Category: Bikes

Tens of thousands of words and the odd blurred picture of fast moving vegetation rehashing one of two tenuous threads. Spliced together using random punctuation and alcohol.

The Wrong Stuff

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

It would not be unreasonable to suggest that a man with such an extensive collection as I, could ever be embarrassed by riding an inappropriate bicycle for the prevailing conditions. A pre-ride enquiry may be met with “Mild rock, light shale, short, sharp hills, soupçon of mud, occasional wet grass.Trees? Mainly Beech“.

These important variables could be simply plugged into a spreadsheet*, the mighty pivot table unleashed and correctbike(tm) shall be brought forth. Unfortunately such simple equations cannot factor in a mechanical ineptness co-efficient which renders bikes inoperable with just a few spanner twirls.

The Cove is perfectly suited to the Malvern Hills. It was also broken and the urgency of my need to repair it was not matched by any haste from the Post Office. My remaining choices were between the CX bike (Off Road insanity wrapped in thin rubber tyres), the DMR (gathering dust, goes uphill best on chairlifts), the full suspension Pace and the no suspension Kona.

The Kona has never been ridden properly off road, which – added to the nagging concern that I’d built it – made my wasting ten minutes trying to fit the light battery feel even more stupid. A desperate bodge brought forward the next issue where the light bracket was configured for the wrong bars and the missing widgets were hidden in a place known only as “fuck that, I don’t have time to look for them”

Pace it was then. I surveyed its’ appropriateness and marked it with a 2. Out of a 100. Five and half inches of travel both ends, short stubby stem, huge brakes and 2.5 inch balloon tryes stuffed with downhill tubes. Still the light bracket fitted and only when I attempted to heft it into the car did I think I’d been a little generous in the marking stakes.

Once I’d had someone help me upload it, the first 600 feet of climbing reminded me to get my imagination gland checked. Because it clearly needs recalibrating, as my fantasy of a relatively painless experience refracted through the reality prism and left me breathless and cursing. It wasn’t much better downhill either with too much squish and not enough feel.

I felt it alright for a while after, every time someone popped a big sodding hill into my personal geography. I felt as old as the Granny ring, and even though the Malverns don’t really get that muddy**, the sinking feeling was well and truly received as we plodded ever upwards at the speed of stupid.

Some days later, my riding buddy decided we had not suffered enough*** and enthusiastically set course for a second ascent of a hill locally known as “oh shit, not that bastard again“. The top of that was a long time coming, but from there it’s 500 vertical feet of giggly dirt starting fast and open, snaking through some woody singeltrack before the crux being a steep cross rooted plunge best tackled on one of two dry lines.

But only one wet one really, the “sissy” line along the top misses out the off camber routes and steepest pitch. When those roots are damp, you may as well throw yourself off at the top and save the embaressment of giving it a try. Unless you have hauled too much bike for too long on easier terrain. Because then for twenty seconds, you can mainline payback and plunge brakeless down the fall line.

It is only then when you realise how astonishingly good modern full suspension bikes are. So much so that all manufacturers should be forced to name every model “Talent Compensator”. You don’t need the brakes, all you need are a couple of beers, a blindfold and a parachute. Every time I ride the Pace, the true extent of the performance envelope becomes clear. You will never, ever be as good as these bikes.

So shall I be selecting the big fella again this weekend, pushing it a bit harder, trying to find my limits, all that kind of macho nonsense? Of course not. the spreadsheet says “No” 🙂

* I haven’t done this. Yet.

** I am comparing them to the Chilters – twinned with Flanders – Hills where 20 seconds into any winter ride turns your comapanions into whinging swamp monsters, and your bike into 45 pounds of gloopy non rotation. Oh the horror !

