First day back

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

First ride of 2016 - Muddy Malverns

You know how it goes. Crippling hangovers segue into vocational conformity: ‘Good Christmas?’/ ‘Not bad, quiet, you?’ / ‘About the same‘. Soends the conversational frippery leaving you with little option to take a deep breath before opening email.

This dance of desperate politeness is one of many reasons working from a single office isn’t really my thing*. Still personally kickstarting the 2016 economy through putting in a one day shift, I felt such an effort should be rewarded by a skive-ride.

Not ridden in the Malverns for bloody ages. They’ve changed. Got steeper for a start. Either that or my excuses multiplier of Christmas lethargy, undiagnosable fiery knee and squatting cold have struck the porky jackpot. Certainly a few wobbly bits were flinging themselves in a parody of Brownian Motion as unridden legs were reminded of their climbing responsibilities.

The hills have many fine qualities. Geological antiquity is amongst them – the pre-Cambrian rocks have been crumbling for 600 million years so funnelling water deep in the valley below. Where right now torrents of collected rainfall are gushing from every orifice.

I didn’t need to check, the evidence is all around us. More specifically under the tyres where the trails use to be. In eight years, it has never been this muddy. And tractionless – when my good friend and long time local Martin turned up equipped with full mud spikes, I silently congratulated myself on the decision not to bring the fat bike. That’d have got old fast.

I’m old but I’m not fast. Uphill it was mostly soggy enlivened by proper sloppy sections that rewarded a tentative prodded foot with a frictionless slide down the hillside. First descent I sent Martin out as ‘grip-sniffer‘ wherehe seemed to be going absolutely fine with his cheating tyres.

Back in the cheap seats, things were not going so well. Lost the front end three times, the last time I genuinely believed it had gone for good, and I was heading for an unscheduled seasonal head plant into the moist earth. Or a tree.

Saved by either a) cat-like bike handling skills or b) a whimpering withdrawal of the breaking fingers**, we carried on in much the same vein. Martin suggesting all manner of trails most likely to cause injury and me making excuses not to ride them.

A good lawyer – if such a thing exists – could sue the entire hills for attempted manslaughter. Still at least it wasn’t raining and the sun came out. At which point it started raining really hard. Not that this made any difference at all to the trails which couldn’t have been wetter had they been submerged in the Mariana Trench.

Brilliant to be out though. It’s been a week since the last time. My knee is no better, but I’m a sight less grumpy. That’s still quite grumpy tho as the bike is now entirely brown, my kit is being held hostage in the ‘bucket of doom‘ and denied access to the washing machine, I swapped a beer for a ‘recovery drink’ with twice the calories and it’s bloody raining again.

Even with the encroachingnight clawing away at the remaining daylight, I insisted we attempted a rain swelled summit of the beacon. We arrived there in increasing murk, but my haste to leave was stayed by having lost the front end so many times in the previous two hours, I was considering fitting a GPS to the tyre. Or a ski.

This sort of explains why Martin disappeared with his usual fearless alacrity while I tip-toed down in the shadow of the setting sun. Grins at the bottom, diaries ticked to do it all again next week, muddy bikes making dirty protests inside once clean cars.

First ride in 2016 done. And it was a good one. Crap trails and shit weather? You’ll have to try harder than that. Meeting Room Outside booked for the same time next week.

I really REALLY hope there never comes a time when a 9-5 job is something happening to me.

*There are many others; chief of which is I am basically unemployable for any length of time.

** It’s b) then. Obviously.

Updated the bike pages….

On By AlexIn Site StuffLeave a comment

ShedOfDreams

(it doesn’t look like this anymore of course. That was taken over a year ago!)

As is the year end tradition, the revolving door of the ShedofDreams requires some clarification. As does the posts, people with far too few things to distract them found the most interesting. Although I can only assume this is because the rest of the Internet had run out of cats on skateboards.

3 in, 2 out – bike buying rationale/fallacy

Stuff read most often. This obviously doesn’t make it any good.

It’s a day early but we’re off to the seaside for New Year. Where I expect the first day of 2016 to be mostly taken up with wondering why I decided it might be a good idea to mix tequila with brandy at 11:59am the previous evening…

Numbers don’t tell the story.

On By AlexIn Photography, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Yat - April 2015 MTB

SitRep: 3,600 kilometres. 167 rides. 350 hours on a mountain bike. Zero hours on a road bike. Just shy of a 100,000 metres climbed. Three trips out of the UK to ride, total of five countries where I’ve turned a pedal.

