Author: Alex

I’m back..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

… and I’m bad. Bad tempered because I packed a chest infection to go to Scotland. It accompanied me on three rides weighing me down and holding me back up the hills. Bad riding meant this didn’t matter much because it took me almost as long to go back down again, and this time I had no medical complaint to blame. If I may paraphase Swiss Tony “Corners are like a beautiful woman, fantastic when pumped and taken at speed but not quite so much fun if molested by a shuddering panic and sworn at”

I was bad at hangovers but good at drinking including a first night lager train crash that rendered me almost blind come the morning. And considering what happened late in the bar, this was clearly an act of kindness. I’ll say no more than nurses uniform, hairy bloke, drunken mates and phone camera. It was beyond ugly and still travelling when passing obscene, ungodly and probably illegal.

Here a few photos of men on bikes. Evidence of the previous paragraph was forever consigned to the great digital dustbin in the sky once I’d eaten the phone. It seemed the right thing to do.

McMoabMcMoab

Glentress BlackGlentress Black

Glentress BlackGlentress BlackGlentress Black

Glentress BlackGlentress Red

Glentress RedGlentress Red

Next week, I’ll be 40. Although friends have advised me not to start any long books and to put my affairs in order on hearing a hacking cough which is a close medical twin to tuberculous. If my peak flow doesn’t creep over 450 again soon, I’m going to buy a bungalow because stairs are just too bloody challenging.

It was fun actually. Not the cough but everything else. But then bikes, beer, sun, stupidity and great friends usually is. Until the incident with the dress and the concept that having sex with three or more vegetables should be properly called a “medley”. Or that the best way to treat a weeping wound is to “Stella-rise” it.

You probably had to be there.

Giving up

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Pretentious nonsense4 Comments

My friend Steve has given up. Not something inconsequential like beer of cigarettes. No, he has given up “ insert gasp of horror here “ Mountain Biking.

Now this is important. No really, it is “ Steve was one of the first guys which the Internet biking revolution washed up on our local trails He was, in no particular order laconic, amusing, smooth, fast and quite old. But what I remember most was that Steve embodied the manic catalyst for trips away from here, to far distant places steeped in proper hills, adrenal danger and forever memories burned in from happy retinas.

Flickr Image - Steve in full flow.

And it was Steve who waxed, with almost fundamental eulogy, over a pilgrimage to the undisputed Mecca of Mountain Biking “ we are, of course, describing the complete fat tyred experience that is Moab in the Utah desert. This is a place in which beats the pulse of every mountain biker, it drums to the heartbeat of fast moving wheels and taps out a melody that will make you dance until you are too old, too scared or just plain dead.

He was right of course, but it was five long years which passed between youthful planning and somewhat more grizzled bike portage at the airport. This mini epoch traced the delta which transformed Steve from enthusiastic evangelist to grudging passenger decayed by one huge crash, perennial illness and a slide into middle aged apathy.

But still when he did ride, he rode like the old pro we fondly remembered. Forgoing the marketing fetish for body encasing armour and serials hits on the jumpy adrenalin gland, he just got on his bike and plotted a fast route down, in tune with the mountain while we were busy fighting it.

Moab is not simply defined; it’s an unworldly fusion of mesas, buttes, arches and canyons “ the leftover desertscape created by cyclical ages of cataclysmic upthrusts and slow, patient erosion by water, ice and wind. And it can be an unforgiving place with sharp rocks and spiky vegetation poking through otherwise perfect trail dirt. Steve’s short travel bike wasn’t quite enough to compensate for too little riding and too much square edged geography, so pitching him “ often – over the bars deep into the bleeding zone.

And while Moab can break your body and “ as if you still care “ your bike as well, it absolutely is the one place that you must ride like the champ you are before you die. If there is one trail which combines epiphany, ecstasy, blind terror, bucolic beauty and just the insane bloody love of riding mountain bikes, Porcupine Rim is that trail. Pass me my will “ I have found the final resting place for my ashes,.

So “ knowing this “ we guilted a grumpy and uninterested Steve into riding it one final time. His friends knew he was ready to quit and if that were to be his fate, then the creed of our silent brotherhood was that he was going out with a bang. Possibly with an air ambulance as well but it’s important to focus on the positives.

And ride it he did, speeding off with race face in place leaving us standing slack jawed, teetering with vertigo at the cliff edge. It wasn’t until, some six kilometres of heaven sent trail later, that any of us caught up with Steve as was happily dipping his feet in the Colorado river. By which time it was clear he had ridden it firmly in the old school style; wheels on the ground, eyes on the prize, crafting sympathetic lines and carving perfect apexes.