*** I don’t feel he was speaking for both of us.

The dog ate my footwear

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, Road Riding2 Comments

A contemporary reworking of the classic excuse offered up by lazy school children who couldn’t at least be a little more imaginative. A bloke I was at school with would regularly regale the terrifyingly northern Mr. Baxter with tales of alien invasion, a small boys’ single handed saving of the planet and the unfortunate collateral damage of his “Algebra 20 Hard Questions” being discombobulated by a frazzling death ray.

He still received the standard punishment of detention and a meeting with Baxter’s much feared “metal slipper“, but fair play to the fella for trying. It was only last night I remembered my oft slippered pal, during some ‘excuse brainstorming‘ for why my next day London meeting would be conducted in suit trousers, formal shirt and flip flops.

The dog has previous, redesigning Random’s week old trainers into fetching open toed sandals with custom chew motifs. His recent freedom from overnighting in his cage allows access to all sorts of interesting things that can be slobbered, chewed and then eaten. This includes a book – appropriately entitled – “Natural Disasters” which he took some delight in shredding.

Already, I wasn’t in the best of moods after my first bike commute of the year. Exactly half of it had been fantastic, cold and dark but immensely satisfying and reminding me why cars are just so rubbish. As are trains, especially the ones run by London Midland that can apparently teleport between platforms.

Because otherwise, why would I be chasing trains all over Birmingham New Street with my bike on my shoulder and innumerable flights of stairs blocking my progress. Some thirty minutes after this jolly game had started, I had ended up parking the bike in the correct carriage, divested myself of outer garments and courier bags, plugged in traveling tunes and opened the paper.

At which point the driver gleefully informed us that this train was giving up at Worcester, and poor saps heading West of that better get over to platform 7 sharpish. My frantic reassemblage of commuting collateral begat an elbows out charge up two punishing stair sets and a plunge down the far side. Excellent training if I ever considered Cyclocross racing,* but not an absolutely ideal way to spend most of an evening.

Especially since the overcrowding on this final train morphed me into a bikey sardine, trapped between two overstuffed carriages. The next hour was gainfully spent shuttling the bike between suitcases, tired looking passengers and train doors as I’d hurriedly parked it in the main thoroughfare. I feel my smile of acknowledgment, when being politely asked to shift IT AGAIN, may have become somewhat forced after a while.

So when Murphy greeted me with his standard arse cantilevering tailwag and slobbery hello, I sternly rejected his advances with a steely accusing finger and an admonishment of “YOU. SHOE EATER. YES YOU. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?”. His confused expression suggested the evidence of mouthy shoelace had been planted, and it was all a stitch up. Honest Guv.

Two seconds later, having conveniently forgotten his telling off, he dropped to the floor and began licking his willy in a “Bet you wish you could do this” happy manner.** This is the default position of the Murf assuming there isn’t any footwear to be chewily mangled. It’s hard to be angry with a pet which clearly takes so much pleasure in basting his testicles in slobber. I mean there is an animal which clearly knows how to have a good time, and no amount of telling off is going to change that.

I have avoided potential disciplinary being cited due to inappropriate footwear by ballasting myself down with the spare pair from the office. Climbing the last gruesome hill before home , I couldn’t help thinking if that dog continues to suffer “separation anxiety”, he’ll more likely be suffering “sharp rap on the nose with the remains of my shoe“.

Not that there is much left. He’s going to be pooing leather patches for days.

* Which I won’t. As I’ll die of heart failure or embarrassment.

** Not really. Fond of the dog as I am, there are limits to my affection.

Going Spare.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff1 Comment

I am. They didn’t. Next time I will. Even looking ever backwards to my fortieth birthday, I have yet to achieve a level of calm when multiple failures pile up on my personal highway. It all started with good intentions, as such disasters invariably do.

Firstly a slow puncture highlighted a problem with my spare tubes, of which there were many and the number that held air, which were none. Slackness personified, my standard approach of decadently replacing old with new was stymied by a lack of fresh rubber.*

An hour later, the kitchen floor was awash with a tidal wave of water, my entire patch collection had been deployed, and four tubes now leaked a little less air than before. Flushed with success**, I spent some time worshipping at the voodoo of the front mech, before retiring satisfied a pro-active maintenance regime would be rewarded by trouble free riding.

