Author: Alex

Private investigations*

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

I’m not big on hospitals. Nor market driven public services, but principals occupy the same temporal phase space as fiscal responsibility in the ‘to me-to you‘ non reality world of Al. So after six months of low level shoulder aggravation failing to respond to either anti-inflamation lager or apathetic NHS services, I caved in and went private.

The NHS is a wonderful idea, poorly executed. Great for kids, superbly provisioned for life threatening diseases but not stellar for any diagnoses unlikely to be terminal. I fear for elderly patients waiting for hip operations – the poor buggers are more likely to die of boredom than by falling down the stairs.

Having never been to a private hospital before, the irony of spoiling a PR photo of happy, smiling staff selling expensive services didn’t fail to raise a smile as I pushed through to the inner sanctum. And this doesn’t look like a hospital with it’s queueless reception, winning smiles and comfortable chairs. Even the coffee was drinkable and I sat, ensconced in a chair purchased from the catalogue of Gentlemen’s clubs, watching the world of the rich sashay by.

It’s tricky this. Because as an unreconstructed idealist – with a bent for meritocracy – I still amusingly cling to the construct that everyone deserves the same chances, be that in education or health. And yet in a diametric lurch to the right, you cannot but help be impressed by Swiss-watch appointments, instant x-rays, treatment plans and doctors who are clearly right at the top of the medical pile. There’s a joke there but leaving that for the moment, the bloke contorting my shoulder into ever more painful positions diagnosed my injury, confirmed it on his light board, filled me full of cortisone and dispatched me homewards, with two months of physio appointments, in less than sixty minutes.

He is clearly brilliant and – worse – knows it and so has an air of irritating smugness. It grates more than my shoulder because it puts you in mind of American waitresses – in that you are paying for them to be nice. Not because they like you but because they’d like your cash. But even though he is the centre of attention, still there is some residual worth even on the periphery as the patient.

The best metaphor I can conjure is that of flying business class. It is a great experience but you feel like a bit of a fraud – any minute now, a dapper, well spoken gentleman is going to explain, in cut glass vowels, how you don’t qualify to be a proper human being. This is not your world and only because the firm is – thankfully – paying for it, can you pretend that it is.

Still this chip on my shoulder is now mirrored by the chip in my shoulder. There is a bit missing, and the best a dose of drugs and physio can offer is a 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} chance it won’t be under the knife early next year. And post operation tedium includes no driving for two weeks and worse – way way worse – no bikes for another month after that. Jeez, why not just chop my testicles off while you’re at it.

So I’m lucky enough to be mostly healthy and three months from being fixed. The NHS is lovely in people but rubbish in process. So on balance, selling out is ideologically bad but personally good unless any nurses from the hospital are reading this. I was kidding about the testicles, ok?

* I stopped listening to Dire Straits when Mark Knopflers headband was larger than his head. Instead I shouted at MTV “C’mon you’ve made a squillon quid, stop now while you have some dignity“. A bit like this blog. Except without the money.

Flash Boredom

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Dark out there isn’t it? Reminds me of a story of an dying wizard who wasn’t ready for a tense meeting with the grim reaper, so instead cast about himself with powerful spells to ward off the coming of Death. Then on entombing his still living body in a coffin sized box laced with much magic, he allowed himself the smile of the smug just before a deep voice in his ear lamented cheerfully “Dark in here isn’t it?”

Grumpy Mean Time is upon us and with it seemingly perpetual darkness than brings “The Coming Of The Idiots”. Ninja Cyclists I can deal with, but not the other 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} who labour under the illusion that flashing lights provide exactly that. If one were being particularly anal, you could argue that a flashing light is working exactly half the time and that’s the whole problem. I ventured out into the middle of what could only have been “persecute an epileptic” evening with the black punctuated by a thousand tiny flashguns.

It is no surprise there are so many bloody accidents. Those things are hypnotic – I found myself mesmerised as a sailboat driven by sirens to a rocky grave. I actually find myself siding with the poor sodding car drivers – optical sensors overloaded by the flashing sequence of random LED’s. “I was forced to run over the cyclist because he was doing my bloody head in” would seem a pretty sound defense argument.

I’m sat here hours later with retinal memory delivering laser strobes onto overwrought optical nerves. It seems my options are limited to:

a) Stopping whinging
b) A large roll of tape and some tough conversations
c) Some kind of bar mounted Electro Magnetic Pulse Generator.

