Unless you are a giraffe such plump accouterments are nothing more than pointless garnish, which may go some way to explaining how only 11 pence remained for the lighting system. Some not very bright spark configured the many and varied side lights, over hanging bulbs, desk illuminations and searing mirror lights in such a way they could only be extinguished by a master switch by the door.

I’ll let you think about that while I stumble about in a doomed navigational voyage to the bed. I successfully avoided various modern edgy edges before being felled by one of the very cushions I’d tossed to the floor some minutes earlier. Only mildly winded and lightly bruised, I climbed into bed where it became apparent no expense had been spared on the heating system either.

No because they’d captured a small sun and installed it directly under my room. Three more fraught journeys to the air conditioning panel*** made little difference other than adding to the all body bruising. Eventually I gave up, adding a duvet sail to the sea of pointless cushions and spent the next six hours not sleeping much.

The alarm call had all the charm that an electronic beep can offer before being followed up by one of the reception zombies enquiring if I required anything else? A proper night’s sleep? A room that’s not heated by the earth’s core? A lighting system not designed by the bloke from the Crystal Maze? “I’ll send up a suggestion card shall I sir?”

So hungover, tired and hungry I felt my day could only improve by a nice relaxing shower. Obviously, being me, I could never get that fucking lucky. The whole bathroom was a riot of light, mirrors, angles and everything carefully designed to make a fragile head feel slightly worse. But this merely was a curtain raiser for the shower; what a statement this was – huge tiled area, multiple outlets, mirrored casings and three shiny, chromed knobs with absolutely no notation on them whatsoever.

Being a proper engineer, I twiddled with the knobs**** for a while before an ill advised full bore rotation of a random knob fired out water at a pressure speaking directly of a conduit mined to the Mariana trench. Cold water at that, although cold isn’t really a good describing word as my kids would say. They probably wouldn’t say “FUUUUUCKKKK SHIIIIT WHAT THE TWATING HELL IS GOING ON HERE?” because they’d have been too busy drowning.

The sheer volume of icy liquid left me with no option but to salmon swim back up the cubicle in order to beat the stupid controls with a bloody fist. Finally I achieved some kind of water karma, but frankly I’d rather have fallen into the Thames than spend one bloody minute in that hotel. On checking out, many shiny teeth asked me if I’d enjoyed my brief stay.

And because I’m English I said “Yes, it was lovely” and “Do you have a doctor on site because I think I may have broken your shower with my testicles. Terribly sorry“.

And yet, and yet London is a hard place to hate on an autumnal morning draped in blue sky under a warming yellow sun. I popped into St. Pauls and wished the hotel designers had spent one minute in here because – even to a dedicated atheist such as me – it has an undoubted presence and almost endless beauty. And on my short walk to the office, I ducked off the main drag and wandered happily through narrow streets peopled with every size, shape and colour you could every want to meet.

I like that. And I liked the boggling choice of places for a NWM man to get a breakfast that doesn’t cost twenty five quid and come with worryingly attentive waiters. I chose one at random, ordered up pig inna bun accompanied by a vat of tea and all was well with the world.

Until the bill came and with it a demand for the best part of ten pounds.

Not My World. Not even close.

* Hedgehog Mark. Like a trademark only spikier.

** Up to the point when I – un-Yorkshirelike – I got a round in. How much for a beer? At least serve it bloody warm.

*** I considered ringing reception for some string but could not face the bright smiles of 300 or so employees turning up at my door.

**** Which kept me entertained for a while but realistically wasn’t going to get me clean and corporate.

Bridge Works.

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

Well it doesn’t really. There is a famous* motorway bridge that fords the mighty River Severn and is occasionally open for traffic. When they finished it back in the late 60’s, the mechanical plant was so fucked they just buried in the soft clay. Which makes a fantastic jape if you’re ever asked by the metal detector nerds for a good spot to go electronic lawn-mowing**

Last year they closed it for twenty dark weeks to break the world record for the longest continuous smoke of a dog-eared roll up. Honestly, on re-opening the only difference appeared to be a nine foot length of Armco and a sign informing us of how our council tax had funded a few thousand hours of chain smoking slackery. This year they’re straining the boundaries of sanity by offering up 24 weeks of low speed slinky cones under the auspices of generic “Bridge Works”

.No idea what this means. Unless it’s a group noun for thirty orange hatted stationary vehicles acting as a leaning post for shoulder shrugging hi viz jackets. I had much time to muse on the exact purpose of closing this arterial masterpiece today, while some desultory clearing of a large accident took place.

For one hour I sat with the radio merrily informing me I’d be better off leaving at the junction some 100 yards behind me unless my travel plans included staring out of the window and swearing. Since the crack of dawn had cracked me out of my happily duvet’d bed, and my destination still felt many days away, I couldn’t help but gird the grumpy gland and wonder why the fuck this always happens to me

And some others obviously, but it’s not like they’re important. At this time I really wanted to be in one of the many emergency vehicles speeding down the hard should, or the inventor of a teleporting machine, or – and to be honest this was about the limit of my aspiration – back in bed dreaming of excuses why I don’t need to be here.

