Category: Photography

Elbow

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

FoD - June 2011

Heard one song. Bought the album, refusing to get involved with some new-fangled “listen before buying” nonsense. Listened to the other eleven songs. Confused. Quite Northern. Otherwise, properly odd. Anyway moving on, the elbow under discussion is the right one that’s still wrong.

It sort of works which places in firmly in the category of “the remaining vaguely articulating bits of Al’s battered body“. I’ve learned to manage around always-sore ankle (casing jumps at chicksands), clicky shoulder (over the bars @ Swinley Forest followed by beating it for a week in the Atlas Mountains under pain relief called “Denial“), Dodgy Knee (opened up on Chiltern Flint and about 2mm from long term crutch use) and unrotating neck muscles (age, decrepitude, posture, computers and beating it repeatedly on the ground).

But having an elbow that – at full deflection – signals the brain to “stop the fuck with that right now” is getting almost as old as the rest of me. Regardless of that litany of injuries, mostly I’m a fast healer going from scar tissue to occasional whinge in a week or less. Pretty much the operating model for lumpy middle arm, but after starting well and getting 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} better, the last 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} remains stubbornly unfixed.

So closing doors, carrying buckets, reaching on top shelves* – you know sort of life stuff is immediately followed by a whispered “fuck that hurts“. Spotted by my long suffering and hypochondria abused wife, a quick examination revealed a lump that’s probably a chunk of grit I’ve illegally nicked from the Malvern Hills. Smart money is back to the Docs for some x-ray and remedial proddage. Al’s threepence is on further denial and stellarising the wound.***

Still three rides this weekend have left the joint sore, but the owner pretty chilled. Firstly out with my never-stop-improving youngest daughter who is starting to show a worrying velocity in the singletrack. Luckily I can still cheat enough to catch her, but she’s going to have the beating of me before too long. She does crash a lot though, but refuses to blub or blame afterwards. I’m starting to think she may be adopted.

Jessie Haugh Woods June 2011 (6 of 15)

Then a tour of local riding for my good mate Jason who- despite being a Kiwi and therefore quite odd/a worry to sheep – is an all round good egg in the don’t whinge/get on with it mould. So even after lunching himself on a rather tasty cheeky trail in the FoD, he was still keen for an 8am appointment with some Malvern Pointiness the following day.

FoD - June 2011

Ace it was, dodged the showers both days, rode some silly trails, talked a load of old bollox, had the occasional moment of blind terror and many more of “did you see that? that hip jump? you saw that right? that was awesome?…. you didn’t see it? right. Fucker“. Fired up warm things on the BBQ and cold things from the fridge which has made Monday Morning come round far too bloody quickly.

Reminded me of one thing though. Why we live here. It’s bloody fantastic. Even with a dodgy elbow. I might have mentioned that already.

* not that kind of shelf. We’ve the Internet for that kind of thing.

** A spoonerism devised under medically challenging condition during a Scotland Roadtrip. Don’t remember much about it, remember having to explain to the landlady why the bedsheets had the appearance of a double-bloody homicide. Went with “goat sacrifice” as it was less embarrassing.

The fat lady has sung..

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RC Slingsby Capstan - finished

But not flown. In fact, reposing on the lawn is likely to be the closest the poor woody bugger gets to a landing that doesn’t end in a deep analysis of the sub-soil. My bro and I destroyed the first one some *CRIKEY* 30 years ago* through multiple arrivals that were only charitably differentiated from crashing if all the bits could be found.

To offset my legendary flying skills, I thought it best to install a pilot both scale like and sanguine. Having found myself creatively compromised, I turned to the kids who delivered in spades.

RC Slingsby Capstan - finished

Apparently Eric the abandoned-naked-doll Pilot flew well from the bedroom windows during innocent young girls’ games of “lob stuff at the lawnmower“. That was enough for me, and he’s been properly installed with pillow AND blanket. Looks pretty damn relaxed right now although that’s likely to change come first engagement with aviation.

Now she’s a fat old bird, that’s for sure. Statuesque I like to think, but even the most heroically partisan would struggle to call her pretty. The full size version attracted a legend that it generally landed before the flying tug that had hauled it aloft. This was due to a glide angle kindly compared to a brick or shot duck. Having flown the very same full size, I’m here to tell you that is no legend. Shot Brick more like.

