Thunderstruck

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Pretentious nonsense10 Comments

With comic timing, my ropey music collection threw this track up from the legendary if aged rockers AC/DC* as a ferocious storm was thrown down from under a brutal sky. The car rocked to the beat of a stubborn jet stream as endless rain cascaded manically seeking out something dry to wet. It was at least a month too late with everything horizontal either saturated or already under water.

My resolve to ride wasn’t tested though. Sufficient time had passed to dull the memory of a desperate trudge on washed out trails being chased by vengeful weather systems. Since then, scheduled rides have taken rain checks with the only sunny evening spent instead getting fat on summer beer. I had worked out that waiting for the rain to stop would mean my next ride might be in October. Or Spain.

So it was with low expectations I headed deep into soaking hills fully grim-equipped with winter boots, waterproof socks and shorts, stout rain jacket and full on mud tyres. These expectations were more than met with the full shitty experience from trenchfoot through gritty arse crack, 6 foot or organic mud pack, boil in the bag sweating and occasional progress hard earned on slop where dust should be. This was setting up to be one of those death marches which fully tests the rule that ‘riding is always better than not riding‘

It didn’t. And not for the reasons you might think. After an hour of sliding around in obvious distress, we found a track deep in mud and possibility. Tracing it back through face high stingers, we were rewarded with a line of jumps and drops that – with a little light shovel work – have the potential to be full on shits and giggles. But that’s not the real reason either.

Ask any rider what they love about Mountain Biking and themes will coalesce around rock-hard trails, dust, drifting tyres, jumps and drops, perfect sunsets, summer breezes, a thin ribbon of dirt snaking through the bluebells, the bullshit of your friends, the oh-fuck-me not quite crash moments, the glove-tan, the oh-so-earned post ride cold ones. the craic, the new bikes, the old bikes, the places you’ve been and those you will one day go.

If alcohol is involved, a whiff of pretension will waft eulogies on being out there, being something others are not, surfing on the wave of differentiation, the impossible to explain joy of riding bikes. I get all that, of course I do, and if you’ve ever ridden a bike for fun not transport you’ll get that too. And we’ll talk of mountain biking and an antithesis of our stressful lives, every pedal revolution unwinding the ball of weekday angst bound tight in heads too full of the wrong stuff.

And we’d be wrong. Absolutely and utterly. Missed the point by about 30 years. Because if you distil riding bikes into its purest form, you won’t find any of those things. It is nothing more than playing outside with a bit of the possibility of adventure thrown in. This base element is packaged for 11 year old children and that’s why we love it. Well it’s why I love it anyway and if you don’t, there is nothing you will read next that can convince you otherwise. And for that you have my sympathy

Mountain Biking is marketed as an arms race. New is good, different is better, you’re one credit card transaction from nirvana. You’re one skills course from riding perfection. You’re one winter training ride from the podium, one muscle supplement from a perfect athlete, one visualisation from a perfect downhill run. Spend, Train, Work your way to being the best you can. Because when you’re there, then you are absolutely there, nothing can make it any better. Except maybe hitting reset and starting the whole thing again. No wonder it’s called a cycle.

I’m calling that bollocks and bullshit. It’s about feeling eleven years old. It’s about playing outside when you should be doing something adult and responsible. It’s about exploring and making fishy ‘new line’ gestures, giggling and pointing. I’m lucky enough to be a parent of a child that age and I envy her view on the world; it’s exciting, it’s ever different, it’s relentlessly positive, it’s going to change and I’m ready to change with it, it’s simple and I know what I like, but I might like something else tomorrow. Bring it on.

Next month I’ll be 45 years old. I don’t care about that while I can still ride my mountain bike. Because that connects me to the eleven year old that laughs when he falls off, tramps off up unlikely looking paths with a spring in his step, rides back down them foot out and grinning. Christ, I’ll go and build a den if I like. It’s not a middle aged crisis or a second childhood – it’s making bloody sure you don’t lose sight of the first one. It’s not serious and it’s not competitive, and it’s not a salve for a distressed moral conscience.

It’s playing outside with your friends. And a bicycle. There is no mud, rain or cold that can touch that.

Thunderstruck? You bet.

* A bit like myself. Old, passed their best, living on past glories, quite loud. Difference being the ‘legendary’ bit.

Crash and Learn

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Grimace like your whining

Here’s a picture of me not crashing. I’m having a griggle* instead during the brief passage of time at Mountain Mayhem not spend carrying/pushing/slithering/launching myself headlong into trees.

Since then I’d ridden just the once. During which I first laughed in the faces of those complaining that the trails were so horrible and muddy, and secondly beseeching those very same people to carefully right-side-up me after things went quickly wrong and subsequently painful.

Before the inevitable narrative of skilled riding being mistaken for unplanned exits, let us first turn to the wider issue of the history of crashing. I’m not sure that Mountain Biking is a real ‘sport’ but, having participated in whatever it is for more than ten years, I’m pretty much un-persuadable on the immutable fact that falling off bicycles is a nailed on certainty.

For me anyway. Mostly through cowardly mincing, sometimes through over-confidence, occasionally due to nearly-terminal stupidity and latterly senior moments. Take this year; crashed due to a total lack of commitment on a muddy jump, cracked a rib failing to show adequate ‘bristleness‘ over a rock drop, catapulted myself into unsuspecting shrubbery due to unforeseen external factors** and – last week – throwing myself into a muddy abyss with no thought of personal safety.

A singular theme emerges- most of my crashes are on jumps and drops. This is either because the skills and commitment required for these technical obstacles are way beyond my ken and bravery, or a hard-wired brake reflex preventing the bike lobbing itself happily into the safety zone regardless of the klutzy busybody on top.

I’ve convinced myself it is the second, which goes a little way to explaining my frankly heroic – if somewhat misdirected – attempt to clear a favourite jump in the forest chasing much-faster-than-me Matt. It had been one of those nights. Being so close to midsummer, we struck out without much thought of where we were going or how much light we might need to get there. And that’s fine; light we had lots of it even if it was steely grey under a grumpy cloudbase pregnant with heavy rain.

