Category: Photography

Funny shaped vegetables

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Potato Harvest

Remember those quieter times, when the highlight of a Sunday TV schedule would be a humourous* selection of misshapen brassicas and root vegetables vaguely resembling – in a certain light and to a certain schoolboy mind – dangley body parts?

I worried – even at an age when a dog farting was absolutely the funniest thing in the world – about the people growing such penile specimens. Did they do it on purpose? Was there some kind of special seed? Maybe a funny shaped tube mirroring something normally kept well holstered inside the trouser?

I worry no more. Because after exercising scavenging rights in the field adjacent to our house and unearthing the remains of the vegetables beds, it has become absolutely clear that nature has a wicked sense of humour.

Firstly the humble spud. Now grown on an industrial process unrecognisable to even a post war farming generation, they’re planted in dense rows, sprayed with all sorts of shit**, everything above ground killed with sulphuric acid, and then harvested with a machine first recorded during the Spanish Inquisition.

Only not all of them. It’s uneconomical to hand pick the stragglers. Well it is for the farmer, far less of an issue to a family hurdling the fence in the hunt for a season of free chips. Armed with nothing more advanced than a wheelbarrow and a furtive expression, we’ve recycled enough to make me wonder if “potatobix” has a future as a breakfast cereal.

No idea what they are. “Potato” I hear you say? Ah well you’ve not plumbed the fascinating depths of tuber identification oncethe Internet is brought into play. Really there is no finer family fun that holding a humble muddy spud to the light while pointing excitedly at the screen: “It’s that one, I’m sure of it, mottled edges, responds well to squidging, looks as if it may have been secreted by a sick bear… yes it’s definitely ‘Farmer’s delight-the muddy bugger‘”

The carrots however are something else. Everything we grew above the surface of the beds has been nibbled/shit on/carried off into the night by an insect population which turns up with cutlery. What is left has taken the most amazing shapes from the chronically deformed to the point-and-laugh.

It’s great to see my own kids have taken on the mantle of indicating that an orange vegetable with a point at the end may very well be a spitter for a willy. Makes me proud.

Still they’re free and they taste pretty good***, and one day I’ll feel strong enough to tackle the difficult potato Random dug out that has the size/weight/general shape of the dog’s head. Send that one into Esther and she’d not know where to put herself.

I’d almost welcome a reboot of the That’s Life franchise, were it not for “Gardener’s World” being a worthy successor. Ashamed as I am of admitting it, I could not tear myself away from Friday’s gem of an episode where lots of retired folks were terribly serious on the topic of “Exhibition Vegetables”. I might have to have a go – there is at least one carrot the judges would find hard to ignore.

* Only, not very.

** Chicken shit generally. Ask me how I know.

*** The Veg not the kids, but I like the way you’re thinking.

The same, but different.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

ST 4 built not ridden
Bike testing is something I take very seriously. Mainly because the sheer volume passing through the hedgy shed is long past double figures, and can’t be far from celebrating a silver jubilee. So it goes; build, test, declare undying love, upgrade, cast aside, discard in the shadow of shiny new things, then sell.

Notice at no point do the words “Research”, “Logic”, “Profit” or even “Enjoy” gets close to elbowing their way into that tired list of bike rental. I did consider building a shed with just two openings labelled “in” and “out” with little space for actual occupation.

Lately things have improved, although this is analogous to a 50 a day man boasting he’s cut down to 48 fags during any 24 hour period. The difference with the Orange ST4 is it had become a firm favourite which I had no intention of selling.

Really, none at all, rebuilt the Cove, rode it, liked it, put it back on the hanger. Pace was occasionally dusted off but failed to excite, Trailstar is kids woody accompanied for which it is ace, but I’ve no intention of riding it anywhere else.

So a certain irony then when the ST4 decided to dump me and some of its’ more important internals after less than a year. Still fickle chap that I am, its’ rather burlier mutant twin has already displaced it in the “keeper” category*

So bike testing. Here’s my approach honed over far too many random purchases. Finish bike build at exact time red wine bottle is empty. Ideally this will be before midnight, but rarely is this the case as the “last small job” appears to have triggered a rebuild from the wheels up. Forget to sleep properly due to lame excitement, chicken issues** that apparently must be discussed at 3am, and multiple visits to the bog.

