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.

Wheely bloody annoying.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff4 Comments

Sulking is a competitive sport in the hedgehog household. The young pretenders think the old man is way past his prime with his stock grump being just so 1980s. Nobody – well nobody hip and slick – lays down a tool throwing, sweary shouting rail at the wrongness of the world with a quivering bottom lip, noseful of beer finish as their signature move.

Not when this totally fails to embrace the newskool emo moves: tossing of full manes*, screaming that the object of their angst (be it toy, homework, sister, sister, sister, mother, father or sister) is the worst/stupidest/most unskilled/useless thing/task/parent/sister on this whole damn planet. And that’s just the ignition sequence for the explosion of inflammable rage- short but burning white hot – before subsiding into ground shaking sobs and inconsolable silences.

And you know what, they still don’t get an ice cream before dinner. It’s tough being a kid around here.

We expected much more of this once the long talked of separation from familiar friends, places and school became a physical distance. Good news is that is hasn’t, bad news is that karmic shock has transferred itself onto anything mechanical with the meta-tag “owned by Al”.

First the much stroked Cove decided to its’ revenge for my crime of latent singlespeeding by offering up only about three gears, each separated by a pedal stroke. The shifter was nothing more than a bar ornament as progress was enacted by a hop, skip and a chain jump. And some sulking. The Voodoo struck a brothers-in-arm solidarity pact, choosing to orchestrate its’ slidy ensemble of sprocket music some one mile into the Rough Ride.

Not a huge problem to be honest. The only gear I needed was Granny-Granny** and a great bit fat one filled with recreational pharmaceuticals to chill out the boredom vibe. Man. That’s the last electrons I’m toasting on the matter except to say Roadies and Mountain Bikes go together about as well as Cheese and Steak*** Until the carbon sheathed, laser sighted Gattling Gun is available as an after market accessory, enduros and me shall be separated by an ironic glance and a raised middle finger.

Right, briefly to the point. Remember this rant when Honda basically legally mugged me for – amongst other nebulous services – about a hundred smackeroons for a tyre? Well it seems this was merely an undiagnosed symptom for an even more expensive malaise. Something is rumbling back there and it’s not the kids as I threw them out**** – the worrying fanaticism of the Internet informs this is known problem with the Mighty Accord, that Honda spend the entire warranty period pretending they don’t know about.

So any spare moment tomorrow shall be spent wondering if “Honda do really appreciate my call” while oily men with spanners suck air and offer to fix it in a) three weeks and b) which is fine as I’ll need that time to raise the finance. My initial response was to grab the warm evening and take it for a fast wind-out-your-mind ride. But the Roadrat has spent too long skulking with the sulking MTB twins, so when the freewheel exploded in a hissy fit – abandoning me in the epicentre of absolute bloody sodding nowhere – I shouldn’t have been surprised.

I wasn’t really because I was busy recreating my signature move for a few cows and a man doing something thoroughly unpleasant to a Landrover. And while the Wifey support vehicle was en route, my time was industriously spent concluding that both wheels and tyres were completely shagged.

Normal service is resumed. Grumpy is back.

* Oh yeah, I wish.

** For those not afflicted to the firefly/light call of the Mountain Bike, this is the lowest gear ratio available. It is also known as the “BBC3 gear” in that nobody admits to actually using it, but it’s nice to have the choice should you ever be really stuck.

*** I’ve got to put my foot down here. Saffers: Sausage and Marmalde, JUST SAY NO. Kiwis: Cheese with everything: IT’S NOT RIGHT. Australians: OH BLOODY HELL, WHERE DO I START?

**** We did stop first. I am not that much of a bastard. Yet.

Its done..

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography4 Comments
Rough Ride 2008 (7 of 11), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

.. so am I. More when I’m less distracted by beer and food. In summary:

Weather: Damn Hot. A bit too damn hot really.
Course: Last descent and singletrack great. Rest of it made up of mainly grass – both upwards and downwards. Plus some road. So, erm…
Organisation: Fantastic.
Post Ride Food: Rubbish. Veg Curry? I WANT THE BACK END OF A RECENTLY DEAD COW IN A BUN!
74k course details: No idea, sloped off, like the wuss I am, and did 48k variant.
Other riders: Occasionally amusing, generally pedestrian downhill. I’m not quick but they were glacial.
Doing it again: No.

I am trumpet.

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

An odd way to join the first person singluar of ‘to be’ to a windy noun but sense shall be made, read on. Trumpet is a real place as well as an instrument, although this morning it swung between the two, hiding between rolling hills and mocking me as an instrument of navigational trickery.