Back to the micro version, it’s not exactly bristling with technology. Just two servos driving rudder (yaw) and elevator (pitch). For those not of an aerodynamic persuasion, what we’re saying here is the only thing that’ll get the big old bertha turning corners is if the builder hasn’t cacked up building the wings properly.

With me being the builder, you can guess at my confidence that, post chuck, it’ll merrily bulldoze downwind – occasionally wagging the capacious arse – before finishing in someone’s tele. Having come through the roof. And the first floor. Excellent, report back on that.

And delving into my other bag of excuses, the temptation of buying my way into talent has a pinnacle that looks something like this:

Still in one bit!

Pre-loved or not, that’s a shit load of cash to chuck into thin air. First couple of flights were packed with incident as it zoomed around the sky with indecent haste, leaving my thumbs some few hundred feet behind. Neither landing was great if I’m honest, with the better of the two being the one I couldn’t see once said flying cash disappeared behind the hill. Still intact tho, not quite sure how.

So switching back to something that goes very slowly and doesn’t turn round much is likely to be a bit of a challenge. Still based on how old apparently I now am, that’s probably some kind of metaphor.

* That can’t be right. Maybe now I’m so old, my memory is addled or the cerebral loaf has a wither in the mathematical deduction lobe. Whatever, it cannot be 30 years ago. Unless I was a couple of years old and chewing on the transmitter. Yeah, that’ll be it. Phew.

Trigger’s broom

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Triggers Broom

A milestone has passed. Or – now I’ve gone metric to create the illusion of travelling further – a kilometre stone. 1250 of them to be precise. That was the point at which the previous ST4 waggled its twangy arse for the last time, and collapsed into a heap of iron fillings. The horror of finding the bottom bracket had destroyed the frame by ripping through the internal threads stayed with me right up until Orange admitted it was a bit rubbish and sent me a new one.

The plan for the original bike was to replace my Cove Hardtail so saving the cost of procuring a whole flange of expensive and shiny new parts. This was not entirely successful; within six months everything but the seatpost and saddle had been replaced by the aforementioned new and shiny, and the Cove was brought back from the shed.

Now I’ve replaced the seatpost and saddle. Fiscal irresponsibility sprayed faintly with lazy logic is a dangerous way to approach a web browser. Undeterred that such a part was unavailable from any UK reseller, I went all free market and ordered directly from the Fatherland. Two days later after various helpful emails including “Ihr aktueller Bestellstatus: In Bearbeitung“*, a box bearing clever hydraulics and an fairly eye watering invoice was swiftly transferred onto old trigger up there.

And it’s ace. Being a serial seat dropper, it’s removed the tedious need to dismount and dick about with QRs for a 30 second descent before trying to find the right pedalling position again to prevent ones knees exploding. So most of the time you don’t do it, and that is an exercise in joy limitation. I remember from my skills course Tony pushing the idea of moving down not back, with all the benefits having a low CofG can bring.

So it’s clever. Don’t ask me how it works I’ve no idea. First ride, this was clearly the case with my incessant fiddling taking twice as much time compared to dismount/sigh/adjust seat/get back on. And the marketing boys have missed a trick here – “X Fusion HiLo”? Sounds like a second rate cartoon character. Since to operate the “drop“, one must reach down and tickle ones’ wedding vegetables before releasing the lever, surely there is scope here for something more manly.

I’m going with “gruntbuster tacklegrabber” which is pretty unbeatable. The rest of the bike is pretty damn good as well. Which considering that most of the time I’m at the business end of the spanners, and it’s been thrown roughly to the ground on a number of occasions is a testament to the robustness of the new frame.

Sure it’s not exactly light for a four inch travel bike. And it’s probably a little bit slack for jedi-speeder wiggly tree action, but the limiting factor by some horizon stretching distance is the rider. As it is in 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of cases, which is why magazine reviews are informative, generally well written and almost entirely useless. For me, the only thing about a bike that matters is does it put a big grin on your face every time you ride it.

Certainly does. And with the “tacklegrabber” installed, that grin’s going to get even bigger 🙂

* Which I translated as “Congratulation, we’ve shipped your product” or “For information: We’ve annexed the Sudenland”

Friday Nutter..

On By AlexIn Photography1 Comment

An occasional slot dedicated to those individuals whose skill/bravery/lack of imagination both inspire and diminish any watching rather than doing.

Nutter bike videos are fine. I’ve reconciled myself that the pleasure one can illicit from watching such wheeled perfection is in no way lessened by feeling of jealousy or frustration. Because, as I’ve espoused before, anyone that good* is clearly an alien and there are many amongst us.