Groan when alarm chirpily informs you that 7am is actually a real time on a Sunday. Lurch out into the rain and lash bike onto trailer. Select least stinky riding kit and motor off in search of other early morning nutters. Turn back at three quarter distance to retrieve trailer key left on kitchen table. Get stuck behind tractor and nearly end life attempting risky passing manoeuvre. Find friend still drinking tea and dither for a bit.

Riding eventually had to happen after we’d run out of new things to poke and prod. First 25 minutes was climbing, first on the road switching to a much hated shaley double track expressly laid to make me miserable. Goes on for a bit, nearly as long as my technical evaluation of the new ST4’s climbing prowess “pretty stiff back there, pro pedal is a bit keen, shit I’m knackered today“.

Finally a descent, flick the happy switch on the shock which instantly sits the bike deeper in the travel. Throw it into a couple of slippy corners and down a steep rock gulley and it feels the same but different. Up front is a bloody good fork, but it feels out-classed by what’s happening out the back. Super plush over the bigger rocks but ramping up nicely deep into the stroke. Probably a bit too much meaning a stop for some “biffer air” in the chamber.

For those not of a bikeacul persuasion, the last paragraphs may read like nonsense. In fact, even those who do will rightly question my ability to critique anything much more complex than “the wheels go round when you press the pedally bits“. And you may be right, but I contend that riding the same trails with the same kit on a different frame is a fine way to work out what’s different.

We rode on past our normal switchback point and headed deeper into the hills. Lots of steep climbs on wet grass and loose shale demonstrated a total absence of flex, rather the bike hunkers down and demands grip from the surface. It’s pretty damn effective until my lungs give out.

The middle Malvern hills throw silly steep and loose descents as a challenge to the fat tyred, and we took them on without much drama but quite a lot of speed. Couple of jumps, then a significant flight of cheeky steps were soaked up and spat out by a bike that appears to have eliminated flex in this third incarnation.

Too early to tell for sure, but by this time I’d abandoned any rigorous evaluation of the suspension performance, instead removing the analytical part of my brain entirely to allow the section marked “Silly and Impulsive” to have its’ head. Quick scoot through some lovely Autumn-turning singletrack, plunge down into the quarry before a last 200m climb close to where we started.

Close but above. Good, because I am really knackered now – being easily outclimbed by my pal on his proper heavy Heckler. Windy up here too, so it’s a quick nod to the God of Staying Wheel Side Up and we’re away. Off the ridge spine, rock drop into a loose ninety degree turn, then the same but reversed, line up the drop, dispatch with nary a worry – when did we start thinking 5 inches of travel as Trail? Jeez these things are awesome – fast turns lead us into a final off camber woody section.

Boom-Boom down there, hip swinging the rear tyre away from the trees, quick breath, brakeless eyes wide open over steep and wet roots shooting us out onto a grassy slope where rain and due ensures braking traction is a bit of a random affair. Grin, point, tea and medals.

Riding any bike almost any day is generally a joy. Today should have been the end of a painful disappointing journey with the old ST4. In fact it felt like the start of another altogether happier one.

3 posts in three days? Unheard of. Work tomorrow, normal silence will be resumed I suspect.

* Yes it’s a very small category. But statistically, it counts.

** One of the poor buggers appears to have been shot if the wound is anything to go by.

Three things..

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

ST4 - New Linkage

… I lost after coming back from the Pyrenees. Firstly my motivation to ride, secondly the feeling in one of my toes and finally the ST4. Let’s take those in turn shall we?

Local trails didn’t really cut it for a couple of weeks when compared to being high up in the mountains. I trudged round, not enjoying any extra alpine fitness, not really enjoying being back on the hardtail, so spending the entire ride looking for my mojo, or a new place to crash.

A day walking in SPD’s reduced a previously frost-nipped toe to not-terribly-amusingly wooliness making walking a bit of a chore. It’s mostly back to life now, which is comforting considering I’ve been eyeing up a sharp knife in a Randolph Fiennes “Hack Your Own Extremities off” kind of way.

The ST4 tho was more than a little broken. Frankly it’s been a proper Marmite bike from the start; firstly the BB shells needed cleaning out, then I had no end of issues with chainsuck which may have been causal to the shock failing and taking the pivot bearings with it. Like a high maintenance girlfriend, it was awesome when it was good, but God could it piss you off during the many and varied drama queen moments.

