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.

I want my pants back!

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Other stuff, Photography5 Comments

In my world, there is a direct line from that image depicting a goodly chunk of Welsh mountain to my current situation as a pantless man. Although, a quick scan of this office-based Al would suggest all is present, corporate and correct.

You would need to move a little closer to notice the shirt monogrammed with coffee stains, after an incident invoving a value bucket of Starbuck’s finest and a lack of small motor control. And it would be an uncomfortable and frankly invasive examination for a work colleague to declare “That man over there? The one supposedly in charge? He is inappropriately attired between trouser and willy”

But they’d be absolutely knob on correct, and here’s why. After the sun beat down and the rocks beat upwards on five hours of big hill action, my little brain was both addled and battered. And the whole 6:30am buggeration of attempting to excavate my commuting bike from the detritus of once cherished frames short circuited the part marked common sense.

It’s not a very big part, but it is responsible for co-locating me and my shit when it comes to commuting collateral. And because it took me three attempts to leave the house – first rucksack and then helmet failed to be collected before pedalling off – it wasn’t an enormous surprise to find myself staring in a bag containing exactly no pairs of strides.

At times like this the Internet offers the type of sartorial advice that can get a chap through a difficult experience. My question “Are suit trousers better worn with slightly sweaty cycling lycra, or is the solution to abandon underwear completely giving the old fella freedom of the trouser?” was met with the unanimous recommendation of “Free Willy”*

All was well except for inadvertently exposing myself to the entire post room, and a slightly unpleasant feeling of *ahem* “skin” on wool. Flashed me right back to those happy days in Yorkshire when men were real men and sheep were real frightened.

Still after missing my mouth by miles with a hot beverage, I am considering just stripping off completely to avoid further wear on tear on what remains of my clothing. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it’s unlikely to be the last.

* Although not the sequel, that was rubbish.

What’s missing from this picture?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography2 Comments

Flickr Image

a) Summer

b) My new frame

By the time b) arrives, a) shall either be over or it’ll be all lovely and sunny. And late August. I like to think of myself of man of action and would proudly hold up the bike rationalisation strategy as proof of my single minded drive to take an A and make it into a Z.

Closer examination may reveal that intermediate letters such a F[Financial review], P[Plan] and S[Sale of discarded frames] have been passed over in a hand waving ‘it’ll all be fine, cost neutral? Of course” scenario. It’ll will be fine of course, less bikes, more riding, less useless tat, more handy spares, less lamenting poor purchasing decisions, more making new excuses for the current ensemble.

The conclusion I’m slowing coming to is I quite enjoy building bikes, I certainly enjoy riding them and many of my friends can offer weary evidence to my enthusiasm for talking about them. I just need to cut out the bit marked “pointless upgrades” especially if it coincides with the financial blast zone of wine and eBay.

It’s just not going to happen is it?

Oh I missed c) It’s the wrong house. The move date of the 18th seems to be hurtling towards a test case where I harpoon the solicitor and throw myself at the mercy of the legal system. Because not only are they – and I must issue a pre vernacular warning here – sodding useless, they also appear to have taught Pace Racing the complex art of non delivery.

Hamster..

On By AlexIn Bikes5 Comments

.. the wheel is turning but the hamster is dead. I’m pretty confident about that, because no sentient being could own two bikes and thirteen wheels. This baker’s dozen revolve around brake rotors, tyres and cassettes in a three dimensional model, on which entire new fields of mathematics are being founded.

And because my logic is merely stupidity sent to college, the critical path between too much stuff and an the end of a cheap eBay listing day has all gone a bit nuclear. The main problem is the French. As if you needed to be told – specifically a set of pre-loved wheel adorned with not-much-loved scars. After much twitching for the big hammer, the following has become apparent.

1) French wheels sulk. Send a cassette into the front line and they wobble like a Cheese-Eating-Surrender-Monkey.

2) The part which apparently will stiffen their backbone is about as rare as a moon drill. And slightly more expensive.

