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.

Anyone seen Mr. Mannering?

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike Riding, Site Stuff4 Comments

Because when Corporal Jones shouts “Don’t Panic”, I can add a contemporary suffix along the lines of “Change of plan, PANIC“. Considering the deep shade cast by my mountainous to do list, hedgehog stuffing is vying for April’s “most stupid idea” although considered opinion suggests “Yeah, we’re ready, let’s open Terminal 5” is a shoe in.

Things began to go badly wrong once I bucked everything we’ve learned about the Y chromosome and attempted to start two things at the same time. Obviously I’ve finished neither with packing for the world’s most geographically confused airport properly interfering with desperate maintenance on my London bike.

Before I could unleash sharp tools on the latter, I first had to learn fast a skill of urban archeology to find it. While there was something recognisably bike shaped and broken, it was camouflaged under a year of grimy abuse. After an hour of determined effort – aided by a cleaning products that can only be handled with kevlar mittens* – I had transferred the grease from the bike to my trousers.

And my hands. And every cleaning object I own **. And anything I touched was layered with the shiny sludge of a black compound with its’ own chemical symbol and a half life. I had a chat with my inner woman and she declared my trousers fit only for burning and left shaking her head. Still this put me in the mood to multi task – abandon the still broken commuter and make space to ruin it properly by packing the Cove for our cheeky Pyrenees weekend.

Now I’m sat here with a vague feeling of disquiet. On the last two trips, my disc rotors failed to survive falling off the baggage truck, so planning ahead I carefully removed them. Not quite planning far enough ahead to actually put them in the bike bag though. No I did, I’m sure of it. Of course I must have. I mean, where else could they be? I’ve only turned the barn upside twice already hunting for integral bike parts kidnapped by fridgesuck***

I could unpack the bag but the simple act openage will stud my eyebrows with pointy components packed at a pressure of about a 1000 PSI. Because, although I pulled back from packing every tool, item of clothing and the emergency badger into the straining maw, I have secreted at least two types of chain oil and a spare seat post. And maybe some disc rotors.

No, bugger it. I’m leaving it. Definitely. Well until 2am when staring at the ceiling becomes boring and nothing short of a full and frank investigation of the inner recesses shall finally scratch this mental itch. So my brief education into urban archeology may well come in useful later. I have restored the shabby commuter to a working bicycle that no longer creaks, groans and wobbles erratically on a rusted bearing.

There’s enough of that going on with the owner. Right, off riding in warm rain until Tuesday swapping tales or daring with the truth and trying to stay out of hospital. One thing though, my commuter did have disc brakes when I started all this didn’t it?

* On first glance, I read kittens. Still they brought the frame up to a lovely shine.

** The RSPCA are clearly going to have something to say about that

*** As an advanced student of 4-Dimensional losing things, I don’t even need a fridge for this to occur.

A perfect, er, 7

On By PhotoIn Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment
Swinley 08 (2 of 12), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Like a perfect 10, except for slack people. For the last week, my arse has been firmly rammed in the saddle* for at least an hour a day, regardless of the moaning of the wind. It could be heard for miles: “bloody hell, my legs hurt, this isn’t fair, can I stop now please.. and on… and on”

As for the wind – vegetables are the bellows of the Devil so I cannot be held responsible for unleashing something so nasally irresponsible. The bowels of hell if you will.

The balmy weather of Friday evening was a first swallow to summer prelude of the barmy weather now hailing at my window. So I mosied out resplendent in just a single layer of everything to spend two hours carrying my bike over muddy fields. A nice walk spoiled by a bicycle.

Forget those expensive WWII Normandy trips, just find a bridleway in the Chilterns and be transported back to Flanders. And while it may lack the authenticity of incoming shells and body parts, the local landowners are generally happy to oblige with shotguns and border repelling ‘Oi, get off my land‘

While all my favorite trails were closed for fun, the pub was both open and serving a rather lovely pint. Tomorrow we’re going for a tremendously dull day house hunting in the sleet and snow. Following that I shall replace riding with checking the forecasts for Perpignan and trying not to injure myself before flying there.

I tried that last time and it was rubbish.

* Keen to do another Max Mosely joke. Keen not to get sued.

Weather worries.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff3 Comments

I accept that my minute examination of the weather forecast is symptomatic of an accelerating slide into OCD. It is – along with Government policy, Public service organisations and Solicitor’s lunch hours – something which ratchets up my ire almost every day. And almost worse that that is my utter impotence to do anything about it.

Other than whinge. And, usefully, I am good at that.