And while it was obvious that all was not well with the bike while hauling aged carcass up proper mountains, the full horror wasn’t revealed until I removed the cranks and the bottom bracket kind of fell out at the same time. The threads, responsible for preventing such an event, were now wispy shadows of their former selves.

I was understandably upset. 750 miles, 9 months and the frame was both knackered internally and seriously cosmetically scared on the outside. Disregarding the warranty protocol involving form filling and original dealers, I rang Orange, spoke to their main man in Warranty and whined. At length.

He stopped me by offering a new 2011 frame, entirely re-designed and available in a couple of weeks after the Eurobike launch. I shut up then other than to say thanks. True to their word, Orange have painted one in my preferred colour*, recycled the shock and headset off the previous frame remains before shipping it back today.

All within three weeks, and all without a hint of trying to pull a fast one or looking for some plausible deniability.

So there we are. In fact there ^^^ it is. And once I’d spoken to Orange, suddenly riding became an official fun thing to do again. Come Sunday with a following wind, and a firm hand on the spanners, mark 2 ST4 shall be committed to the Malvern trails of lumps and bumpiness. Hopefully this time without the histrionics.

After all, that’s my job.

* and I’m shallowly happy that there will be no other Red frame only deals until 2011.

Lessons.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

Learned a few. Probably not enough. Best get back there then.

After ten years of perceived progression – be that in bike technology, fitness, riding ability*, people and places – it appears this is nothing but barely adequate preparation for proper Mountain Biking. Capital Letters Fully Deserved.

There will be more of course; more pictures, more stories, many more words, some lies, some things left untold but until my world has settled a little this will have to do.

First damage report; apart from an arse that feels it may have spent a number of long nights in prison, a twitchy abductor muscle, pock-marked knees, skinned ankles and the odd bit of random missing skin, all is good. I’m properly shagged in many varied and interesting ways except for the one pertaining to my bum cheeks. Pretty sure that was the saddle, but honestly it’s all a bit of a blur.

Bike? That’s properly broken. It’s always been a bit fragile, and exposure to high peaks has finished it off. It survived long enough to limp me home but now it’s off to the great Warranty Repair Centre in the sky and shall – hopefully – be replaced with a slightly less high maintenance example. Still lasted nearly eight months, which in terms of “Al Ownership” is a bloody lifetime.

So physically mostly fine, mentally fairly confused. Found out all sorts of things about how far into dark places you can reach when their are no crowd pleasing choices left. Discovered some traits previously hidden under a veneer of civility; some good, some less so. Realised how important your friends are, and how much richer shared experiences are than anything in your head.

It’s not some kind of spiritual surf-shit I’m pedalling here. It is how you feel when layers of stuff you thought might be important are stripped away. We got away with more than we really should have – mountains are harsh and brutal environments that will test and inspire, switchback despair and joy, first caress then bully, but after all that leave you with a sense of peace that only truly high places can truly deliver.

We never got close to finishing what we started. But that’s fine, because I’ll be going back.

* Coming from a low base obviously.

What’s in the bag?

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Everything really, and then again not much. Plan A was to have all this packed up and finished by lunchtime so I could spend pre-abandonment time with my family. Plan B was quickly enacted once Plan A had gone the way of losing the entire morning to work. And yes, I was booked on holiday although the only person this seemed to make a difference to was me.

Plan C stumbled closely behind Plan B once some ludicrously simple maintenance somehow ended with an attempt to un-cast the fork lockout. A quick trip the Nic @ the bike shop proved once again I am a spannering numpy, and the fix wasn’t in fact to place it carefully in the vice to make it easier to beat vigorously with a sledgehammer.

Ruthless selection of a biking only holiday wardrobe has kept the pack weight below 9kg and that’s including h20 at half of that. Okay I’ll smell a bit (more) and my evening pulling wardrobe of lycra and leg warmers is possibly a target for parody, but at least I shall not ‘go turtle’ each time an attempt is made to heft the pack skywards.

Somehow a trip to the camping shop for a£2 item ended in the purchase of a superbly technical garment that can – according to the marketing blurb here – act as a base layer, or a mid layer, or a “showerproof”* outer – in fact I wouldn’t be surprised to see it dispensing wine and fish once we reach the top of the mountain. Downside it wasn’t cheap. Still you can never have too much shit can you? Certainly seems to work for the kids.