I have at my disposal a beginners guide to electrical theory, a soldering iron, a car battery and unlimited Internet access. What can possibly go wrong?

I fully intend to write the Berlin/Hamster post if only I can solve the cryptic brainteaser that would magically flash the pictures from my mobile phone to the PC. Both of which are running Windoze. I’m starting from the assumption that this may be the root of the problem meaning some old school hammer and chisel action may be required to tease them out.

“There is something of the night about him”

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

A famous insult once speared into the political testicles of Michael Howard. The strident weeble – occasionally masquerading as a human being – known to us as Anne Widdicombe authored the quote and she should know. I cannot believe the RSC are every short of a dumpy witch for the blasted heath, whenever the self righteous dwarf is in town.

But to Mountain Bikers, riding through the five dank, dark months between summer and spring is almost a badge of honour. We embrace the darkness, the slop and the cold because the alternative is not riding and that’s just silly. I appreciate this is a bit of a volte-face on my part, but levels of randomness and abandoning previously cherished positions is all part of my charm. Even so, while bikes work fine in the dark, motivation is harder to get started. For two years, my expensive light and bucket full of excuses reduced my night riding to dull and chilly commuting.

Last night, all that changed. And to ensure it was a properly exciting evening, I chose to ride a partially broken bike in the company of the fifteenth fastest man in Britain, on unknown trails mired in post deluge slop. And all this with a light of questionable reliability powered by a battery stripped of its’ power through two years of a commute/recharge cycle. Did consider going the whole hog and blindfolding myself as well.

As I made my last will and testament and waved a tearful goodbye to my family, the last rays of light slipped behind the low Chiltern hills, and I was pitched into the black night. Which was thankfully illuminated – after a brief electronic burp – by a whitening arc of HID technology. Ennobled by this, the first road climb passed quickly for Dean and Steve and some more slowly for me with the seeping chill through my gloves distracting me from broken suspension parts.

Still this began to fill like a good idea right up until the time when we actually headed off road. A fateful juxtaposition matched a patch of slippy mud with an ill advised light adjustment. This sloppy event broke what little traction summer tyres can provide, and it was the bushes for me as my role switched from pilot to passenger.
A slightly embarrassing start to the ride but fairly representative of the next fifteen minutes as I slid about in a parody of control, trying to match the light with the trail and becoming ever more removed from my riding buddies. Their existence was occasionally verified by crazy light beams stabbing distant trees some miles away. It takes a while to tune into the rhythm of the night – in twisty singletrack, the light points one way and the trail another leaving you to swiftly re-learn the art of divining the corner apex from dimly lit shadows.

And while every MTB’r can ride in mud – it is in our fat tyred genes – sliding sideways on corner entry is a bit disturbing until you remember how much fun it is. Speeds are lower than daylight, but concentration is higher. Picking out barely discernible lines, trusting momentum over vision and dodging woody collateral hanging from unseen branches. It’s a full mind and body workout and all the more worthwhile for it.

But it’s more than that. The woods are a magical place at night; moths trapped in high intensity light beams, the almost oppressive silence of the trees and the stillness of standing mute, lights off, listening the happy sounds of nocturnal mammals killing each other.

The final trail home, transformed by a carpet of muddy leaves, was no longer a high speed, jumpy singletrack gem, more a committed power though mud sucking traction – but it’s still good and it’s still a prelude to beer. A fantastic evening then and one I’m keen to repeat until the mud eats the trails completely. But on examining my rather expensive, Californian designed full suspension bike it is clear this may not be the steed for winter hooning.

Obviously, you all know what that means. You will be unsurprised to hear I have a project bubbling in the witches cauldron.

Man Overboard!

On By AlexIn Site StuffLeave a comment

I am jumping ship for a few days to relocate the family to Devon during the hardest school holiday of the year. Still I don’t reckon the sea will be that cold and there will be plenty of space on the windswept beach to build sandcastles. Failing that, it’ll be the indoor play park for them and large paper for me.

Unless we lose the rugby on Saturday in which case I’ll be instituting a complete media blackout, and pretending I am a South African for the next four years.

And although whitespace probably has more amusing content that anything I write, the virtual press waits for no one and a couple of articles will magically appear during my absence. Well not magically because teleporting is still a young science but I’m sure you get my drift.