Yesterday three forecasts united on an early Spring vision of clear skies and mid teen temperatures. Based on the divination of tea leaves that only the most expensive computer systems can get so terribly wrong, I was unsurprised* to set out on a night ride under a misty murk punctuated by a depressing drizzle.

As the clock struck seven, the little known ‘evening bridleway’ rule kicks in and trail poaching becomes the norm. Take away the horses hooves and the mud magically disappears leaving deep brown scars** through leafless trees. And exposed roots slick with rain which I confidently dispatched with less skill than bravado. Right up to the point when the abstract equation off camber + root + gravity – MTB tyre <> Grip switched to being alarmingly physical.

I tried to blame my tyres until it was pointed out that my friend Nige had blasted down the trail – accident free – on exactly the same make and model of rubber. I believe the correct terminology for my stack was “insufficiently skilled at the point of impact”

The rain stopped about exactly when we did. Roll on twelve hours and the veritable Beeb is calling for dirty clouds and incessant drizzle to welcome your Thursday morning commute. Ignoring the fact that history shows these besuited doom harbingers are nothing more than meteorological charlatans, I rain-jacketed up and headed out fully waterproofed.

Which, considering the glorious sunshine outside and my boiled in the bag persona inside the office, is a trifle galling. Allegedly this weekend will return us to the depths of winter, driving snow and gale force winds freezing the entire country in its’ icy grip. Well the wolf has cried once too many and I shall be resplendent in shorts and suncream.

And even if they are right and I am wrong, morally the victory shall me mine.

* but still grumpy.

** Soon to be red and bloody scars

Same Shit, different day

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

After five weeks of flatlining in stark relief of the big city biorhythms, my re-insertion into the matrix was about as blackly amusing as a coach crash of estate agents*. And my play at infusing each commute with a Buddha like sanguine ‘bring it down brother’ lasted all of about ten seconds. You see, I was completely up for finding my inner child until a BMW attempted to remove my inner spleen.

By the time realisation has dawned that bikes are nothing more than urban grouse to these chinless fuckwits, any semblance of remaining calm was swept away as a knee socked, short jeaned, surely ironic messenger type whistled past with his one fixed gear and look of benign constipation. I chased him down, marked my victory with an underarm spit, barnstormed  a dithering taxi before heading into the mean streets of central London.

A bendy-bus attempted decapitation, a motorbike introduced a new nano-measurement as he swept past my front wheel, a multitude of dumbfuck cyclists broke ever rule in the book and every second motorist attempted a citizen’s cull to effect swift justice. I chased a second fakinger-clone – my pursuit stalled by two red lights he ignored and a one sided argument with a white van who was mainlining traffic cockage. So knackered was I when finally straining past his sartorial stupidly, I was aerobically incapable of unleashing the carefully concocted vitriol.

Arriving at work, I was cynically unmoved by the carnage in the bike cage and the theft of my shower gel. But the firm never fails to surprise and disappoint when attempting to deliver marketing by the lowest cost bidder. Our new cycle facilities involve carrying the bike down two floors of metal steps, before collecting our clothing from a locker separated from the shower facilities by a sweaty trudge across the atrium of a spanking new building designed to impress our clients.

And then tramp back in work clothes but carrying grungy ride kit to be dispatched back to the lower floor locker. Sounds complicated? It’s even worse in operation – I asked for a map and some written instructions. And while the provision of a daily fresh towel, a shower in an environment entirely free from water borne diseases and a choice of complementary grooming products are to be applauded, such platitudes would have be delivered from a hospital bed.

Because the stairs leading from the loading dock down to the bike area are made of smooth, shiny metal. There is only a single possible result from an interface of damp shoe cleats and frictionless metal. And that is a fast, arse based descent with optional windmilling arms, finishing brokenly slammed against the back wall with a bike on your head.

Unless you ride down them which the preppy gym wrangler reckoned wasn’t possible, And for a few anxious moments – half way down – I was becoming persuaded to his viewpoint. It was all a bit eyeballs on stalks, fillings on edge and sphincter on full recoil during an unhappy period when flinging myself headlong into the rail was the only ‘innovative life saving move’ being offered up.

Still I am pretty sure it was with some aplomb that I shakingly unclipped and nonchalantly declared “Fucking hell, that nearly killed me – you want someone to have a look at those“

A little belatedly the security guard de-hutted himself and was angrily, adamant that no employee was allowed to ride down the stairs. How wrong he was. I think with careful planning an illegal plunge down the stairs, followed by a naked stroll across the atrium could end my career in two single steps.

Tempting.

* If a bevy of solicitors were journeying with them, all the better. Not that I am bitter or anything.