Anyway sufficient time passed for me to consider a second shave before a slow rubber-necked crawl past the remains of what was clearly a fairly impressive stack with three cars still on their side and all sorts of industrial equipment sawing away at bodywork that was unlikely to buff out.

And then I noticed something fantastic. Not the mirrored queue on the other side created entirely by ghoulish commuters with nothing better to do that stop and stare, or exchanging a respectful, manly nod with a policeman who waved we through. No it was the mere fact that two of the destroyed vehicles were BMW’s. And the other one was an Audi.

That’ll learn you tailgating and testosterone don’t mix won’t it cock-boys eh? One of the drivers of cockmobile-1 was still staggering about jabbering into his mobile phone. I didn’t just smile, I thought “hey two BMW’s AND an Audi – that’s worth an hour of my time”

Still gloating will always come back and poke one up the behind, as was perfectly observed when some five miles down the road I noticed a happy sign declaiming “Road Works here for 28 weeks, Delays possible”

Possible? Possible? People will die and mothers will give birth in these queues. At this rate I’ll have to ride through the winter and get the train. Imagine how grumpy I’ll be then.

* well famous in Herefordshire, but then that’s a short list including a cow that looks a bit like Jesus.

** I refuse to call them “detectorists” in the same way that “Railway Enthusiasts” are Train Spotters in dirty anoraks and “Aeromodelling Pilots” are sad old geeks who would cherish the kudos of being as cool as a train spotter.

A new bike and some proper riding.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Obviously the first statement is very me, but the second inaccurately describes my associations with bi-wheeled transport. Except in my head, and you don’t want to be in there. I have much to say on a new hedgehog premise that shall be used to judge future experiences, and most of a post sensationalising how the Aldi powertool designer has a direct line to the man who developed the Trebuchet. Languishing behind that are some further words on commuting in the cold, dark world we hardy Brits inhabit for the next six months.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

But somehow none of this matters. Abi had her new bike this week and we jumped through a couple of weather windows to try it out. There’s much to like; 26inch wheels, proper hubs, rims and tyres, disc brakes, lovely frame made of the stuff they used for race bikes a few years back and contact points and forks specially modified for the gentler gender.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

But that’s largely irrelevant because the crux of all this is how much fun she (and her sister now upgraded to Abi’s old 24 inch Spesh) had riding it. We’ll be back out in the woods tomorrow if the rain stays away where mud, smiles and proper parenting shall make the most of a snatched couple of days holiday.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

I’ve said before that any father who confuses being vicarious with being a good dad is a bloody idiot. But there is something rather special about hearing your kids laugh while being splattered with mud. It’ll probably all wear off as new bike syndrome becomes old hat, but until it does I am going to make sure every opportunity is taken to go and be silly in the countryside.

Abi's new MTB Abi's new MTB

Last week was horrible for all sorts of reasons. It throws the good stuff into sharp relief. And not even I can be grumpy about that.

Buried

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

That’s me. Not physically, but hold that thought while I mentally prepare my list of people who should be. This week I have mainly been firing up the motivational chainsaw, while adopting a coping mechanism built around edged weapons.

Things have not been going well.

I’ve missed out on riding, and almost everything else other than sitting in front of a phone and shouting. The phone is carefully placed so to leave me room to beat my head repeatedly against the desk. Again, I categorise such action as “coping”.

This morning, the light finally filtered into my train journey at Reading. I am sure you can imagine how disappointing that is. Whooshing through the Cotswolds – identified by the smell of twee – in the inky blackness of the pre-dawn, only for light to illuminate the architectural disaster area that is London West.

I do not expect my day to improve. Although tonight I am separated from the hedgy burrow by an evening in London. I expect most of tomorrow to involve some form of hangover cure. Possibly hacking my own head off with that chainsaw.

Until then, I must away. Things to do, people to see, desks to damage through the management tool of hysterical headbutting.

It’s not my fault – part 2

On By AlexIn Bikes1 Comment

Returning from Afan last weekend, my mind was made up that another bike needed to join the “happy shed” of existing lovelies. I’d even managed to meet my rule of “one in and one out” by selling Random’s little bike. Not sure this is entirely in the spirit of that rule either, since we are about to spend about half a bathroom refurb* on replacing it.

However, having reviewed the house budget, it seems we are in the eye of a debt storm that has all the signs of a Gordon Brown like approach of carrying on spending, even when you don’t have any cash. The difference is, we’re unlikely to have much success tapping up the IMF for a loan.

So I’d consoled myself that really spending over a grand on a new frame was going to go down about as well as a squelchy turd on a new sofa. I was going to press on with what I had, and merely invest in some lust and jealousy when my friend’s new one turned up.

