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.

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.

Slakes

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

Flickr Image

A beguiling combination of a country and a county that roll out the rocky welcome mat to vertically challenged mountain bikers everywhere. I had every intention of weaving the five strands of riding days into a cosy rug of photographs, lies and tales of extensive manliness.

Scotland 2008 MTB (13 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (12 of 99)
But a few pages of serial narrative can be easily summarised into get up, check weather, grumpily select galoshes, consume huge breakfast as a buffer to imminent dampness, fettle bikes, dig deep for any dry kit, force wrinkled feet into damp socks, wait for weather break and then go ride.

Scotland 2008 MTB (15 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (23 of 99)

Splash, smile, dismount in comedic fashion, mudspit(tm), slither about like a snake on alcopops, and retire to any establishment that has a roof and a huge cake portion policy. Abuse washing machines of B&B before heading out for any evening meal that promised not to poison you. A certain establishment in Castle Douglas promised just this, but poisoned us anyway.
Scotland 2008 MTB (30 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (37 of 99)

Actually we never got wet from the sky down while we were out riding. But there was sufficient H20 from the ground up, that mud raining on your head wasn’t an infrequent experience.

Scotland 2008 MTB (49 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (45 of 99)

The riding was fantastic and varied from the big views, huge climbs and monster rocks of the south lakes to the groomed singletrack of the trail centres mixed with a big ride over General Wade’s military road, and a blast over the laugh-out-loud rocky funbags of Laggan Wolftrax.

Scotland 2008 MTB (60 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (64 of 99)
When we weren’t riding or trying to find Australians to bait*, sometime was admittedly spent trying to find agreeable beer in pubs where no-one was fighting. This proved to be a bit of a challenge which saw my birthday drinks squibbing out damply about 11pm. But as a man to whom 40 has been and gone, my reward was a nice cup of hot tea and a stroke of some new slippers.

Scotland 2008 MTB (69 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (70 of 99)

Heading north was a superb experience – I have never crossed any latitude so close to a pole, except at 38,000 feet with a G&T in my hand. The scenery became wilder, the riding more epic and the burgers both cow sized and staggeringly cheap.

Scotland 2008 MTB (78 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (83 of 99)
And apart from not seeing the sun for the best part of a week and two never ending climbs competing for the “I’m the biggest bastard” award, there were few downsides, which considering great friends, plentiful beer and pretending to be accomplished on expensive springy appendages, how could that not be the case?
Scotland 2008 MTB (89 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (99 of 99)

Next year though, maybe some other country deserves out patronage. Possibly somewhere with more than four days of sunlight per annum.

* Nigel and I agreed that if Team GB came 68th in the medal table we wouldn’t care. As long as Australia were 69th.

The time has come to get properly wet.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, Photography6 Comments

Flickr Image

Here’s a picture of what summer looks like. It is from the other side of the world, and taken some six months ago. I still have about a 1000 pictures from that holiday to review, consider, photoshop and then toss in the virtual dustbin. Still it does remind me that some parts of the planet have seasons other than “cold rain“, “chilly hail” “3 month cloud” and “warmer rain with storms”

My drive up north tomorrow is showing as a day that could – if one were tending to the exceeding charitable – be classified as sort of summery. The first day we’re out riding however has Metcheck excited over the prospect of three inches of rain, a cloudbase of zero and a maximum temperature of ten degrees. Which sets the tone for the rest of the week.

So rather than sulk about it, I’ve packed everything that is marketed as even slightly waterproof. I intend to utilise these garments in the well known layering system of wearing everything at the same time. The downside is my car is absolutely packed to the gunwales (apposite term) with stuff and my airy promise to add a person, bike and luggage to the return trip may play out as “Right Andy, it’s you or your bike”

I have also managed to fit in an emergency haircut which ensures I don’t break the first rule of birthday drinks and pick up anything sharp “for a laugh” after many beers. Carol tells me my crown isn’t getting any bigger but this is somewhat offset by the retreating wave of folicles in front of it. I no longer need a hair style or even a combover – really my options are limited to a wig or a hat.

Assuming I can remember how to swim and my liver survives some serial action from the alcohol drip, I’ll be back in a week to tell of mighty epics and life threateneing situations while humming the theme from “The Man From Atlantis“.

Wish me luck, I’m going in.

Beer.. or ride… or Beer… or

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff2 Comments

Not generally a difficult choice. If the sun is shining then beer somehow tastes even better after a pre-dinner sharpener of dirt and sweat. If it’s raining then proceed straight to beer never passing waterproofs, motivation or mud. If, however, your summer is full of moistness and your head desperate for the outside room, even a dodgy forecast and an unbroken line of brooding clouds won’t keep you inside.

But maybe it should. Especially if you forget your rain jacket. Not once, but twice with the second effort irritating me to the point of offering the BBC website a new weather mnemonic known simply as “October“.

My worthy, if navigationally flawed, attempt to link two great woods with something other than boring tarmac has taken on the mantle of an epic voyage. Columbus may has mistaken a few warm islands in the Caribbean for the West Indian coast, but that is nothing, NOTHING I tell you to my aimless wanderings around the Herefordshire countryside.