What we didn’t have, summer-wise, was anything close to dry trails. It was more a green winter with every plant straining in the fauna Olympics (biggest, strongest, most stingy) anchored into slimy dirt, itself retreating under the water table. I’ve never been so warm yet so wet and muddy, and it wasn’t an experience I was keen to extend. One more climb, one great trail to finish, decamp to the pub shaking a mucky finger at the weather.

Six hours of Mayhem had sharpened my mud skills to the point of transcending the normal terror of two feet forward, one foot sideways. I placed myself line astern from the fast fellas and pretended not to be frightened of conditions ready to file those playing clever-buggers in a tree-shaped cabinet. All was mostly well, if occasionally rather too exciting, before a jump that is nothing more than a fab mid trail up’pause’fly’over on a normal ride.

What wasn’t normal was the deeply trenched run in, garrisoned by mud soldiers, guarding a dirty protest where the take off used to be. I saw Matt slither over at exactly the same the ‘ego/ability‘ alarm rang loud in the part of my brain I like to think of as ‘the accountant‘. ‘Risk Assessment suggests a 73{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} chance of injury followed by the 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} chance of humiliation. Bear right or bare your arse with scar tissue”

I’ve never liked accountants. Six years of working with the dowdy buggers proved that. So after installing ‘Mr Ego‘ in the driving seat, he immediately decided a couple of pedal strokes’d improve things massively. They didn’t, really. Wheel hit the jump on the piss by five degrees – an angle which had tippled all of one nanosecond later. I seem to remember sighing at this point, as it all gets rather linear and predictable once you’ve passed from pilot to victim. Bike leaves the jump, bike hits the ground some time later with the front wheel perpendicular to the frame, rider is framed in perfect parabola before arriving head first in the dirt.

Upsides? Bike didn’t hit me. Helmet took the impact. Didn’t Die. Downsides, smacked my shoulder, gouged a hole under my knee and received a double helping of arse rash. Oh and smashed my helmet as well. Got Up. Made UUURRRGGH sound. Sat down again. Worried faces swam into view. Hearing okay as laughter very evident. Mooched about for a bit looking for excuses. Kicked bike. Kicked Jump. Hurt toe.

I rode back to the car rather gingerly before dispatching myself to A&E located at “The Anchor, Lydbrook” where medicine and ribbing were provided in roughly equal amounts. On waking in the morning I could remember the crash really well, but not the bit where I’d been hit by a freight train.

Twice since I’ve had the chance to get back on the steely horse. Twice I’ve looked at the rain, the cloud, the mud and concluded ‘fuck that’. It’s not the accident that’s keeping me off the bike, it’s the fact that April, May, June and now July have piled on so much rubbish weather, it’d wear even the unbloodied down.

I’m consoling myself that this is ‘happy crashing‘. Because falling off while having a go in the great British Tradition trumps a comedy mince or craven obstacle refusal.

It’s not much of a consolation if I’m honest. Roll on Winter. At least the mud is frozen.

* Cross between a Grimace and a Giggle. Anyone raced at Mayhem will know what I mean. The rest of you count yourselves lucky.

** Rider crashing in front of me. Leaving me just to choose exactly where I should have my accident.

Just a walk in the park.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography7 Comments

Mountain Mayhem 2012 - Race Days

This was team-mate Martin’s analysis of how easy next years race would be as compared to the 24 hours of circular insanity we’d just participated in. I couldn’t help but point out that a) I had absolutely no intention of testing that theory and b) a ‘walk in the park’ well described my time out on the course.

Eastnor is many things. Spectacularly beautiful nestled as it is under the stunning Malvern Hills. Ideally set up for large scale events. Sufficiently lumpy to create interesting mountain bike courses*. All of these things and more. What it isn’t is particularly weatherproof, especially on the end of the wettest spring since Noah was a lad. The estate doesn’t allow for built trails, leaving the course to be cut through wood and shrubbery all joined by stony tracks.

So with rain comes mud as water floods off the hills creating a thousand rivers funnelling into freshly felled singletrack. 700+ riders out on the course for the full twenty four hours will deepen ruts in the middle and extend the mud out to the trail margins. That mud will either turn your bike into a static 40lb brown behemoth or you into something from a low budget swamp monster flick.

Mayhem being a bit muddy isn’t a new thing. But 2012 will be a high water mark for as much dread and horror mixing rain and dirt can bring. Some people love that kind of challenge. Team Mate Sean is one of those nutters who relishes challenging himself in yet more terminally stupid ways. His event bike sported a set of race tyres, bugger all frame clearance, a rear brake some ten years old and steering geometry even more venerable that that.

He was our fastest rider, the one who had the best accident, the muddiest after a spectacularly grim final lap, the most innovative in terms of bike washing and personal hygiene** and the man most likely to declare himself ‘fit and ready‘ to get back into the rain and shit, the damp and slip, the pain and suffering. And all the time he’d be smiling, grinning, absolutely loving it.

I’m not like that. Wish I was. But my attitude can be pretty much summed up by the ethic that while I accept working hard pays off in the long run, cheating works right now. Give me a challenge to hurdle and I’ll run round the outside clutching a book of excuses. Pit me against difficulty when there’s an easier option and find me slacking off, beer in hand honing displacement techniques.

Don’t like racing. Don’t like being crap at racing. Don’t like tents. Don’t like rain. Don’t like carrying my bike. Not bustingly keen on sliding head first into trees. Can find other more interesting things to do than ruining a hundred quids worth of drivetrain in single digit kilometres. And mud, especially that endless five foot river of slime and slop? Christ no, I’ve clearly been reincarnated from a Californian.