Bikes in: 3, bikes out: 2. Injuries: a few taking ever longer to heal – currently painful knee failing to respond to physio of alcohol self medication, mild mouselung and random twinges. 2.5kg heavier than 30th Dec 2014. Ridden about the same so either I’m taking it easy on the climbs or going hard in the bar afterwards. Probably both.

Statistics are like a bikini: what they reveal is interesting but what they hide is vital, therefore I use themlike a drunk uses a lampost – for support, not illumination. And that’swhy the app generating these numbers just had the ‘X’ treatment on my phone.

It’s been another brilliant year for riding. But every one while you still can will be. Tempered quite rightly by the loss of Jenn Hill who crammed more into her 38 years that most of us will in a full lifespan.

For me, it’s been about limits and limitations. I got a kick out of riding gap jumps at 48 and a real terror of falling under Mount Ventoux. Probably not any faster, might even be slowing down. That’s another reason to dump Strava before the numbers on the screen challenge cognitive dissidence.

It’s hard to know why in 2015 riding with my friends was as much fun as the actual riding. That’s three of the buggers up there. Always there with a ready quip as you’re fetching yourself from the undergrowth, or insisting a yomp over that next snow filled valley under a setting sun representsa better option than quitting on the grounds of frostbite.

I rode on my own about ten times. Better than not riding but not by much. Spent the other 150 rides laughing, crashing, sweating up the hills and hanging on the other way. Always followed by beer and more laughter. Not sure you’d get that from golf.

It wasn’t until the last weeks of December I took a whole week off from riding. It did nothing or my knee nor stayed encroaching grumpiness. Two days at Afan sorted the latter our whilst I ignored the former. Didn’t feel particularly fit, nor terribly fast. But when sitting outside drinking tea in the sunshine with a couple of mates and the bikes in view, those real or imaginary statistics hardly mattered.

Perspective is the thing. We’re half way out of the dark. A month more and the bluebells will be pushing through the forest floor. Two weeks after that and we’re night riding without lights. Then it’s endless riding on hard packed trails somewhere fantastic.

I don’t do new years resolutions. It’s just stupid. If you want to make a change, you’re hardly going to wait for something external to trigger it. There’s something about choices tho – for me it’s about dealing with stuff you want to change and pretty much ignoring everything you can’t.

That’s more about people than things. I’m coming round to that view of the world. Come on then 2016, let’s be having you. Not sure I’m ready but that definitely falls into the second category.

Christmas Presents..

On By AlexIn Photography, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

Awesome Christmas Present±

.. a problem mostly. Rampant consumerism chasing a 24 hour lifestyle long divorced from apagan ceremony celebrating the next 364 days being lighter than this one. Which itself was stolen for a faith pretty much predicated on no one finding the bodies.

I’m rubbish at both giving and receiving*. Magpie eye fills the shed with poorly-justified stuff, whileanything more busts societal norms on what passes for gifts forthe festive season. Working out the desires of even those closest to me is something between a challenge and a conundrum. Heavy hints helpnot at all, what I need is a detailed list with shop postcodes.

Playing to my strengths, I engaged my youngest daughter in Faustian pact where she played the part of ‘personal shopper‘ and I threw cash inwhatever random direction she pointed. Until she kindlyexplainedmy physical part in this transaction was largely pointless. So I just handed over crisp notes and sent her on her way.

I’m not terribly proud of that. Nor, on declaring when she returned, ‘Wow I’ve done really well this year. What a a fine selection of presents‘. Having already pretty much scraped rock bottom, I mined the seam a little deeper by sendingsaid child in the direction of the wrapping paper.

I’ve already had my present. Fuck, let’s get it out here. I’ve had presents every time the postman struggles under the weight of bike related internet shopping. And when I’m not here to fetch those in, I’m away riding my bike a 1000 miles from home.

Still we pretended the traditional – if somewhat contrived – gift was the fat bike, which I feel is in keeping with the stupidity of buying stuff for which you’ve neither a need or an excuse. I assuaged any purchasing guilt with an all-family assault on the Nurf Gun aisle of the local ToysRus. Toys R ours more like with an arsenal acquired equipping the four of us with sufficient weaponryto declare war on Worcestershire.

Arriving home, a strict edict was laid down that no-one was to ‘Nurf the Murf‘, That lasted about two minutes as an enthusiasm for battle was joined with accuracy best thought of as pellets occasionally heading in a similardirectiontowhichthe barrel was pointed.

Amusing carnage ensued. And continued this morning as the apparent birth of our saviour was marked by a pre-breakfast enfilading attack where one brave but outnumbered soldier took a round to the tesiclappers. Let me tell you, those foam cartridges carry a punch from close range. Even the dog – now officially categorised as a non combatant – winced.

