It’s all our own fault

Last year, some madman fretted that our children may be physically blighted or mentally scarred through the violent exchange of stringy conkers. This week a council is cordoning off a copse of malignant trees and their fruity ammunition. Last month, we had Mad Ken sound biting policy initiatives to license plate cycles and imprison non bell ringers. How much of this is feeding a slow news day and how much is rampant political posturing is hard to say. But it’s clearly silly and yet there is something a little darker emerging.

Firstly, however, anything like this should be wrapped in neon-signed handle with extreme care�? warning as it’s essentially the Daily Flail gone global. We’re always looking for politically correct gibberish to first ridicule and then shape as a stick to beat the hand wringing, lentil eaters who defend such nonsense. For every ˜Pear Tree Could Be a Killer” and Conkers “ the new Weapons Of Mass Destruction” screaming taglines are mitigating scenarios where badly supervised kids die in rivers and un-maintained tracks derail trains.

A sense of perspective should act as a prism to divine the lay lines of truth buried under the headline selling static. But there is no doubt that, as a society, we’re dealing with far more restrictive regulation reinforcing a culture of personal irresponsibility. No one is to blame, so everyone is to blame. It’s hard to see how this can work both ways, either we learn to take responsibility for our actions and those in our care, or we submit meekly to a state who feels they must do it for us, however crassly.

Less than a lifespan ago, kids of 19 and 20 were battling for their lives and the freedom of all civilisation over the skies of Southern Britain. Since those times, successive governments, of all colours, have stealthily eroded our ability to take our own chances and live or die by the consequences. If those young men had the attitude of a similar sample today, I wonder would they have risked anything to save everything.

It’s probably a specious argument, but whole generations will soon be lost to the power of individual choice if we aren’t allowed to walk the line between social responsibility and freedom of the non mandated option. We’re not sheep, there is more than one path to take, many sides to an argument, infinite outlets for expression. More baring of teeth and less toothless baa-ing would be an alternate approach.

Do you know how many Health and Safely officers there are in France? None, that’s right, if you want to dice with death under a swollen pear tree, c’est la vie. We could do much worse than adopt such a carefree attitude.

God, I’m turning into my Dad.

Feeling Peaky.

I hope you’ve noted the seamless evolution of the medical title theme, started last Friday. It’s not all beer and skittles in here you know “ rather a more complex game of blogging chess where moves have to planned three posts ahead. It’s hardly classy to juxtapose grouting lyrics with a forthcoming anal probe reference. You would be rightly irked by such lazy linkage and on that tangential note, here are some words that should never be seen together.

Marketing Budget, Holiday Slideshow and, my personal Armageddon, Alcohol Shortage. Feel free to add you own while I suffix Weather Forecast to this list of unholy couplets. The finest computers which advertising revenue can buy, predicted firstly dry but cold conditions, then localised flooding before settling on dreary and prolonged showers. These meteorological charlatans have clearly shunned their electronic doomsayers in favour of a glance out of the window following an intense study of the tea leaves.

We had a fantastic ride in what are considered the lesser lights of the Peak District. A cheeky route plotted by Andy TrackLogs” Shelley “ a man who has spent three years hunched over a computer developing mapping and GPS software. It was with a little surprise and not some alarm, we noted his total lack of navigational aids other than Google maps. This Guerrilla niche double bluff marketing is clearly more subtle than I thought.

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Proper ‘ills

Not medical complaints more vertical geography. A weekend in the Peak District awaits although God’s country, as ever, has rather more weather than us down here in the soft south. It’s also rather well regarded for it’s rockiness and since my rolliness has lately been on the painful side, I’ve installed Lithuanian Lesbian” as my riding style.

It’s unlikely anyone’ll notice much difference but in case they do, the offer of joining our host in a somewhat pervy long travel hardtail covern has been pooh-poohed in the strongest possible terms. It’s about time the Turner had an outing, you never know I might find someone who can ride it properly. Statistically, it’s unlikely to be me.

Before I go, my friend Jay (the story hunter of all things sexually deviant) has insisted I be his virtual mouthpiece and post this. He’s bigger than me so it seemed prudent to give him the opportunity to share this with my reader. I hope that doesn’t include my mum.

Before you open it, I should warn you of the non lunchable contents within. It’s an expose of Bejing’s Penis Emporium with references to knob of the day” and Todger health cures” I’m paraphrasing but I’m sure you get the drift.