The bike is now in the bag. Every time I face this much hated task I pretend that THIS TIME I will take my time, pursue a logical approach, create a safe cocoon for expensive parts by cunning use of pipe lagging and a small sample of sticky tape. And, in line with previous attempts, the bag looks like a botched kidnapping or an explosion in a masking tape factory. It’s all pointless anyway as the baggage handlers seem to take great pleasure in skimming the bag across the tarmac having launched it from their little truck.

I have not the strength to start on the Camelbak. There’ll be lots of time for that tomorrow because with a 3:30am start come Friday, not a huge amount of point going to bed.

* Beware that word. Someone stole the “for about 2 seconds” from the end of it.

Rate my Chopper

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Devon 2010 (93)
Pretty impressive huh? Certainly is close up and shakingly personal. My preference – when reviewing my travel options – goes bike, foot, car, train, boat, “fuck I’m not leaving the surly bounds of earth thank you very much“, bar then plane. After a first helicopter trip, I’d insert the whirlybird somewhere between bike and car, if someone were kind enough to pop one into my garden after installing heli-pads at my places of work. An ambitious plan doomed to failure, and that’s a recurring theme in this post.

There’s a common misconception amongst my friends and family that I have a fear of flying. This is nothing more than a symptom of fabrication shadowing the cowardly cause which – while complex – can be distilled into a perfectly rationale terror of plunging to a fiery death, caught between screaming passengers and PA advocating calm and the brace position. And when some smug arsewipe trots out some hoary statistic proving that crossing the road is somehow more dangerous than an high velocity, high altitude airtight capsule built by the lowest cost bidder, it seems a good time to explain “I HAVE BEEN RUN OVER THREE TIMES YOU KNOW!“*

I feel people like that need to put in a little more research time if they’re trying to reassure the bag of nerves that I was, when stepping under the scything blades of something that clearly cannot fly. Even with a basic knowledge of aerodynamics, no one can look at a a few rotating carbon sticks without thinking “plummet-yes, fly, no”.

And yet it was surprisingly un-scary. Some of which is reduced brain function brought on by noise pollution, some more is a low speed/low altitude combo which gives much time for gawping at scenery and a conceit that – come the inevitable failure of gravity fooling – jumping out is a definite option.

The rest of the week was fairly standard, burned like a self-harmer given a flame thrower for Christmas on the only proper hot day, damp for longer periods, generally squiffy in the evenings, mostly relaxed, relatively sanguine. Then back to work, where it took almost 30 minutes befire laissez-faire holiday mode flipped to “fire up the chainsaw, there’s a staff morale issue to deal with”.

Clearly I need a holiday. And come next Friday, I’ll be embarking on a 3 day pass storming epic of the Pyrenees. This unsupported yomp up and over two high passes will see five hardy souls ascend 5000 feet of rocky mountain on two consecutive days, before a payback of an approximately infinite descent on a track where many people have died. Well possibly, or that could be more of a prediction.

Our days will be book-ended with mountain huts where our carefully chosen race fuel shall be carefully measured out before the slamming begins. Having never done anything like this before, obviously I’ve decided to throw some money at the problem – specifically in the area of kit where it seems my legion of backpacks fail to match up to a difficult requirement of hauling a sleeping bag, spare socks, comedy hat and vat of alcohol over a couple of cheeky peaks. I’ve been eyeing all sorts of stuff – much of which the purpose is entirely lost on a man of my navigational incompetence – but have so far only purchased a Spork and earplugs.

More stuff in the bag, less room for schnapps, that’s pretty much my expedition policy. The trip coincides with yet another birthday, where we’d easily lose the whole morning if my request for a minutes silence to mark each passing year were approved, so it seems pretty damn clear I’d better get on with all this shit I promised myself at 30 while I’m still on the pedalling side of only mildly decrepit. Although a serious professional carrying out a risk assessment of our quest would simply summarise “They’re all going to die falling off a mountain, ensure dental records are up to date“.

I’m mitigating any possible risk by taking a bike with two air shocks, some shed-based tubeless tyre system, a new set of brakes and knobbly new boots. All tested by rigourously riding up and down the road. Ambitious but doomed to failure? Maybe, but got to go out and do this stuff, experience things now while I still can, tweak the nose of terror before it’s too late.