My laps (yes there was more than one, no not that many more) had a number of highlights. T-boning some poor rider who fell in front of me some five minutes in was the first; an accident which would have been more amusing had I not performed involuntary keyhole surgery with a brake lever as I exited stage front. The mud quickly closed over my bleeding knee but failed to offer any anaesthetic qualities. I am unique in my ability to ride while limping, which is as close to anything famous about the rest of the laps.

I found myself laughing a lot tho. Because there were many brave riders working harder than I and none of them were crying, so I settled for a happy grimace. I laughed at pro riders falling over and struggling to get back up. I laughed at how bloody accomplished these same riders were carrying speed through sections I was hobby-horsing through – testicles on the top tube and feet quicksanding into bottomless gloop. I laughed at and with everyone else being mostly sideways almost all of the time.

I even managed a grin when I was overtaken by someone who was walking. While I was still riding. That’s classy Al I thought, can’t even beat a bloke who is carrying his bike, if you were a racehorse they’d just shoot you now. Something I’d have gladly accepted – nay begged for – come the climb out of the campsite for the 2nd half of the lap. I know this area very well, yet never realised there were four obelisks on the top of that hill. Either than or we attacked them in some kind of bastard pincer movement.

Quite slowly it has to be said, except for a triple-arrowed ‘DANGER‘ marked rocky descent which us Malvern-boys eat for breakfast*** where great satisfaction was had blasting past those on the mincing line. However such was the uncontrolled speed of Team Antler (long story, now I can’t pass any of my team without making the sign of the horns. It’s not something a 44 year old man should be doing apparently) riders that the normal instruction of ‘passing on your right or on your left‘ was not really appropriate.

Which is why I’m fairly sure, in the entire history of mountain bike racing, any poor bugger has had to content with “ON YOUR BEHIND” before a wild eyed man barely clinging to the bucking ugly-stick bounced flashed by jauntily punching him in the ribs with the handlebars. He overtook me on one of the endless climbs between then and post lap beer therapy. It was him all right, I could feel the hate.

The rest of it was fairly bloody miserable. There’s all this bullshit that ‘you take your own weather with you in your mind‘ positive thinking, but my counter-argument is the ACTUAL weather is waiting for you on arrival. It’s hard to get excited about a 16k lap which takes nearly two hours, the reason for which is simply that walking in knee deep mud takes a while.

If it was just me, it’d have been just me going home. Assuming I turned up in the first place. But my team was simply too brilliant to let down even by a man rarely troubled by any feelings of guilt. Sean – we’ve established – team nutter, relentlessly positive supported ably by his wife Kay who makes the BEST BREAKFAST IN HEREFORDSHIRE, and can be relied on to locate the ‘you know long metally thing with a spike on the end‘ during periods of desperate pre-lap maintenance.

Martin is impossible to faze. I think it’s spending his working life with sheep that allows him to suffer sleep deprivation, seas of mud and broken machinery with unfailing humour. While, like me, he didn’t enjoy much of the lap, the good bits were more than good enough to make up for the trudgery (new word, OED informed!) of the other 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}. Sean’s Lad – Kieron – was impervious to dampness and difficulty tackling the course in a pair of tractionless trainers, while attacking the descents with the immortality of youth.

And with various friends popping in to point and laugh, it made for a brilliant atmosphere that was reflected across most of the teams. We were parked up next to Team Sumo who – with their glitterball and 80s back catalogue – cheered us during the exceptionally trying periods, as did their incessant “JUMP JUMP JUMP” chant as riders passed their hastily assembled ramp.

Me? I was essentially bipolar; going from adrenaline fuelled machismo to chin-in-hands depression hating everything that was hard. Until I gave myself a talking too, got my arse out of bed at 4am and went back out there not because I wanted to, but because everyone else was doing so without complaint. And you know what? It wasn’t quite as fucking awful as I expected. There’s probably a lesson to be learned there.

So in summary- Fucking Dreadful. Slightly less summarised – as I slithered out of a car park full of wrecked bikes, marooned cars and endless – and I MEAN ENDLESS – mud, I found myself somewhere between happy and relieved. Happy that it was over, relieved I didn’t really let anyone down. Happy that I’d been a part of something that will soon pass into legend, relieved it wasn’t because I’d smacked myself in the head with a tree. Happy to see so many riders of all abilities just bloody well get on with it, relieved I had a team of friends who made sure I did the same.

Oh yeah and this. Somehow – and I place 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the blame on my team mates here – we ended up 40th in our Category. From a pool of 180. That’s so inadequately slack I’m quite upset about it. Something I might have to put right next year.

If I wasn’t retired.

H’mm.

* Some of you would argue that the Mountain Mayhem course is not interesting. I would then direct you to the Marin Rough Ride and rest my case.

** By throwing the bike into the lake and diving in after it. I love Sean, he’s my kind of bonkers.

*** Sometimes through the simple approach of smashing into it face first.

Summer Rain

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

MM2012 - The precursor of horror!

Study the picture. Find the fun. Imagine what happens. Laugh at Al.

On entering a slimy pit of mud sliding down a Herefordshire hillside, jaunty banners and long faces insist this was indeed the spot for a prestigious 24 hour mountain bike race. What? Really? This ankle deep mud? Those tyre flailing cars digging themselves into the saturated earth? Just there you say? Right.

We were lucky enough to whip the massive tent of impossible assembly into some kind of shape, before the inevitable storm, centred directly above Eastnor, exploded in moisture. Huddling inside, I was pretty damn glad there was nothing left outside to get ruined by the rain. Only during a brief respite did it become horribly apparent I’d failed to close my drivers door. Now the experience of the next 36 hours is available both inside and outside of my car.

A quick slither into the signing on tent lined us up like reluctant prisoners being informed that soon they’d be standing on their heads in the ooze. That’s going be pretty much the default position of any rider attempting something ambitious like riding a lap. A lap I decided could wait until tomorrow on the reasonable grounds that there was nothing to be discovered today that’d make any difference.