Before I leave this evening, I need to cull my inbox with extreme prejudice, complete the twenty tasks I airily promised to have done today, remove the forks on one bike and ship them to a proper repairer, sort out my brothers bike which he is finally taking ownership of after leaving it with me for two weeks, four years ago and patiently explain to the kids that the equation “Kids Toys for Four days > Volume of car boot” cannot be solved unless I’m wielding the chainsaw of justice.

Better get on with it then.

Flaws to Manual

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography9 Comments

Took me a while to write this. I’d lost my muse, but found it once more when light dawned on the inside of the beer fridge. And once I’d started, I couldn’t stop which is the kind of sticky scenario that every boy who has passed through puberty can probably relate to.

So snuggle deeper into your comfortable office chair*, feast on a biscuit if that is your want and come hither to learn the dark secrets in the art of light.**

Firstly myths, debunking for the use of. Santa Claus was invented by Coca Cola, the tooth fairy is your mum and automatic is for the people.*** If you don’t believe me, Google for the first two and/or get some therapy, but hold fast to the last one because we’ll be giving it an extensive prodding with the sword of truth later on. But first this.

Continue reading “Flaws to Manual” →

Nutter

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff4 Comments

Pontification has often been the mother of narrative on the hedgehog and, as such, much time has been wasted invested on a nailed down description of a “proper nutter“. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, it seems as if I may have inadvertantly researched the definitive answer.

After a couple of ‘relief’ beers (post appraisal, again I have achieved the grudging distinction of “borderline employable“), the prospect of a fast ride home under dry skies and double digit temperatures was something to be savoured as the train edged slowly northwards. There is a sense almost like cheating when you are deep into Autumn but the riding still feels like late summer.

As I was accesorising myself with all things bikey, a bloke – my age and height but about half my weight again – enquired what I was doing. Somewhat nonplussed on the not insubstantial grounds that I was a shorts wearing, courier bag carrying, helmet affixing fellow with a clear two wheeled bent, I gave him a facial burst of stunned hedgehog.

He explained “no, I can see you’re going to ride a bicycle but isn’t a bit cold and dark?”
“No, the bike has lights, I have clothes, it’s all good”
“Well how far do you go then?” he fingerly podged in my direction still examining me as if I were a composite of a crack victim and a screaming mentalist.
“About six miles”
“Does it take long?” he worried
Warming to my task “well it’s 21 minutes flat in calm conditions, add about 220-240 seconds for a westerly assuming it’s running at less than 10 knots. Hard rain can cost me a bit, cold a bit more until my legs are warm, anything over 20 knots and you could be up to half an hour unless it switches east in which case I’m a sail”

I was just about to cross reference rain type with tyre choice and explain the need to do such a calculation with pivot tables, when I noticed he had the look of a man having triggered an avalanche by throwing an innocent snowball.

So instead I asked “What about you, car I guess?” with a smug twang to my question
“Oh Yes, I live on the other side of Haddenham” he explained with a shudder as if his journey scaled unmapped peaks in distant countries
Confused I was all “but it’s a little village, that’s a mile at best, a lovely 20 minute stroll on quiet roads under streetlights, why would you drive? I mean, why?”

He was edging away now as the train slowed to disgorge us onto the platform. His eyes worried this way and that. The stab of the door release spoke volumes of his need to get away from this hippy, who might be about to eat his car keys and invest him with the power of the lentil.

Doors open, he’s waddled off with a worried look over his shoulder. But I was doing nothing more than a gentle amble. You don’t want to get too near to people like that. They’re madder than a sack full of frisky badgers.

Be vigilant – they may pass at first glance as normal. Don’t make that mistake. The nutters are everywhere.

Blowout.

On By AlexIn Other stuff7 Comments

Air was involved, tyres or arses were not. A quarterly Asthma checkup and the peak flow meter is the undisputed big gun of lung levelling metrics. There’s a scary graph of past performance with soaring summits of invincibility shadowed by deep valleys of potential bungalow ownership.

2006 average was about 600, the first half of this year down a worrying 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} on that. The units of measurement is irrelevant but the top line number is not. Most of you frisky young souls out there scale unworldly peaks of 800+ assuming you have been playing nicely with your breathing chambers, and are the non dead side of 40. Hence my excuse for panting like a black dog on a hot summers day fifteen seconds into any climb. Other areas of piss poor performance are not directly related much as I pretend they are.