“Late”. H’mm maybe I could have chosen a better word.

* Once by a bike. To be fair he was trying to avoid running over mine and apparently I was easier** to bunnyhop.

** Not easy enough tho

Chicken’s run.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography7 Comments

After only eighteen months, “Poultry Alcatraz” is finally complete. Not complete as in properly finished, but sufficiently secure for a complete relocation of our six mad chickens to their new home of “much squawking”.

Garden/Chicken Run - July 2010 Garden/Chicken Run - July 2010

Garden/Chicken Run - July 2010 Garden/Chicken Run - July 2010

It may not look like over a years’ work, and of course it isn’t. Because we had to wait until the diggers moved out, the pond was drained, that area was laboriously cleared of mutant vegetation before even the ground could be dug up by a team of two with many other calls on their time. Two of them generally hanging around asking for food/money/toys/the other sister to be buried in a trench.

But, after a harsh lesson in rural animal husbandry, we took extra care this time with six foot of tightly meshed fence bolted firmly to stout posts. Below ground another twelve inches* are dug in against fox attack.

All we’re missing is a roof and some motion sensing machine guns. Even this evening, I was shifting large logs in the proximity of the pen to prevent a possible roof assault. I did wonder if Fox’s now come equipped with grappling irons and wire cutters, or we were in thrall to an Olympic gymnast hiding a chicken rustling habit.

But better safe than, well, dead. And while the construction methods are somewhat rustic, all done by eye and then by hammer, the end result is chicken heaven right now. As we’ve left all the spiky vegetation that’s about head high and adding a few inches per day. Well it was but within a week, the greedy buggers will have reduced it to shrubbery swarf, so turning the entire area into first a dust bath and then a mud pile.

While recording this rather satisfying, if structually second rate, building of all our own work, I ran around in the summer rain shooting random garden scenes. A quick browse shows a pretty impressive transition from pea shingle to mostly garden via phases of four foot trenches, ten ton hardcore lorries, a week with a mini digger and six months from a man who came for a week to finish a single dry stone wall.

Tallet (2 of 33) Gardening

It makes me realise how much we’ve done, but also how much is left to do. And that’s before maintaining what we have. Next person who says “oh I wish I had a lovely big garden like this” shall be presented with a spade and a bucket and told to put their trowel where their mouth is.

Garden/Chicken Run - July 2010 Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (18 of 31)

Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (14 of 31) Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (15 of 31)

Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (25 of 31) Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (26 of 31)

Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (31 of 31) Garden and Chicken Run July 2010 (30 of 31)

Tomorrow I have to spend 18 hours travelling to and attending a “Developing your edge” course. Something I’ve only previously considered when sharpening disemboweling weapons. Apparently even for the lightly tinged self conscious individual, this is a very long day of gruesome toe-curling embarrassment.

I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to it. I may be able, however, to explain exactly how much I enjoyed it on my return. Could be quite a short post I feel.

* I measured it and everything. Couldn’t help thinking “12 inches is always a bit more than you think”

Myndyd Du

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

The same semantic lore which decrees “Westwood Ho!” cannot be articulated without a piratical bent, dictates that John Inman leads on vocals whenever “Myndyd Du” hits the larynx. Maybe a bit of Mr Humphries crossed with Frankie Howerd* to really kick it; “oooooooh Mynnndndddduuuuu”. Possibly it’s just me. I find it generally is nowadays.

Certainly it felt that way when meeting up with bikes I could identify but people I couldn’t one early Sunday morning. Any earlier and it would have qualified as a night ride, but my concerns were more around a worrying lack of body fat from various competent looking individuals, and finding myself significantly under-biked.

This never happens; a lack of talent and bravery ensures a cheese-straw is never taken to a gunfight, but even bleary-early-eyed I couldn’t help but notice that my nice-personality-shame-about-the-size 4 inch travel bike was entirely oversprung by a number of six inchers and one monster DH rig pretending to be a trail bike.

Wolf? Sheep’s clothing? I think so. Not much time to worry about that since – in a break from normal FoD rider protocol – adherence to the start time was confirmed by Gentlemen Starting Their Engines. I explained to the kind fellas transporting my bike, that my presence was entirely due to some opportunistic sidling up to the FoD night ride crew and looking keen and needy when a Wales trip was being mooted.