Honestly, I’ve no idea where he finds this stuff. And more worrying the frequency in which he finds it. Maybe I’ll register I-want-my-knob-back and let him get on with it.

A game of two halves

The weather was forecasted sunshine and showers; that’s sunshine on the Saturday and showers on the Sunday. In a moment of unfamiliar seflessness, I chose the Saturday to improbably stuff 4 bikes and 4 people into and around the car and go riding on the local sustrans. It didn’t start well with Verbal ignoring eight feet of pristine concrete, instead veering off alarmingly into a steel fence. The impact threw the bars sideways and the child forwards where the waiting concrete bloodied her knee. After a mild whinge and the application of the magic finger, we were on our way again.

Random, on the other hand had gone mad, powering her pink singlespeed over the first crest, spinning away with a cadence last seen on an Olympic hammer thrower. While pedalling is her forte, braking and steering aren’t and only desperate shouts from terrified parents prevented a freeride plunge over the railway embankment.

Here’s a couple of pictures from calmer times.

Abi ridingJessie Resting

We managed eight-ish miles which may not sound epic until you realise that for three members of the family, this is their personal best. Tired legs morphed with increased confidence by rides end and I couldn’t help but feeling rather proud of them all. Parentlng you see, not difficult at all if you remember to turn up.

The forecast was horribly accurate with thunder outside the bedroom window and frightened kids inside. Although Random and Verbal are now at an age where we’re largely ignored at the weekend unless one of them has accidentally set fire to the other one while making breakfast, this morning we had a four in a bed scenario which gave me ample opportunity to unleash my personal duvet lifting thunder. I’m pretty sure everyone was impressed with “ThunderPants Dad” – I know I was.

The rain stopped leaving me almost no excuse but to go riding. The trails were understandably moist and slippy which provided more than enough excuses for my continuing confidence issues to loom large and irritating. There is an MTB myth, periannially spouted by those shielded by Internet forums that crap and muddy conditions make one a superb bike handler. I’m not prepared to except that unless you’re already a superb bike handler rendering the whole exercise totally bloody pointless. And not a little scary. Speed isn’t an issue, turning is; until I can shift the mindfuck that insists five degrees off vertical will conclusively lead to an explosion of extra vehicular activity ending in slashed limbs and open wounds. It’s bloody annoying and nothing short of riding, riding, riding is going to fix it. Or strong drugs – maybe that’s a short cut worth considering.

Here’s what the bike looked like. At least it’s warm enough to clean it wihout the risk of frostbite.

Mud. Remember me?

Once the cold muscles in for a three month stay, I’m going to with the site namesake and considering hibernation.

Another new bike Sir? Surely not?

No, not for me which considering I already have *ahem* quite a few, this seemed an appropriate time to redress the balance. My wife’s old bike was, in no particular order, too big, too heavy, too old and too rusty. It also employed an innovative braking system technically described as “pointing the behemoth uphill” or, in extreme cases “abandon speeding bike and head for the soft shrubbery“. As she’s not exactly enthusiastic about riding anyway – although this could be because her husband is essentially a mobile scar tissue lab – this seemed the ideal time to add safety and a little style to her cycling environment.

Sideways Tim offered up one of these:

Hardrock Sport Disc Womens

at a very reasonable price since it was all Woman specific with ickle fork springs and lowered standover. My eyes were drawn to a proper set of brakes, although I did warn Carol than her traditional technique of using both hands to wrench the lever barwards was going to require a rethink. Unless she’d kept quiet a pechant for describing a perfect parabola over the bars before being lightly nudged by the riderless bike.

The courier had been obviously playing frisbee with the box which slightly diluted the myth than new bikes are fantastic whoever they are for, but 20 minutes later she’d properly christened it by riding it gently into a wall. I’m proud to say that she’s learnt from the master there; Al ‘target fixation‘ Leigh preaches the word of accident to the entire family. It’s a great little bike and I think we’re going to have loads of fun wobbling around the countryside as a family zoned mobile chicane. So it is mildly ironic to consider I’ve spent way more on a single set of forks than we did on this entire bike. Best to keep that quiet I think.