Which made the horror of an abandoned ride at 8am this morning all the worse. Firstly my cranks basically fell off, when the drive side bearing stripped itself of a thread and made a break for freedom**. My riding buddy responded with patience, a quick return to base plan and – almost immediately – a aurally impressive exploding tyre. Luckily he’d not flatspotted the tyre, unluckily he’d flatspotted the rim.

No time to fix any of that as I was under orders to be initiated into the local flying club at 11am sharp. I arrived ready to go with flight box, fuel, trainer, a whole shit load of funny shaped stuff for which I still cannot divine a purpose and a cheerful expression.

Which lasted as long as the first engine start took, which in turn took the prop and flung it across the field. The only modification I’d made to this pre-loved trainer was changing the propeller. Ahem. Things didn’t improve much as fixing that merely broke something else. I can’t say I quite understood the exact cause, but symptomatically opening the throttle sent all the control services into a St. Vitus Dance.

Apparently this isn’t good unless you’ve the plastic bag ready. I do have a spare plane but decided to leave it at home. My reasons are now as cloudy as this beer I’ve been forced to drink. Yes, forced you heard me right, because after having no ride to speak of, no sleep beforehand and no chance to marmalise balsa in the presence of experts, it seemed the right approach to the rest of the day would be to back away from anything expensive, and get drunk on the sofa.

To get my own back on fate, tomorrow I’m commuting by bike for the first time in three months. Unridden bike, uncharged lights, unused climbing muscles. But I’m confident that nothing can go wrong, because HAVEN’T I SUFFERED ENOUGH ALREADY?

I’d be pulling my hair out, if I had any.

* I did consider the obvious alternative, but even fixing tubes was better than sewing condoms. You experience may differ 😉

** But not for long. They were all flat again this morning. So I ate them to teach them a lesson

*** I’m going with awesome power of my thighs. Although it does explain why the fromt mech was a bit out.

CLIC24: 2009

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-244 Comments

After my fantastic performance last year, how could I pass up another opportunity to suffer in exactly the kind of event, I’ve come to loathe. I used to dislike 24hr racing on principle, but now experience has allowed me to really properly hate it.

Obviously I’ll be sharing my innovative training regime*, pre-event excuses and pointless bike preparation with you all. In return can you take a look at the Clic-Sargent site, and then if you feel – as I do – that it is worth supporting, my justgiving page is right here.

The event is the same format as last year. Although I expect this time it’ll be raining if we’re lucky, and hailing if not. But Neil – who runs the event – nearly didn’t run it because, tragically, his wife Helen died of breast cancer late in 2008. He’s a bloody hero for dealing with that, and organising this.

Which makes me doubly determined to raise as much money as I possibly can, even in these financially troubling times.

* Currently categorised as “cold, dark and grumpy”

Sated

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding2 Comments

Alarm shrills insistingly at 7am. My recently drunken brain equates this to work and despair leaks into my world. But, through the power of wooly thinking, I realise it’s Sunday and a happy person can select option 2 “stuff the alarm in a sock drawer and roll back over into a soft pillows and lovely, snory sleep”

Sadly option 3 has to be exercised. Along with me after a barely remembered text message exchange calling for an 8am start some 20 minute drive away. Now the horror of the 7am alarm call made sense. Well no not real sense because stumbling about in the dark and the cold, while being nipped on the toes by bin eating dog, is about the most nonsensical way to spend a Sunday morning.*

Now while the majority of the population are barely stirring, I’ve witnessed a fantastic sunrise, hit the trails in that exciting phase between refreezing and thawing, grabbed 650 metres of lovely descending, and surprised myself with a noticeable lack of gurning while depositing the height back in the gravity bank.