3) My bidding frenzy to secure them could have been better spent finding a cheaper set on a well known bike forum. Had I not been gripped in the kind of competitive financial deadlock which can easily lead to “Anyone know where the deeds of the house are?”

I amazed myself by pulling back from twatting them with a table and instead bowed to the received wisdom of the Internet. An experience which very much put the table back into play, if any of these virtual heroes ever feels to urge to impart their advice within striking distance.

So having failed that, I’ve locked everything in the shed hoping somehow the broken bits will be transformed to something all shiny and working, by a process of osmosis from my last assembled bike. Which is a road bike reveling in splendiforous operation inversely proportional to the amount of time it’s been Spannered By Al.

In the meantime, if anyone needs seven assorted wheels or a dead hamster*, don’t hesitate to get in touch.

* not a real dead hamster. But we might be able to manage a bunny rabbit. Or unidentified entrails abandoned by the cat after dispatching a very stupid bird.

Roger and out***

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography3 Comments
Voodoo Canzo, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Okay I admit it, it really was pink. Although the fella buying it and I exchanged manly nods while classifying in a “lively purple“. He was lucky to get a test ride in between the torrential showers, and luckier still that my ham-fisted debuild* didn’t customise the paintwork with a ‘deep screwdriver‘ motif.

One down, one to be delivered on our annual “trip of scars” to Scotland. I hefted that rather lovely but unused bicycle out of storage, and gave it some pre-sale TLC** between distinctly non manly blubbling.

Somehow in between acts of a model credit-cruched citizen, an unplanned event occurred on the eBay/wine horizon. Still you can never have too many sets of wheels can you?

Nurse? Nurse? The tablets. I’ve just seen some orange spokes and I think they’d match a squirrel I once saw.

* If the airline industry can get away with deplane, I am on safe ground here.

** Tender Loving Catpolishing. Cat loves it really. Like a live Chamois. Only with less cow and more claws.

*** Post tennis update. As a tribute to the Swiss cheese holed by the unbending enthusiasm of the Spanish bull, I’ve changed the post title. It seems my new strategy is already in disarray as the delivery of the new frame has been delayed by a goat strike, and the Cove has something gritty going on ‘downstairs’.

Bugger.

Sad day…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense3 Comments

… one bike sold. Another to be shifted tomorrow assuming email is upgraded to actual person. One may be wrenched from my pleading hands, while the other will glare malevolently from a dark corner for another month.

Anyone in the Ledbury area tomorrow hearing “NO NO I’ve changed* my mind, take the child instead” followed by the dull sound of rolling pin on skull, should just nod sagely and move on.

Move on. Deal with the grief. Accept the passing of frames 24 and 25. Relish the comic irony of believing that the right bike equation has finally been solved. As it has so many times before.

I accept it is a incurable mental disease now, and mine is a chronic case. So it should be no surprise that a quick palm reading shows “shiny things in your near future“.

I’ll stop moping and write something funny** soon. Assuming I can type through a vale of tears and sobbing.

* lost

* ish

Dates

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff4 Comments

Not the eating ones. Dreadful things with the colour, moistness and visual similarity to the output of a large dog. And one that is clearly quite ill. When my – strangely – delayed email confirms World Dictatorship status, the hateful things shall be banished along with related horridness including prunes, mushrooms and couscous.

To be replaced by something healthier and less squidgy- I am currently ruminating over whether that should be cheese or sausage. Have I allocated the key cabinet position for “head of sausages and frankfurters”?. No? So much to do, so little time to count the bribes*

Back to the JuliAL** calender where a date of 18th July has been carelessly cast into the legal cesspit of our house purchase. I have cut through the tedium of letter writing, deed forming, contract negotiating and endless epochs of nothing much happening, by explaining I shall shoot the next person that tells me this is not possible.

I care not who it is. They shall be ruthless dispatched by HarpCat*** and hung by the giblets as an example to others. I may even raise a merry bonfire in celebration and throw on passing members of the legal profession. Any lack of properly notorised paperwork would in no way stay us from at least pitching a tent in the garden. If we had one.

