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.

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.

Fast and Furious

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography4 Comments
Pace 405 XCAM (3 of 7), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Like Thelma and Louise, Laurel and Hardy, Keith and Orville – there’s a partnership going on here and we’re both bringing different stuff to the party.

The bike is bonkers fast, silly committed in the twisties and barely out of a straight jacket when pointed down steep hills. I am annoyed at myself for lacking a third bravery testicle, irritated that I’m never going to get near the limit, and bloody annoyed that I broke my other bike.

After a couple of Cwmcarn laps, the bike was dusty and I was sweaty and smiling. Downhill it is a devil chuntering on your shoulder “faster, faster, FASTER YOU LESBIAN“. I did my best until a third run at the final descent dispatched me giggling into the shrubbery. Can’t blame the steering for that, because the wheels had somehow left the ground.

Uphill,life is more pedestrian and that’s about the speed I was climbing. Bit fat tyres, biffer on top and the fat frankinfork out front ruins the credentials of this lightweight frame. But it’s comfy, the view was quite lovely, the sun was warm and point that fork down the mountain and it becomes a barely guided missile.

Honestly I think that bike would be faster if I just hooked myself behind on a skateboard. I am going to have so much fun in Scotland although I may die horribly being flung off the side of a Munro-light. Still it’s the way I’d want to go.

Anyway it is apposite that a working bicycle is mine to stroke because the other one reacted extremely badly to a simple change of a gear cable. The chain was so miffed by this act of pointless maintenance it now wraps itself wound a very expensive titanium chainstay whenever I try something radical. Like changing gear.

I have no idea why this happened. I have tried eating the offending tool in a mature 40 year old response to the problem. That didn’t work and there is a tense standoff between the recalcitrant bike in one corner and big ‘ammered Al in the other.

I expect it’ll be fine when Carol has a proper look at it 😉

Moving on Friday. Or declaring martial law, firing up the scorpion pits and exposing any solicitor to the real consequences of handing over their ridiculous bill.

I think we may need an extra order of spiders.

Hit this, broke that.

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography20 Comments
Pace 405 , originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Before the furniture police banned any personalisation of your “hotdesking workspace”, two fading truisms were taped to almost every desk. The first sets out the chair based human capital appliance – or employee as we old timers like to call ourselves – work ethic: “I can complete one task every day. Today is not your day. Tomorrow isn’t looking good either“. The other astutely observed “When you’re arse deep in hungry alligators, it’s sometimes hard to remember your plan was to clean up the swamp”

It is the second to which we must turn the eye of angst to, but not before staking my claim as the Olympic representative for the single minded pursuit of but one task per day. On a good day that is. Assuming there is nothing interesting happening outside the window.

I would have happily tossed* myself in the alligator’s maw at exactly 8:03PM last night. Surrounded by broken tools, cast off spare parts and a mixed collection of sizable hammers, my frazzlement sparked a sweary outburst ending in “why the f*** do I f***ing bother with this f**king s**t?”

A good question yet some distance away from the aura of tranquility and peace in which the build began. But things went wrong right from the start; the curious design of this fine Yorkshire frame sees the rear brake hose seemingly routing via Harrogate. A visit to a bike shop promised a swift solution, but delivered only lies and outrageously expensive options. Then the cranks didn’t fit because some copy monkey failed to notice the difference between the numbers 68 and 73.

Easy mistake to make I suppose. Especially when compared to forging an wheel dropout that was about 2mm narrower that the axle that was supposed to drop in. Undeterred I harvested the big file and – under strict instructions to ensure an adult was present – handed it over to Carol. Who filed away with a technique and patience that couldn’t be further than my only contribution: “for God’s sake woman, watch what you’re doing with that and don’t file my new bloody frame”

Flushed with success, we swiftly moved onto the scary proposition of lopping a few inches off the steerer tube. For those of you uninitiated in the dark arts of bicycle maintenance, this involves a pipe cutter, a£300 box fresh fork and a very deep breath. Fifteen minutes later, I’d broken the cutter, the record for a sentence with the most occurrences of the work bollocks, and a hacksaw blade.

The steerer remained resolutely uncut although badly mutilated. A good lawyer might have got me off with ABH but it took a bad Al to complete the job, somewhat lengthened by having to remove the stem with that well known Zen technique of twatting it with the biggest hammer.

When I say I completed the job, Carol returned from dealing with abandoned children, ignored my whining, took control of the cutting tools and lopped off the right length pretty close to square. How that woman didn’t then take the same approach to my testicles, as my whinging ratcheted up to near hysteria, shall form one of the many tenets of her future Cannonisation.

The tools were then gently prized from my bloodied hands, as further spannering was suspended for fear of an Al being denonated in an uncontrolled explosion. There is still much to do in terms of general tweakery, cable installation – featuring the frustrated tears of indexing hell – and complex suspension jiggery-pokery. I fully expect this to be completed in the same mixture of inner peace and outer accomplishment that has defined the build so far.

Alligator steaks all round then.

* Steady.

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