Gliders are slightly different. Smashing up the toy ones is obviously a home grown skill that would translate badly to the full size. Having flown many such engineless behemoths in my youth, I’ve a vague idea of exactly how dangerous/bonkers/physically demanding that stuff going on in the video is.

My favourite bit is either when the huge loads on the airframe (that’s a Swift which can stand 10G and -7G Inverted… find me a powered plane that can do that) sound out in creaks, groans and aural implications of impending doom. Or when a pen flies up into the cockpit under massive negative G and the pilot calmly grabs it.

Various Air Forces around the world use the Swift to teach fighter jocks aerobatics. Proper bonkers.

* or, let’s be honest, that much better than me

This. And That.

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

This:
Black Mountains Loop - April 2011

is one memory of a properly fantastic day in the mountains.

And that has just clocked a 1,000 kilometres without feeling the urge to tear itself apart like the previous incarnation.
Black Mountains Loop - April 2011

And, after beer and sleep. I shall try and write some more about how ace those two things allied with old friends and stunning weather has made my day/week/holiday 🙂

Lush

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BlueSmell Ride

Not one of my favourite words. Especially when used to describe an everyday object and/or an attractive member of the opposite sex. Try as I might, it’s hard to improve upon “I tell thee what, tha scrubs up well for a plain lass”*. Honest, hint of northern romanticism and in snogging distance of affectionate. So Lush, rubbish word but entirely appropriate composite of Lust and Dust.

Actually it isn’t at all, that’d be, er, Lust. Or Dust. Never mind, we’ve got this far may as well plough on and ignore my inability to combine two four letter words. Two rides in the Forest this week – and one more to follow – have raised the bar high for perfect singletrack mountain-biking this year.

This time last year, the country was basically under snow and the bluebells were trapped below that wintry blanket. This Spring of sunshine and no showers has seen them cover acres of Forest, and already they’re wilting back. Best get some sustained viewing from the height of a bike then.

Last night the “Malvern’rs” were treated to a 25k of lust/lush/dust singletrack, most of which was perfectly framed by swaying columns of bluebells. Since I was mostly route-finding – simply achieved by asked David riding next to me where we were going – out on point with the fellas in close attendance was the default downhill configuration.

Which is all fine, except for the massive distractions of dust whipping off the tyres into eyes entirely focussed on the periphery leaving almost no visual assistance to a brain demanding a little help on the next muscle movement. Flowing, nose to tail, through singletrack is one of the absolutely emotions to explain to those not obsessed by bicycles.

Let’s go with Lush for the moment shall we?

* Not that I’ve ever tried it myself. a) because women are one of the few things on this planet that regularly render me speechless and b) because a hard-swung bit of 2×4 is unlikely to improve my day.

Be happy..

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Get ahead. Get a hat

I didn’t post the picture of my “organic body armour”. Definitely need to turn safe search on for that. A chunk of the right side of the honed athletic frame / mildly chubby middle area splashed down in the crash is missing.

In its’ place are large red wields, yellow and purple bruising and stitches. Plus some assorted scarring that seems to doing it’s best to complete a large join the bloody dots puzzle.

After that description, might’ve be better just to post it 😉

Sore today in case you’re interested. Bruising in all the obvious places, some swelling which isn’t as exciting as it sounds. Thankfully my backup drinking arm is in full working order. In fact I am somewhat over engineered in terms of Disaster Recovery for getting my wine quota. Probably end up hacking it off in the next crash in a “value engineering” approach to riding.

In case the “God of Crashing” is on-line, I AM JUST JOKING. No more accidents this year please, I have a low pain/boredom threshold.

Buffing the Swingarm Slayer

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Rob’s ST4 – or what’s left of it, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Continuing my homage to Sarah Michelle Geller and her ability to destroy apparently indestructible demons with her bare limbs, here’s my what happens when “optimistic” frame design meets Pyreenean leg. My friend Rob broke this on Friday. Just riding along apparently. I am suspicious though since the very same terrain chewed out the bottom bracket of my old ST4.

So maybe it’s the mountains, or blatant copycatting from Rob or – and I think I’m going with this – not enough welding at the point of breakage. Since we’re quoting movies, let’s go with “We’re going to need a bigger weld”. Luckily Orange are already shipping a new rear end that’ll be precision fitted with another mates Mallet.