Much later in the pub, still with shit eating grin still firmly in place, it was obvious that he had quit proper mountain biking. Oh sure, we’d still see him out occasionally but not like this “ you can only reach nirvana once, after which you are just kidding yourself. Steve wasn’t kidding, he knew that it was never going to be this good again so why risk death by a thousand cuts when you can go out, flat out with your tail on fire?

If this reads like an obituary, then I guess that is because is sort of feels like one. Steve and I go out for a beers every few weeks and we talk of things we’ve done rather than stuff we’re planning to do. And while that is still a fine way to spend an evening, it dings the mental bell that only about five more years can pass before age dulls reactions, replaces bravery with cowardice and refuses to have anything to do with bloody minded pain and suffering.

And because I want to finish on the same high as Steve, I don’t intend to waste a single minute between now and then. So pass me a bike and point me towards the trails, I’m going riding.

I’ll come t’foot of our stairs*

On By AlexIn Other stuff6 Comments

In exactly the same ways as some corner of a foreign field is forever England, the same can be said for Yorkshire. This is because, wherever we end up, we take a bit of it with us “ normally the slice which finds bars dangerous places for money and people a bit mouthy for their brains.

And the reason for this is that everything and everyone is compared unfavourably to some utopian vision of where we were born but couldn’t wait to leave. Hypocrisy is narrowly relegated just behind grumpiness in our rambling hierarchy of regional traits.

One of the owners of our Devonshire holiday retreat is a Westy hailing from the Ridings on the border of Lancashire. This is a much disputed hotbed of geographical angst, where Yorkshire overspills into our hated neighbour much like an extreme case of middle age spread.

At school, this bulge into the wrong side of the Pennines was considered to be of similar importance to Alsace-Lorraine being repatriated back to France from Germany after the treaty of Versailles. I kid you not

Before GPS, we found out where people lived by their accents and this old persons skill can still range fellow Yorkies to about thirty miles. So once bonded on county grounds, we fell back to easy regional stereotypes as if happily ensconced on our own virtual Ilkley Moor.

Ted: Nice camera you have there, must’ve cost a few bob
Al: Got it 2nd hand off a mate. Wouldn’t pay full price for one, that’d be soft
Al : That 4be4 in the drive, is that yours? Looks new
Ted: Well, it is but I beat t’dealer up until he gave me five grand off and first use of ˜er indoors. Anyroad, you need a proper off roader here [ waves hand indicating motoring hazards not immediately obvious in the soft rolling countryside.]
Al: [nods sagely]Right thee are. Reckon you’ll be needing it with all this rain
Ted: [scanning the cloudy sky]: Aye, looks like it’ll be proper wet again. Still not like my days as a boy. Most years, we swam t’school in our duffle coats and wellies, spent first hour draining playground wi’ leaky buckets and then drank what were left
Al: know what tha means. In t’winter, we sledged to school on family dog and t’weak bairns were left to die in t’snowdrifts. One lad, came from so far over yonder [ huge sweep of arm for emphasis ] he were generally found riding his Pa’s Yak
Ted: Yak? Bloody ˜ell, where did he park it?
Al: Bit odd really. He used to rent it out at break for soft lads who couldn’t find wimmin for.. well you know
Ted: Ah well good to see it being put to good use. Surprised tho young boy’d be ready for a Yak
Al: We were surrounded by bloody great cows wi’horns. We trained, trained I tell thee on Yaks before moving ont’ rough stuff

[Short pause while we considered whether bestiality could ever be a good thing]

Ted What happened to yon yak then?
Al: Went t’donkey sanctuary. Proper mental it were by fifth year
Ted: [cautiously]: Why’s that then?
Al: Poor bugger had its’ brains fucked out
Ted [strokes chin] Aye, well fair dos, guess it had a good innings

We parted amiably not sure if we’d been speaking out loud. Being proper Yorkshiremen, neither of us would admit to actually dreaming up huge whoppers for the sole purpose of trumping our regional colleague.

Still I’ve noticed they’ve kept their dog on a short leash ever since.

* other nonsensical dialect is available including the pithy tha’s not as green as tha cabbage is painted and the almost Shakespearian bloody ˜ell, I couldn’t get me ˜at on

I’m sick of this weather

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Site Stuff4 Comments

Wall to wall sunshine, soaring temperatures well into the 70s and sing of any respite for at least four days. So I’m off to Scotland where they still have proper British weather, single digit temps, total cloud cover shielding me from that nasty sun and that particular type of incessant rain that eludes expensive waterproofs and soaks you down to the molecular level.