In two hours, I visited it a total of four times, adding it a collection of random small villages (Much Marcle: Twice, Pixley: three times, Aylton: never saw it but attacked it from the West, East and South in a one man pincer movement) on my explorations for some local singletrack.

I had most of the map and half a GPS. Add that to my imperfect sense of direction and dodgy internal gyroscopes and what could go wrong? Well I did find two ends of an interesting looking bridleway, but never the join, I also discovered many friendly people to orientate my map, before kindly sending me back from whence I’d come. I also lost 45 increasingly worrying minutes crashing about in a small wood, trying not to fall into a stream.

Exploring Exploring

Eventually I arrived home, one hour later than planned, nettle stung to buggery, slightly more knackered than a man attempting to summit 7000 feet of nearly Welsh climbing probably should be, and in need of a medicinal beer. Since it was only 10:30am, I settled for bumper mug of Guatemalan Elephant* and a satisfied expression.

Because when I finally found the woods, there was more untrod singletrack in there that you could shake a stick at. Although, quite a muddy stick it must be said. Possibly not all legal for cycling but with no evidence of any other human activity, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Unless I get lost again when I might possibly starve and have my eyes pecked out. Not that such a mental image was glued to my inner eye while my outer eye could see nothing but trees – oh no.

This is mere displacement activity for the horror of tomorrow. Nige, Frank and Andy Tracklogs are converging on the log later and we’re off to the Cider Press for a couple of sharpeners before dinner. I ask again, what could possibly go wrong?

Cider Exploring

If I were a betting man, I’d wager a kidney on the next entry including the phrases “Never Again” “Reamed Arse” and “Writing this from the Hospital“.

* this is a blend of coffee. Although Random does a pretty good impression when attempting to quietly cross a room.

MV40

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

Hilly. Oh so hilly.

That’s what is says against my name in the roll of (the soon to be) dead. It seems the Marin Rough Ride entry system took one look and my date of birth and consigned me to Veteran status. Hence the V. The remainder of the mnemonic roughly translates to “old, fat and useless“.

This was brought home to me during a recce of the ten mile commute that delivers sweaty’Al* to Ledbury station. From there, Brum is a smidge over an hour away and only a escalator shoulder carry separates me from playing with the city traffic. This worries me not at all after surviving London for over two years, but I am mildly perturbed that bikes and commuters can share the same prime time train service.

Try that on Chiltern Railways and they’ll throw you in front of a passing train and pike your head – in plain view of all the other passengers – as an grisly deterrent. Anyway the commute looks fun, deserted roads, a cracking single/cycle track through Ledbury and a pub stop one mile from home. One thing tho, it’s bloody hilly.

* as there is no BLOODY WAY I am doing it in Winter.

You cannot be serious?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography11 Comments

A very, very Tired Al. And quite a young one!

John McEnroe was the angriest young man in the world back then. Watching my own kids arguing – through the medium of chucking stuff at each other – makes me wonder if they’ve secretly been watching Wimbledon DVD’s from the 1980s. But, of course, this isn’t about them, it’s all about me and my never ending faith in bullshit over ability.

It all started when Andy “Tracklogs” Shelley* cluster bombed my Inbox with exploding text shrapnel. When the debris settled, words such as “Marin Rough Ride“, “Next Weekend“, “Not far from you” and “Fancy it?” were left as collateral damage. I immediately emailed fellow survivors of our 2004 lucky to be alive escape to remind me of the horror and suffering that a 72k/7000feet of climbing course can inflict on a non alien.

However, I failed to add the rider that their replies should be couched in terms of “ARE YOU ON CRACK? STRIKE DOWN THE HEATHEN SHELLEY OR AT LEAST MARK HIM AS SPAM“. They have both cautiously considered attending themselves. What madness is this? Don’t you remember? Here’s an extract from 2004:

“I’m hoping the worst is over. It’s not. The next climb refracts riders as light through a prism and it’s clear I’m in serious trouble. There’s just two of us at the back now and I’m coveting Nigel’s full suss because every rut is a Hobson’s choice of an energy-sapping out of the saddle move or a seatpost up the arse. We’re 42km in on a grassy climb and I’m starting to hate it but it’s about to get much worse. Twenty minutes later, I’m all on my own, one broken chain, two punctures, three sense of humour failures. I finally free the chain from behind the cassette by dint of jamming my bloodied hand in there for the twentieth time. Streams of riders come past before I finally get back on the bike, then my hamstring cramps up **”

There’s so much more of the same here and the picture propping up this post was my pre-40 self looking totally knackered. I am probably no fitter, certainly quite alot older, definitely less motivated and generally more rained on. The upside is that my extensive bike collection includes a perfect foil for such madness. I speak of the legend that is Roger the Pink*** Hedgehog. But I’d hate it. I sit here and think it’s doable, but secretly I’ll admit it’s going to hurt. Alot and for a long time.

