Category: Photography

Old light through new windows

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Through the square window

So it appears we’ve finally finished painting the Forth Bridge, which should free up the contractors to start on the other three*. And when they’ve finished those, I’ve a proper job waiting that’ll offer a job for life. No fancy paint technology is going to save us here.

On being asked “when will your house be finished?”, I wearily respond with “a) the day I die b) the day I file for bankruptcy or c) “What d’ya mean finished? Fridge works and rain’s not coming through every ceiling. It’s not a bloody hotel you know”

Progress of a sort barrelled in through the medium of Martin our Polish builder. A man who converts”Health and Safety” into his mother tongue and finds no direct translation. He’s the master of disc-cutter juggling, and the beer crate scaffold. Still he’s not a particularly young fella yet lacks no obvious limbs or appendages, and for as long as he is topped up with sweet coffee and cash envelopes, the man is a machine.

Through the square window

He needed to be after we were caught by surprise with the windows only turning up one week late. This is an 11 week improvement on the first drop where clearly we were waiting for a sapling to sprout into a mighty oak. The boys from the rather splendid sawmill/workshop nestling on the Welsh boarder are also sustained on sweet hot beverages and rollups. While Martin chopped out old windows and big fuck-off holes in the wall, they sallied forth with chunky frames representing a cost associated with a rather nice holiday we didn’t have.

Through the square window Through the square window

Finishing way after dark without complaint, but furnished with a couple of beers and a few more funded by my withdrawal from the bank of Carol, we have a ground floor resplendent of windows that let in only light, not wind and rain. This is in direct contrast to the tiny shitty, blown, brown-stained apertures clearly robbed off a third class cruise-ship cabin.

It’s fun watching the dog perform a “Tom and Jerry” nose slide on the glass after his retrieve genes are fired by something moving in the garden. I guess he’ll learn eventually although I keep opening the door just to confuse the poor mutt a bit more. Said it before, man’s got to have a hobby.

Of which DIY isn’t mine. Powertools however, even in the pursuit of a less than manly end product, are my metier. Or downfall. Or item named on A&E form. Carol is either making planters or a sea going wooden fleet to rival the Vikings. I’ve certainly felt more than little berserk when a vigorous sawing session ended in the blade being nicely arrested by me leg. Apparently these shrubbery coffins** will contain organic stuff that’ll be set off nicely by the new patio.

New patio? The bike fund is looking a bit bloody threadbare I can tell you. Still after deep pre-breakfast Malverns Incursion followed by a lap of the FoD Blue with Jess this afternoon, I find myself – peculiarly – more about riding than buying. And I’d best do some more because Jess is getting parentally-worryingly quick. She even crashes better than me – a little over-exuberance on the final berm saw bike and smallish person locked in a rolling embrace.

“I’m fine Dad, no damage. Too much front brake. Don’t tell me I know“. She does indeed. Now let’s see if she’s quite so good with a paintbrush.

* Don’t ever cross the border and talk about the Forth Rail Bridge unless you’re ready to be lectured on the tedium of estuary crossing from 1890 through today, with much emphasis on how the bridge wasn’t designed for cars and should only be referred to as the “Forth Bridge”. I find a polite “oh do fuck off” works well in such circumstances.

** It’s not our fault. Much of our garden has been a riot of colour*** this year. But anything planted in pots or veg-beds is insect buffet or pathetic wilting stalk. Water them you say? Did you spend the summer in England I would reply.

*** green mostly. Dandelion invasion from the field. Next year I’m ditching the roundup and going straight to Napalm.

Smoke me a lllama, I’ll be back for breakfast.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, Photography1 Comment
Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002
Pacific Rims.

Tucked away in doughy cerebral loaf are a number of passably articulate posts. They include the rather racy “we’re all cyborgs now“* requiring translation from a spidery scrawl- forced upon me by our continuing love/no love relationship with the Internet. Directly related is a spittle-flecked invective-fuelled open letter to Ian Livingston, apparently head gibbon at the gloriously incompetent BT. This sweary rant has the potential for a few laughs especially if you find pithy offering such as “what the fuck were they doing back there? engaging in a spot of unionised dwarf tossing” amusing.