Having first bought cycle specific clothing in 1994 and never felt the need to purchase anything since, she’s now keen to prod the tender underbelly of modern riding clobber. I’m assuming this opens up all sorts of opportunities for me to add to my modest collection of frames and clothing, but I’ve yet to find the right time to check.

I’m so impressed with this splendid little Spesh that it’s been granted permanent residency in the barn. It’s that good 🙂

4 Punctures and a funeral

Today has been fruitlessly spent fixing punctures and pushing bikes, both with a hint of desperation and a whole lot of frustration. Luckily I have found someone to blame and you may be unsurprised to hear it is indeed Satan’s chariot; the folding bicycle. Voted Transport Icon by Lentil Eaters monthly, the obligatory beard and sandals failed to recognise his bottom feeding status in the commuting hierarchy, and brazenly attempted to best me off a green light.

Hello Mr Bull? Here’s your red rag; honestly let this kind of thing slide and before you can say fucking hell, all I can smell is burnt cheese and lifelong humiliation“, Segway’s, Zimmer Frames and idling tourists will count you amongst their victims. A man is hardly a man at all if he doesn’t made a stand so I stood on the pedals, metabolised a few litres of taxi filtered oxygen and stomped off in a complex mix of hubris and vainglory.

Throwing a glance over my shoulder, he was beyond toast and heading towards carbon at which exact point a pssssttt pissed on my bonfire and the bike took on the characteristics of a fridge lolling about on a roller skate. Somehow we careered to the safety of the curb where a brief examination of the front tyre highlighted the kind of low pressure that begets hurricanes. My stormy face gurned the diametric opposite of happy-clappy-scaffold-pole rider as he breezed past marking my location, so other denizens of Beelzebub could rock up and cackle at my predicament.

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RateMyHeart.COM

Admittedly it may be a bit of an uber-niche, but with the Internet offering a worrying multitude of options to expose your bodyparts/sexual practices/strange animal husbandry rituals to complete strangers, it could be a runner. After digging out my dusty Heart Rate Monitor and slapping tyre on tarmac for a couple of hours, the final statistics suggested Elasticity of heart, a solid six, recovery time, a rather poor 4, potential incidence of major cardiac failure in the next five years, a spinally tapped 11“.

I have hundreds of ideas like this, honestly “ all I’m missing is an eccentric investor and some time away from reality for development and I’ll be minted.

A post Canada blowout was required once a secret jaunt to the scales elicited an electronic parp and the following message Warning, weight outside of nominal values for land mammals; install whale pack add-in“. So abandoning any prospect of enjoyment on a sunny day, I shunned the mountain bike collection, instead propelling the road bike into a far horizon laden with boredom and pain.

Road riding is dull; no argument and writing about it more so. But the bleating HRM kept me mildly amused as it cajoled a riding style dedicated to retaining a pumping heart in the zone?. Since my normal approach is to ride as fast and hard as I can until a traffic light arrests either my progress or my heart, this was all rather novel. Downhill it chirped away at my beleaguered pedalling demanding more effort to pump up the arterial volume. And therein lies the kicker with all such isolationist technology “ it failed to recognise that forty MPH on a skinny tyred road bike skittering over drying farm debris is really not the ideal environment for increasing your velocity. Thankfully the terror of a potential high speed blowout unleashed a shot of adrenalin which fooled the HRM for a while.

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Cycling Myth#4 – Reprised

Since the myth was dispelled back in March, not much has changed other than the continuing gentle slide into middle age which apes the angle of the beer repository. The other morning though, a level of previously unattained fitness visited my commute, albeit briefly.

I was at one with my big ring, but what a monster curry that had been, a real bog roll in the fridge” encounter with a Jalfrazi cooked on Satan’s own burners. Toilet gags you see, always get a laugh. No? Ok even the small commuting hillocks warrant a shift in the ’39, when weighed down with the lead lined laptop and an early morning start. But today, I was shifting upwards and onwards chasing slow moving traffic and actually having to lean the bike through corners. Those passing car drivers, mouths forming an incredulous O, were privy and privileged to see a cycling titan at the peak of his physical powers.

Even a delayed train journey in no way shattered my aura. Taxi, buses and the odd scooter were left chocking in their own dust as BigRinged’Al burst through the traffic like an incredible bursting bursty thing (it’s the simile writers day off). A deep and manly laugh escaped my huge air chambers as those impotent zoo animals in their cages were blitzed and humiliated by a biker on speed. Even my fellow commuters were little more than instantly forgotten notches on my cycing bedpost (probably should have given the metaphor boy the day off as well, apologies for that).