Karmic storms

On By PhotoIn Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuffLeave a comment
Muddy Cove, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Grab yourself a lentil and relax, as grassmud-hopper here enlightens you to the ways of karma. If one wishes to achieve meteorological karmic balance, one must first seek out the sub zero land of trench-knob, journey through the muddy foothills of component destruction and genuflect to the great God chain suck. Only then shall the trails of the righteous be paved with sun, dust and occasional sprinklings of cold beer.

And because the world is nothing more than an infinite flange of laziness, many of these footsteps of the cold, wet and un-initiated are being trod by yours bloody truly. You can keep your sheep-swool base layers – I have everything I need here with my hair shirt.

The most positive spin I can place upon yesterday’s ride was it was a small improvement on the week before. Not much, because the weather Gods have failed to flick the ‘Spring‘ lever leaving us with snow, hail, rain and freezing drizzle*. The car park was strewn with mud splats of portent, every car was brown as was every returning mountain biker. Except for a few which were blue and – apparently – unbreathing.

Three hours later I was a broken man but still alive. Those following the narrative may remember me citing a positive in a previous paragraph. That’s it. Both my riding chums – Nick and Dean – had apparently broken nothing, not even a light sweat. It is fair to say they are both fitter than me but, if one were being scrupulous in the use of ‘Fair’, so are almost all of my friends. Even those who have passed on to a better place.

Not the greatest accolade ever presented is it? ‘Cheers for the ride fellas, thanks for not leaving me to die, oh, and you’re both far healthier than some dead people I once knew’. A week ago Sunday, 90 minutes dispatched me to the same dark and hollow place, this time I managed twice that although not without some physical and mental consternation.

But I am going to keep at it; commuting through winterspring(tm), tossing myself recklessly** into pools of deep mud and spending a long weekend trudging up alpine climbs with only thin air for company***

But soon, I shall emerge from winters’ chrysalis and flaunt my faux fitness on trails which aren’t trying to consume you from the wheels up. Although looking at the long range weather forecast, what I am actually doing – right now – is practising for much, much more of the same.

I like to whinge about the weather. It makes me feel all patriotic and English.

* This is not the same as hail. As cold but lacking the viscosity to keep it from running into your previously warmed crevices.

** Which doesn’t bode well for the eyesight.

*** I may be underselling our Pyrenees trip in April. However, any fitness gained will be lost to the power of my willpower once the bar opens.

That’ll learn me

On By AlexIn Clic-24, Road Riding2 Comments

Sitting on an 500mph aeroplane going nowhere, I found myself idly musing if a man, still within binocular distance of not that old, should be growing breasts. Fantastically innovative as the human body is, the DNA chronology is clearly wrong in this case. Boys should grow breasts at the age of fourteen – such was our fascination as puberty took hold – and then we’d never have to leave the house. Bad for the bedsheets, good for millions of innocent women who don’t include teenage groping in their list of wants.

Whereas at 40, we have a spouse and the Internet for that kind of thing. And, because I was sandwiched between a family with about 50 kids, half of whom were screaming and the other half who were being noisily sick, I decided to extend my pondering to consequences. Of breasts, not children, I don’t like to think about the latter without a large drink in my hand.

With the CLIC-24 less than two months away – and I may need to start sponsoring myself to pretend I have more friends – I am determined not to put in a totally piss-poor performance. Considering my entire racing career consists of seven starts and two finishes, this is possibly an unrealistic aspiration.

So four days of Easter would be the ideal way to kick start my training regime. Although, ‘training’ to me is not based on any science; for example when I dismount – jelly legged from the bike – if I still retain the power of speech, then I clearly am not trying hard enough. And while I have a heart rate monitor I don’t understand and a training book I’ve never read, my total lack of mental discipline means training is just riding a lot and hurting.

Sadly plan A was scuppered by the kind of rain and sleet which so characterises British Bank Holidays. But a lack of Plan ‘B’ meant going out during a brief period of cold blue, clad only in thin shoes, roadie shorts and a late snatched waterproof. The first half of the ride was into a freezing headwind that rapidly escalated into a toe, body and hand-wind – all of which began to shiver.

My mind was elsewhere though, trying to judge whether the banks of threatening dark clouds were far enough away to allow a sneaky five mile extension. My decision to go for it was mocked by immediate rain upgrading soon to sizzling hail. Blue sky still lit the Chiltern hills a few miles away, but my personal hailstorm followed me all the way home.

Removing the lights and courier bag to gain speed still rated as a fine plan, ditching mudguards and waterproofs less so. Within two minutes, my arse was soaked, I had contracted “Trench-Willy“, my face was stung by shotgun pellets from the sky, and my feet had lost all form of motor control.