It’ll make some kind of sense with a little context. Possibly not too much.

This is none of those things. The closest it comes to previous rambles is the shameful photologue** cataloguing the rambling pantheon of my bike collection. In that it dusts off some pre-digital photography, lampoons my many dodgy parts within the frame, and wistfully recollects halcyon days with a focus on jumpers-for-goalposts, respect-for-your-elders beer-at-a-pound-a-pint, rickets and the poorhouse.

Cast your mind back to 2002. A year – for me – much closer to 30 than 40. Still on the backslide of trying to save the world by depriving it of alcohol, and newly obsessed with two wheeled mud plugging. Beer and Bikes at the NEC MBUK show intersected with the Macmillan Cancer stand and a thirst for some new adventure.

That adventure proved to be closer to home than we suspected. On falling through Mike’s front door to be confronted by both our watch typing wives, we drunkenly explained that – in less than six months – we’d be off to Ecuador having raised vast amounts of cash for a fantastic charity, and – in my case – abandoned the mother of my very, very young children. This unexpectedly did not play well. While you wince and tut, I may as well add “missing Jessie’s first birthday” and “explaining it didn’t matter as she wouldn’t notice” to the lengthening charge sheet. But we badgered on, entirely free of guilt, and eventually received grudging approval.
Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002 Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002
First some basic maths. 1000 kilometres, 11 days, mostly road, middle of the monsoon season. Fly into Quito (via Spain, that was one hell of a trip in itself), ride to the pacific. All sorts turned up, proper cycling men and women with gleaming bikes (me, natch: shame about ruining it with the yellow tyres) to bar-bag strapping recreational riders having no clue at all what a 100k a day does to your arse. And that’s before the suspected dysentery.
Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002 Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002

It was quite a trip. 100 people stuck in a bubble for two weeks. This was pre-smartphone so we didn’t get too much iPhone separation angst, but it still messed quite severely with your head. Stuff that was previously complex and important proved to be mirrored smoke, instead we lived simply and prayed for the rain to stop, paying (in rum) for others to pitch your soaking tent, pitting desperately tired legs over proper mountains, firing down tarmac roads outbraking the huge trucks into the bends and forging amazing relationships in a shared white hot experience.
Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002

And shitting in holes in the ground. And Dodging mosquito’s the size of sparrows. And eating terrible food. And suffering horribly with “the runs” that make every previous dose of diarrhoea seem nothing worse than cutting a noisy fart. And with all of that and more, it was an experience that I can feel/taste/smell/see as I write these words and look at those images. And it becomes evidently clear that we don’t get enough of those.

Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002

The sense of achievement as we hit the pacific – and then hit the bar twice as hard – is indescribable. And I’m not being semantically lazy here, especially since somehow I was the first one home, five minutes ahead of everyone else having gone a little mental in the last 30ks. Beer in hand, toes in the ocean, sun on my back, maelstrom in my head, it really did feel like being between two worlds. One that was new and fresh and impossibly exciting, against the old version that felt small and silly and a little bit hateful.

Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002Ecuador Mcmillan Challenge - 2002

That trip taught me many things. How insanely fucked up the world was in terms of the have-lots and have-nothings. The way kids are the same the world over, every hopeful and always laughing. Unless the poor bastards were crawling about in the dirt and starving. The unfathomable greed of Western oil companies. The endless, wearisome corruption of governments and those who govern in their name. What a bloody disaster the deforestation of the rain forest was, but just how much was left.

It also taught that me stupidity has no limits, and neither does mankind. It made me grow up a bit and realise that black and white are merely shades of grey depending on who is doing the talking. That right and wrong don’t really exist, the best you can do is find a decent place to stand. So when watching only-slightly-grown-up kids shifting oil with their bare hands for $7 a day I thought that was terrible.

Until they explained that this was “proper money” and – while it may shorten their life by 30 years – it gave them access to western consumerable shit; playstations and the like. That shouldn’t make you sad, it makes you so bloody angry that we’ve got the poor fuckers coming and going. Then I came home, full of the righteous urge to do something about it.

I did. Forgot about it mostly. Maybe changed the way I looked at the world and that’s a good thing. And it started me writing properly. Which may not be. There’s 10,000+ words*** on my hard drive recording the whole trip; some building rants and right-on observations, while the rest appear to be documenting poo-pits and how shit tents are.