Already the bike sports thin mud tyres and a mild infestation of mudguards. That’s the ugly stick of course, there is NO WAY I’m going to subject the ST4, with it’s expense of multiple bearings, to the disastrous mechanical collateral damage a single circuit would clearly inflict. And even with a decade of bike gear packed*, the prospect of a full on mud enema with added crashing scored a big fat zero on the joyful stakes.

Instead I asked a mate how the course was riding. It’s not riding he told me. It’s pushing. That section over there (waves in the direction of the notorious Plasticine Wood) is absolutely unridable. Get off at the bottom and climb up. If you can. And all the descents are basically sideways assuming you’ve sufficient energy to get back on the bike. As you’ll be carrying it up half of the climbs. Oh and watch out for a fencepost right in the middle of the last descent. We’ve asked St. Johns Ambulance to set up there.

“Oh come on, it’ can’t be that bad” / “It is” / “It CAN’T BE” / “it’s worse than you can imagine” / “I have a pretty vivid imagination” / “Twice as bad as that. Maybe three” / “Oh Fuck” / “You got it”

We had this conversation shivering under the headline sponsor’s banner while rain blew in sideways and looked for something dry to wet. It didn’t find much. Maybe the ludicrously optimistic ‘short sleeve summer race jerseys’ being punted out to exactly no-one. Still lots of brake pads, mud tyres and more brake pads being locust’d to an increasingly desperate flange of brown-legged riders. The bloke selling the pressure washer was doing a roaring trade as well. He did his absolute best not to look smug, but never got close.

My 2 wheel drive not really a 4×4 at all got me in and out through some superb driving** – especially when compared to the endless beseeching arrivals begging for a push. Rear wheel drive is it? No offence but if you’re going to keep burying the throttle, I’ll be fucked if I’m standing behind that. It’d be like squatting under an incontinent elephant. I might drown.

At least I did get out. Those left camping are enjoying the whole first world war trenchfoot experience. Including several of their number on suicide watch, and a spattering of self inflicted injuries to be spared tomorrow’s battle. I shall be going back even as I’m known for running away and making excuses when things get tough. Or even mildly unpleasant. But not this time.

Absolutely my last race. Too many horrible days and nights riding to get fit. Too much bloody mindedness to quit before the start, even tho it is going to be unfathomably shit. Too lazy to think of any decent excuse. Too damn stupid to know better. That’s one lap we’re talking about. After that all bets are off.

As I loaded the car, the rain started again. I started laughing. It has gone beyond silly now. In twelve weeks, we’ve had two of summer and ten of autumn. At times like this, knuckling (or possibly bending) down and taking it like a man is where it’s at. Hardship to be had. Obstacles to be conquered. Stiff upper lip to the fore, a spring in ones step and your hat at a jaunty angle.

And a full cheeseboard with two decent ports of course. A chap has to have some luxuries.

Wish me luck. I’m going in.

(for those with a lack of imagination, try here)

* I had to dig out the fashion crime items from my early riding career. No matter, they’ll be brown within a single minute.

** after I worked out how to turn the traction control off which was amusingly swapping between driven wheels at about once a second while I stayed absolutely stationary.

War has been declared.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Owly Images

On a number of fronts. Firstly the entire garden was visibly swaying* in terror as this big boy was unleashed from the back of the car. Stout stemmed weeds – largely impervious to trowel based disruption – cowered as the full majesty of my long shafted weapon**was revealed. It’s has the girth and length of a mid-sized field gun – a proud dynasty from which it is clearly descended.

Indeed the demonstration from my good mate Rex – who knowing my low boredom and high stupidity thresholds kept it brief and to the point – spoke of a legal conversion to a wicked looking blade apparently designed to quarry stone. He tried to engage my interest in important safety and maintenance tasks which was largely pointless as I was lost in the sheer vastness of the thing.

Some important nuance around usage scenarios likely to result in limb amputation may have been missed, but based on my almost unblemished history of strimmer use I fail to see how my natural talent around mechanical objects will not save me here. An excellent example would be the previous incumbent of Al’s favourite gardening tool which lies abandoned, somewhat ironically, under a blanket of weeds. When started, it was a brutal slayer of unwanted green, but the key word here is ‘when‘.

Which became more of an if and then a bugger and then a fuck as an increasingly desperate individual hauled the starting rope around the garden dragging the lifeless machine behind him. And after much priming, jiggling of the choke control and, inevitably, the alternate ‘percussion starting‘ approach, the bloody thing would grudgingly fire up for about 10 seconds before reverting to its base state of mechanical sulkiness. I could feel those weeds laughing at me.

They are not laughing now. No mostly they are drowning frustratingly so delaying the magnificence of my new toy being unleashed on anything above ankle height. It’s a relief of sorts though because once Rex brought the mad bastard to life in a plume of choking smoke, I must admit to being more than a little frightened. The saving grace is the business end being some twenty feet from anything organic and appendage-y. I probably could have strimmed most of the garden from the safety of Rex’s shop in Ross such is the length between engine and cable.

An engine which was rather warm during my careful placement of the smoking end between the front seats of my car. It wasn’t until the smell of burning upholstery began fizzing in my nostrils that the concept of putting the hot end in the boot presented itself as the less incendiary option.

Even if I am unable to pilot it on its maiden voyage this weekend, this matters not. Because it means I can save the entire tank of fuel for a more worthwhile purpose. Namely taking to the office and demanding nay PLEADING someone/anyone make an innocent enquiry re: shredders. At which point I shall demonstrate the awesome shredding capability of the whirling strimmer of certain death.

I think that’ll be fine. Proportional response and all that. If, however, you become aware of an ice cream van shaped vehicle with a bloodied strimmer poking from the sunroof accelerating towards a well known outsourcing provider then please do the right thing.

Get out of the way to make damn sure I get a good run up.

* although this may be the ‘unseasonable’ gale force winds and lashing rain that pass for Summer in the UK.

