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.

An accident waiting to happen.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

Bit chilly, very windy, much fun.

A statement that well describes both an elongated plunge into a handy bush, and the dreadful way I dispatched a vast quantity of decent red, the evening before. The two may have been related. A weekend of much alcohol occasionally interrupted by riding was both fantastic and slightly frustrating.

Before I suffered serial navigational confusion, a tree accosted my riding person and threw me into the squidgy dirt. This was merely an end game which was nicely set up by fat floaty tyres, a trail of tractionless mud, a head still more drunk than hungover and the unpleasant sensation that you’re no longer in charge of the steering.

I’m fine thanks for asking, but still a bit confused.

You see back in the Chilterns, I knew most of the good stuff. Where to ride when it was gloopy – so that’s nine months of the year then – the best descents, the cheeky trails and when it was safe to ride them. Here, I’m still a bit of a trail remembering novice and, with my legendary navigational skills, getting lost happens always as often as getting it right.

None of this is helped by generally riding with people who know where they are going. And mainly in the dark. Attempting to translate light strobed memories into confident trail finding was about as successful as failing to open that ‘last’ bottle of wine. Although the Malverns – with the help of young whippersnapper Tim – was not so much of a problem as the Forest of Dean the following day.

Although “not so much of a problem” may not be an entirely accurate description of “er, hang on fellas, left here. No right, no straight on, ah that’s a quarry is it, right definitely left” and “bloody hell, it all looks a bit different in the light“. A hangover sharp enough to shave with wasn’t the best sidekick for a day when I was nominally in charge.

The Forest of Dean held no such fears. I didn’t even pretend to know my way around there. After a night of incessant rain, the mud was almost as constant as the rubbishness of my route finding. After the Malvern ride, the bikes were merely wiped down to remove splatters of dirt. Once we’d slopped back to the Cafe in the Forest, a full on hose down and relube was required. And that was just the riders.

It’s made me more determined to get out and get exploring even when the weather edges to the increasingly ploppy. Once you’re up to your armpits in winter vegetation, and properly lost half way down a steep hill, getting wet and cold are mere bagatelles to the main problems at hand.

On the upside, I was super confident in the twisties of the wine cupboard, and showed great bravery when presented with a line of difficult beers. Tomorrow I’m going to ride to work and if I don’t arrive, I can probably be found looking lost and confused on the road to Hereford.

Guess what?

On By AlexIn Bikes6 Comments

I’ve bought it! Mike is going to brew me up a rear hoop through the alchemetic art of wheelbuilding, and also provide some pre-loved spiky things to attach pedals then legs too. And I have found some brakes in my spares bin that I cannot remember ever owning.

So either I have been “Sleep-Thieving” or a hole has been wrenched asunder in the space time continuum. Smack bang in the centre of the “Jiffy Bag Of Unknown Bicycle Spares“. I’m basically short of just an 8 speed cassette and a 27.0 seatpost. A delve in the grotty aperture of doom still raises enough stuff to build something else.

Assuming that something else needs three handlebars, two saddles, no transmission and just the one wheel. I think we’re into the realms of a unicycle here.

Things left to do? Well apart from carefully build it when all the bit converge on a time poor Al. Tell Carol, really mustn’t forget that bit.

It must be the cold.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography16 Comments

Because what other reason could there be to find myself stroking the monitor, when I saw this:

1993 Kona. Also known as Als Insanity
1993 Kona. Also known as "Al's Insanity"

I used to have a really nice Kona but sold it when the Emperor turned up with some new threads. That one up there is even older. About 1993, which is WAY before I even started riding Mountain Bikes. Although those of you privileged to have seen me ride would probably prefer the more accurate “Short legged man being inconvenienced by a bicycle”

This one was built before the advent of suspension forks, fat tyres and the marketing fallacy that without a ‘integrated component stack of class leading technology” you would die the instant you hit the trails.

It is not without problems. Some of them are technical around old standards and the need for some advanced shed-bodgery. Others are more ethereal, but rooted in a houseful of bikes already and the proximity of a rolling pin. After the Pace, I said no more. Then I bought the Jake. Which reminded me how good Kona’s are.