And because I’m stupidly busy leaving one job, and trying to work out what the fuck I might do next, I feel a few well chosen chapters could fill the gaping maw of vanity publishing.

Sod the content, smell the whiff.

* a concept explained to me by my friend Will. Will – be clear that’s the only namecheck you’re getting. Everything else written on the subject shall be unashamedly plagiarised.You should know my lawyer is so genetically close to a shark, he has suit-fins. Consider yourself warned 🙂

** Not a word? Must be. If not, damn well should be. Surely there’s money to be made here. And it’s better than “Chillax“. And less likely to get the speaker silenced with an axe.

*** You think I’m wordy now? Christ I shall introduce you to some of my back catalogue. That’ll make you a bit bloody grateful for my more recent personal sub-editing.

A tale of two chassis

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Head to Head

During a long-forgotten bicycling epoch I think of as my “klepto-insanity” period, nine partially assembled MTBs covered a few niches and quite a lot of floor space.

My coping strategy was to occasionally sell one, even more occasionally ride a few and far too often add yet more by simply mixing eBay with beer. After a particularly difficult whittling session, this approach left me with four 80mm forked hardtails. Two of which had only one gear.

I cherish the memory that my honing strategy had cured me of bicycle buying obsession. Which it had in the same way a 50-a-day man proudly explains – while not exactly stopping – he’s cut down. To 48.

The revolving door acquisition policy now mostly rotates around a paltry remaining five. Four of which have realised “faithful old retainer” status after clicking round multiple years. And the young buck of the bunch celebrates a year in the shed next month. This happy news is somewhat mitigated by it being a second road bike of course.

But Woger Wibble has been the mainstay of my commuting life, and the second incarnation of the ST4 the same when dirt is involved. The Boardman only comes out on sunny days, the little DMR diminished to a kids accompaniment, and the Cove largely forgotten.

Until last week. The Orange had put me into the red with post Pyrenean component replacement, and was left sulking in Nic’s workshop waiting for, well, everything to be fixed. So out came the Cove sporting ambitious summer tyres and spiky flat pedals.

The occasion was my birthday; a ride which started in the Forest and ended in the pub. As all proper rides should. 30km+ of lush singletrack finishing on the final descent of the new blue trail. It would have been a fantastic ride in any circumstances because dust, sunshine and drinking/ridding buddies will guarantee that.

Yet this felt rather special – and not just because of my surprise at being able to still turn the pedals having had another year creep up on me – a stolen ride, loafing about on deserted singletrack while others were at work, new trail nuggets being shown and falling back in love with my hardtail.

Far from my worries around a lack of talent compensation and unclipped feet being ejected trail front, the whole experience was nothing short of fantastic. I had forgotten the whole ‘corner by thought‘ tautness and simplicity of a well sorted hardtail. Sure you work a bit harder, but the reward is more than worth it.

Back on flats, I rode at least one nasty little roll down that’d have me pausing for thought on the ST4. And a light Ti frame draped with nice bits is pretty quick in any direction, including sideways on well sculptured berms.

More fun as well on the final rollers and zip-line like descent. Properly involving especially with the Avid brakes offering all the modulation of an rear thrown anchor.Over a number of beers, I enthused what a superb reconciliation ride that had been, and how the Cove would be the bike of choice for a while. If only to delay financial ruin triggered by endless bearing purchases.

That was a week ago. Since then I’ve ridden four more times. And every one on the newly repaired ST4. Come winter tho, the hardtail will be sacrificed to the gloppy gods.

And it does just go to show what we’ve always known; while all bikes are ace, some bikes are just more ace than others.

Chip off the old block.

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Jess - FoD Blue Trail

With the emphasis on old. In bingo parlance, my latest anniversary is either droopy drawers or all the fours. Not 444 as one of my lovely children slyly observed*, but still on the crumbling side of extreme antiquity. Not to worry, there’s always a pension to look forward too. Well there was until I incautiously peeped at the freefalling stock market. Maybe that cheeky child will fetch something on eBay.