And at the end of it are the absolute best two words in the world** “Carb Window”. Apparently you can ape Mr Creosote for about 30 minutes after hard exercise and not get fat. It’s probably a lie, but I’ll strike down the first person who proves it. Because on a chilly, cloud locked Sunday morning, there’s not many better things than a monster cup of blitzkrieg*** coffee and an obscenely thick bacon roll.

It is in this state of ungrumpiness that I shall leave you. Expect normal service to resume tomorrow when another house quote comes in.

* I accept there may be more stupid things to do. But since I didn’t have a pride of lions, a stick and “the idiots guide to lion taming” to hand, this was the stupidest one available.

** Okay, okay maybe not but this is a family show 😉

*** The kind of stimulant that triggers the urge to go and invade a small continent, or – in these more peaceful times – go mad with the belt sander.

I’ve killed the dog.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, Photography1 Comment

Okay I haven’t but how the hell can that be comfortable? I tried lying like that – cementing the owner imitating pet myth – but quickly ran out of flexibility, dignity and limbs. We’ve been leaving the cage open over night and, aside from the daily loss of at least one wicker bin, he has so far failed to eat the furniture, cat or anything structural.

I feel he may be merely luring us into a false sense of security. One day we’ll sleepily fall downstairs* only to gasp aghast “Where is the ground floor? All I can see if one fat, sickly looking dog!”

Talking of fat, I’m merely filling until time and wine converge to bring forth the much awaited** missive on plumbing. It has a poem and everything. No, I know you can hardly wait either. But tonight, I abandoned this much stared at tube to go and ride my bike. Yes that’s right, riding it, not fixing it, hanging pointless bling off it, or staring at it with frankly worrying thoughts.

It’s thawed. Hard trails have disappeared under muck. Tyre trails snaked more sideways than straight on. Trees viscously reached out of the dark to deliver a barky headbutt. Nothing much was frozen, except for feet and noses. We lured in a newcomer with talk of an easy ride and almost no hills; and now he’s bruised and broken, but vowing to come back for more.

Top night all round really 🙂

* now Carol has removed the carpet which makes a “Headlong Plunge Fakie Bloodied Skull Finish” the descending move of choice.

** This might be classed as a phrase quite close to marketing. Which is the Dictionary Of The Hedgehog is the entry next to Painful Death.

You can be smooth, then fast…

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

… but you can never be fast, then smooth. Sage advice for almost any walk of life, but properly pertinent for those riding avoiding death. It was delivered as the single version of a truth by a man who was both, to another man who was neither. And since that day, I’ve spent quite some cash and a little less time looking for what happened between fast and stacked.

Afan December 2008 Afan December 2008

The problem wasn’t a lack of bravery. That’s the default position of the riding hedgehog and it’s never really been the high water mark of speed, perceived or otherwise. No it was the constant fear of crashing on every single corner, the neural link between that and the brakes, the frustration of being left behind – again – by my riding pals, and the total lack of bloody enjoyment every time I went out.

Afan December 2008 Afan December 2008

Get a grip I hear you say. And you’d be right because a second unquestionable truth is that once your front wheel is pointing in the right direction, most other stuff is merely distracting detail. Having lost that grip about half a second before ripping my knee open, it’s only taken me two and a half years to find it again.

Afan December 2008 Afan December 2008

That and frozen hard trails at Afan, a year riding the same bike and so much grip that – short of taking the front wheel out and installing a melon – the corners would go as fast as your eyes can deal with. This proved to be jolly good fun, and most of it came together on the last trail I real remember riding properly on.

Afan December 2008 Afan December 2008

To be fair, it wasn’t all one way Karma, two of the fellas received frostnip on a day colder enough to promise IceWilly(tm) later. Dave forgot most of his kit on the way down, and the rest of it before every ride. Andy’s lad made the near fatal mistake of chasing his dad, resulting in some quality learning time lying dazed some way away from his bike.