I was lamenting this disastrous situation to Tim H who simply turned the tables by sending me a link to a bike site offering three years interest free credit. Thereby chopping my fiscally rationale off at the kneecaps.

Thanks Tim. I may as well go for a custom colour as well eh 😉

* This is the way you start to think about money when a) you don’t have any and b) you’re in the middle of a never ending project to rebuild your house.

I’ve st4rted so..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

I’ll finish. Probably. Or possibly not, because my cherished belief that the many issues with my riding can be simply solved though the slavish adherence to shiny purchasing syndrome has been superseded by the Peter Principle. To summarise Prof Pete, “Every man rises to his own level of incompetence and then stays there”. I’ve some pretty strong personal evidence that would buttress this theory beyond any danger of rebuttal.

But enough about my day job. Age brings many thing one of which is supposedly wisdom – in my view nothing more than realism sent for a marketing makeover – and while I continue to bloody love riding Mountain Bikes, I’ve accepted I’ll never be more than aspirationally average.

Let’s talk evidence again; I’m overly cautious when conditions aren’t perfect, useless with anything exposed especially if covered with chicken wire*, slow in super tight stuff and dangerously ragged when it gets properly rocky. None of this has to do with the stuff below groin level, and everything related to a small skill pie constantly nibbled away by basic scardycatness.

But reel me out some sweepy singletrack and I’ll respond with progress that is adequately brisk. Show me steep and scary, and I’ll show you how to get down there although it won’t be pretty**, plaster me with mud, freeze me with cold and threaten to benight me, and I’ll respond with a level of bloody mindedness that’d have the medical profession checking me for Donkey DNA.

Flicking back to work, I heard a brilliant phrase from the HR Borgs that went something like “Unconsciously incompetent“. I think that describes my riding perfectly – I am not the slowest up hill or the fastest down, but I’m mostly having a fantastic time even if others are laughing behind their hands.

Grudgingly – back to the Peter Principle – I still have to accept some of this is definitely still bike related. But not that much because MTB’s now are just so bloody good. Invest£500 and be rewarded with a component combination that’ll thrill you until your permanent grin promises sectioning in your near future. Spend a bit more, and you get a little less – yet sufficient degrees of separation eek out some kind of insane value proposition.

The trailcentre at Afan worried me that the marketing men have won. The car park rolled out pristine, range topping bikes, cool threads, an entire batallion of body armour and some well padded, middle aged white guys decamping from new reg Audi’s and BMW’s. Sorry to wander of the point here, but when the fuck did that happen? It must be trail centre specific, because the guys I ride with totally fail to mainline that particular look-at-me drug. Sure, they have nice bikes but they can ride them a bit.

I can’t help thinking it’s stopped being about trudging through endless winter nights to bank Karma for summer epics. If it’s not on a plate, perfectly groomed and encased in FairTrade latte’s, then this breed of mountain bikers can’t see the point. I spend too much money on bikes because I absolutely bloody love it, even though I’m not brave enough, skilled enough, fit enough, whatever to get anywhere close to the limits of the stuff I buy.

But they are not fashion accessories. It really pisses me off these guys – and they all are – can’t generally ride for shit, but that doesn’t matter because they look like they can. And after a day pinging them off the trail, let me tell you I am not stereotyping here. If we all get ghetto’d onto Scalextric circuits, and exclusion is now based on the stupid price of entry, then we bloody well deserve it.

To trump my own argument, days like this are why trail centres are ace. We rode W2 – 45k, 3000 feet of climbing taking in the Wall and Whytes routes. The ST4 was properly fantastic on every section, a proper trail bike with non racey angles, enough travel to get you first in and then out of trouble, super low bottom bracket that replaces cornering with instinct, and a puppy dog love of just never wanting to stop.

The odd pedal strike aside, it’s the best short travel full suss I’ve ever ridden***, it never feels underbiked or overweight. It’s both simple and clever making best use of the brilliant shock technology now on offer. It’s Jedi Speeder fast in fast singletrack even with my fists of ham, and bounces up and down rocks as well as bikes with significantly more travel and heft.

I liked it very much. I liked riding with my friends more, and feeling fit enough to enjoy through to the very end. Driving home, I had a thought on loop which went something like “I fucking love riding mountain bikes, don’t you dare ever take that away, don’t let stuff get in the way, don’t make excuses, don’t make this AOB. This isn’t about being different any more, it’s not about the next best thing, it’s not about what makes you look good, it’s about flashing between trees, picking lines that shit you up and then make you laugh out loud, grinding up climbs, taking the piss with your mates and just not ever stopping“.

Do I want an ST4? Sure, lots of reasons, even a few good ones. Would I make a deal with the devil to sell everything I own to ride a few more years on what I already have? You betcha.

* A material I think of “face ripper”

** A comment that encompasses almost everything I try.

*** And yes, I accept there have been a few.