Although, as the big four-o is less than two weeks drinking away, maybe I’ll hide myself away in a contented beery fug, warmed by a nice fire and fully in control of my new slippers. The option is to be totally out of control, sliding down a rocky hillside (sorry landslide) marking my headlong plunge as small, but important, body parts are cleaved off by spiteful, pointy geography. Now which one sounds more fun?

Or maybe a bit of both. Us wise old men understand the meaning of everything in moderation. Except writing for this blog of course and to save you from doing any work whatsoever, I’ve teed up a couple of ‘hog sized morsels for later in the week. One has a yak it it, the other a nice picture. I wouldn’t go as far as saying they are worth waiting for but if you’ve an understanding boss and terrifically low boredom threshold, you know where to come.

Before I go and pack (translation: cram everything waterproof into a bag and forget to add any strides), I’ve a favour to ask. A half written article is summarising stuff I wish I’d done before I was 40 and stuff I’m bloody glad to have got out of the way. Anything you can add which I’ll cheerfully plagiarise would be much appreciated.

Think of it as work if anybody asks.

Unhinged logic

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff3 Comments

Note to serious people: This is so tongue in cheek , the organ in question is almost in my ear, balanced on a brass neck and being fed a diet of impudence and gall. But feel free to argue the case for the bloody things because that’s what “comments in moderation” is for 😉 Hate mail welcome as ever, you have your own folder.

Right then, hinge and bracket weirdos, answer me this; “what is the point of your bleeding, breeding folders?” Oh I know you are out there – the stats report repeated sneaky redirects from “blind-welders-argus.com” and “small-wheels-small-parts.co.uk“. Ever since I wrote this, your fluttering to the unflattering light of my abuse and catty snipes betrays a need to belong – if only longingly looking in from the outside – with us proper cyclists.

Niches do this to people and being ostracised triggers an overdose of the ‘we’re worthy and we don’t care‘ gland.

I’m not buying it – normal dudes and dudettes think of bikes as only useful transport and lavish no further time or money on improving their utilitarian lot but we’re not like that. It’s an almost painless, if fiscally insane, slide from hobby into mental illness until bikes become far to close to the centre of your world. We know it’s selfish, impossible to explain, regularly painful and absolutely on the margins of diminishing returns.

But folders don’t get in – you can have your special interest groups, your forums, your no proper bikes wanted here sites but you don’t count, you don’t get to play with the big kids.

So if you’re still here, explain please the best place for 180 degrees of separation from a real bike. If it isn’t in a handy skip or discarded under a dusty museum exhibit labelled “amazingly useless stuff that somehow made it into production“, then it can only be to span the bridge between a train franchise alleged ‘commitment to cycling’ and the actual delivery of any service in support of that marketing guff.

With a huge dollop of Grudge and a soupcon of Ing, even the foldingly blind can see transportable cycles having a place on a journey that has no place for storing real ones. But if they are really oh-so-simple to de-construct into an unhappy combination of grime and spikey tubes, then “WHY THE FUCK DON’T YOU DO IT ALL THE TIME?”

My spot in the bike cage is well earned; trips taken in dreadful conditions, snot-o-grams to facilities to fix the showers, occasional humour to entertain the queue of unwashed souls shared the changing room – all that kind of thing. Oh yeah, I know my rights and you’re bang to them. This morning not only were two halves of a child’s bike, full assembled, brazenly parked in my spot, it was joined in some unholy communion by about five others.

All built, all pointless and all in my way. So one cyclist to another, here’s a free piece of advice “fold the bloody things up and take them somewhere else“. Make them a talking point at your desk, advance your green credentials to passers by or wield them as instruments of spikey death in boring meetings. I care not what, just do something.

Or get a real bike and regain some lost dignity. I absolutely believed that I was drinking deeply from the chalice of attention seeking arse, but it appears I was merely holding it for someone else.

Oh and I’m a hypocrite as well because I’m always preaching that cycling should be a broad church respecting all faiths from recumbents to downhill monsters passing through almost every oddity in between. But not folders – think of yourself as ex-communicated.

PS. I can’t go and watch transformers either because it’s giving me nasty flashbacks 😉

Flat.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Remember the old adage that dog owners begin to resemble their pets ? (I assume it is dogs, as it’d be hard to imagine even the most facially adept animal lover morphing into a double take of “ say “ a goldfish). Whatever, the very same process has transpired between me and my tyres.

First thing this morning, first commute for two weeks, the ˜rat front was partially flat and a strange shining orb was lurking in the sky, looming like an alien craft. Putting two and two together and coming up with a conspiracy theory, it seemed obvious that green eyed monsters had both taken over the free world and still had time to let my tyre down.

