What the hell was that..

… that, my friends, was the sound of Winter rushing in early to claim squatters rights in Autumn’s house. Somebody clearly told the planet about global warming since the local response has been to dump about thirteen degrees from the ambient temperature and ice frost onto every flat surface.

My pre-ride analysis of the weather could be summarised thus:”Cold and Clear, good. Minus one, loss of feeling in extremities, bad“. Not quite sure which expensive winter specific cycle clothing to don, I simply wore it all. The first five minutes were still really quite unpleasant, as a chilling northerly sought out and froze any uncovered skin. Since this included my nose and ears, a frantic gloved rearrangement of apparel bolted the stable door but the horse was gone. It also gave me the appearance of a vagrant, festooned as I was with all manner of inappropriate extremity warmers

Dog walkers hastily crossed the street with a desperately whispered “Stay away from that man Zoe, he’s got a handkerchief on his head and a pair of spare gloves taped to his nose”. All that was missing was a shopping trolley and a can of Special Brew.

But cold muscles finally cranked sufficient revolutions to start the body furnace, and a lovely warmth spread across my body and brought a smile to cracked lips. Amazingly clever really; feeling a bit hot, just back off the pedals, now a bit cold? Just leg crank the bellows for a minute and toastiness will return. I was put in mind of Val Doonican, a warm fire and a very poorly chosen jumper.

It’ll be less fun in the dark going home. Warm train to cold platform is something that’s giving me panic attacked flashbacks to last winter. I would have taken the car this morning but I really couldn’t be arsed to defrost it. That task was undertaken about twenty minutes later on my testicles, through the almost forgotten art of a vigorous crotch rub. Still we don’t want any more kids, or, come to that, people to sit next to me on the train.

If it’s this cold now, then summer must just be around the corner. That’s right isn’t it?

Okay he DID try to kill me..

.. but then he did sort of apologise. So that’s alright then.

No, actually, it bloody isn’t. Riding past the exact same spot where some old fella parked his Mercedes on my nose this time last year, this guy gave the give way a miss and instead tried to hit me. Well, to be fair, he wasn’t really trying as his attention was focussed on the far more important mobile phone conversation he was having.

Yeah sorry Nigel, just drove clean through this cyclist, he’s still moving tho so once I’ve cleared his broken body from under my wheels, we’ll do lunch, yeah? Have your people call my people, Capish?

Had I not taken radical avoiding action involving a traffic island and a sharp intake of breath, they’d have been blood on the tarmac. As I swung in an ever widening arc to avoid the front of his one handed cavalier entrance to the Mall, he finally noticed either my concerned gesticulations or spluttering vernacular.

Sorry mate, didn’t see you there” he offered in spite of my plethora of lights and reflective clothing. I look like a mobile gas excavation and possibly smell a little like one too after this morning’s one second shower. I had sufficient breath left to quietly explain that if he wouldn’t mind “putting his fucking phone down and looking where he was sodding well going” this may never have happened.

Oh if that’s your bloody attitude then mate, you can fuck off“. Just to be clear, this anti-apology was from Mr. Knobhead. Yes I was wronged but he still felt he was right – personality defect or caring new century?

He roared off in a frenzy of tyre smoke and testosterone leaving me wondering if apologies speak louder than actions. After grudgingly saying sorry, he couldn’t believe that I’d still be upset – after all, he’d not actually killed me only had a damn good attempt.

World’s gone mad. Time to leave the planet.

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.

Continue reading “RateMyHeart.COM”

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.

Momentum

Momentum as defined by the impossibly stuffy OED as property of a moving body that determines the length of time required to bring it to rest when under the action of a constant force“. Precise and yet entirely underwhelming as a description for the cyclist’s joy of the exact and opposite reaction to pedalling. If there were a caveman dictionary on the web it’d offer a more succinct: Momentum, Good. Pedalling, Bad.

Grieving for the loss of momentum, especially when it’s snatched away by a idling ped apparently holidaying in the middle of the road, will wrench out a heartfelt moan or breathless curse. So if I’m looking a little pissed off after sprinting two hundred yards to beat a long waiting light set only to axe that hard earned speed on the anvil of the brakes, guess what? I am.