You see. It’s not my fault. And I have a whole box full of spares – okay none of which will actually fit but that’s just you lot being negative.  Shame on you. Anyway I’m going to sell the Roadrat. And some pedals. So basically we’re looking at the financial instrument of extreme dubiousness “Cost Neutral”.

In no way related new,  those of you wish to read something that is not merely an electronic prod to my vanity, try my friend Alan’s blog. He doesn’t write much but what he does makes good sense. Almost the opposite to me then 🙂

Next time..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

… I’ll walk the dog. 7PM yesterday evening, some confusion about whose turn it was to drag Smurf The Smelly around the local field. I wasn’t keen due to an appointment with some snow, mud and cold – all wrapped up in a dark and windy night – starting about now. Carol wasn’t keen on the grounds she was warm and dry in the house. The dog – frankly – didn’t look up for it either.

Shirker of responsibilities that I am, I left them to it and headed out into a night about as wild and dangerous as a saloon bar in Goldrushtown, Gunsville, USA back in the early 1900s.” The ride started drizzly with a stiff north wind belying the above zero temperatures. Half way up the first climb, I felt about as overdressed as an Oscar Nominee at a Cage Fight, with sweat from the inside vying for “Dampest Thing on Al” against the increasingly persistent rain.

An hour later I was congratulating myself on three layers, all of the outer ones waterproof, buff, thick gloves and clear glasses. However that was somewhat accentuating the positive ,as we slogged up wet grass in a weather event dangerously close to a full on gale. The God of Darkness is a vengeful deity – he taketh away traction and warmth before even handedly chucking in horizontal sleet and a clump of unwanted chainsuck.

We’d already been within tree striking distance of some big accidents, travelling horizontally off roots and having less steering input than a sleeping passenger. There was unclipping here, facebush(tm) over here, and an undertone of grumpythermia* as a sleet battered route conference insanely selected a long route home over high ridges.

A decision that left us unprotected by the shoulder of the hill, and climbing on increasingly snowy paths that limited both grip and visibility. The latter was less of an issue what with the icy wind driving spiteful sleet into a faceful of numb and squint.” The descent was even more amusing with a desperation to get off the summit tempered by not actually being able to see where you were going.

I pointed the light directly at the front wheel to try and give me something to work with. But it was just placebo, and the route down was a full on trials brake-squint-deep breath-roll effort. In a further moment of madness, it was decided that we’d have a crack at one more big climb. And why not since we were already cold, piss wet through and head-to-toe muddy?

This proved an incautious decision as the now settled snow sucked power from your legs and traction from your tyres. The descent was nothing more than a “just get me out of here alive, I’ll vote Liberal, I’ll start going to Church, just get me OFF THIS SODDING HILL“. Sanity returned in the guise of a soul destroying drop back onto tarmac, losing painfully gained height but preserving sufficient core temperature to stave off proper hypothermia.

The ride home through freezing puddles and proper full on stormy rain actually wasn’t that bad after the horror of the previous hour. And when I’m sprinting up the climbs next spring and snaking down dusty singeltrack, nights like that will return more than they took. But as I shivered in my car, with the heater on full blast and the sky exploding overhead, I couldn’t help thinking:

“I should have walked the bloody dog”

* A sub symptom of hypothermia bringing together the coldness of all extremities with the unhappiness of being stuck outside in a pissing storm.

As my mum is on holiday….

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments
From Flickr Images. Random bloke giving it large
From Flickr Images. Random bloke giving it large

… May I be allowed a “FUCKING HELL THAT WAS JUST BLOODY FANTASTIC” ? Thank you.” But I cannot really tell you quite how good that was because a) I am so happy to be still alive and b) I don’t really have the words to adequately describe the feeling of mainlining adrenaline.

Cwmcarn Uplift Day Cwmcarn Uplift Day

Five minutes of riding downhill with your bollocks on fire* packs in a whole lot of life events. A gamut of emotions rollercoasting from joy to abject terror accompanied by a staccato commentary “fuck, get a grip, get inside that bloody corner, pump that, jump that, back back back some more that’s steep, fuck fuck fuck that’s rocky, get off those bloody brakes, let it go, breathe, breathe, breathe”

Cwmcarn Uplift Day Cwmcarn Uplift Day

Chasing your friends is a big part of the fun, having the same limb count at the bottom is some of the rest. The course is not hardcore compared to some of the rockfests in Scotland, but if you take liberties, it’ll respond brusquely by trying to kill you. Near the end of our seventh run, I thought I had it’s measure and went for some stuff that quickly proved I didn’t.