This went on for a very, very long time without any respite. It was sort of fun in a it’ll soon be over kind of way. I was significantly happier – standing naked in the barn – once I had stripped off the layers of soaking clothing. Sadly my feelings of warmth and worth were spiked by a caught reflection of white and floppy man boobs.

Still I can suck it in and, because I went out yesterday, I have every excuse not to go – Scott like – into the sleet and rain today. But I bet it’s not raining in New Zealand 🙁

It doesn’t add up.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Pretentious nonsense1 Comment

Politics and Hedgehog sit together as comfortably as a sadistic cat* and a feisty hamster, as ably proven by my previous bluster on politicians and their arrogance. And yet after a mere five minute immersion into the 24 hours news pool, I find myself again arguing passionately for a benevolent dictatorship.

The problem I have with yet more indirect taxation is that it comes with a smug veneer of social policy attached. And by doing so, perpetuates the myth that by taxing great swathes of the population, actual changes are going to be made in the way people live their lives.

And that is total bollocks.

It isn’t going to stop people drinking or smoking. It’s not going to fix the health problem of the middle class trudging home – after the longest working hours in europe – and downing a bottle of supermarket wine. Granted, it may divert the tiny disposable income of those in very low paid families away from useful stuff like food. But it won’t stop anyone who can afford eighty grand of sports car driving it away because there is an additional£1000 of tax, and yet it may keep older, more polluting cars on the road while the rest of us baulk at the ever increasing tax burden of buying new.

This kind of indirect taxation is nothing short of licensed theft. And it’s not fair because when it’s imposed on stuff 45 million people consume, it is almost completely biased against those on lower incomes. It doesn’t achieve anything except to shore up a level of financial incompetence, that could better manage the public finances by stuffing the tax receipts in a sock.

So I have an idea – let’s assume that these latest increases price most of us out of the market. So now we do exactly what the government is promoting – we abandon our nicatine habit, we drink water instead of beer, we make our own wine from nettles or shuttle cheap booze from French supermarkets. We don’t drive anywhere, everyone rides a bike or a donkey and we bloody well break the link between pious populism and actual economics.

Wouldn’t it be great to see the blood drain from the faces of those stuffed shirts when we actually do what they tell us? Then they’d be faced with the very real prospect of having to stop fighting other people’s wars, abandon fattening up their bloated departments with policies no one cars about, and get back to distributing wealth from the rich to the poor, and making the bloody trains run on time.

I’ve given myself dislexia by proxy irritation writing this**. Therefore all I can suggest is we allow this wave of impotant anger to wash over us and remain clam.

* How that failed to trigger the tautology filter I do no know.

** I have also turned into my Dad apparently.

Do you want to go Mountain Biking?

On By PhotoIn Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, Photography3 Comments
Gimboid, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

After calling the Vatican to confirm the Pope was still a Catholic, I hot-footed down to the bike hire store at Hanmer Springs and hired an “executive” MTB. For my extra $10, disc brakes accesorised a suspension fork that excelled at holding the front end up. It didn’t appear to offer any other damping functions other than emitting a howling click on encountering even the smallest bump.

On the upside, it was attached to a mountain bike and a morning of virgin, dustry trails – baked hard under a perfect blue sky – awaited my desperate-to-ride persona. For the next four hours, I was essentially lost – signage in NZ is generally fantastic due mainly to the fact there are only about 10 roads but the $1 map lacked a certain accuracy when measured against scale and terrain.

But the trails were mine alone and after some false starts, mappage faffage and a blatent “sorry, I’m a tourist” approach to some walking only routes, improvement was rapid. A couple of sketchy descents on commuter pedals only lightly gripped by knackered VANs, it became clear that stacking here would result in a slow lingering death by hungry sandfly.

So proceeding carefully in the manner of a man lacking both riding skills and spacial awareness, I was amazed to divine a dusty trail that smelt of woody singletrack. And for the next 7 kilometres it rolled out a bonaza of sculptered corners, rooty drops, a smattering of ohfuckme North Shore and limitless hand crafted berms.

Hero LineBeer

The local MTB group has clearly put a huge amount of work in, so it seemed a bit mean to only ride it once. I pushed half way back up, scared myself a couple more times before having to choose between another attempt at full speed or a beer.

Well, OBVIOUSLY, I went for beer.

Some people may brand my posting an MTB blog while on holiday a bit obsessive. So for the purposes of balance, here are some pictures of lakes and glaciers encountered on a moist walk to the Franz Joseph Glacier.