And yet, and yet… It’s only 30 miles away, there’s a blouse-out option at 48k, I cannot do worse than the trauma 7hr20 minutes back in 2004. It’s a great course.

I am not serious, but I’m sort of tempted.

* A man so fit he refuses to accept that any MTB ride can be less than eight hours long. In the Peak District. In Winter. He may not be of this planet.

** It’s true you see. I have actually curbed my rambling style since then. No honestly, read the rest if you don’t believe me/have half a weekend to spare.

*** Lively Purple. Just didn’t scan as well.

Jet Sage…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff5 Comments

From nutter blog

… visionary or nutter? Here is yet another evolutionary branch of the genus bicycle, apparently designed for the sole purpose of inhuming the rider in all manner of interesting ways. Once the jet engine is fired up, speeds of 75MPH can be attained even if a steering axis cannot. This instrument of wheeled death could travel for literally yards before impacting something hard, spikey or both.

Failing that it could just explode and it’d be all flesh coloured tarmac and identification by dental records. Check out the video on this link and marvel at the commercial nous of a man that not only builds these but schleps them out on fleabay.

Every time the world seems to finally make some kind of sense, a kind soul fills my inbox with the truth that it really doesn’t.

Don’t Know Service

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff1 Comment

… and you’re back in the room. The sleepy hedgehog slumbered in his burrow while changes in the mighty signage of the Internet forgot where he was. Luckily my customer driven, pro-active, automatic fault diagnostic system kicked in when a reader complained of having to get some work done.

The terrifying complexity of the Domain Name Service, which left old hedgy in cyberspace limbo, seems to have unknotted to the point of a fairly reliable connection. Which gives me license to ramble in my generally unreliable fashion.

Yesterday was another first in an increasing number of lasts. A final evening ride in Chilterns full of woody singletrack, dappled light, cheeky trails and a last descent shrouded in darkness. It was a perfect way to sign off from five years wheeling about in this protected pocket of mostly unspoilt beauty.

It was also a lesson in what it really means to be race fit. Not me – I was off the back searching for a coughed up lung – but my three riding buddies. Lordy, one second it’d be all easy pedalling and pleasant conversation before trail voltage would short circuit these aliens into electric fury. And 2/3rds of that continguent were gapping my arse-hanging-out person with only a single gear.

And – once it was done and beer was drunk – it was odd saying goodbye. Typical blokes of course, no eye contact, a promise to meet up at the next big event, talk of getting together at the epicentre of cabbages, all that stuff. And same again this weekend, the rest of my riding friends are congregating on the North Downs to make sure I leave the county. The way this is all ending, I may have to write a speech.

This is my final commute into London from Buckinghamshire. It’s a beautiful morning and not one I really wanted to see from the inside of a car. Of course, our last Chiltern weekend shall be spent mowing lawns between rain showers and trying to remember it’s stuff in the boxes, children on the outside.

I confidently expect more dead air over the next two weeks, after a number of painful conversations around tempoary broadband and 3G coverage. “3G? We once has the Bootleg Bee-Gees play in Hereford, that any use to you?”

What have I let myself in for?

Maintenance maketh the man…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff4 Comments

…maketh the man bloody annoyed. But with the barn soon to be tearfully handed over to its’ new owner and the tool wall facing temporary evacuation* to ungrabbale storage, niggly faults must be exacerbated** by pointless maintenance.

It didn’t start that way. Only replacing a handlebar, reshaped by acting as the pole during the bike’s champion winning vault high into the bushes, and stem lurked between ‘Spanners‘ Al and nice cup of early evening tea***. Imagine my surprise then when, some four painful hours later, significant component driftwood splashed against a tiny shore of virgin workshop floor.

The detritus of an enthusiastic, if misguided, 4 bike romp of random tool use included four discs, two cranksets, three brakes and a worrying number of small parts that are likely to be key for the safe operation of a device that can slam into rocks quite quickly. So as the cranks detach during such a scenario and the wheels explode in a direct huff to my ineptitude, I shall be thinking “Ah HAH, the purpose of the 3mm grang-o-gromet is now clear to me“. Before crashing into the ground resets the priority of my pontificating gland.