Enough about me. Yes I know, bit of a departure but only because I’m so proud of Jess who rode the entire blue trail in the Forest of Dean. Now you could argue that the FoD needs built singletrack like Nick Clegg needs to be associated with the Tories, because there are 100s of brilliant tracks across the vast area enclosed by the Forest. And I’d normally be the first to raise my grubby digit in agreement, being a bit snooty and old school about manufactured trails.

And we’d all be wrong. Many reasons; here are a couple: finding trails in the FoD is bloody hard. I’ve fallen in with the Revolutions Reprobates who’ve shared their encyclopaedic knowledge of the ribbony delights snaking between endless trees. But even now I still get lost**, and creating a simple loop for little legs is not so easy. Secondly, there’s a real desire to open up the Forest to more trail users, so creating a marked track full of low-risk fun is a great way to do that.

I say low-risk. That’s if you’re putting the low into slow. The genius of the trail builders has been to create a trail that’s graded from safe to bonkers dependant entirely on velocity. With Jess, we climbed steadily and descended with increasing confidence. The berms freaked her out to start, but once she’d stopped listening to my useless advice and started throwing her little Islabike in with abandon, frowns were replaced with grins.

Of course we did suffer from the kid-standard “are we there yet?” variation which includes the lament “are there any more hills?” but it was all in a good natured way, and we certainly were not in any hurry. Until the last descent that is.

Fresh from nearly out-running a berm and finding tree rather than trail, Jess whooped into the last section secure in the knowledge it was all downhill from here. And what a downhill it is, berms, rollers – so many it’s essentially a rollercoaster – sweeping corners and a few scary steep bits. Jess swooped down the lot at ever increasing speeds – a huge grin on her face.

“Go faster if you want Dad, I’ll meet you at the bottom” she offered on a brief stop to get our breath back. But I didn’t want to, I was happier to watch someone who had been keen to please now be transformed into a proper mountain biker. This wasn’t so much about “it’s great to go riding with my dad” to “pass me some more of that prime singletrack, I’ve got the bug”

At the end, having ridden all but one monster berm she explained “You know when you can’t explain to mum how much you love riding? I get it now. I don’t know how to explain it either”. Lots of dust around that day I remember, definitely something in my eye.

There was a little disappointment the final fun was over so quickly. But we’ll be back before the rains come, probably a bit faster and certainly with a bit more confidence. Won’t be long before she’s leaving me for dead. Lucky then I was able to sneak another practice lap in to find the phone I’d abandoned half way round 😉

* that’s the one now living in the shed.

** This is not because I have no internal compass. The issue is it is always pointing to “wrong”

This time last week.

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Pyrenees Adventuring - 2011

I was still in the Pyrenees. Specifically above 2000m underneath the Les Angles bike/ski park. More specifically still, in a bar watching hail and slashing rain install drinking instead of riding in our afternoon’s itinerary.

A few uplifts would have been nice, if only for the novelty value of not riding/pushing/carrying the bike over endless peaks. But with a front brake that had all the form but none of the function of a working one, an arse which showed the scars of some recent prison activity and a level of motivation sufficient only to order more wine, it didn’t feel like a disaster.

What a trip though. Not so much mountain biking, more “Adventuring By Bicycle”. Finally conquering Canigou on the third attempt is up there with the best days on a bike ever. Or with a bike anyway as I shall explain later.

It was a hell of an experience; we were badly lost in worse weather, we had a few scary mechanicals, less crossed words and a gin fuelled bender that ended in me being really quite ill. Last year felt a little life changing, this year even more so. Pretentious as that may sound.

Maybe perspective changing is more accurate. Pushing yourself mentally and physically for five solid days, ensuing the easy options, being in places with a bike that no one else is, sharing experiences and limiting your horizons to big skies, pedalling, pushing and being occasionally brave. It’s a long, slow rush if that makes any sense. It does to me.

And the ST4 survived. Although it was immediately ambulanced into Nic’s Repair Emporium on arrival back in Ol’ Blighty. So far the list of replacement parts reads like a bearing catalogue. New movable spherics all round, new DU bush*, three chain rings, one rear tyre, cassette, chain, headset bearings and possibly rear wheel bearings.