I have be so lost that a prominent hill positively identified with a major geographical outcrop on my map, turned out to be exactly 180 degrees behind me. Angry shaken fists at distant farmers for sowing crops over little used footpaths were replaced by embarrassed waves, as it became apparent I was carving a wheeled wake over private land. I’ve been scratched, bitten, flayed by spiteful thorns at various times during the last four rides and rained on every time.

The final straw was Monday’s voyage of non discovery where, after thirty minutes of hiding in a wood waiting for the rain to subside below the pain barrier, a dispirited splash back home on hissing, soaked blacktop was rewarded by the sun peeping from behind the now vanishing clouds as I wrung out my socks.

Still every cloud has – apart from about four inches of rain – a silver lining as my map is now nothing more than slightly crinkly water. I don’t suppose this will hinder my route finding in the slightest.

I promised myself that this was the year I would stop bitching about stuff beyond my control. Which at a mere three days before my forty first birthday seems to include about everything.

Specifically though, I was hoping for a sanguinity of middle age where politicians, solicitors, estate agents, voxpox wankers on the radio, Suduko, traffic and, of course, anyone owning a folding bicycle would merely be laughed off in the great game of life.

Failed. Miserable. About to be older, balder and fatter no doubt. So rather than face up to any of that, I’m off to Scotland for our annual “damp midge” tour of some proper mountains. The forecast fully meets my new criteria for “October” which suggests alot of drinking will take place, while expensive mountain bikes remain unmolested by an outside full of horrid.

I just hope no-one tries to wear a PVC dress again this year. I’m barely past the waking up screaming stage from the last time around.

That was the weekend that was

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

Black Mountains August 2008 (19 of 37) by you.

How can it be 6pm on Sunday evening? Someone stole my weekend and unless that same someone gives it back, there shall be unspecified but violently executed trouble. About ten minutes ago, we were enjoying an outdoor dead cow grill-off freshened up by a couple of cold ones, and now there is only a nights’ sleep away from the corporate grind.

I’ll accept that a whole day was lost to some old school mountain biking. With all the new trail centres and dedicated riding, it’s easy to forget that inking in a huge circle round a couple of mountains and just getting on with it, was the default approach to a big day out.

The black mountains offer gradient, views, exposure and wilderness in equal parts. If bad things happen, you’re along way from help and nowhere near a phone signal. As I’d picked up the navigating tab, my nervousness as leaving us benighted on a proper Welsh mountain probably contributed to us getting lost on the way to the start point.

Black Mountains August 2008 (11 of 37) Black Mountains August 2008 (13 of 37)
Which set the scene for us (well me really) failing a number of navigational challenges including “This is a muddy sheep track and you promised us a big rocky downhill” and “How the hell do we get out of this humongous, wood before extreme hunger sets in and you’re dinner“

Black Mountains August 2008 (14 of 37) Black Mountains August 2008 (32 of 37)

And even when we finally stumbled back on track, huge 1000 foot carries separated us from the other side of the mountain. And endless climbs – framed by ground to sky glacial valleys – mocked our weedy legs and rasping lungs. But when gravity began pushing rather than pulling, we happily plunged down 10 kilometre descents, and bashed rocks until our legs, arms and central cortex could take no more.
Black Mountains August 2008 (20 of 37) Black Mountains August 2008 (29 of 37)
Which was about the point that the final 4 miles of climbing unwound from the very top of a big forest. Luckily I headed off the “Al in a Pot” mutiny by spotting a short cut which saved a) a 300 foot climb to the summit and b) my bacon.

The big day ended in a big feast where three men did something quite obscene to a huge dish of lasagna. Followed by similar acts of hedonism on some damn fine reds. All of which made cooking up a cholesterol death breakfast the first imperative of a groggy Sunday morning. Summarily dispatched, my body appeared incapable of independent movement – a state that completely failed to pass muster when confronted by a shit load of moving and grouting that apparently cannot wait.

So cleaned bikes, unloaded a ton of stone – which appears to have the same price per ounce as gold* – moved stuff around in a circular fashion, and made strenuous attempts to prevent children from trampolining into the river. When I say strenuous, what I actually mean is shouting “if you bounce over the fence, don’t expect me or your mum to come and get you. Swim down to Hereford and hand yourself over to a policeman“

And now it’s 6PM and the weekend has just been whipped away from under my foraging snout. Two questions – can this be in any way fair, and who do I blame?

* more on this later, when the insanity of buying a 200 year old cider pressing stone in leiu of food for a year dims to a dull ache.

First light. Then rain.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Blah blah dawn ride blah dawn mist shrouds the trees, blah surreal view over the Malvern hills, blah sun burning heat and light into the day, blah, 35 MPH sweeping downhill on deserted roads, blah two cars in ten miles. Blah, privilege to be riding my bike.