I have mathematically modelled bike maintenance with the number-of-cycles squared equation. Two bikes takes twice as much time, three bikes, at least twice as much AGAIN. The SX has had so little lovin’ for example, the rear mech offered a choice of two gears separated by 9 desperate thumb shifts and 31 rusty spokes. And a bent one, which is so far beyond my ability to fix, I’ve ironed it.

A real solution is to outsource the entire spannering process to a man with a proper job and a confident tooly glint in his eye. Failing that – as it costs money I’d rather spend fixing my mistakes – I could dramatically improve my fettling skills. Since that’s pretty unlikely as well, the current limit of my ambition is for two of the “fixed” bikes to magically sync up their dodgy shifting, and the remaining long ‘to do’ list to JUST GET DONE.

A lack of wizardry leaves me with no option other than to phone a friend. Because, as of this morning, let me tell you how I’m feeling. Properly spannered.

* I chose that verb with care. The idea of removing my tools to a place of safety will surely prevent my increasing violent wielding on innocent bicycles. This could all go to shit tho as I’m taking my biggest hammer with me.

** Similar to masturbated. Much wiggling of hands and cleaning up of unpleasant fluids. Scraped knuckles optional.

*** Or beer as it is sometimes known after 6pm.

Oops

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Clic-24, Photography2 Comments

Oops, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

The riderless plunge through a garden of hard edged rocks took its toll on both rider and bike. Although how the hell I managed to dent it there is a complete mystery!

Tim “Mr Fork” Flooks assures me that fork crowns are cast and so as butch as a lesbian Marine.

Sadly bars, grips and other assorted items were transformed from purposeful, working components to skip food during the transition between wheels right side up and wheels merely acting as attractors for more gravity.

I have to stop crashing. It’s getting expensive. The upside is the customisation of the bikes makes them essentially unsaleable. Which probably leaves me with no option but to ride them.

They think it’s all over…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding6 Comments

… it is now.

Yesterday was my last ever London commute. 8200 miles, 421 round trips, 3 winters, 2 crashes and a daily joust with the murderous multitude. It was anticlimactic in the extreme with no fanfares or street parades marking my final passing of burned in landmarks. No final resurfacing of the pothole slalom which tests my early morning reflexes. No genuflection from those who I have bested in endless commuter races, nor gloating from those who have bested me.

No more shall I sequence lights in a three dimensional navigational puzzle, no longer shall the green of the Capital’s parks bring respite from tons of angry metal. No longer shall my ire be raised by unanswered pleas for airstrikes to disperse random roller-bladers. Not for me the obsessional forecast checking, the weary glance at a watch which must zoom round twice more before I am home, or the logistical ball ache of switching between urban MTB warrior and sad corporate clone.

And yet there is already a melancholy, a misplaced nostalgia if you will; sharp memories of soft summer smells, the warmth of the spring sun, the glory of a fitness properly earned, the joy of leaving fifty grand cars – with their brochure 150mph top speeds – in your£100 rat-bike wake. And even the grimness of seemingly endless winters could delight in crisp sunrises slash painted by azure blue, grinning through the rain, and just the simple bloody pleasure of not being completely ordinary.

It’s not enough. The first year was great, although cycling every day through the winter feels like it happened to someone else. My motivation to ride through the wind, rain and mobile death has diminished past the point of pragmatic excuses. Riding a bike – any bike – still defines what I really want to be doing right now, but the faffing, the background hum of traffic cockage, the grooved in rote of doing it again and again is no longer enough to make me do it.

This morning’s bikeless journey was strange. My bag was too light, my mind frazzled by a constant search for commuting collateral, my body showered and unexercised. My shoes don’t cleat click on the station cobbles and my helmetless head feels unbalanced. As I risk a guiltily glance at my shackled bike, I swear it glowers back at my disloyalty.

It doesn’t feel good or bad, it just feels weird. A phantom Al clips in and heads out, as I force a right turn into the peopled sewers of the Underground. Something feels lost and I think that might be me.

But this is not quite the end. The brutal termination of a two wheels to work strategy shall be stayed for at least the summer. I’m childishly excited by the prospect of a hard packed, off-road jaunt to Ledbury station. But no more riding in the big city, no chance of commuting through the winter, no danger of the big accident I know was coming.

But I can’t stop. Not yet. It’s like a Class ‘A’ drug and while I know I can give it up anytime, but not like this. I must wean myself off it slowly, let it be chipped away, sliced by a thousand excuses, a slow death barely noticed.

But when I do, what the hell am I going to write about?