It’s mildly amusing that the original ST4 – like this one – was lorded by the MTB press as a fantastic bike that broke the trail-mtb mould. Broke itself more like. The latest one is stiffer, stronger and significantly less flawed. So it’s a bit of a surprise that’s getting a panning from the very same press.

Anyway, the new swingarm shall hopefully get Rob back on the trails soon. That’s TWO bikes he’s broken. If that’s some kind of competition, I’m not playing!

Roughy the Balsa Slayer

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Capstan "floor fly"

That’s me. A week of unspecified lurgy has kept me off the bike and in the shed. I am getting very twitchy about not riding, especially as March was another (modest) record in terms of distance and saddle time.

It’s all gone to poo tho. Cough, Bunged up head, snot everywhere and a throat that feels like it’s been sanded. It’s a possibility since everything else from the dog upwards has been given a good lashing of balsa dust this weekend.

Well enough to play with toy gliders, not well enough to mow the lawn. That’s my self-certified medical diagnosis. That glider is a Slingsby Capstan. My dad had a share in a full size one when I was no’but a nipper, and I had many vertigo-challenged hours in the co-plilot’s seat looking down at the ground and wondering when we were going to hit it.

We built the model as well. Must be – FLIPPING HELL – thirty years ago. Shit, there’s no way of saying that without instantly appending “you old fcker” is there? We didn’t really know what we were doing so the poor thing was beaten to death by Yorkshire stone. I don’t think we ever had the courage to chuck it off the edge, instead darting it into rocky scenery and innocent bystanders.

The company that made them went out of business years ago, but some enterprising young turks bought the plans and moulds and for£70 dealt out wingy nostalgia for those of a certain age. Carol bought me one for my birthday last year, but only now have I had the time to get jiggy with the sanding block.

The original seemed to take about a year to build. And about a 10th of that to destroy. My skills in both those areas are still about the same – so although it looks mostly glider shaped, it’s not been all plane sanding. Luckily Carol is on hand to help me with the difficult bits, and talk me out of apply powertools to any problem that takes more than 10 seconds to rectify.

I’m sort of embarrassed to admit that rebuilding my youth has been mostly good fun. Sure I’ve ingested around a kilo of second hand balsa, and invested time really that could have been spent doing almost anything more useful, but it’s therapy of a sort.

Man has cold. Man has shed. Man has mug of tea. Man has all sorts of tools, some of which he knows the purpose of. Man has things to build and instructions to ignore. Man has decent enough time while wondering if sympathy of family might extend to some fortifying cake.

Better be better next week. Once I’ve finished this, Carol will probably feel I’ve learned skills useful for general repair work and specific bevelling.

Probably be a good time to start riding again.

Marvel at my Massive Erection.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography7 Comments

The Big Tent

All Carol’s work of course 🙂 You have to admit it’s everything a monster from the enormous exterior footprint, to the capacious inner space separated into handy compartments; important people, small people, wine, food and dog.

Or possibly not dog. Our first family camping experiment was experienced in a retro-bell tent much loved for it’s height and space, but falling down on single living space and – nearly – due to rubbish pegging and a strong wind.

Murf was even more bionic back then; on waking at around 5:30am he’d meet the morn with a moist sniff of all pack members, finishing off with a sloppy lick roughly translated as “C’mon it’s MORNING, Let’s GO“.

To be startled from sleep by that hot breath, at the business end of a large black two holed snout, put me in mind of being woken by Darth Vader. There is also the small matter of my not so small 4×4 being squeezed seam-full of family, camping stuff, tent, emergency medical supplies* and squashed Labrador.

This – I think – gives me absolute carte blanche to go and buy a trailer. If nothing else it’ll make the trip out to our campsite a bit quieter. assuming the tarp keeps the kids inside. So£50 well spent I am sure on this pre-loved mostly mobile house. No idea how long it took to build, but next time it’ll probably be less than half a day, especially if the children aren’t involved in “helping” at all apparently.

An inaugural outing is loosely planned over Easter way out west on the “Welsh Riviera“. Where there are fabulous beaches, lots of fun hidden coves, great little eateries and an entire lack of anyone from London.

Apparently crumbly cliffs rear over these beaches, flat topped with soft meadows providing an idyllic spot for family picnics. By a strange co-incidence, these jutted butresses are also one of the very best sites to chuck toy gliders into a setting sun. Really, how lucky is that?

Got tent. Booked Holiday. Planned for dog abandonment. Just Spring left to turn up and we’re good to go.

* Comes in bottles. Normally Red. Always more than one.