Arriving at work, flushed with success, I strode as a colossus through the ranks of pod based gerbils and sat astride my mighty winged chair, a God of fitness, a man bethroned by greatness, an icon of athleticism. (It appears metaphor boy may have been on the mind altering substances again). A single deep breath almost emptied the building of air such was my capacity for life.

It felt quite good actually.

Obviously the journey home was joyfully awaited with visions of Ferrari’s being contemptuously dispatched as the lights dropped green and tarmac being shredded under the power of my mighty thighs. I began to consider accessorising the bike with fins and spoilers to aid downforce, such was the potential for mechanical based flight.

But 30 seconds out of the garage, the vision collapsed, reality rushed in and the true horror of the façade was not only brought home, but had barged in and taken the best chair in front of the telly.

It wasn’t fitness. It was a 20 MPH tailwind. Which was now a 20 MPH Headwind and trees suddenly looked fast.

But if that’s what it feels like, wow it’s almost worth giving up beer and cakes for. Note the careful use of the word, almost.

Old dogs. New Tricks.

You know how back in the good old days everyone was lumbered with an amusing middle name. Bob “Bogdoor” Smith and Will “GoatFimbler” Jones, that kind of thing. Well maybe it was just my school then, but anyway my friend Andy “The Loon” Hooper is not a man in the first flush of youth nor in possention of a full set of unbroken bones. The two may be connected.

Here he is in happier times. He’ s somewhat vertically challenged but belies his small size by going large, which is why his second nickname “The Crash Test Gnome” resonates so strongly.

He bust a wrist earlier this year which maybe should have peeled some warning bells in a man more aware of his mortality. Instead Andy felt that beginning dirt jumping in his mid 40s would be a more appropriate response. This is a part of the sport generally left to those with low hanging jeans, piss pot helments and acne. Pubety is something they still have to look forward to.

The picture below is at Dalby Forest where Andy managed to clear the “pack” on a number of occasions before stupidly having “one more go”

He traded distance for height, left it a little short and straddled the last jump landing his back wheel on the lip. The energy that should have taken him forward, instead pitched him off the bike before planting him face down in the dirt from about seven feet up. Although encased in ankle to forehead body armour, he still re-cracked his wrist, broke a bone in his elbow and tarmac’d his entire left sizes with angry purple bruising. Three weeks on and he’s still limping.

The full face saved his teeth and possibly more as half an hour of his life has disappeared after the accident (although he remembers getting up and pushing the bike to the van). Andy reckons his “going big” days are over and has sold his freeride bike to fund a rather more XC orientated one.

But knowing “The Loon” as I do, I wonder how long it’ll be before he cracks. Hopefully mentally and not physically.

Season’s end

This is not a lament on the changing of the seasonal guard with cold winds, incessant rainfall and turning leaves marking the transition to five months of dark, freezing and generally unpleasant conditions. And the reason I’m not talking about that is it is just too damn depressing a prospect, so I’ll while away in denial for a little longer.

Except for this observation: odd summer wasn’t it? Cold and frosty through the start of spring, rainy and horrid in May, scorching hot for the next two months “ nicely coinciding when buggered knee riding ban “ and then Autumn came early in August. I’ll take a bit of global warming next year then.

No summer may not have officially ended but August marks the finale of my triple indexed, multi-tabbed, pivot tabling spreadsheet of all things bikey. Started five years ago and slowly sliding into obsessive compulsiveness, this behemoth can instantly present “ for example – the cost per mile of a single component or a graphical explosion of miles ridden further sub-divided by bike, route, month and choice of riding trouser. There are tables and formulae conceived back in 2001 which make absolutely no sense any more, but I have this sneaking suspicion that deleting them would wrench away the mysterious underpinning of the entire spreadsheet.

Recording every ride and every purchase while exchanging bikes at shockingly frequent intervals throws up some interesting statistics. A successful drunken bid on a Ti hardtail cost around£3 a mile when it both spat me off with painful regularity and then failed to recoup even half its value. Or a XT mech that’s lasted four bikes while a set of rings from the same manufacturer lasted less than three rides. Well interesting to me anyway.

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