Cwmcarn Uplift Day Cwmcarn Uplift Day (27 of 24)

We failed to crack the five minute barrier but it’ll definitely go. And the burly bike build is staying. Okay I may remove the elephant prophylactics masquerading as inner tubes, but the rest makes the whole package just so much fucking fun at a speed on the margin of fear and unreconstructed joy.

Blasting out on the Van stereo, as we ascended for our last run, was Bono lamenting he’d yet to find what he was looking for. Looking at the bike shadows cast by the falling sun, I think maybe I already have.

* this is a metaphor. Although those DH boys were suspiciously messing around with their ciggy lighters at the top.

Cross

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography3 Comments

Although “knackered” would be a better adjective to describe my current condition. Two hours of messing about in the local woods, and straining every muscle to remove a muddy deflated tyre has left me quite spent. And that’s before the final pull home on gear ratios that are going to make a man of me.

I have, however, discovered a number of important things – even on such a short ride:

a) My “slam into things because I’ve paid for a big fork” translates not at all to a bike with thin tyres and no suspension
b) I’ve ridden some fast steering bikes. Only I haven’t because they all feel like oil tankers now. The bar has been well and truly raised. And, er, shortened.
c) Sliding round muddy corners on 28c tyres while gripping the arse end of 12 inch bars is terrifyingly involving…
d) … and more fun that you would imagine
e) Non disk brakes don’t really work well off-road. I considered dropping anchor a couple of times until it became apparent the top tube is at the same height as my love nuts. Arresting velocity using ones testicles as braking collateral feels even more dangerous than just accelerating ever faster to an accident that’s out there and waiting
f) Closing your eyes helps. It’s not like you can see anything anyway.

Jake first ride Jake first ride
But – and it’s a big one – tracks that’d be dull on an MTB are really quite ace. And being fast on the road encourages you to explore all those paths written off as dull before. I’ve linked up more in two hours today than in the last two months, and finally a loop from home is beginning to emerge from the contours on the OS map.

Before setting off on my first dropped bar ride since puberty and “10 speed racers”, I completed the rebuild of the little DMR and took it out for a bit of skills training. I can still just about bunnyhop, trackstand and wheelie up to and past the balance point. Murphy found the whole experience quite exciting and – while I was sat on the floor rubbing my sore arse – he ate a tyre.

I’m thinking of this as a worthwhile period of dog/bike bonding. Although he’s going to be a rubbish trail dog if he just injests vital components when we’re miles from anywhere. Maybe I’ll get him a saddle 🙂

Bonkers!

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

This image is stolen from BikeMagic where you can read the whole enchillarda of insanity, and check out Dan’s fantastic pictures. Don’t waste your time looking for string, wires or evidence of post production CGI.

There are none. There is only bravery and stupidity in about equal parts. This is what happens when you mix twenty of the world’s finest Freeriders, a bucket full of prize money and cahoonies the size of water melons. Check out the report, busted shoulders, broken this, smashed that – it reads like a charge sheet following a Friday Night out on Broad Street*

I may have mentioned that I quite enjoy riding mountain bikes. Occasionally I’ve even launched myself off what felt like quite large drops, and always promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. Why? Because it is so bloody frightening.

These guys do it week after week. I think they’re only allowed to stop when they die.

Completely and utterly bonkers.

* A notorious road in Birmingham near the office. Full of bars, strip clubs and – come Friday night – people fighting and people being sick. Generally at the same time.

Afan’in a laugh

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense3 Comments

At 10pm last night, I was suffused with anticipation with a bike already packed in the truck, a favourable weather forecast, a meet up early the next day with two old friends, and three of my favourite trails at the Afan MTB centre.