Weapons of mass distraction holstered, teenage children were dragged away from the lure of brightly wrapped presents asthat dog needed walking. Because, as a parent of kids of a certain age, it’s important to ruthlessly exert what little authority you have left.

Present opening resembled a significant explosion at a paper wrapping factory. Ground Zero revealed happy family members with little of the bemusement that comes when well meaning relatives attempt to regress 60 years toconsider what a 14 year old might really want.

I wasn’t expecting anything. Surprisingly then my presents were bloody brilliant. Dave The Minion has now been installed above this very screen in a parody of a novelty web cam. A new dog-shaped toy named’Hope’ is the facsimile of the puppy only one family member really, REALLY wants.

But best of all is in that picture. Green bike. Purple Shorts. Orange Top. Mountains. Hair. Four out of five isn’t bad. While I was dispatching Jess to find presents for her mum, so I could sit in front of this screen striving to hit other peoples deadlines, Carol spent bloody ages getting a very clever man to custom build me my happy place in a medium that I love.

It’s sat above and too the right of this Mac. To the leftis the Singletrack 100 poster bought to support Jenn’s chosen charities. Closing all these applications reveals a picture of me riding exposed singletrack under cloudless Spanish skies. That’s not a bad place to spend your time.

I’m pretty ambivalent about Christmas. Always think it’d be fab to live in the Southern Hemisphere where an enforced holiday just meansdusty trails waiting for the cycling obsessed. Not this endless wet greyness which is nothing more than a meteorologically triggered suicidewatch.

And yet today I’m not so sure. I’m still shit at it, but those around me are not. They probably deserve better. Certainly they understand me far better than I get what makes them tick. Which probably doesn’t excuse my desperation for Monday to come around so I can go ride in South Wales for two days with not often seen friends.

Yeah they get me alright. For which I am entirely – if not always vocally – immensely grateful. Christmas is stupid, families on the other hand are really quite fantastic.

*there’s a joke in there. Not entirely appropriate for the festive season

Where’s the F in snow?

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

It'll only be like this for another three months ;)

There’s no FinSnow. This was recounted to me by a pal who is flying to the Italian Alps atChristmas for a weeks skiing*. I’m sharing some of her pain, with my inner eleven year old pining for a dump of the white stuff somewhere more local.

Two reasons; firstly the stupidbike(tm) is clearly going to be an impossible to calculate brilliant once frozen rain covers the ground, and secondly asanother month of slogging through Gloucestershire’s finest Flanders Experience is likely to leave me seriously considering indoor hobbies.

Snow isn’t the seasonal norm it was in my youth. Sure that was back in the Cambrian age, but Boxing Day walks often morphed into desperate shovelling rescues of smaller children lost in four foot snowdrifts.

Back in the here and now I saw a man – not obviously searching for all his marbles – cheerfully shopping for seasonal gifts in an ensemble of shorts and a t-shirt. It was time to pushthese childish memories aside and instead spend the kids Christmas money on pointlessbike stuff.

Firstly a tyre not stamped with summer. The Dune turned up with rotating rubber perfectly configured for hardback and dust. Show them some mud and they responded magnificently by storing this frictionless material between sparsely hosted knobs** before sending you on your way into something both stoutly vertical and bone crushing.

I bought a fat rear*** which improved things down the back no end. Traction amusement as my thin tyred riding friends slithered about with absolutely no chance of success, while those of us engaging ‘Fat Drive‘ just made it so. Mostly with a fist pump nobody noticed and occasionally a failure we’re not going to talk about here.

An additional purchase was justified on the grounds that one trail much returned too was marked by a facsimile of my forehead. Three times we’d ridden it, three times I’d crashed on the steeper section- shoulder charging anapex with more crossed up action than a weekend transvestite.

Not today. My additional purchase begat significantly additional purchase on the slimey dirt. Much of which was pebble dashing me as the paddle steamerrotation of four inch tyres mined deep into the Forest mud.

Again I’d responded to the prevailing ground conditions with Internet snake oil.A front mudguard offeringborderline efficacy but with a rather more irritating stand out characteristic. Being lowest-cost-bidder flexy plastic, it genuflected to the front tyre on encountering the smallest bump. I was basically ‘travelling with woodpecker‘ asthe bloody thing beat itself to death at irregular intervals.

The rear was stolen from a time long past and best resembled a too small toupee for a too bald head. It added a bit of weight, significant comedic merit but little in the way of mitigating the dirty protest splattered from shorts to helmet.

Riding when conditions are quite this shitty can be summed up by ‘a bit more grip than expected, quite a lot less than required‘. Even with barely inflated trail crushing tyres, much of the steering was more hydrophobic than biomechanical. Grip’d turn up for about as much time to begin to trust it, before whipping away the tablecloth of traction leaving us feasting on moist earth.