So when the trend is downwards, the fear spikes hard the other way. And that’s why many of my fellow sufferers cheat before the test. Gulping down surreptitious blasts from their blue inhalers, feasting on the marketing buffet of power breathers or hyperventilating in the bogs before the test. One guy just sits in the waiting room chowing down on Snickers bars which are hardly a performance enhancing drug but it seems to make him happy. Or at least, slightly less hand shakingly nervous.

Today with a clear conscience, a snifter of cold and the remains of a hangover, my number came up and that number was 660. The nurse clearly thought I’d been practicing my technique or had undertaken a back street lung transplant, and my surprise wasn’t far behind.

Always looking on the Yorkshire side of good news, it seems I’ll have to ramraid the excuses bank and find some other reasons why I still climb like a three legged stoat with a head wound. Probably a bike thing, maybe I should get another one.

Hi…

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site Stuff2 Comments

…atus. Much as I wish to share with you the collective state of embarrassment that followed a mobile phone conversation, a stern word and an extremely drunk person being violently sick, it’ll have to wait because – frankly – I have better things to do. And there’s still just about enough residual pain from a desk based shoulder injury to trigger a pretty standard whine about age, infirmity and the ergonomically disastrous pda thingy.

But a long weekend of riding, photography and beer awaits as the ace MTB photographer Seb Rogers takes me and three others under his wing in an attempt to focus our fledgling (or in my case non existent) soul stealing skills. Metcheck tells me the sun will shine, history tells me I shall probably be using crushing hangovers as excuses for rubbish everything, my wife tells me this is an odd thing to ask for as a 40th birthday present.

Bikes? Photography? Beer? Quantocks Singletrack? No, on reflection, I think it’ll be fine.

Back Monday with some awesome riding shots assuming I can steal Seb’s memory card.

Reverse stalker.

On By AlexIn Site Stuff5 Comments

During a spot of electronic housekeeping, the entire stat-pack from the last year has been deleted archived. This is all part of a complex but well documented back up regime where the whole bloody lot has gone, gone, gone every possible care is taken to ensure that data is not lost. Twenty years in IT and still a bit punchy on the “are you ABSOLUTELY SURE?” dialogue box.

So a million spam bots can again batter their electronic bullet heads against the triple glazed window of my spam filter while I take a brief peek behind the net curtains of the stats page. Twitching as I was, it seems not much has changed, still about five hundred real people a day, still a few hits from some rather large organisations that clearly don’t monitor web access AND a regular web prod from a person who works for a major Formula 1 Company.

Sod the rest of you, I’m talking to him/her. Look, I basically lie for a living so if you need anything fabricating that’d induce some kind of reciprocal come and have a look round the factory, I’m up for it. Honestly, I’m that shallow. Really, like a tea spoon.

Actually building on that, I may soon be in need of a low interest loan, some tyres for the car, a post grad degree, a warehouseful of fish fingers and a pair of novelty socks. You know how you are. And now, worryingly so do I.

Anyway I hit delete again? Why? Because I’m stupid and wondered if it’s true that only an insane man will do the same thing twice to see if he gets the same result.

If MySpace were a country..

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site Stuff5 Comments

… it’d house 150 million citizens apparently. Dreadful place to live tho – nobody over the age of about 11, a language with all the vocabulary required to span ‘ugh’ to ‘fuck’ and a national costume of grunge, dirt and hair. Difficult to see how it’d get past the first generation since economic success would be based on everyone getting up around 2pm and playing in an unsigned band. Copulation could also be a bit hit and miss, what with everyone looking the same and communicating in base grunt.

If Facebook were a country, 30 Million middle class people would amusingly poke each other every five minutes whilst exclaiming “I am currently wasting my time pretending to be hip“. The country would be a hotbed of dinner parties, photo exchanges and membership of ever more niche clubs such as “one handed, two fingered, three in a bed with a baboon“. Nobody would have to work because they’ve already earned their money and the only market would see useless trinkets traded on eBay.

If Pickled-Hedgehog was a country, 550 lunatics would be running the asylum. Most would cycle, all would drink and victims from FaceBook and MySpace would be imported for merry challenges involving the scorpion pit. We would lie, cheat, exaggerate, self-promote, idolise in vainglory and repent at leisure. Rain would be banned as would tarmac, street performers and any institution professing an interest in democracy. I would, of course, be in charge but there would be sufficient Dukedoms and Titles so that you wouldn’t mind.

We’ve already done policy. I reckon we’ve all earned a decent drink and a nice round of cheese.