** Had to be done. Similar mirth was induced during a mud tyre purchasing transaction which included a conversation on the exact width of a Beaver.

The last time I wrote a post..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff2 Comments

Owly Images

This monstrosity was being loudly trumpeted as ‘the next big thing‘. Or possibly the world’s most wobbly thing. Certainly it became the thing without the right number of bits, and the bits that did arrive shattered into a thousand eye piercing shards. A quick wiggle of the wingnut bars transferred the entire front end into a face wobbling case of simple harmonic motion, ending in a cry from Nic to ‘leave it alone, I’ve got to service that’.

What? Surely it’s been brought into the shop in some kind of amnesty having killed the previous ten owners, all of whom had tried something courageous like two or three pedal strokes. The only ‘service‘ a right thinking individual could perform on such a horror would be a quick exorcism, followed swiftly by a skip burial.

Having said all that, I’d absolutely love to see it ridden off road. Just not by anyone who owed me any money. My sensible hypothesis that this was clearly the last desperate throes of a Bakelite manufacturer in search of a market sector who’d already bought Sinclair C5s, were keen on the a-bike and could be simply grouped by the term ‘fucking idiots‘, But apparently not. Staggered isn’t the half of it.

Staggered is my primary emotion on finding myself at the end of another day having shown cosmic restraint when confronted with a project that has the momentum of an oil tanker heading into – say – Harrods with the crew covering their eyes while screaming ‘it’s all his fault‘. They may be pointing at me. I wouldn’t know being somewhat pre-occupied in wondering exactly how much damage an angry middle aged man could deliver with nothing more than an office stapler and a sharp pencil.

“It’s not so much a project Al, more of a quest‘ so advises my rather sanguine business partner from a position of not having anything to do with it. He’s right tho, a quest with a full regalia of pointy weapons, knights riding on pointless look-at-me adventures, a cast of characters pulled straight of the Alice in Wonderland, and a deadline that generally has me running around the office shouting “82 days, 82 BLOODY DAYS, ask me again how much I care where the shredders go,.. go on ASK ME I dare you“.

Our little team now has a bingo sheet of standard responses to the latest crisis “It is what it is“, “We can’t give you a Wow factor, but you might get dial tone if you leave me alone” and “Don’t ask us about the Shredders”. And while things may be tense, the time has not yet come to “wave the lucky chicken”*.

Of course, it’s fine really. I just like pretending it’s not, although Carol has stopped asking me how my day has gone because she has much better things to do that listen to a spittle flecked incoherent rant at a volume and length which speaks of a man close to madness. Instead she uncorks my medicine and is very careful not to mention the “S” word.

Somewhere and somehow the longest day is coming and with it my absolute last ever race. Having been entered without my permission**, a sad ego-led dedication to secure 342nd place or whatever we’re aiming for has had me out on the bike during the occasional breaks between endless rain and sleet. Someone told me summer is three weeks away, but obviously I had them sectioned for their own good. Delusional maniacs.

Some rides have been dry, dusty and even warm, but these are tantalising small meteorological morsels slid between thick slices of shit weather guaranteeing the full ‘crack, back and rucksack‘ mud enema and the ongoing campaigning of winter gear. Conditions such as these have taken their toll on various bicycles in my ownership. Not the road bike since that’s not been ridden since October, and nothing short of biblical flooding is going to change that.

Mainly as the cross bike seems to work well when the apparently exhausted aquifers which are to be found around 4 inches above the local ground conditions. Until the mechanical disks needed careful adjustment. 30 minutes of watching videos and classic Al spanner incompetence inevitably gave way to a well aimed twat with the percussion tool of choice. Sure they still rub a bit, but I felt quite a lot better after smacking them around showing exactly who was the boss.

Also the Ugly Stick of Blind Carbon Forging received a fork service from my mechanically minded friend Matt. Somewhat timely based on our careful placement of the oil sump ready to catch 30ml of much needed lubrication oil. Not required. Forks as dry as East Anglia. Well apart from a bit of moist grease which yielded to Matt’s bespoke ‘snooker cue and sock‘ cleaning tool – the purpose of which had me properly worried until he shoved it in the fork orifice.

Tomorrow I shall go ride again in the cold rain, before steeling myself for another three days of crisis management best met with a stoical expression and a stern warning regarding any comments re: paper destruction appliances. Still when it’s 3am in a piss wet field under the Malvern hills, with my motivation at an all time low, the team merely needs to shout “Hey Al, what’s happening with the shredders mate?” and I’ll be out of that tent in a flash, pedalling like the madman I clearly am and wondering if somebody else has all my ‘normal‘

Life is definitely full right now. And a bit strange. And not a little stressful. And that’s before I commit to electronic paper the extensive weirdness of an ANIMÉ festival Abi dragged me round for her birthday. That was beyond bloody odd and well into parallel universe. More on that soon.

More likely, Soonish.

* this is something worthy of a post all of it’s own. A concept dreamt up at about 3am before a 9am go-live, and enacted with delicacies from KFC. It has – rightly – passed into legend and I may share the secret here one day.

** Either meaning in fine. Really. That’s how I feel about it. Violated 😉

A room with a loo

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Al's idea of plumbing

But not for long. This tired bathroom was on our list of things to fix when we moved in. Four years ago. For once apathy wasn’t the strategy here, many other expensive priorities came first; heating, windows that didn’t let in anything but light, a garden that wasn’t merely a 1/3rd of an acre of pea shingle, my workshop* and all sorts of other stuff nefariously stealing cash and time.

Until now. Now being a week away from the spare room being occupied by our pal Jason for the next four months. This was the only way I could persuade young Jas to come and work on this rather vexing project that’s 83 working days away from being finished** was to offer him free board and lodgings chez Leigh.

Said lodgings come with the only working shower in the building, other than having to cross the threshold of either of the kids rooms. And spending a shed load of cash on a new bathroom pales into absoluteinsignificancecompared to the horror of even contemplating something as fatallycourageousas that.