Fun of course especially with unseasonal temperatures.The forecast promised much but delivered only wind blown showers. The trails – of which I’d been bitching about three weeks ago – were epically muddy. I’d like to give my three week youngerself a damn good slap on the grounds of not appreciating how good it actually was.

Five of us out, a total of eight working knees – one of which was mine while the other has succumbed to ‘patellatendonitis. The Physio suggests I leave it at least a week before riding – good advice I cheerfully ignored because – hey – when it’s this damn good why wouldn’t you ride every day?****

I’ve no idea if the StupidBike is any good really. I don’t know how it goes round corners but I fully understand how it slides sideways. It’s a bit of a drag uphill, but amusingly competent the other way onceyour belief of tyre grip has beenrecalibrated.

It’s getting me out. It’s a stalwart to the grumpy individual who makesexcuses not to ride. It’s making my riding pals laugh a lot. Ithas me giggling.

But we’re just fighting the phony war right now. Bring me that bloody snow.

*more accurately drinking ruinously expensive coffee while watching artificial snow melt as quickly as it can be made.

**Oh God where to start. Okay, I was in London last week and it was like that. Except for the sparse bit.

***Insert your own joke here. But be kind. I’m been really busy. Not had time to ride much. Anyway it’s not fat, it’s just big boned. I think of it as my personal eclipse.

****Because you can’t. As you’ve been sectioned under the mental health act.

What do you see?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

I look at this picture and what I see if far less important than what I remember. Sure the backlit horizon is coloured a blue missing from ournorthern latitudes. The trail has rocks, dust and not insubstantial exposure. The rider is rocking some mismatched colour scheme most notable for shirt sleeves in December.

You cannot see the big grin. You cannot go back and live in that moment. Solet’s seesome more.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

To your left a 3 foot fallinto a culvert. To your right a drop of about 300 feet into a valley where they’d collect your remains with a spatula. Want to know the difference between living and being alive? It’s on this2 foot ribbon of trail which narrowed to less than half that without reducing the exposure. You heart maybeat 3500 times in an hour, but you notice it only for the 5 seconds it’s banging against your ribs.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

Elevation is everything. We shuttled 1000 metes from the valley floor before climbing another few hundred metres on dirt tracks to access the one of the best half kilometres of trail I’ve ever ridden, Took me a couple of attempts to ride that line. I’ll not bore you with the details but its pretty much encapsulated in ‘don’t fall right’.Stuff of life right there.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

Sometimes it’s hard to take your eyes off the 3-D problems demanding instant solutions, but really you must. Because even in the lower reaches of Sierra Nevada, this is what lies beyond your trail focal point.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

Even I can acceptthe view from this bar is even better than a view from a Bar. I loved this trail, steep and nasty at the top bisected with deep washed out gulleys. Be brave here and the bottom section rewards you with a relaxed flow of perfect curves. Drag you eyes from the dust kicked up by your tyres and burn that image into your retinas. Because a 100 days of grey awaits on the other side of a 3 hour plane ride.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

Riding on brilliant trails under shadow parabolas cast by endless sun isn’t enough of course. Half the joy of riding mountain bikes is where you are. The other half is who you are with. My good mate David rode lots more than his head told him he could. This is my favourite photo of the whole trip.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

Obviously being atedious narcissist, it’s back to being all about me. Although a proper rider would have taken far more wall than that. Quite enough for me though thank you very much.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

As with all good things,every day ended with beer. And more beer. And occasionally brandy. To be honest not thatoccasionally.

I felt terribly guilty abandoning my loved ones for the third time in a single year to selfishly ride my mountain bike. But by God I came back a better person. And after 2000 kilometres and 7 months, finally worked how to ride the bigbike properly. Also learned some important stuff about friendship, while beingreminded of theendless joy of being in high places.

You can see more pictures of dust and general tomfoolery hereand if that’s motivated you to try something similar, David and I would recommend getting in touch with (another) Dave athttp://bikingandalucia.com.

Orgiva is a fantastic place to stay, it’s essentially the administrative centre for this side of the mountain. This makes it a non-tourist bustling town full of great bars and restaurants chock-full of lovely people. The riding is immense and endless. The trails are lumpy and bedrock hard at higher altitudes changing to fast and loose lower down.

Spain MTB 2015 - Sierra Nevada

This is the route back to Orgiva. We are 10 minutes from a cold beer!

Much of it is pretty steep, quite a lot has a degree or more of exposure. Everything is covered in dust. It’s verymuch a mountain biking paradise.