Hence the reason, we unwanted detritus of the city streets coast through red lights, swing audaciously through stationary traffic and nibble up to the bumper in front with nary a finger on the stoppers. Momentum rocks my freewheel and woe betide the jaywalker who saunters out, labouring under the belief that stepping on the organic accelerator doesn’t hurt. After a week of commuting ferrying the leaded laptop of extreme weightiness, guess what? It does.

Continue reading “Momentum”

A commute called Arthur.

What kind of rotten English bestows a proper noun on an already poorly constructed sentence ? (actually if I was semantically Willy Waving, I believe it’s a adjectival modifier but I’m sure someone even more anal will correct me) Well this kind of rotten Englishman so he could then rollout an even more convoluted pun. Why is the commute called Arthur? Because it was arfur (half a) commute rather than a full one, see?

I’m thinking I probably should have saved us all the trouble.

Anyway, half a commute was the only available logistical option since my London bike had been interned in the barn for some Tender Loving Percussion (TLP for short, you know there is a really interesting point about acronyms¦ no? ok, I’ll stop but my lip is quivering in disappointment). It’s lived in harsh city conditions through a cold winter, hoovering up and internalising all the shit and crud which lines the strees of our grubby capital. After only 300 miles, the brake blocks were worn to a mil of COMING THROUGH, NO BRAKES!”, the bottom bracket was “ and since you’ve already spurned my attempt to educate, I’m resorting to the vernacular “ totally fucked and the rear cassette was an amorphous blob of salt encrusted tar, horse shit and the remains of slow pedestrians.

While you could change gear, by the time the recalcitrant mech had dragged a rusted chain across the grubby sprocket, your journey would have finished or the world would have ended – whichever came first.

Nothing moved on the bike, instead gears graunched, brakes squealed and cables shuddered. It took a few buckets or water heavily levelled with flesh stripping degreaser to return it to a happy state. Individual cogs surfaced from under choking gunk, cables whistled through silky outers and activating the brake actually conjugated that verb (puts willy away, clearly no-one cares). Even though the barn looked like a triage unit ravaged by sustained small arms fire and metal eating locusts, almost nothing was broken or buggered. Apart from me and that’s an ongoing issue. And when I say buggered, I’m not talking literally just so we’re clear.

So bashed up by bikes, I’ve been seriously considering an alternative get to work strategy “ for example this solution for ˜fat people who can’t be arsed to walk�? as I believe the company strap line goes.

The Segway GT on the golf course.

Continue reading “A commute called Arthur.”

Oh the irony

Odd feeling getting off the train this morning and not getting on my bike. The descent in the tube matched the depths of irritation that these bowels of London always bring. Tube was packed, hot and horrid even at 7:40 in the morning. I’d forgotten how rude everyone is.

Crossing The Strand as the electronic pedestrian flashed, I was nearly mown down by a cyclist. This would have been whimsically amusing had three more not flashed past in the blink of an eye nailing me to the crossing afraid to move.

Still it was my fault, I was on the crossing so I knew the risks.

I want my bike back. Being a pedestrian is no fun at all.

Other Rants.

There have been a few articles in the papers lately regarding Cyclists abusing the highway code, an increase in road deaths and a possible link between the two. Rather than waste my own energy rubbishing this nonsense, I’ll leave it to a couple of fellow ranters who do it rather better.
First Bez makes Nigel Havers look rather silly.
Oh, good grief. Look what happens when you mix Nigel Havers with erstwhile fanzine of middle-English bigotry, The Daily Mail. You’ve guessed it, Havers is on a roll this week clocking up as many column inches as he can, devoting each one to the usual blinkered crap about cyclists.Continuing the hypocrisy set by his earlier comments, Havers moans:

It was our greatest modern writer George Orwell who, in his 1941 essay on the English character, conjured up the evocative image of old maids cycling through the mist on their way to Communion¦

Gentility and modesty have been replaced by aggression and arrogance. Brimming with hostility, utterly indifferent to those around them, they appear to think they are above the law.

Of course, they” refers to cyclists, though anyone less retarded than Havers (a Teletubby, for instance) might note that it could equally – if not more equally, if Havers will pardon me briefly hijacking his Orwellian imagery bandwagon – refer to motorists, or indeed the public at large.

Havers is clearly having a bit of a blood pressure problem (well, it is for The Daily Mail after all – the poor readers can’t possibly read anything unless it’s bilious tripe, bless ˜em) – he continues,

Normal rules about red lights, pavements and one-way streets are treated as a matter of supreme indifference by this new army of Lycra-clad maniacs, whose every action demonstrates their contempt for pedestrians and motorists.