After some brief yet grunty action with the plastic pump of piss poorness, I’d punched 120 PSI into the soft tube on the dozy assumption that this’d provide sufficient inflation for both out and back trips. Obviously what I’d forgotten was with this much pressure, the tyre bounced and jumped over all but the flattest tarmac and my teeth will now require much expensive dental work due to unplanned yet frenzied mashing.

Flat legs mimicked the tyres as three hours MTB’ing in the Flanders of South East England had sucked the gas from these vital cycling appendages and the will to live from the rest of me. Actually, my expectations were so low, that any ride not ending in hospital or custody could be deemed broadly positive.

Because jumping on a bike before going on an extended MTB jaunt has recently led to broken bits of Al being littered over uncaring trails. Since we’re off to Scotland on Wednesday for five days of riding and five nights of drinking, this seemed a disturbing portent.

Anyway, I survived through the power of extreme mincing and rapid fire excuses while making real life contact with two people who’d been unluckily washed up on the Hedgehog. It’s like Second Life in here without the celebrity endorsements.

Here’s a picture of Duncan riding a trail that I came to think of as where the f*ck is it? Still at least this meant it couldn’t be as muddy as other 19.5 miles of which mostly all was mud flingingly gloopy and yet strangely fun.

Flickr Image

Finding the London bike was a bit of a challenge since a) I’m nearly officially old and have rapidly reducing memory and prostrate function, b) I parked abandoned it while pissed and c) the thicket of bikes made it an almost Stanley like plunge into its’ grimy heart to finally dig it out.

At which point I realised both tyres were on the soft side of usuable. My mobile pumping Viagra is a difficult hybrid of gas powered and manual inflation. It’s fairly rubbish at both but, if pushed, I’d have to plump for it being particularly useless in the wanking elbow scenario. Good job I’ve put all that time in on the Wii.

My final ode to flatness was a bendi-killer-bus doing his best to achieve the unwritten target of two dead cyclists a day. One second of inattention triggered a further three seconds of abject terror as 18 metres of Al-crushing tonnage threatened to grind me flat against the curb.

I know one thing that isn’t going to be flat later tonight “ it starts with B and ends in my belly.

Climate change is not the same as the weather outside.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

So why is it every news anchor and his excitable producer keep trying to tell us that it is? This last week, a parade of heavyweight but interchangeable talking heads have attempted to construct a logical straight line between floods and global warming without passing through any points marked ˜proper science’, ˜historical precedent’ or even ˜common sense’.

These Serious Men In Wellies, as I’ve come to think of them, are summoning the same meteorological worthies who predicted the entire South East of England would be a Dustball by July of this year. This was, of course, before the rain started and the talk of water shortages stopped way back sometime in May.

But so desperate are the SMIW to create more doom from the gloom of waist deep flooding, they load the weather charlatans with explosive questions such as Well Global Warming is certainly a factor here, and it can only get worse wouldn’t you agree?

What follows is the doomsayer, at the dry end of the camera link, waffling total nonsense interjected with the odd nugget of useful information. It goes something like well actually the research suggests warmer and longer summers [ pause for dramatic effect ] but also for more rain as well. Huh?

That’s from the same box of wrongness that sunshine and showers came from and yet it doesn’t deter His Moistness The Smug from turning to camera “ with a sweeping arm to indicate inland sea where civilisation recently habituated “ and ending his report with a brief summary on how the world will end by about next Thursday.

Don’t get me wrong here – we’ve performed all sorts of selfish buggeration of the planet and it’s clear to anyone not President of the United States that climate change is pretty much unstoppable. But the media must stop binding every rain storm, strong wind or two unbroken days of sunshine into some kind of climatically catastrophic event.

If the Jet Stream wasn’t sat squarely above Bracknell and the Azores High could be arsed to play nicely on our Southern shores, we’d all be washing in each others wee and having the perfect excuse not to clean the car. So if the bloody BBC doesn’t stop treating me like an idiot, I shall be forced to unleash BOTH the Badger Berserkers AND the Ninja Voles. You want a catastrophic event “ then these highly trained military mammals are more than happy to oblige.

Driving me crazy

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

The weather this summer has been “ if I was tending to optimistic euphemisms “quite interesting. I was making this very comment to Carol as the M4 slip road disappeared under a raging torrent of flood water. The previous 45 minutes had crammed in a whole interesting adjectives such as dangerous, awash, scary and if I can throw in a noun – biblical.

And to exciting let me add odd. Specifically the oddness surrounding a scenario where the bow wave generated by a car from the other carriageway sweeps over the bonnet, overwhelms the wipers and crashes against the screen bringing with it the real threat of imminent drowning.