That’s a whole load of expense. As is adventuring at 1 Euro to the quid. But it is beyond money well spent. If anyone asks me for a definition of value, I shall merely point them to my flickr stream.

More soon. Preparing myself for the horror of another Birthday comes Tuesday. Lucky to be alive frankly. A week ago, I felt very lucky indeed.

* This is half of what holds the shock to the frame. Nothing ruder. I was rather pleased the other half had survived. Until Nic reminded me we changed that one two months ago.

Oh Crap.

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Looks about right

I’d consider that packed. There is a chance that Airport Security may not agree with me.

Last year, two nights, three days riding spawned a bag weighing just under 10 kilograms. This time around honing, paring back and cramming has an AUW of about the same. And that includes strapping the “action sandals” onto the side. No point owning such outstandingly fashionable footwear* and not proudly displaying it to bemused passers by.

The weight loss wasn’t a credit card punt at unobtainably and/or financially ruiness lightweight gear. No, I just took a litre of water out of the Camelbak bladder and assumed the persona of “Mr. Stinky” for a week. Sure it’s nice to have crisp, fresh shorts, tops and socks every day but it’s pretty bloody nasty carting an entire wardrobe over lumpy geography.

Instead I’ve opted for 100ml of liquid washing powder and less kit. Assuming I don’t just marinate myself in beer and lie out in the sunshine to dry off.

Bike’s in the bag. Looks less like an explosion in a pipe lagging factory that previous years. A high risk strategy that ensures the bag remains luggable, with the possible downside of the contents being reduced to swarf by those nice, careful men who dump your luggage from hold to tarmac.

Forecast is for 28 degrees and sun, sun, sun. Apart from the thunderstorms and lightening. I shall be sticking Si “lightening conductor” James up on a telescopic pole if the weather turns scary. He’s almost a native now so can negotiate with the un-earthed electricity in French. Important to understand the strength and weaknesses of the team and play to them I’ve always thought.

I’ll miss my family terribly as I always do, but – honestly – now I just want to go. Get through the crapolla of UK Airport PLC without getting lost on the way to Bristol, and just survive sticky/sicky charter kids for two hours.

Then go ride for a week in high places. No phones, no watches, no pressure, no email, no decisions other than “what shall we have for lunch?” and “another beer?“**, good friends, big skies and bikes every day. I’m like a kid the night before Christmas.

Except he probably didn’t have to go and mow the lawn before being allowed to leave 😉 Back in a week before the relative luxury of camping with the family. I expect to spend most of that holiday sleeping and boring Carol with tales of daring do. When I get properly back, I’ll share that out with everyone else!

* especially if accessorised with the “long sock”

** A tautologic couplet I’d suggest.

Ready?

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The Power Sandal

No, not ready at all. Last year, with an entire week to go, I was done with pontificating, faffing, cogitating and – finally – selecting stuff for the Pyrenees trip. A procedure that became less about how important an item was, and more about it’s size/weight/squashability. We ended up here:

Right-o

And that collateral served me well. Right up until the bike committed suicide through a mixture of bad design and Ostrich Mechanics*. Which scored zero on a scale of one to lamentation on the reasonable grounds that carrying a spare frame up a mountain is somewhere beyond paranoia and deep into a mental illness.

With three day s to go, my concessions to creating a carryable support infrastructure for a longer and more arduous trip has been to buy some sandals. I give you – and I am quoting directly from the marketing blurb here – “the power sandal. An all-terrain light shoe experience for the adventurous traveller”

For me it has sufficient beige to signify the true age of the sandal wearer, augmented with sporty orange to dull the embarrassment. They shall be strapped proudly to my camelbak ready – at a moments notice – to be unleashed once Si’s map reading has us again portaging bikes on exposed cliff edges.

And – as a bonus – come supping time, I shall be sporting these fab footy fixtures in any and every Pyreaneen drinking establishment. Such is my confidence in their playful attractiveness, I am considering employing a handy Frenchman** to “demand manage” the screaming ladies desperate for some Sandal Action.

Other areas of pre-holiday preparation are fairing similarly. The bike seems to work in non creaky fashion. Careful use of the word “seems” with a single 1 hour ride in two weeks unrepresentative of serious testing. This was followed by 90 minutes in the pub, which is what endurance athletes such as myself term “tapering”.