You will be unsurpassed to hear it’s one of my favourite places to ride. The other is the southern Pyrenees. We all be back thereIn 131 days. Until then these digital memories will salve me against the grittiness of winter.

Inappropriate

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

Enlightened. Still stupid

Riding in the endlessly splendid Andalucian region of southern Spain, my life was full of appropriateness. Firstly the fully suspended, modern angled and expensively adorned 160mm travel mountain bike fitted perfectly into the folds of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Secondly dusty ridingsegued seamlessly into hot tapas and cold beer. Thirdly every photo contained the holy trinity of blue sky, dry rock and stunning views.

God I loved it. Came back last Thursday and not seen the sun since. Hidden by horizon clamping cloud and sideways rain. Half of the North is underwater while the rest of us are grudgingly grateful to be merely sliding about in tyre deep mud.

So when the going gets tough, the not very tough get silly. My good friend Matt is not what corporate bullshitters would call a ‘completer-finisher‘. So it was no surprise to see the stupidbike(tm) proxying the same version I’d abandoned in his garage, before buggering off to sunnier climbs.

This is no problem at all though. I have many other bikes to ride most of which Matt fixes with no complaints and technical explanations I pretend to understand.

However, with everyone needing a laugh, a frenzy of activity saw many cheap and heavy components replaced by nearly new items from my bottomless spares drawer* Don't need these bits anymore

Off went the brakes that didn’t work, the transmission that did but at a cost to weight rationot really captured in my Venn diagram of light/blingy/arguably pointless. Having no suspension other than the undamped rebound offered by a brace of tractor tyres, I felt a dropper seatpost represented nothing less than a safety accessory.

Talking of tyres, the supplied ones really aren’t bad. In the dry. In any other conditions their chief attribute appears to be some kind of alchemic reaction transformingmud into a frictionless surface offering all sorts of exciting diversions. Steering not being one of them.

After some dithering, I ‘stuck the knobbly one in the back’. Writing that down has made me both laugh and wonder whether ‘I’ve gone at this from the wrong end‘. At best I’ve created a paddle steamer shifting huge volumes of mud to arse crack. At worse I’ve prioritised traction over steering.

Assuming the lashed together bastard love child of John-Deere and a rubber fetisher makes it to the first downhill. I have only one spare tube apparently fashioned from an elephants condom. If the weather turns for the worse, it offers sufficient flotation properties to rescue me and quite a few friends. When it finally snows, I’m fucking this bike thing off and just taking the tube sledging.

The new tyre really didn’t embrace the tubeless experience at all. Even with Matt’s compressor bullying air into the vast orifice at a 100PSI. It was flappier than – no really not even I can go there** – er a very flappy thing. I had a quick delve into the bearded world of the Fat Tyre Forums and apparently there’s much to prepare involving badgers, illegal substances and a level of stickiness which suggests any such activity should be carried out in a darkened shed well away from the children.

So tomorrow night I intend to be entirely inappropriate. The stupidbike is prepared for its first night mission. In conditions best thought of as ‘Herefordshire’s Famous Flanders Flashback’, I fully expect it to be rubbisheverywhere.There’s that and the joy of beingabandoned far behind the back of the group. I shall navigate by their belly laughs and amusing retorts on the pointlessness of one mans endeavour to testthe maximum amount of foolishness a stupid bicycle can offer.

At least it will now stop. And go without the sound of chainrings being tortured by shifters assembled by the lowest cost bidder. I expect the traction to be outstanding, front end grip less so, but trees are always just that bit softer in winter.

Assuming some kind of survival/not checking in at a mental trauma clinic, the following night whatever remains of me and the stupidbike shallattempt to summit the mighty peaks of the Malvern hills.

At the end of which, this experiment shall be declared a wonderful success and it’s just the other 99.9{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the population who don’t get it. Or there will be a suspicious fire in the shedofdreams.

No point dying wondering eh?

*mostly. Some additional expenditure may have been required. I like to think of this an investment is ‘future and most necessary spares currently stored on another bicycle‘

**some metaphors are best left unwritten. But for full transparency, I’m smirking like a teenager on his first encounter with hedge grumble here.

Well that went well.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment
Indeed I was.

Birmingham International was thehappy exit point from which we jumped off, via the medium of cheap airlines, to sunnier climes a thousand miles south. We’ll be back to that, but first we were back there last night wondering why it was so bloody cold.

Early this morningI found myself negotiating familiar motorways to park up barelyhalf a mile from where a dustier, more cheerful version of myself had stood justtwelve hours earlier.