So in normal al&carol fashion, we waited until the absolute last moment before scheduling a bevy of tradesmen to come fit baths, showers, tiles, sinks and all manner of – what I’ve come to understand is amusingly called -sanitarywear. The original quote for this pantheon of drilled, white MDF put me in mind of NASA’s budget for a moonshot and put us in front of a keyboard for internet scourage.

Aside from some taps fantastically shaped like a pair of WWII gun turrets***, all major bathing items have arrived on pallets from various anonymous warehouses. Not so the tiles that have taken almost an entire Bank Holiday weekend to procure. If there’s anything moresoullessthan an empty tile barn peopled by desperate salesmen, it’d put even the most balanced individual on suicide watch.

Eventually tiles were procured, loaded into the now suspensionally challenged Yeti and unloaded by a man with more than a hint of a back injury. Fourteen massive boxes of something soon to be wall mounted currently sit creaking on the kitchen floor. Taking them upstairs was clearly about 12 steps to far especially as any remaining energy had been expended on destroying the current bathroom.

The space previously occupied by a massive immersion tank and some accompanying damp will soon house a new bath with a proper shower. From there loveliness shall expand outwards to new floors, sinks and bog. I care little for these but am childishly excited by the prospect of a LED movement activated mirror with ‘a full length demister pad’.

I’ve no idea what that might be, but it must surely be linked with the word ‘sanitary’. Chances of all this being done by next weekend? No idea, but those who have to work close to me might smell the answer a few days after that.

* well obviously. In fact that was done before the heating. Like I say, priorities.

** Not that I’m counting or anything. Or panicing. Oh now, not a seasoned professional steeped in the art of impossible deadlines. No, instead I’m in denial.

*** I am already thinking of the bath as my personal ‘Atlantic Wall’.

You don’t get much for a pound.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding3 Comments

However, a hundred quid is purchasing nirvana if you have a really stupid idea and many willing friends victims. Downstream of a beer or three, thoughts turned from the unfairness of a seasonally inappropriate sloptastic ride to the kind of alcohol fuelled idea absolutely full of win until someone loses an eye.

My pitch to a well wrapped but still shivering Ross Collective was simple; why not invest in a raft of stupidly cheap mountain bikes and take them racing. Not proper racing because even my airy ambition is grounded by a stony reality – no instead we’d purchase something horrible and fling it into a series of challenges designed to prove nothing much more than riding is always better than not riding. Or perhaps not.

I accept it’s neither a particularly innovative idea of even an original one. But for a while now my oft repeated refrain is any bike under my nebulous command is in no way the high water mark of what I can ride. And that’s been the case for approximately ever – sure I’ve ridden a few stinkers; too short, too high, rubbish forks, dodgy geometry, binary brakes, yes yes yes some real nasties but nothing, nothing close to what barely three figures of legal currency can secure.

And it’s all about the detail. This isn’t some kind of free for all where cheaters scout eBay for pre-loved bargains, or pieces of supermarket tat are honed under the experienced spanner of a pushy competitor. Oh No, there will be rules, adjudicated fiercely with draconian penalties for most things, especially any individual trying to be clever. You may be surprised to hear that all judging shall be based on the modern democratic principle of ‘one man one vote‘. Less surprising maybe is that I am the Man and it is my Vote.

So rules then; here’s the draft which in no way even begins to reflect a full set that shall be of such magnitude and pettiness I may need to charter a passing asteroid in order to record their largesse. However, we have to start somewhere, so let’s start here:

  1. Each competitor shall be limited to a spend of£100 or less
  2. All bikes must be bought NEW. Receipts will be requested and carefully studied.
  3. No bike must be of a brand where the highest spec’d bike costs over£500
  4. No modifications are allowed. AT ALL. That means you Doran 😉
  5. All bikes must be placed IMMEDIATELY in Park Ferme once purchased, without a pedal being turned or a spanner twiddled
  6. All competitors will have 30 minutes fettling time before the challenges start. To either sort out their bike or nobble someone elses
  7. Challenges will include – but not be limited to – Skills Loop, Downhill Challenge, Wheelie Distance, Jumping Style, Loss of Limb, etc
  8. Additional points will be awarded for acts of wanton stupidity, inappropriate bravery and heroic fashion sense (see below)
  9. There will be bike jousting. If only for the purposes of comedic merit. This will not extend to those attempting it.
  10. Points will be deducted for all sorts of shit; anything requiring a trail tool, exploding components, taking it too seriously, that kind of thing
  11. All competitors are banned from wearing any clothing normally used for a MTB ride. I’m looking for flouro lycra, beanie hats, t-shirts, cut off jeans, mullets, etc

There is subtlety here; all bikes and remains will be donated to a cycling charity including limbs hewn from once healthy bodies. But many, many points will be awarded for the lowest cost bidder. So for me, I’m already considering an eBay monstrosity of a lady’s bike in lurid purple* on the grounds it’s the same cost as a loaf of bread, and sports no top tube at all making it ‘flickable‘. Surely a winner in the twisties although I accept it may have some associated frame flex of the kind to pogo a middle aged man into something local and bark covered.

This is a brilliant idea. I fully expect to think so even when I’ve sobered up. The plan – although this is somewhat overstating 4 blokes laughing a lot and dreaming up brainless challenges – is for the ‘inaugural Pikey Pedal Pusher‘ challenge to take place early in June. Mainly as it’s David’s birthday and he seems keen to spend it in Hereford A&E.

Yet for all my optimism I am harbouring a soupcon of doubt; the idea of pitching a hundred quids worth of pig iron down some fairly dangerous tracks protected only by some cut off jeans and a ‘centurion’ helmet bought sometime before 1993 is not entirely edifying. Still – and if I continue to trot this out, it’ll surely be carved into my gravestone – what can possibly go wrong?

More to follow. The quest for the pikey-bike begins right now.

* Okay pink.