And as for the part of my life which fills the days and pays the bills, the less said about that the better. Is there some twisted phenomenon ensuring the greatest volume of work is directed at the individual with the least amount of time? Come Friday night, whatever isn’t done shall remain in that state for two further weeks.

Three times already, the following conversation has taken place “When are you on Holiday?” / “Friday” / “Will you have your phone with you” /”No” / “Oh” / “Because I’ll be half way up a mountain and BECAUSE I’M ON HOLIDAY. GO LOOK IT UP IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS“. So far, I’ve only said the last bit in my head. But next person asking shall be in unhappy receipt of the unexpurgated version. At some volume.

Ready? No. Keen? Yes.

* The art of understanding that something really, really bad is happening to your bike and attempting to drink enough to forget about it.

** That’s not a couplet you’re likely to hear twice in your lifetime. Unless you’re read a lot of those specialist publications.

So wrong, it’s wrong.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments
Malverns MTB - July 2011
Is that a happy face?

I have never understood why one week you’re an athletic titan bending the landscape to your will, the next you’re a fat, old knacker wondering if this is how the end starts.

There is some logic to this I suppose; plausible deniability of the previous evenings’ alcohol content withers in the hard face of the first climb. A frenzied one man attack on anything bottling a fermented grape is merely an aperitif for hindsight.

Malverns MTB - July 2011Malverns MTB - July 2011
A poor nights’ sleep – being only one more in a week of staying awake in the dark – isn’t helpful either. Industrial gardening* wearies muscles, and a wave of unspecified tiredness makes 7am feel like a stupid time to abandon the comfort of your bed.
Malverns MTB - July 2011Malverns MTB - July 2011

The signs were all around me; lethargy when faced with the “stick game” which makes a mad Labrador even happier. One day I hope he’ll somehow communicate that stereotyping his long “Retriever” bloodline is unfair, and repeated fetching that bit of gnawed wood is so yesterday, Darling. Today was not that day.

Then I put my shorts on the wrong way round. Twice. Picked up the wrong gloves, lost the trailer key, faffed about looking for related stuff and found only excuses. Jezz seemed in similar mood hence a pre-ride cuppa and a chat before riding bicycles became a necessity.

Sometimes it’s just the first climb that hurts. Someday’s you’re a corpse uphill but demonic coming down. Mostly experience suggests you’ll work you way into a ride, and the finish will be far stronger that the start. Today wasn’t one of those days either.

The sun was out warming our clumsy limbs, the trails were grippy after another night of summer rain, we were still early enough to avoid most of the rambling hoards and the bikes were working well. Only thing missing was any semblance of technique, any sign of motivation, any power in the legs and any breath in the lungs.

Malverns MTB - July 2011Malverns MTB - July 2011

All stolen away by the God of Superficial Fitness clearly having fallen out with Bacchus. “Make them suffer, make them suffer some more, do they look like they are enjoying it yet? Yes? Fire up the gradient machine and ratchet up that next climb”.

Malverns MTB - July 2011Malverns MTB - July 2011

It was still good of course. Not as good as the last few rides, but better than many grim death-marches undertaken in the winter. Vegetation has exploded past head height throwing out obstacles that scratch, ping and bite. But the views are fantastic, the being out there so much preferred to being inside, the 650+ metres of climbing triggers a guilt free dead animal breakfast and rests a troubled mind that would otherwise be tortured by missing a ride.

Even when you’re not that keen to go. Said it before – riding is always better than not riding. Next week will be splendid I’m sure. In the meantime, I’ll wield my mighty paintbrush while musing on exactly who nicked my fitness and motivation this morning. Yes, I’m looking at you Mr Merlot.

* Happy gardeners appear to cherish the careful placement and nurture of pretty flowers. The rest of us are left with digging large holes and creosoting anything that doesn’t move. Or move that fast. I’m of the firm opinion that our now wood-stained chicken is not only happy at being fully waterproof, but also “dark oak” is this years’ Hen colour.