The second date is more within my control and less likely to involve difficult to explain fatalities****. The overwhelming success of my bicycle consolidation has moved into a new phase. I cannot say too much in case those not following “the one true way of upcoming fiscal disaster” are secretly watching. But soon something shiny and curvy shall cross paths with a further two heading in the opposite direction.

QUICK, THEY’RE COMING. THE UNBELIEVERS. Er, It’ll be cost neutral. Of course it is well thought out. Honestly, the long term costs are going to be lower. No, no I’ve not taken a blow to the head. Do I want to? Er.

My mum is becoming increasingly concerned by the never ending sweariness of my words. So, playing the dutiful son for just a second, Oh F*** S*** I’m as good as dead.

* Works for all well documented brutal despots and the British Government.

** Already subtle changes denote the coming of the One True Leader 🙂

*** A new weapon fusing the velocity of a harpoon with the beserker claws of a battle cat.

**** “That bloke with a cat sticking out of his eye? No Idea, go try the Sealed Knot nutters, he was probably playing Harold and it all went pear shaped“

What type of plant is that?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography7 Comments

Jsaon climbing from hope.

That will be a face plant – Latin name body-pummeler rock slasher – found in great numbers where soil conditions include abrasive rock, rubbish riding and a higher than normal incidence of Al.

Passing naturalists exclaimed “By Jove is that a greater bruised Alex, nestling perfectly between a sharp outcrop and muddy stream bed? Not often you see them with their legs still wiggling. Get the camera out”

And all this crashing about in the hard edged undergrowth after the first day had gone so well. Great swathes of the Peak District being mowed by the wavy lines of rumbling tyres, huge cakes disappearing at the speed of indigestion, and endless climbs bridging the distance between the two.

Even better, it was not even one of my own bikes getting a custom attrition paint job from high speed rock strikes. I didn’t have anything to ride you see*, SX lost in storage, Hummer akin to taking a toothpick to a gunfight, Canzo too pink to be allowed into Yorkshire. So I borrowed one, and it was lovely.

Except for the fork which had the structural integrity and lateral stiffness of a wilting lettuce. And the brakes which worked long enough to get me out of the shop. And the chain which fell off a lot. But hey it was a hard working demo which someone else had to clean and mend, once I’d sort of wrecked it.

Sort of would have been absolutely had the 15 seconds not quite falling off ended as it should. It’s the only time I’ve ever clipped both sides of a gate – held open by my wide mouthed riding buddies – as the plunging buckero of man and bike was hurled down the hillside by angry gravity.

Still four times over the bars the next day was a price almost worth paying for tweaking the nose of terror. If the terrain was any more technical, it would come with a four inch manual and a nine year old boy to explain how to make it work. The Andys** whooped along it with all the trouble of men attempting a single flight of stairs. The same trails dispatched me into a dark, sweaty place where bikes don’t clear rocks, corners cannot be turned and steep bits must be walked.

At one point – the point being where my head was yet again wedged into a painful rock sandwich – my sense of humour was declared missing in action. Presumed dead. The final descent cheered me up with it’s lack of near death experiences and bumpy swoopiness.

What cheered me up even more was finding my cash had gone the same way as my sense of humour and I was forced to sponge off two card carrying Yorkshiremen. Honestly you should their faces on receipt of a receipt of a loan request for one pound – it was as if I’d asked for first go with the whippet.

Two last thoughts.

1) It’s summer right? At what point did gales and driving rain replace sunshine and wispy clouds?
2) I liked that new bike very much indeed. It may be the bike page is facing a radical overhaul.

* Not QUITE true. But close enough for it failing to be prosecuted for lack of evidence.

** Strange Northern Tribe. Can float over impossibly difficult trails while discussing the pro’s and con’s of whippet ownership.***

*** Pros: Any port in a storm. Not bad eating. Cons: Bit smelly, no fold back teeth.

Long Wind

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

Now as a man, I’m pretty much there in terms of the operation and maintenance of a personal wind turbine* But 40 years of semi professional parping in no way prepared me for the rampant gale playfully attempting to blow us off an afternoon of high ridges.