In that preceding half day, I’d returned to a loving family, stupid dog, a fifty quid parking fine and a medium sized hole where I expected 40 days of work to be. This wasn’t mere situational context, it was a bloody warning of what was to come.

Travelling to London isn’t much fun. It’s better than being there of course, but options from this far West are divided between start close, go slow and finish late or drive 70 miles DUE NORTH to catch a train built after the last war. Thisdeposits you somewhere near the middle of our great capital, rather than First Great Westerns’ attempt pretending East Reading is actually a) named after a bear and b) in London.

NowadaysVirgin is my preferred carrier. Sure their trains hurtlearound corners in an amusingly terrifying manner and the carriages smell mostly of wee, but it’s barely an hour* and booking ahead cuts the price to a still ‘how much of the train do I now own?‘ seventy quidwhich includes a seat reservation providing the guilty joy of throwing some chancer out into the aisle.

So at 6:30am. a pre-caffeinated me was prodding the non touch sensitive touch screens which promise ticket-spitting once you’ve provided sufficient information to trace your ancestors back to Roman times. Each time this transaction teeters between data entry and receipt exit, I always expect something to go terribly wrong.

It never does. Or never had. Today despite typing the same number in three times with increasingly glass shattering force, a nasty message suggested my reference was somehow invalid. Giving up with electronic pointlessness, I went searching for a human armed with a laptop presented email and a disgruntled expression.

‘Already collected’ she declared having typed in my train lottery numbers. Oh bollocks. Of course they had. Now sat at home safe from loss but not entirely geographically useful. Okay no worries, can you reprint them for me now?Apparently not. Something about fraud despite my obviously honest countenance.

Wearily then ‘how much for a return to London then?’. Barely pausing she pretended this one hour trip could be purchased for the princely sum of£168. A brief exchange failed to resolve the obvious issue that such licensed robbery vastly outstripped flying to Belfast or spending 4 days eating myself stupid in Spain.

£168. Take it or leave it. I had to take it which made me the grumpiest man in London some 90 minutes later. And that was before I was forced to descend into the seventh level of hell neatly represented by the Tube system.

It may be a grotesque stereotype to categorise all Londoners as empathy voids afflicted with the spacial awareness and grace of a mole caught in the sunlight, but based in a sample size of ‘everyone whotrod on orshovedme today’, I’m happy matching correlation with causation.

Three hours later I had a ‘sod this‘ epiphany and sacked off the remainder of the day to get the hell out before something else went wrong. Arriving back at Euston, clutching the most expensive ticket in the world**, a train was vibrating impatiently on the platform ready to blast us back into the real world.

Striving purposelyup the platform, it became clear dignity must be sacrificed for a safe position on the inside of the carriage. Falling into the nearest seat after swerving past a man apparently uniformedin a discarded Butlins redcoat, it took me a second to notice my fellow traveler slumped in the seat opposite.

My olfactory system had already stepped up to DEFCON 2 before anyvisual cues suggestedthe gentleman might be slightly worse for drink. He smelt of many things of which Special Brew rated strongly and recent bathing less so. Not a concern, if a man wants to get shitfaced having looked around himself in our great capital and thought ‘fuck this, I need a drink’, he certainly has my sympathy.

Lifting a grubby cap, he engaged me in a conversation which needs transcribing verbatim:

Him: ‘Hey Mate, does this train stop at Coventry?’

Me: ‘Er, Yeah, Yeah it does‘

At which point, the cap was pulled firmly over bloodshot eyes and picoseconds later, a light snore harmonised with the majority of my fellow passengers who suffer the twin problems of low boredom thresholds and access to a mobile phone.

Two minutes later, there was a mega-snore, a fully body shake followed by shuffle upright and a vertical realignment of the cap. At which point he asked me EXACTLY the same question again. This happened twice more before I cracked and attempted to break free from this conversational centrifugal force.

Me: ‘I tell you what, shall I wake you at Coventry?‘

Him: ‘Huh? Why would you do that? I’m going to Glasgow‘

He silenced any further conversations with a look of disdain marking me out as the idiot in this discourse.

Based on the day I’ve had, he may very well be right.

*HS2 – cut it down to 45 minutes. I’d rather than spent something on the Cotswolds line so the early morning train actually arrives on the same day.

** I worked out you based on the cost/mile, you could comfortably run a Chieftain tank on that. Next time I might try it. You could park that anywhere.

Not Safe For Work.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

That needs to be in the bag!

I swear too much. Of this I am reminded quite often. Mostly by my youngest daughter who – despite being extremely articulate and well schooled – refuses to accept that ‘fuck‘ adds much richness as both an adjective and a verb.