Mental

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That is. Amazing how much bike technology has come on in the six years since this race. Nowhere near as amazing as the genius of routing the course through someone’s kitchen 🙂

Talking of mental, that’s a good description of my current vocational workload, and my cerebral state going into the Dartmoor Sportive. Good job we’re doing the girl’s race with only 110k/7500 feet of climbing due to my outstandingly slack preparation.

Which did include one ride of over 100k, and many, many nights sitting inside wondering which Pringles flavour was the most performance enhancing. The research is well and truly done, but the results are yet to be proven. Ask me Sunday, if I’m still alive.

2500 riders as well. Most of them wrapped tight in lycra, sporting zero body fat, preparing strange liquid concoctions and worrying over heart rate zones. Mr Bro and I won’t be like that. Aside from the obvious physical attributes we entirely fail to share with such riders*, we also share none of their competitive edge or medal chasing aspirations.

Already I feel my flirtations with the dark side of cycling have gone way too far. Not only do I own a roadie pair of bib shorts (that act as a homage to Freddy Mercury’s Spandex phase), but I’m unlikely to accessorise these skintight trousers-and-a-bit with additional willy-coverage baggies. Instead I shall stay-press the wedding vegetables for anyone to see.

So that’ll be use then. Testiclappers to the fore, while riding at the back. And there’s the whole riding in a group thing. Done this once. Nearly totalled everyone behind me. Was not asked to lead again. They’ll be scraping innocent racers off the tarmac with a spatula if I’m allowed anywhere near the peloton.

My strategy therefore is not just to be so slow I’ll not be bothering those who are taking the whole thing a bit seriously, but also to break road riding protocol by stopping in one of the many pubs for refuelling. Assuming they haven’t got pringles, I’ll settle for some dry roasted nuts** assuming they are accompanied by an ice cold beer.

But it would be wrong to say I’m not intending to finish. Oh no. That’d just be too rubbish even for me. So no more than two pub stops. Three, at the most.

* My bro especially although he’s slimmed down quite impressively this year. Bit of a worry.

** Looking at the forecast, I may be able to harvest my own.

A spot of summer

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"Summer" walk in the woods

I was doing so well. 4 rides in 4 days. Then I wasn’t doing so well. No rides in the following six. Some would call it tapering, those -with a working knowledge of my lazy gene – would call it absolutely right : rain stops play.

With work shuttling me all over the shop, when others could ride last week I could not. And when I could, I couldn’t be arsed. It’d was all for change this morning with a repeat of two weeks ago combing much needed miles in the legs and fab-a-dab-a-dosy singletrack in “the Yat”.

Except it rained And never stopped. The issue was tho when it started. 8am and I was poking about in the workshop looking for excuses. Rain hammered on the roof, so I answered with a text declaring a lack of impermeability and motivation. Text’d returned sometime later spoke of good times had by all which didn’t cheer me up at all.

Before which, my penance was to include the entire clan in a soggy dog walk through our local woods. A wood that Jess and I regularly have much fun swishing between trees on two wheels. For a mad moment I considered adding bike-age to our already considerable payload of kids, dog, wellies and sulking but a brief outbreak of sanity stayed my hand.

Instead we wandered the bike trails marvelling at the volume of unrelenting wet from upstairs and the slickness of anything unearthed from the puddle strewn ground. On a scale of “loving the experience”, the dog rated a hard 10, me a guilty 8, carol about a 6 due mainly to a lack of water repellent headgear and the offspring a number somewhere near Kelvin’s absolute zero.

"Summer" walk in the woods "Summer" walk in the woods

"Summer" walk in the woods "Summer" walk in the woods

"Summer" walk in the woods

Not riding did open up a window into which I transferred thirty odd photos from a time so ancient, not only was my hair brown but it was also mostly on my head. My lazy edit before publishing to a squillion bored wibbly viewers was mostly driven by a level of self awareness that is grounded in the sure knowledge that having people laugh at you is nearly as good as them laughing with you.

More of that soon, but if you really can’t wait to point and giggle, try my photostream.

Don’t expect much of a response from Mr. absence-of-anything-approaching-dignity here. I’ll be hauling woger wog up some steep hills in a desperate attempt to avoid the Lantern Rouge at the oh-God-It’s-So-Close Dartmoor 100.