Of which the Long Mynd has legion. From the top of every one you can see Wales and even these mere foothills of proper mountains have real altitude. My pre-ride ritual of a sneaky piss up against a bored sheep registered 20 knot sustained with gusts of twice that**. Thankfully I was relieving myself downwind – it’s just a shame I chucked the car keys that way as well.
Long Mynd June 2008 (16 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (26 of 30)

The headwind made an already trying climb seemingly like trying to ascend a knobbly wall while God turned the hairdryer past a Spinal-Tap 11. We wasted what little breath we had left attempting to verbally communicate, but the wind whipped away our words in a contemptuous shriek.

Uphill and into wind was marginally less fun that – say – angle grinding your bollocks while drunk and blindfolded. Downhill was super, singletrack-y, exposed and endless. The problem was you were not really in control of the steering*** as frisky gusts would plunge you and your front wheel into the nearest valley floor.

Long Mynd June 2008 (29 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (13 of 30)

Which was some 300+ feet below you. Luckily a combination of a death grip and extreme mincing saved the day for me. That kind of exposure doesn’t seem to worry my friend Jason, as proved by him peering into the abyss from the edge of a mahoosive cliff in an absolute raging hoolie. And he has the smallest feet of any male human over the age of about 7. Bonkers.

Long Mynd June 2008 (10 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (2 of 30)

Much fun tho hardly ruined at all by my navigational blunders compounded by an inability to reconcile a map, a GPS and a bloody massive great stone saying “YOU ARE HERE”. We got there eventually, although the track log mimics the stagger home of a serious ten pinter. In a foreign country. While trying to work out what the hell you’re meant to do with that anglegrinder.

Long Mynd June 2008 (5 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (4 of 30)

Still my happy-clappy karma lasted for as long as it took for some walking acne to drag his crappy pedal across my new wheel, as he boarded the train. His risible apology incensed me – as I made a sneaky exit – to the point of sneaky retaliation.
Hope he has a pump. That’s all I’m saying 🙂

* Operation: Lift cheek and fire up the peristalsis booster.
Maintenance: Sprouts and organic beer. But never at the same time. You risk the very real possibility of blowing your own trousers off.

** The Pissfaut scale is more than a mountaineering urban myth. I have witnessed with my own eyes a ‘piss-off’ where serious hillmen declare “Well Bob’s a heavy pisser and that’s gone aerial, so we’re talking 25-30 knots and that’s not allowing for gusts”

*** All together now “Nothing new there then eh?“

Not really a mountain, some mayhem

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography4 Comments
The start of summer, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Last night, the kids and I marveled at the huge tented sponsor’s village which comprised just a small portion of the whole Mayhem experience. It makes the CLIC-24 like a few mates riding from the local pub, but I guess 3000+ entrants, a huge field and a near 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} showing from the MTB retail sector would do that to any field. Even a wet one.

How different yesterday was, cracked earth, rock hard ground and swirling dust. The course was 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} rattly*, riding fast and loose, cheekily off camber in sections and punctuated by two tough grass climbs. Riders were coming in from sighter laps with smiles on their faces and sweat on their clothes.

All this pre-race happiness despite the entire riding flange desperately checking late forecasts to see if the rain was still coming. And it has come, right on schedule. Wind, misty but persistent rain, entire county clamped in low cloud and general ugh. A nice man in a BBC suit cheerfully explained it’s going to be better tomorrow but worse later today.

It seems the epicentre of the front will converge on Eastnor Castle at about 2pm. Which, because Sod makes laws, is the exact start time of the race. Maybe the rain should just buy an entry like everyone else since it turns up every year and pisses on and off every rider, as they slog through the muddy and sodden course. It’s even worse than elite riders charging through shouting “Podium rider, make way“.

Yet the atmosphere was great last night, and it made me remember what I loved about these events. Meeting old friends, caressing box fresh bike bits, grabbing a beer and talking about old times. Many of which were fantastic, almost none of those had anything to with riding.