Needs must though. Only Kipling assigns equivalence totriumph and disaster. The rest of us take one look at the cowpats strewn by the devils’ own satanic herd* and reflect soberly ‘OH FOR FUCKS SAKE’.

Exhibit ‘A’ is my newish but extensively campaigned full suspension bike. It really needs to be in that bag because Monarch Airlines are unlikely to accept it as hold baggagein its current state.

Yet it remains unbagged due to potential brokenness. Some of which Matt has fixed, and some of which I have fixed. I think you can probably work out where my concerns are.

We had a fantastic plan. Two splitters were upping sticks and decamping to Spain for a few days riding where skies are not the colour of gruel, and trails dance dustily above the water table. For which a working bike is mandatory. A state Matt can bestow on even the most mistreated given enough time.

Of which we had loads. A week in fact. Sadly – like most great ideas – our plan did not survive first contact with the enemy. Or, to be a little more specific, a night testing ourselves against the strong ales of the Wye Valley Brewery.

Matt and I** had two simple tasks. True a wheel, bleed some brakes. An hour for the honed skills of my mechanical mate. When sober anyway. But even a full half day later stumbling drunkeness prevailed. Three hours later we’d conceded the wheel might last a few more days, and I’d narrowly escaped being decapitated by a brake piston exiting the caliper at high speed.

There’s a lesson here kids. Don’t fuck about with compressed air when you’re still pissed. Underwear can be replaced, eyeballs less so.

Relieved I dragged the alloy carcuss home to strip it back revealing the basic DNA required to stuff it into the bag-too-small. 20 minutes in and its apparent the expensive component on which the cranks spin were clearly somewhere beyond operating tolerances.

Checking the website, the marketing lies tell me ‘Our bottom brackets are born on the Vancouver North Shore. Built for endurance under the harshest conditions, professional riders rely on the performance of these class leading products‘. Only, I assume, because they get a box fresh one for free ever week.

Six months of a British Summer may not represent Sahara type conditions but it should not turn bearings square. The problem is standards. The joy of mountain biking is there are so many different ones to choose from. RaceFace decided to solve a problem no one had by oversizing their crank axles with the consequence of reducing the size of the bearings they spin on.

Not only that, all this requires new tooling to remove and refit what I’d call disposable components were it not for their ‘you could buy a car for that’ pricing. This whole ruin-ess enterprise is not helped by the fact that no OEM manufacturers have bought into the design fallacy, so you’re forced to hand over wads more cash to the very same people who dumped the problem on you in the first place.

As a professional Yorkshireman this rankles somewhat. But short of taking the fat bike, I was left with no option but to splurge cash at replacement parts. Which arrived with dire warnings re: incorrect installations. Ignored that and leant on spanners for a while until establishing a state ofpartial equilibrium.

Except the cranks didn’t really spin freely on the those brand new bearings. I considered taking it apart, but considering the effort and luck getting to this point, that scenario had frame breaking catastrophe written all over it.

Carol reckons I’m overthinking it. She’s keen to reclaim the floor of our sitting room. I’m a bit more ambivalent. Matt – knowing me well – feels it might be worth him having a look tomorrow night, some 12 hours before we’re flying.

Leaving stuff to the last minute has pretty much defined my career. The only proper deadline is the one a single sunrise away. But when it comes to wrangling a bike into a bag and forgetting about it until it’s thrown carelessly onto the oversize baggage carousel, I’d be absolutely fine with a bit more latitude.

Fuck. I’ll sleep on it. The problem, not the bike.It’s not Smaug and the Hobbit. Although I feel the former may offer something if welding is required.

*thank you Richard Curtis and Blackadder. I have no idea what kind of mind comes up with such genius.

**Matt really. I just stand around trying to find tools strewn randomlyon the floor of his garage.

A bike called labrador

On By AlexIn Bikes, PhotographyLeave a comment

Who are you calling fat?

Nearly eight years ago we found ourselves on the threshold of a chaotic slew of barns -stuffed with furniture we couldn’t afford because most of it had been chiselled out during the reign of Queen Anne.

We were in the wrong place at the righttime so naturally we becameheroes* Displacement came in the form of a 12 week old labrador innocently chewing a table legworth substantially more than even the eye watering sum we handed over for the proto-Murf.

Money well spent for apup who has rewarded us with his basic labradorness over most of the last decade, and for whom I will morn deeply when he is no longer with us.

History suggests a less painful parting from my latest purchase. Nor do I expect bemused mutterings of ‘eight years since we brought that home? really?‘ to accreditlongevity of ownership. My good and true riding friends are already taking bets the stupidbike(tm) won’t make it much beyond Christmas.**

There are however strong parallels tho between dog and bike. Firstly they cost about the same, and secondly their attachment to the pack came as as much a surprise to them as it was to us. To whit: I followed most of the family into asoulless warehouse hawking cheap outdoor gear wth the sullen dragging tread of a bored teenager.