Pah. Draw the eye back from the flowery wank that that paragraph could so easily have become. Focus critical faculties on issues relating to perilous state of the road surface, still marked by scars that could only be misplaced WWII bombs. Craters deep enough to swallow man and wheel, a camber designed by nature to switch a road to stream in anything much more than a light shower.

And hilly, so very hilly after three years of Chilterns-Twinned-With-Holland commuting. Even with my inner smug drowning out the ground state of grumpy, it couldn’t totally suppress the thought that this route wasn’t going to be a whole lot of fun if it was wet and I was tired. Although I really didn’t expect to have the chance to test this assertion some 11 hours later.

Luckily a hardened commuting nose had smelt rain at 6am, and so a jacket was packed. Unfortunately the aural breeze wasn’t strong enough to stow mudguards or any other waterproofs, which, considering the bouncing rain and spleen trembling thunder which greeted my arrival back in Ledbury, was possibly a slight oversight.

The sky had the look of an unmilked cow, and I wondered whether this could be a good time to fit my lights. Sadly, having not packed the 12 mile arms, they too were on the wrong side of deeply unavailable. So I jacketed up and headed on into a decent impression of a tropical rainstorm. Inevitably balancing narrow slick tyres on wet slick roads was often quite entertaining. And without wishing to big up the danger, a couple of “ooooh shit, I am no longer in control of the steering axis” incidents possibly tipped the terror needle past mildly exciting.

Despite the best efforts of the alien technology* in my ludicrously expensive jacket, my upper body physiology was morphing into that of a boil in the bag. However, this was still a slightly more pleasant experience than the aquaphobic sensation of water sloshing between my toes. And yet even these soggy items came only a distant second in the “All Herefordshire Moist Limb Competition“, easily won by an arse sounding five fathoms, and suffering radial pebbledash.

Event times as miserable as this can be made significantly worse if one chooses a bold clothing decision. My removal of my – by now – smoking jacket perfectly coincided with the entire Al/Bicycle combination becoming beflooded**. Still playing to my dysfunctional democracy, each individual body part was now equally saturated, and every one was voting for an immediate halt under a tree.

Considering the lightening and a hollow feeling that could not be assuaged by the inhalation of my emergency food ***, the higher brain function took a decision to mentally raise the spinnaker and make fast sail for the pub. An athlete’s pep up of one pint and two bags of dry roasted nuts – while hard rain attempted to smash the roof – pepped me up for the final two miles home.

Of which one and a half are up a big f*cking hill demanding much twitching of the girly gear selection thumb. After this was wearily dispatched, only the final plunge through what was probably once a road separated me from a dry arse. This particular rural highway is comprised of three materials, grass, broken hardcore and tarmac. In that order. It’s reasonably involving on 100psi of 23c tyre, while squinting through the rain and darkening sky.

Sure, I was piss wet thru from limited thatch to buckety shoes, the bike was making the kind of noises not associated with long component life, and I feared for the state of the firm’s non waterproof laptop, but it was great to be home.

Because however cold, dark and wet the commute is and whatever the frustration of a million DIY jobs undone, this does feel like home. And after living in limbo for six months, that’s a bloody great feeling.

* Allows sweat to pass, while barring rain from the outside. How can that be, surely they are both of the base element H20? Is there some kind of password? “Sorry matey, you’re not on the list, bugger off”.

** A worthy third of the terrifying triumvirate Beflooded, Benighted and Unbanked. It would take a far stronger man than I to survive simultaneous exposure.

*** Which was keeping my waterproofs, lights and mudguards company.

All’s well that ends well….

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, Photography2 Comments
Afan Summer 2008 (2 of 3), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

.. apparently. Tomorrow we are meant to be signing over a huge cash wodge to take ownership of a house we’ve been trying to buy for – what feels like – most my adult life.

A second before that photo was taken, Jason was hammering down the trail with the look of a man knowing exactly what he was doing. Then – and I can only assume solicitors were in some way involved – he plunged into the bushes, only to be rewarded with a headfirst face plant into mucky sheep poo.

That’s a pretty good simile for how the house purchase is going. Here are the options for the latest deadline, expiring tomorrow:

1) We exchange and complete at the solicitors’ office. World peace breaks out, global warming is reversed and the credit crunch actually turns out to be a typo and in fact we’ve all been living in fear of a cereal bar.

2) A solicitors’ office is suspiciously torched in Malvern. A balding middle aged northerner is spotted in the vicinity sporting a box of matches, a can of petrol and a satisfied expression.

All I can say is when the latest missive from our legal team assured us the contract was fireproof, I sincerely hope he was speaking literally. Not that we’ve heard much since refusing to pay a bill that slightly voids the spirit of “fixed price service”

Still a day of non signage paved the way with rocks and huge lunches at a top trail spot in Wales. It was so much fun, I almost forgot to be extremely pissed off about the house. Or lack of it.

For the moment, I am sunburned, leg weary, co-located with beer and fairly sanguine. I do not expect that state of affairs to last one second past “Ah Mr and Mrs Leigh, there’s been a bit of a delay”.

Must dash. Flamethrowers to prime.