I wonder how that atmosphere will feel when we wander up later with cake, waterproofs and mud tyres for some friends who are rain racing.

Until then I tip my virtual hat to the lot of them. As I need to tip it anyway – it’s full of rain.

* So I heard. There was no way I was wasting valuable drinking time trying it myself.

Trainy Days

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography, Road Riding6 Comments
Roadrat on the train, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

It wouldn’t be the twisted democracy of the Hedgehog if I didn’t poll its’ readership* for suggested content, then completely ignore the results before rambling on about trains again.

You see where Haddenham – a tiny provincial station – was blessed with 500 parking spots, 3 trains an hour, a waiting room, a uniformed parking jobsworth, a full time station master, a proper coffee shop selling non ironic skinny espresso’s and many suits. Ledbury has a peeling wooden shack hutted by Bob*, himself surrounded by a pre-Beecham photographic collection and an aura of extreme antiquity.

So a pleasant enquiry on the availability a Cappuccino, easy on the foam, skimmed milk, choco on top is met with an old fashioned expression, and a stern lecture to whit: I should thank my lucky stars there is even a platform, in days or recent yore, you merely threw themselves at a passing train in the hope that an observant passenger may haul you in.

There are – and Beared Bob is clealy not happy about this – some sops to modern life; Fewer large animals stroll on the lines than back in the glory years of steam, rubbish fencing and Fresian roaming***. Both platforms sport posh electronic signage predicting the arrival of next train and the one after that****.

And – according to these neon glows of technological wonder – the trains always run on time. Tending to the persnickety, this perfect schedule may be symptomatic of their obvious non connectedness to any real time arrival information system.

Nor do they need to be, as a sweaty, fat man leans out of the signal box and updates us all with a cheery “The London train is running 20 minutes late. Keith the driver forgot his sarnies and he’s popped back home to pick them up“.

The train to London dwarfs the platform to such an extent that the front half is servicing passengers at Coldwell, some four miles up the track. It’s absolutely huge. And old. And slam door. Legions of train enthusiasts/pointless wankers take brass rubbings and boringly relive the golden age of the Inter-City 125.

It wasn’t golden then and it’s not fantastic now. Bang up to date the naming conventions may be (Train Host, Train Manager and the whole “Welcome to our Service/How can we fleece you today?” experience) but not much has changed in terms of tired carriages or bumpy track. Forget that Wii balance board you’ve promised yourself; just try going for a piss between Didcot and Reading without spraying everything from the knees down.

The ickle turbo that fills my bikey commuting sandwich is actually a bit better. Mainly because you spend lless time on it, and all of that is in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m still full of childish delight that no bastard love child of the Gestapo and a Butlins’ red coat churlishly waves Railway Regulations at me, whilst triumphantly ejecting my bike from the speeding train.

And because it’s not London, the whole experience is significantly less deadly and – so far – completed with the correct underwear count. Okay it still took me 30 minutes to find an office precisely two miles from New Street Station. 28 of which were desperately circulating wet Dual Carriageways wondering if “Doncaster” might not be a good route choice.

So far, so groovy. Longest day tomorrow. Winter after that. Important to get a preemptive grump in before I start to really enjoy myself.

A final question unrelated and yet troubling. If your kids are lapped at the School Sports Day, and your representation to add “Nintendo Mario Karts” to the event list is mercilessly rebuffed, what’s the solution? All the non city kids clearly run twice round the farm every morning before indulging in a spot of cow throwing.
I could institute a strict regime of exercise to hone their athletic performance for next year. Or I could teach them stick out a leg and cheat. In my role as a guiding force for good and true parent, which do you think it may be?

* Good word. Could mean 1000, could mean 1.

** 1 of a part time staff of 2. Responsible for ticket sales, laminating of timetables, hut painting and repair, general airs of resignation and pulling of beards.

*** 1989

**** Which is generally tomorrow. And replaced by a donkey service via Reykjavik.