Shoes were required. For reasons entirely unfathomable this always takes fucking ages. Genuine confusion squats on confused countenances whenbeing interrogated over personal shoe size. How can you not know? It’s not like it changes much over the age of about 12. Basically one step above ‘my name? yes, I know that one, just give me a minute…’

Carol strode off confidently in the direction of the ‘wall of shoe’, while Jess veered off randomly as if swept up in some unseen gale. This is not unusual behaviour for ateenager who oft reminds me of the hound in the film ‘Up’. You know the one: ‘Squirrel!’. But this time there was some method to her randomness.

‘Dad, Dad, look at that!’. Look indeed. The first thing that hits you is the ridiculously fat tyres closely followed by the eye popping colour somewhere between green, yellow and optical pain. Instantly I was back to those rambling rooms chasing a wayward pup between priceless antiquities.

That’s a bloody labrador I thought with some glee. Quickly I door-stepped an assistant who wanted to tell me all about how the bike had been developed by their own internal team. Couldn’t be less interested- he’s lucky not to lose his fingers withsuch slow pedalspannering so desperate am I to have a go.

Just get on with it man I muttered. Probably under my breath. Finally the seat post wasextended and crappy pedals mostly attached to dubious looking cranks. I cared not- two pedal strokes in andobviouslyit’s coming home with us. Eager to please, a bit stupid, probably a tad overweight and mostly useless in every possible scenario except being at rest.

Yep that’s a labrador. It was the same riding it for the first time. Although my eagerness to find out exactly how silly it maybe was stayed by car park conversations into which everyother rider castan opinion. Mostly mining the endless seam of ‘not much snow for that today mate‘

Oh my sides. Put up with for a few minutes in the spirt of fraternity before wishing them all well with a pleasant ‘fuck off out of the way or I’m running you down‘. And then we’re off. Three seconds later I’m cackling like the bloke firing up Frankenstein’s monster.

There is absolutely not point in providing some kind of serious ride report. I’ve ridden loads of bikes – mostly with at best a thin veneer of competence – butnothing compares to rolling about on 4inch tyres inflated to 9PSI. It’s like a bike but only in the same way that parachuting is similar to being shot out of a cannon.

The sensations are similar but delivered in an entirely different way. And to a different soundtrack. Whump, Whump, WHUMP, Giggle. Uphill it’s fine, not racy but not as pedestrian as expected. Grip is phenomenal. You could climb up the side of a house if you had the legs for it.

Nimble as well. Fully expected to be travelling in whatever direction the lab/bike hybrid decided might be most interesting. Not like that at all. Easier to hustle round hairpins than my 29ers, and holds a line like a snorting Shoreditch hipster with a rolled up tenner.

Downhill it’s just funny. There is no other word for it. On dryish trails you cannot be braver that the tyres. Lean, lean, lean a bit more and feel the tyres knuckle down over loose ground. For balance, there isn’t much with these tyres on fresh mud. Aquaplaning is pretty much the only way to travel. That’s fixable by throwing cash at entire rubber plantations of knobblier compounds.

Not today tho, I stuck to the groomed trails of the Forest wondering how something so ridiculous could be so involving. Then I remembered similar feelings playing stupid games with the kids when they were young. You think maybeembarrassment is appropriate, but small humans give you excuses not to act your age. Fat bikes are just the same.

They are not however without issues. You can roll over anything but not for very long. They drag off those tyres – strangely more obviousdownhill – is epic. Braking is largely optional and that’s fine as the stock brakes are terrifying. And while the suspension characteristics of an undamped fat tyre are noticeable, there is no magic there. Hit something square edged and the force is transferred pretty much untamed to wrists and ankles.

I found some little drops off and marvelled as time stands still when the tyres return to the earths’ surface. The rebound is so very slloooooowwwww. It doesn’t feel entirely safe but guess what? It’s as funny as hell.

15 kilometres I suppose. No idea of time. Strava segments superfluous. Metres climbed, some. Metres descended at two giggles per second. It will not replace the brilliant bikes alreadyin the shed, but anytime bigsmiles are requiredI’m dragging it out.

It’s a labrador. It just can’t help itself. And neither can I.

*(c) Princess Leia. A New Hope. Important to chuck in a cultural reference here.

** I’ve counteredwiththe line ‘a fat bike is for life, not just for Christmas’. Going out on a bit of a limb frankly based on my revolving door bike purchasing policy.