To say I was looking forward to a day of dry, fast riding on flowing singletrack is a phrase laced with understatement. In the same way as saying that Murphy quite enjoys his breakfast. So finding myself on a fourth visit to the toilet at 3am this morning, was a situation meriting more that a soupcon of disappointment.

It is not the worst food pointing ever inflicted on my innocent guts. That would be the night before flying home from South Africa a few years ago, where I completed an entire novel* while pooing out the contents of my small intestine. Determined not to shit my pants on the 11 hour flight home, I overdosed on Immodium which was both a spectacular success and – later – a painful disaster.

It was five days before I could go again. I honestly thought the local A&E crash team were going to be forced to remove the backed up bolus’s of bodily waste using a caesarian procedure. Last night was a mere three chapter experience, although made substantially worse by being undertaken in the outer reaches of the Arctic bathroom.

No heat can live here. You squat in trumpety misery while the icy tentacles of a chilly draught gently caresses your testicles. After one particularly lengthy exposure, my knees gave way and I crashed – head first – into the sink in the manner of a tall tree being chainsawed.

At 7am, I attempted to rise from the pit to begin my cycling odyssey. Such a noble deed was hampered by three not insignificant problems: a) an all over body weakness making even trousers a physically demanding step too far b) a poppin’ and a bangin’ stomach that suggested I’d best get started on the next chapter and c) a certain soreness where a Gentleman would normally insert a saddle.

Because I’m not even close to heroic, the best I could manage was a pathetic moan and a flaccid collapse back into the pit. The next few hours passed in extreme irritation with a perfect autumnal day loomed large in the window. Wisps of high cloud punctuated the blue sky, whisked along by a warm breeze. Weather I could best describe as “perfect for riding“.

Eventually I de-pitted myself due to a lack of hot towels and sympathy from the rest of the family, and took the kids out cycling. They certainly enjoyed themselves, disappearing to worryingly small specs on the horizon as their old-feeling man laboured breatherly behind them.

Tomorrow I’m in the slot for driving Random to a birthday party back in Aylesbury. A perfect opportunity to bag a couple of previously enjoyed trails and maybe a memorial pint. Unless tonight, I’m forced to move onto the complete works of Shakespeare, in which case the central thesis of my existence will be again confirmed.

Life isn’t bloody fair 🙁

* and not a small one at that.

There’s some good news..

On By AlexIn Bikes11 Comments
Its like that only blue
It's like that only blue

.. and some bad news. The good news is I completely failed to spend a number closely associated with the sound of a high velocity rolling pin connecting with ones wedding vegetables. The bad news is that I still appear to have bought a cross bike. Not a new one, not even close to a new one, but not one that has been ridden much either.

After the trauma of buying from a bloke in a shed, this time I’ve gone for a purchasing strategy involving someone I know. And not just someone, the renowned Seb Rogers of taking-fantastic-photographs fame. I’m giving him some cash, and his under stairs space back in exchange for a pre-love Kona Jake and a quick rag round some of his local (Mendip) trails.

The eagle eyed amongst you will notice a chainring count of ones less than optimal, and a rear cassette with cogs ranging from “small” to “dwarf”. So an ideal set of ratios for an area of the country that is reasonably well known for not being entirely flat.

Seb’s also throwing in the amusingly named “suicide levers” which may prevent almost certain death on the first off road descent. Yep, I’m definitely taking it off road, although my innate honestly forces me to admit that a) it’ll be lame off road and b) I’ll be going even slower than normal.

So does this mean the end of the trusty Roadrat? At 3000 miles and 28 months, it is both the longest serving and longest riding bike I’ve ever owned. Obviously in AlWorld(tm), this makes it just about the perfect time to sell it. Dunno tho, the Jake isn’t costing much, the Roadrat owes me nothing, and when is an extra bike ever a bad thing?

Still I may very well be hating everything duo-wheeled tomorrow after rotating up and down the Malverns with nary a tube. Fitting tubeless tyres wasn’t exactly difficult, but I hadn’t factored three tyre levers into the purchase price. One of which shattered in such a manner, I’m pretty sure there’s a bit embedded in my skull somewhere.

But it’s like the cross bike. I mean, really, what can possibly go wrong?