Channelling my inner Clarkson

On By AlexIn Other stuff4 Comments

In what passed for thorough research and due diligence before handing over a life’s savings for our new car, I was re-acquainted with my hatred of car reviews. They are no friend of the cosmically confused. littered as they are with incomprehensible sentences and pointless statistics. “The 63KW direct-rail moon unit delivers a punchy mid range without sacrificing everyday driveability” means nothing to me; I pick out the word punch and go looking or the author.

My favourite critique came from a batty lady who shares my understanding of how cars work. Her diminutive size made boot closure impossible without a small ladder. Or – as would be the first thought of anyone certified clinically insane – shutting it from THE INSIDE having climbed over the sill. Apparently she loved the car because it was possible to release the rear seats while trapped in the boot allowing her to exit via the sunroof. Autocar should sacrifice one of their pompous journo’s and get her reviewing the next Aston Martin.

So after a week with the Yeti, I shall avoid the tedium and banality of those whose life is completed by appending unread contributions to the bottom half of the Internet, and instead compare it to the somewhat pre-loved vehicle it replaced. They are similar only in that each has a wheel in every corner and one stuck usefully in front of the driver. Both have that marketing boxy exterior trumpeting off-road aspirations, and burn oil instead of petrol.

And that’s about it. The x-trail had some proper dirt DNA from the first generation half-truck whereas the Skoda is essentially a jacked up golf thrown together with off-cuts from the Passat’s parts bin. And while the Nissan saved me maroonment in the odd muddy field, it did compromise what I believe car mags label ‘the driving experience‘ elsewhere. Handling specifically; any attempt to corner at over 30 MPH would launch unsecured items – CD cases, Dog, Children, etc into the opposite window only being freed as we wobbled beyond the apex.

Whereupon they’d be unceremoniously dumped somewhere approximating their original location in a whiplash manoeuvre. Watching a 35 Kilogram Labrador experiencing negative G while the driver was cautiously negotiating a roundabout had me considering having the suspension properly furtled*. Not by me of course, with a diagnostic approach based on opening the bonnet and declaring confidently that what we were facing here was an electrical problem- rather the local Garage where that truck had spent rather too much of it’s time under my ownership.

Mainly due to a propensity for eating tyres and brakes, but we shouldn’t forget the tremendously exciting explosion when the French Turbo unit waved a predictable white flag and napalmed its’ remains to the engine bay. I can still place the date, it being exactly four days after I bought the car. Which goes some way to explaining how – in the next three and a bit years – I never really trusted it not to spontaneously combust at an inopportune moment.

In contrast the Yeti feels bulletproof. Something I very nearly had the opportunity to test in the real world, or what passes for it in South Birmingham. Mosely – twinned with the Helmand Province – in the rain is a sight to behold although not – for preference – while stationary waiting for the road to become clear. Clear that is from two young men passing a dull afternoon by punching the crap out of each other having been ejected from a pub doorway some 20 feet away. I couldn’t believe anywhere in the UK could be more depressing. Until I drove into Kings’ Heath.

Anyway I digress. As we’ve established the old x’y didn’t respond well to spirited driving. My new ice cream van is augmented with technology so close to magic it may well be so. Attack a bend that’d have Murf go supersonic in the Nissan, and there’s barely a hint of body roll or fuss even at speeds I’d normally only attain having driven off a cliff. Stopping as well is something now available to me on an everyday basis rather than the trying scenario of hitting the brake pedal, death-gripping the now bucking wheel and bracing for impact.

The engine is a feisty little thing encouraging some happy throttle action even as the dash lights up with ‘you’re killing the planet you heartless bastard‘ . I feel some duct tape may solve that issue. And while I may have lost a tape deck, I have gained so much in entertainment options. A SatNav that doesn’t attempt to route me through Reykjavik is pleasing as are Audio CDs in the boot-6 changer and my entire rubbish music collection squeezed onto an SD card.

All of which can be controlled by either ducking under the dash to randomly stab buttons on the centre console, or whirling various knobs and rollers on the steering wheel. On the upside this allows me to select from one of 24 pre-set radio stations** without having to swallow dive under the passenger seat, but still generally ensures my delight at finding Chris Evans is back on being tempered by ramming a 38 tonne Sainsbury’s lorry lost in my peripheral vision.

700 miles in, any complaints? Not much, the parking sensors scream in apparent pain when faced with anything more substantial than a blade of grass some ten feet away. And the car is now a bespoke colour I’m thinking of as ‘shit brown‘ which is more of reflection of a UK spring than any fault of the car. Oh yes, I can’t seem to find a simple way to fit a bike in.

Here the XT was great taking a fully built bike – even if it would only release it by dragging most of the boot trim with it during a frustrated wrench. The Yeti has many, many clever seating arrangements, none of which seem to have been specifically designed for accommodating muddy and spikey mountain bikes. First I tried removing the rear seats. Well one of them anyway only to be thwarted by their mass which is similar to a well apportioned mid terrace.

Bowed by unbroken, I flipped them forward which sort of worked for the outer two but the middle seat formed a splitter group and refused to lie flat. A quick glance at the manual confirmed that it was entirely flipping useless. A rather longer internet surf suggested this was a well known ‘feature‘ and you’d be better off buying a bigger car if it caused you any sort of problem.

The other obvious solution is a towbar which I have both ordered and paid for. On backorder apparently which is Salesman speak for “we’ve had your cash and when we say a week, what we really mean is not this week. And not next week either. Best call us next year. It’ll be a week from then”

A not very happy interim is both wheels off and a big tarp to prevent a custom angle grinder interior. Any more than that and I’ll have to pre-equip any riding spot with a full workshop to rebuild the bike before any actual cycling can take place.

Still small price to pay. Oh no sorry it wasn’t. But this week driving to and from work has been – if not fun – more than bearable. But the next person that asks if they can have a Mr. Whippy with a flake is going be feeling the rough end of my pineapple.