At one point during this watery voyage, a BMW actually sunk up to the door seals while attempting to abandon the post apocalyptic carnage that was the motorway which, at least, shows that God has a sense of humour.

Still quite interesting this, I ventured through gritted teeth as mile after mile of aquaplaning drove slow progress westwards towards some distant vision of weather sanity. Behind us, landslips blocked the motorway and passengers were being decanted from flooded trains scheduled for “ but never arriving at Bicester. Chiltern Railways again eh? I bet God was pissing himself. Literally.

Just plotting a non water based route onto the Motorway was tough enough. The rain continued to hammer down as we were besieged in a gray dark lit only by a thousand brake lights. Our way was blocked by the unusual July hazard of the road ahead being two feet below the water table. A diversion through a roundabout summering as a tidal pond was enlivened by a flock of stranded metal ducks floating gently in this murky soup.

Being aware that buried somewhere in the handbook would be a warning that this vehicle was not fitted with the optional hull and outboard motor, my route was a more circumspect plunge through still sufficient wet stuff to bury a much loved family pet. That’s assuming your animal of choice is lion sized or bigger.

As water cascaded over the windows, my grimace of fear sounded an odd counterpoint when a little used accountancy gland secreted stomach churning bile. This complex chemical reaction could best be summarised as tell me again, exactly how much does a new engine cost ?.

The sun finally broke through clouds, still heavy with more rain, as we crested a hill hiding the first green folds of the Devonshire countryside. Ten minutes later I turned off the wipers and began the difficult mental therapy of pretending the last four hours had been nothing more than a very bad, yet extremely vivid dream.

And when finally arriving bedraggled and horribly frazzled at the holiday cottage, what do you think the first thing we did? You got it, went for a swim.

Brief Encounter

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site Stuff4 Comments

Great Film – you really don’t need a citizenship exam for the UK if you’ve watched this. It shows all the great English traits of awkwardness, politeness and an absolute sense of doing the right thing. I always thought of myself as a bit of a Trevor Howard character but as someone kindly pointed out the other day “you’re quite strange really aren’t you?”

Anyway the tenuous link to the title pertains to my holiday preparations. Firstly I’ve invested the family savings in galoshes futures and fully expect to return from a week in Devon a multi millionaire. Secondly, a large stick has been stashed for disciplining the children because I appear to be losing my voice in some kind of wages of sin laryngitides thing. And finally not being able to shout in no way prevents me from elbowing in to play our latest pointless purchase.

Yesterday we bought a Nintendo Wii. After a quick beer* with a friend of mine, plugs, attachments and cosmic interfaces were randomly shoved into appropriate sockets and we had a brief encounter with the sports pack. Well Carol did, I just drank more beer and ran around the room like a crazed aerobics instructor until 2am this morning.

It’s a brilliant idea, well executed and extremely moreish. I fully expect not to leave our holiday cottage for the next seven days. I certainly won’t be writing any of this nonsense during that time either because a) the nearest thing they have to the Internet in rural Devon is the postal goat and b) because no computers, laptops or communication devices are being afforded boot space.

Except for the Wii of course 🙂

* the first one was very quick. Lasted about a minute. We slowed down for the next four or five.

Soul Stealer

On By AlexIn Photography3 Comments

There are still certain people who believe an image taken by a camera will steal their souls. However, these individuals are not within my immediate surround which is made up of vainglorious riding buddies and children who’ve lived their life in the digital world.

One of the joys of digital photography is the immediacy of the whole experience; shoot, review, giggle or sigh and then again, again like an amped up teletubby. The whole anticipation/delay ratio of film never really stacked up for me, especially when the alternative was delivered into a world of now.

My short lived rental (ownership seems too strong a word) of the Canon 300D was mired only by its’ slow digital processing “ especially when compared to my S80 which is lightening quick “ small LCD panel and lack of fast FPS burst.

The monster! Flickr Picture

And in an amazing alignment of the karma planets, a chain of events, sales and purchases saw the 300D head northwards to my friend Mark, and a 400D replacement collected over a couple of pints last week from Bez.

As part of the deal, this monster 70-300mm lens (and with a 1.6 multiplier because of the smaller sensor that’s a whopping 110-480mm) was included which provides sufficient magnification to digitally download someones’ soul from about half a mile away. If there is ever a proper summers day and naked bathing become fashionably in sleepy Stone, I could get myself into proper trouble.

First impressions “ somewhat mitigated by not wishing to drown expensive electronics in the never ending world of wet “ are that image processing is as fast as my S80 and everything else is better. Whether this will deliver a similar uplift in performance to my photography skills is still in the balance.

All the gear and no idea? You betcha and it feels good 🙂