That was the ride that wasn’t

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

I am sat inside, looking outside at some of the finest man made trails in the UK, and wondering if this is how the end starts. Death by a thousand cuts of a hobby turned obsession which has consumed me for seven fantastic years. And whatever it has taken in time, money and broken bones, it’s more than given back in joy, friendship and the life affirming knowledge of being not quite like you.

But not now.

Shards of weak sunshine reflect on my empty coffee cup; the only thing stopping me riding are a couple of muscle movements, and a battalion of experienced trackers to hunt down my motivation. I exchange shrugs with my riding buddy, and begin to wonder what I’m doing here.

I do know how I got here. A week of riding in an increasing wet and wild country, suffering from a dampness than never fades, and a feeling of unfairness that the sun has taken its’ holiday at the same time as we chose to cruise down a thousand miles of much anticipated road trip.

So I’m pretty well bike dialled, unseasonably fit and physically ready to unhook the bike from the trailer and go pump free drugs into my watery veins. Mentally though, I’m shot away, betrayed by a shallow plan to head south early in a desperate attempt to jump through a weather window.

The idea of a quick blast round a favourite trail today, and a slightly longer version tomorrow was always at the mercy of encroaching apathy. My Satnav had been pointing home since the compass switched directions, and our car park ticket spanned just an hour. We were still sitting here, but really I have already left.

We exchange another shrug as a mud encrusted mountain biker drips past, and years of friendship preclude the need for much debate. I suggest beers at mine, he takes the bait and before we can change our minds, we’re heading hard south having picked up the virtual hitchhiker of regret in the back seat.

I dropped Mr. Regret off at Penrith – representing a nasty feeling that maybe I was running away from something so I was glad to be rid of it. Who was he to ask if I shouldn’t have just got on with it? What place was it of his to decry my credentials as a proper mountain biker? I drowned him out with the stereo playback of my kids’ shrieks at their dad being home early.

And ok I didn’t ride the next weekend, but we had the new pup and a stalking cold finally had me in its’ grip. Sure the weekend after than was also bike free, but I had so much to do, places to go with the family, be a proper dad, stop treating everything else as any other business. Paint a door, Trampoline with the kids, talk properly to my wife without incessant watch checking.

So be like just about everyone else then. But that’s okay because the midweek night ride has my name on it, and I’m not going to welch out on my friends. But I do, and the weekend after that as well. I’m okay I think but cannot bare to look at the raft of unused bicycles slowly gathering dust in the corner.

I ignore the stacks of unread bike magazines, surf away from MTB forums that now hold no interest, and spend exactly no time or money fixing stuff that is broken. Until finally I haul my apathetic arse into the hills with the expectation that nothing will be the same, climbs too long, loops too far, extra bits not worth the faff, everyone getting it except for me.

The weather conspired to deliver yet more hill clamping rain, and twenty knot winds. My bike had failed to self heal so gears crunched, chains slipped and brakes squealed. Neither had three weeks off on a pie’n’beer diet turned me into a riding God. Cod maybe as the rain cascaded off summits searching for a fast way to rivers far below, tyres slipped and mud spat off spiteful trails.

I should have hated it. And as I drove to the start point I really did wonder whether this was an intelligent way for a married man on the wrong side of forty to spend his time. And you know what, it isn’t and that is exactly the point. I drove home with rain pouring through an open window, the CD blasting out some eighties embarrassment, and ol’ gray beard here shouting it out to the rooftops.

I was in the departure lounge, with a one way ticket to middle age for a while there. But I’ve pulled back. For now.

There’s a plethora of magazine articles filled with the self loathing deceit of those having lost their riding mojo. Yet I suffered so much more, in the same way that your first teenage heartbreak is a million times worse than any other human from here back to pre-history. It wasn’t giving up riding that was really messing with my head, it was the 3am terror of what the hell I was going to fill the resulting mountain bike hole with.

But I know it’s going to happen now. Not at 41, maybe not at 45 but I can’t see the pain/reward threshold going much further than that. I will never stop riding until my legs give out, but the visceral joy of hurling mountain bikes down steep slopes clearly has a limited shelf life.

And you know what, I’m fine with that. Because, until that day, I am going to enjoy every bloody moment.