* A cross between a ‘furtive glance’ to see if there is anything expensive required and a quick fix’ fettle‘ using a sledgehammer.

** All set to Radio 2 of course. There will soon be a further missive on local radio stations, but not until my legal team have petitioned the BBC for a license refund based on the lifelong trauma inflicting by BBC Hereford and Worcester.

Meet Eric

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography20 Comments

Yeti

Previously on the hedgehog, snoot has been cocked at the naming of things that are certainly not animal, possibly a bit of vegetable* and quite a bit mineral. However, in the spirit on ongoing hypocrisy, our new family car has been named after the tremendous if deeply flawed movie of the same name. Not because we’re intending to rape and pillage the Kingdom of Mercia, rather the registration plate begins VK which is enough for this resident film geek to baptise the the non-organic chap.

It’s an improvement on naming our Christmas Tree Colin, or directing confused visitors to deposit their rubbish in Derek The Dalek. And we’ve moved on from Rog mainly so I can bring forth my own Dane-Law variant during difficult traffic situations. Predictably the handover was not without a touch of angst triggered firstly by our first sight of ‘our‘ car being driven rapidly away in what looked suspiciously like an opportunistic car-jack.

Our furrowed brows were smoothed when it was explained that the sales fella was merely chucking in enough fuel to make sure we didn’t conk out on his forecourt. On his return, I signed 437 bits of paper without reading any of them. With an almost equal split of draconian penalties for financial misdemeanours and arse covering for the dealer to ensure no chance of successful prosecution for a selling strategy only slightly less dodgy than ‘would Sir like PPI with that’, there seemed little point in making a fuss.

Finally we were directed outside to a car now fully owned by a interesting transaction from an earlier rape and pillage of one of our company accounts, which coughed up a sum of money so large it ran into five digits. With no decimal points. While the kids piled in and began destroying pristine upholstery, I was subjected to a training programme based apparently on an assumption that the concept of a door and a steering wheel would be all exciting and new to me.

However, this did highlight a tiny issue where the operation of the fog lights ended with the entire switch-gear in the salesman’s hands. I felt this was an entirely appropriate juncture to reflect on the outstanding build quality much trumpeted only a few days earlier before we’d handed over the cash. A hurried conference outed Jamie from the workshop who – through a double jointed thumb roll/masonic hand shake – snapped it back in with the airy observation that’ they all do that sir’

Salesman Steve was keen to wave us off in order to lock up the premises and remove any record of our purchase from their systems. I was keen to drive the bloody thing. Carol and the kids were keen for some Viking like sequestration of the local fish and chip shop. Nothing like paying for that new car smell only to mask it with the greasy odour of much vinigared cod.

Off we finally went leaving Steve to spend a couple of days to count the money. Immediately we had a problem, now the old X-Trail – abandoned and unloved as far from the showroom** as possible – was lavishly equipped with sufficient instrumentation to document a reasonable approximation of current speed, and some knocked off switchgear from a 1970s Datsun Cherry randomly lit by clunky switchgear. The Yeti is something else entirely – think NASA wrapped up in airbags.

My friend Mike’s assertion that the world today is nothing more than an informational tornado smacked me right between the eyes when everything started talking to me. The SatNav, the Radio, the CD stack in the boot, the one on the dash, the kids and Carol who was nose down in the manual. “Turn Left at the next junction” intoned a rather well spoken young lady while the middle of the dash and what I’d mistaken for a colour TV bombarded me with graphics, colours and arrows.

Somehow at the same time, a further icon demanded I change gear, another one reminded me that the car was still running on Fumes+, yet another whirled through a dazzling display of fuel consumption, average speed, possible Acts of God and Engine temperature. With all this going on what the FUCK was I meant to do about Engine Temperature. 86 degrees. Is that good? Bad? Is something on fire? Shall I get the family out now because soon the entire shebang will be ablaze?

Carol worked how to turn most of it off while I concentrated on parking within binocular range of the curb, before setting off to the chippy leaving me to play with the stupendously clever electronics that’d discovered my phone, cuddled it in bluetooth before raping*** the memory for contacts and presenting them on the screen. A random button press chirped “Voice Activation On” to which I replied “what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” / “Calling Bob Pluck” No, No, don’t do that, Cancel, Desist, JUST STOP FOR A SODDING MINUTE WILL YOU.

To be fair the voice recognition is way better than SIRI on the iPhone which is good news in the same was as waking up in hospital after a car accident only to be told “The bad news is you’ve lost both legs and an arm, the good news is your Volvo started first time“. Having turned off the ignition to create an facsimile of calm, I was in no position to do anything but adopt a Munch’s Scream fizog as a battered old people carrier approach at ramming speed with my front bumper clearly in their sights

Missed by a whisker. That’s a pair of pants that are going to need some special cleaning I can tell you. Eventually we arrived home with most things intact other than any remaining composure. Ensconced in my favourite chair, I confidently whisked out the manual to better understand the magic going on between the doors. As a man steeped in technology with twenty+ years behind the rampack, the SatNav instructions held no fear for me. Right until I opened the manual.

No idea. No idea at all. Active Button X to Trigger Flange Z thereby enabling Menu B which is only available in certain countries on a Balmy Wednesday Evening during the month of June. I gently closed the booklet of despair and reverted to my standard strategy of reading nothing, but having a mallet on standby.

It is a nice car. It’s still a nice car even after a fat gentleman with the spacial awareness of a dead stoat slammed his door into it earlier today. I’m not a nice person tho, I’ve hidden his body in the frozen food aisle at our local Morrisons.

Proportional response I’d suggest based on everything I’ve gone through so far this weekend.

* Any parent knows that crossing children with cars creates a unholy union best described as ‘ugh something is growing in the back seat. Might once have been a fruit shoot, now is a leafy fungus‘

** It was all working. But I have a suspicion that it might not be for too much longer

*** I will get bored of Viking jokes soon, I promise.