Franz Joseph GlacierPeters Pool

Anyway I’m off to take the local spring waters follwed closely by taking rather more of the local hop waters. Tomorrow we’re off to swim with seals although Random insists we’ll be in the water with eels. She is not – as I sort of remember from what feels like far away corporate speak – with the programme 😉

PS. Sorry for piss poor spelling. Running out of internet time and $10 buys two beers!

Chicks digs scars.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff11 Comments

I’m sorry to disappoint all you cultivating bloodied puncture wounds, but this statement is a a bit of a porker. Oozing with unpleasant substances, bad for your health and about as sexually attractive as venereal disease. So here’s the truth – chain rings dig scars as graphically demonstrated by the grizzly tattoo on my calf. In fact, the whole leg appears to have gone ten rounds with a lunatic armed with an industrial staple gun.

This was one of the only two downsides of a weekend ride under sunny skies on mostly dry trails. Obviously now we’re off to summer at the other side of the world, I care not if it buckets with hail and snow for the next three weeks. On thinking such pernicious thoughts, a brief glance at the Internet proxied weather tea leaves informed of pissing rain in New Zealand. This is either a meteorological blip during their otherwise fantastic summer, or the start of the monsoon season.

The second downside was more a downsize. Of a chain which mistook an innocent shift to the granny ring to instead somehow escape the front mech ,and wedge itself firmly betwixt crankset and chainstay. After some scratching of heads, dismantlement of the majority of the bike and some keen action on the chain tool, my 27 geared steed was reduced to a somewhat more humble 5.

I’m blaming a combination of Gimp-on-board(tm) cackhandness, rushed builds and bad karma from silently mocking my friends’ singlespeed a few minutes earlier. “Hah when it gets hilly, I shall unleash my vast array of easy pedalling ratios” I carelessly gloated.

But this loss of cogs hardly ruined the ride – the Cove is fantastic everywhere; light and quick uphill, terrifyingly competent in the twisties and nonchalantly banzai when heading downhill. My efforts to fall off were easily dealt with until a log based endo saw the spinning chainrings of doom harvest a few inches of skin.

A spot of beer focussed research selected the easy option of throwing some money at the problem. That’s fixing the thuggery of the chainset rather than the bleeding of the leg. Although you could hear the “Cry of the Lesser Haired Wuss” for many miles when bloodied stump hit hot bathwater.

It’s a keeper this one* and I really think the selection of rather lovely bicycles may be complete for some time to come**. This may be for the rather practical reason that our offer on “Cabbage-Land” has been accepted. I’ve no idea what this means, except that I am now funding the Devil’s lawyer and financier to complete the transaction.

This calls for a beer to reflect on what an interesting year it has been already, and to wonder of the experience that decamping to a county where only out of towners have 10 digit hands.

Well not really, I just fancy a beer 😉

* I can hear you laughing. And I’m ignoring you. But taking names come the revolution.

** And don’t chortle. It’s unbecoming.

Bought!

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography7 Comments
Hummer, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

On the nicest day of the year, I decided to abandon the family’s plea for some outdoor action, instead closeting myself in the barn to build this Titanium lovely. Ti is a frame material which has received much mullage from the experts-in-their-own head found on Internet forums. Apparently it is the silver bullet, the cookie-cutter, the pinnacle of the periodic table. That’s bollox obviously but didn’t stop me lusting after one for many years.

And years ago, I did have one but discarded it as a smelly kipper once it became apparent that exotic frame materials do not beget awesome trail skills. I know better of course now because this one was far more expensive – even second hand – so must be pretty damn begetting in dishing out those elusive inflamed wedding veg.

My friend Mike – who understands such things – tells me frame materials are largely irrelevant to how a bike rides. There is no inherent springiness of steel, stiffness of Alu or mythic ride quality associated with Titanium. And, of course he’s right but the PA and Wanga have gone, while this has taken their place. It’s already way better than the Voodoo because it has lots of gears. Which after some angst and shouting, I was able to wrest from their recalcitrant starting positions.

Mike also tells me this bike will last me for ever. Which – based on my bike rental approach – is interesting, if not entirely relevant. But tomorrow, on the anniversary of shoulder-gate, it’ll get clothed in the Emperor ‘s new mud. Of more interest to Carol is my direct return to the house without a diversion to Accident and Emergency.

Worshiping at the altar of Mong would have Consequences what with two weeks of camper van driving a mere week away. But I’m not sure I can ride any more slowly. Anyway a quick cheeky footpath test showed the bike to be both stiff and frisky.

So I’m thinking of calling it the “Penis“. Like rider, like bike eh?