They explained right back with a whole exotic list of fantastic trails they’d ridden, most of which were entirely unknown to me – not that this stopped me nodding knowingly and assuming moon-riding had blasted off while I hadn’t been watching. I began to worry properly until a detour sent us fetching our 57 year old guide who apparently liked to take it steady. My relief was short lived when Tony sprinted from his house showing a physique clearly missing any ravages of age or poor living.

Right then, blagging and excuses it is then. I started well on the stony climb from a car park marooned at the far end of the world’s longest one way road. A quick/slow/quick seatpost clamp fettle saw the boys disappear at a pace entirely inappropriate for a 7k climb into a nasty headwind. I caught up with them eventually providing a perfect excuse for a camera/deep breathing halt. My second attempt to close the gap ended with that holy trinity of slipping chain/maximum power and gonads on the stem. On the way down I deaded a leg, which slowed me further for the entire ride, although the fire in my bollocks somewhat overrode any competing medical condition.

Mynydd Du Summer route Mynydd Du Summer route

Gingerly remounting, I managed a few more strokes** before hopping off and limping upwards on a bouldery causeway that opened up some lovely views I entirely failed to enjoy due to throbbing grunties. And even though I was so far behind, Gary had carefully explained my special needs navigation ensuring I wasn’t left to sit astride alone on Lord Hereford’s knob. Good job too, already way too much action DOWN THERE already.

First descent, proper old school. Moorland wide tracks, little drops into wind bashed peat, gulleys, easy gradient, absolutely no corners. I passed a couple ensuring that John and Frankie were vocally active “just passing on your RIGGGGHHHHTTT”. That’ll be a result of the testicle slam some ten minutes earlier. Enjoying it so much, only when Tony turned off some distance behind us did the realisation that we had just added a bit more climbing to what was already rather a lot.

Mynydd Du Summer route Mynydd Du Summer route

I do love this kind of riding though. Not the Gonad Mashing bit, no more the big views, non Scalextric tracks, multiple lines, bump, bounce, heft, lift and manual, few hard pedals then same again. The ridge we took had all of this even if the climb to it had the kind of grassy friction that would have made it absolutely unrideable in the wet. Which in Wales is the other 51 1/2 weeks of the year. It ended in a dusty and loose vertical drop that was properly exciting. More so as you approached seeing nothing up front but the far horizon.

It was like the map had just ended. Arse on the rear tyre, try and be a bit brave as it all gets loose back there (do your own jokes, I’ve already passed the limit on my own internal smut-o-meter), let go early enough to ping happily through a rock gulley that felt all Lake District-y except for the complete lack of grockles. The silence was broken only by contented mountain bikers mixed on conversational random; firstly nano technology, then most horrific injury before a seamless segue took us to whether having a crush on Maggie Philbin could ever be right**

Mynydd Du Summer route Mynydd Du Summer route

Soon after a trail that was the second most lost thing in the entire Country of Wales. The first being us of course as we reconfigured the bikes to “machete mode” and ploughed through shoulder high vegetation hiding wheel sucking dips and divets. Hiding but not covering as I found after trying to fall off three times. Fourth time lucky over I went, pausing only briefly to gouge my inner thigh with a mirror image of the rear brake lever. Still it took my mind off my testicles for a bit.

We did eventually find the trail and I wasn’t entirely pleased about that as it wound a long and windy path through streams and gulleys. Sometimes a bit testing, always upwards and the fast boys were just far enough ahead for us slow coaches to realise this was going on for some time. I settled into a pace that. were it a town, would be linked with Walking, Ohio only to watch Matt and his 40lb freeirde rig breeze past. Bastard. I said nothing tho as he was my lift and I didn’t fancy riding home.

Another fern thrash and Tony doubled his chance of having my babies by declaring all the climbing was done. Good job so was I although, on reflection, next time I’ll pump more than 23PSI into my tyres and after an aborted alternative finish, we dropped fast and very loose on a fireroad before a hairpin bend closed the forest behind and above us. Where my peril-sensitive glasses changed from dark to light faster than anyone else could say “where the fuck is the trail?“. Others were less tech’d up and I followed Haydn past a couple of people laughing as he tried to divine the trail. And mostly failed.