Afan December 2008 Afan December 2008

Nige found that eight weeks, and one wedding is not the ideal training regime for hauling cold muscles up big hills, and Jason’s poor wardrobe decision left him with extreme chafing where no man should feel even the lightest of chafes. Still I had a great time, and would take frozen and hard over cold and sloppy* regardless of chill blaines in the nether regions.

Afan December 2008 Afan December 2008

Last year we slopped about for two days trying to find some grip. This warm up to 2009** must be a sign that we’ve paid our cosmic debt, and a proper summer is merely a few months away. Probably means I’m due another huge stack then.

* Any situation. Every time 😉

** The whole new year nonsense can go and get stuffed with what’s left of the turkey as far as I’m concerned. I covered that off last year and nothing much has changed. Except getting a year closer to death. but hey let’s not start the year on that kind of downer.

Musings from 40,000 feet

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

A little out of sequence but I thought it’d gone when I found a bit of the treasured memory stick hanging from the mouth of our dog. Luckily he only ate the lid. Seemed to quite enjoy it to. Anyway.. flying to South Africa (“Welcome to the Basket Case of the Word“), I wrote this:

I am sat here, alone, cynically observing advanced states of catatonia in airline supplied romper suits. They are all pissed of course, downed by measures that would stun a hearty donkey. And shrouded under duvets of the purest white that put me in mind of a legion of dead, fat, middle aged corporate warriors

I’m sober through a combination of a waiting hire car, and the enduring memory of an incident many years ago involving multiple bottles of wine, and nearly being turned back at American customs. So my ears are full of engine roar displacement music, and I’m left with eight hours of nothing to do but sneer at a plethora of business class worthies – each thinking they are more important than each other.

They are clearly more important than me. The whole experience from collection in a posh car driven by an old man with values slightly right of Genghis Kahn, to being whisked through security by a pretty women who knew my name feels like it should be happening to someone else. I’m mentally back on the train to a factor of about five – this is not my world, these are not my people, I don’t belong here.

The Virgin “upper class wing” – their words, never mine – describes this feeling in spades. It’s clearly been designed to a brief of “funky” and so split between zones of fun, work, chill out, and emergency haircuts. I’m about as close to Amish in spaces like this as you can get. Wandering about, waiting to be thrown out until I find something that looks visibly close to a bar.

Grabbing a beer served by two happy barmen who talk about their customers – between serving cocktails to the type of people who cannot demean themselves by looking their lessers in the eye – so we swap stories of arseholes, and watch the death throes of English Rugby on the big screen. They love their jobs to be fair, it’s good money and better to be away from the general bottle throwing population out in the public areas.

Having found some kindred spirits, I extend my shoulder chip to the sit down bar found on the plane. When everyone else has passed out, the cabin crew tell me that – even at a third full – all the profit in at this end of the plane, and everyone downstream in the cheap seas are nothing more than organic baggage.

I risk a non committal smile as a defence mechanism in the same way I’ve failed to kick off about my drivers’ “they come over here taking our jobs” rant a few hours earlier. For which there are many reasons, the sort of reserve the English feel allows dictators to invade sovereign countries, a weary acceptance that I’m not clever enough to make people see another side to an argument, and the guilt that comes with me pushing the firm to pay for me to fly this way.

People lampoon Billy Connolly with the dichotomy of his castles and working class welding stories. I feel a bit like that. I’m desperately proud of being brought up in a small house with a proper coal cellar, but still secretly love the trappings of the business traveller.

Bloody hell, that’s such a craven admission I think I’ll risk a beer. It’s that or I’m going to start poking sleepy passengers with an accusing finger and a demand to know where they get off being such dickheads.

Christmas Presents – Part 2 and 3

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

Part 2 you can see right there ^^. That photograph was supposed to depict the speed, excitement and frisson of danger that only a competitive game of Air Hockey can create. Sadly, it fails to do so which is a shame because – even our bargain basement example – is way more fun that a big fan, a swathe of MDF and two Mexican hats for a small dog should ever be.