Let me paraphrase that: Normal rules about speed limits, mobile phones and parking restrictions are treated as a matter of supreme indifference by the incumbent army of tin-box-clad maniacs, whose every action demonstrates their contempt for pedestrians and cyclists. See how it works, Nigel? You can generalise about everyone. I’m sure you don’t abuse the speed limits and parking restrictions – although we all know about the mobile phone thing now.

When a cyclist bangs on the roof of my car or scrapes my mirror without even bothering to apologise, I sometimes wish for the good old days of Edwardian England, when young men would be sent to jail for swearing in the streets, causing a danger to the public or cycling without a light.

Oddly enough I’ve never had an experience when a cyclist bangs on the roof of my car or scrapes my mirror without even bothering to apologise.” Havers conjures up a ludicrous image of a cyclist riding through the streets, wilfully hammering away at cars for no reason; but then there’s the rub: Motorists who get their cars hit by cyclists believe these things happen for no reason, and that’s because they have either just nearly mown down someone they didn’t even see, or they simply believe that nearly mowing people down is perfectly within their rights (they – allegedly – pay more tax, goddam it, it must buy them something).

And oddly enough, rear cycle lights weren’t always compulsory (the reason being that it was the responsibilty of the faster vehicle to sufficiently illuminate its way ahead) – I can’t seem to find when this legislation was introduced, but it might make an interesting point – not that Havers will give a toss about the facts getting in the way of a good gobshite.

Havers really flails wildly in his ranting, pulling in seemingly random generalisations, assumptions, suppositions and pretty much anything he can to spit blood about anyone on two wheels.

They probably go on regular cheap flights overseas to hip new locations in eastern Europe or Africa, feeling very good about themselves as their planes emit huge clouds of noxious gases.

They do not bother to question whether their garish Lycra garments were made by children in the Third World, or, indeed, whether their bicycle was manufactured in some exploitative, low-wage factory in China.

Now come on, Nigel, let’s see your air travel schedule and compare it to mine; let’s see where all the bits of your car were made. Have you really gone and checked out the working conditions in the cycle factories in Taiwan? Of course you haven’t. Do you really buy your clothes from firms such as Howies? Of course you don’t. No-one buys all their stuff from unimpeachable sources even if there are any. But there you go, it just wouldn’t be Daily Mail to take look in the mirror (pun not intended) now and again, would it?

And after this rather splendid spleen vent, it seems an appropriate moment to let Nick let rip at the latest oh so simple solution to the Death to all cyclists campaign supported by almost everyone in London.

The Times Online today reported that cycling deaths are on the rise. Partly this is a result of more commuters taking to their bikes in London.I can’t agree with this simplistic response from Brake:

Mary Williams, Brake’s chief executive, said: It is no surprise that cyclists, one of the most vulnerable groups of road users, are dying in increasing numbers. Britain’s roads are still plagued by speeding drivers, as well as law-breaking uninsured, unlicensed, drunk and drugged drivers.”

It’s that kind of obsession with speed instead of educating car drivers about the needs of other road users that achieves nothing. Cars infringing into my local cycle lanes mostly do it at a crawl, well under 10mph. I’d put money on none of them being drugged or drunk either.

This childish thinking has led to a policy of enforcement, enforcement, enforcement” instead of enforcement, education and engineering”

We cyclists are the ones who pay the price for that shortsightedness.

Both top fellas who write interesting, well researched and sometimes downright funny stuff. Check them out.

Proper RLJ’ing

Last week I ran a red light. No change there except this time there was a train coming. I have to cross the little commuter line on the way to the station and if the barriers are down when I get there, there’s little chance I’ll make my train because I’m late.

I didn’t want to miss the train and it was only when I’d decided to stupidly ignore the flashing red lights and was sprinting for the other side that the barriers started to drop. It was about this time that I saw the train hurtling towards me in the not so far distance. I sashayed between the dropping barriers in full view of the now ooooh that’s really quite close” speeding train and popped out the far side with a heart pumping at 200 beats per minute.

I’ll not be doing that again. A wheel dropping into the track is the stuff of nightmares. I should know I’ve been having them.

Someone one said better 30 minutes late to the office than 30 years early for the next life”. He was talking sense.