Car park. Lie down. Pretend I’m stretching. Last few rides I have felt properly empty. Either too much riding or total lack of MTFU gene. The boys suggested we filled up on beer and peanuts in a local hostelry which was more than a little welcome. Proper day out that, very much enjoyed and a top bunch of fast and friendly riders to share it with.

I clearly didn’t make a total dick of myself (or they really are just terribly polite) because now I’m on the list to go play in Coed’Y’Brenin come end September. Based on this ride, I have a feeling it is going to be a a whole lot of fun. I’m packing the spare liver.

* You’d need a crowbar to separate that particular artistic pairing.

** Well it was bloody sore.

*** It isn’t. However we’re split on Phillipa Forester. Having just re-read that, maybe I could have chosen less descriptive words.

Back from the shed…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography7 Comments

… Last ride December 23 2009 in the snow and ice. And for Christmas the Cove was stripped bare of parts, with the remains stashed away in the dark reaches of the shed. Less than a month later, it nearly passed into new ownership until a brief burst of sanity sent it back to the guilty corner. The plan* = which stayed its’ eBay execution – was to all ride my other bikes to see if it that one would be missed.

This is such a dumb plan, because as a measure of ownership everything but the ST4 and road bike would be heading out the door. Only when the ST4 became an expensive tester for breaking strain of every component was the Pace dusted off. Until I broke that as well. The DMR is the perfect wheeled perch for riding with the kids, but its’ days of being flung off large jumps – with an abandon if not exactly wild then at least pretty feral – are long gone.

My mistake was to confuse mileage with usefulness. Sure logic may dictate that something that is not used and has a value should be off-loaded for whatever the market would pay, with a bonus of losing the guilt associated with hanging on to something that’s become a bit of an embarrassing shed-queen**.

However let us extend that hypothesis to only my immediate family. Such an approach would see us quickly assume eBay trader status and further require a fleet of skips to remove the roomfulls of crap we have collected through the power of “Project Magpie – two kids, tiny attention span, cheap plastic shit”.

So we’re not exactly starving, and selling bikes just because I am not riding them RIGHT NOW is clearly the ravings of a mad man or an accountant. And while the ST4 has been consistently brilliant, it’s also a bit fragile. Even with the decent winter riding we have here, it’s hard to imagine there would be much left other than bits of swarf and a large bill at the end of the next one. So getting the Cove built back up is a fantastic idea even if it is six months early.

Ahead of the game that’s me. No one has any idea what I’m doing most of the time. Least of all me. A careful study of that image will show a splash of old school Crankage hanging off a positively venerable Square Taper BB, bars, stem, seatpost, saddle and wheels reclaimed from the spares bin, a new set of forks brought forth by a Warranty triumph, with the remainder of important bits harvested from others’ unwanted cast offs.

I didn’t even finish building it because I have started to think of the bike shop in Ross as an extension of my own workshop only staffed by competent people such as Nick. I rolled in most of a chassis with a set of bleeding brakes that needed just that, and returned to fetch a fully working bike assembled without any obvious use of the large hammer much loved in my own builds.

Shall I be waiting to ride it until Winter? I shall not, because – even on a brief test ride – there is a certain directness and simplicity that is sure to offer much in the twisty forest tomorrow. And maybe on some other trails as well, where the utter sorted-ness of a full suspension bike could feel a little too much. But really it’s a crap conditions bike, although I do appreciate that a Titanium bike with decent stuff hanging off it is probably not everyone’s idea of the perfect winter bike.

“Get yourself a singlespeed and some rigid forks” they will shrill and I shall calmly reply “Much as I hate fixing stuff, I still want to be having fun when I’m out there. If I wanted the experience so loved by your sort, I’ll just buy myself a hair shirt and rub myself down with a ripe pineapple”. I find this generates enough confusion for me to run off before they can compose a ripost.

You see I look at this lot and don’t think “too many bikes, not enough difference between them, waste of money, etc, etc”. No I remember how much fun I’ve had on each and every one of them***, and – more importantly – how much MORE fun I’m going to have.

Starting tomorrow 🙂

* It’s not really a plan. It’s merely twisted logic on the endless roller-coaster of bike acquisition

** A job I feel I fulfil rather well myself.

*** Except the road bike. I’m not admitting to anything. That way lies waxing.