The designer must have been provided with a strict brief “Think Cheap and remember we’ve got a warehouse full of black ash MDF that needs shifting“. I was transported back to 1983 on opening the box, and the whole thing has “least cost bidder” written all over it. However, this in no way affects the way it makes you giggle when playing it. I intend to get all protractor angly good at killer shots, and then start playing my friends for money.

Part 3 you cannot see as it’s under the desk and seeping a bit. My right leg has some crazy paving scarring from an accident I spent about twenty seconds trying to have last night. It was not even a big drop – less than two feet – but both the entry and exit are a bit nasty. My standard approach is to hit it as fast as I dare, so lessoning my inability to pop the front wheel at low speeds.

Last night I was following Jezz – wheel popper extraordinare – at a speed that was clearly going to require some input from me other than closing my eyes and hoping for the best. Sadly, my pre-lip gurn/lift and shift did nothing other than unclip my right foot from the pedal.

Things went downhill rather rapidly from there. The pedal whipped round and struck me a mighty blow on the calf, I pitched forward over the bars, and my left wrist rotated round those bars to almost point back at me, while waving a desperate warning. This was some way away from “stable and calm body position” experts purport is the least life threatening approach when you and the ground are no longer connected.

The landing* started with only two of my limbs attached to the bike and nearly finished there as well. Convinced the end was indeed nigh, I withdrew my head – turtle like – from beyond the stem and braced for impact. Crashing through some gorse bushes in a one legged, one armed buckaroo fashion distracted me from the unbelievable situation of still being wheels up and attached.

Eventually the cacophony of sound (bike, undergrowth, rider screaming) ended without anything damaged other than the bloody leg where we came in. Lying in the hospital after the big accident I had in 2006, I kept replaying the crash in my mind, specifically how I could have been so damn unlucky to smash myself up on such a benign trail.

Well last night Karma may well have been restored. And that seems the right note to sign off and wish all you sufferers of the hedgehog a very Merry** Christmas 🙂

* See previous post regarding the SuperCub. Landing is really underplaying exactly how fraught and bouncy things were at this time

** Oh yes. Starting about now. What d’ya mean it’s 9am? And your point is?

Gone !

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff3 Comments

1) The day with the shortest number of daylight hours. Pedants insist you describe it in this way because “it is not in any way shorter than any other day fnugh, perhumph*”. They also find this amusing, which is why many of us would like the shooting season to be extended to those whose goal in life is to tell you you’re wrong.

2) My hair. A pre-Christmas mow with the trimmer has finally answered a perennial question of “Which comes first the expanding crown or the receeding fringe?” The answer is both, and it now appears my bald pate is expanding ever skywards through what remains on the sides. In other hair related news, whispy gray folicles from every other orifice appear to be on the increase.

3) The number of rides that haven’t involved hub deep mud. A squelsh around the Wyre forest reintroduced me to chainsuck, unwanted sideways movement of tyres, a full body immersion experience enlivened by a hard pebble dashing from suspicious looking brown stuff, and 20 vigorous minutes with the hosepipe to find something even vaguely bike shaped.

4) Work. Until 2009, although only after three hours of purgatory on Saturday morning. My out of office reads something like “You poor sap still in the office eh? Stuff your email, I couldn’t care less frankly“. Well it doesn’t, but it would if I didn’t fancy a difficult meeting with Human Remains Resources.

5) My legs. After their feeble efforts to churn mud into dirt, they have adopted a mutinous position when presented with my idea for a quick ride today. But no matter, they’ll be flogged with the rest of me, since HONC is only three and a bit months away. and at least 4 kilos of Al needs to be gone before then as well!

So that’s me off riding then. Fortuantly there is a lovely real fire warmed pub that does the best Pork Scratching on the way back. Which is important as – like any honed athlete – I understand the importance of recovery food and rehydration.

* They all speak like that. Trust me I know, I work with accountants.