You’re going home in a Gloucester ambulance.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding4 Comments

This ride was many things. First time at night in the Forest this year, anniversary of the muddy induction ride when I fell in with this mucky crew, a potential redeemer for the new not really light emitting diodes and the chance to make merriment and new swear words with old friends.

It was all of that, and a little more. The route was mostly new, sometimes muddy, often heroically slippy, occasionally hard and fast and marked frequently with prostrate mountain bikers. So one of those rides which gradually whittled down the men from the boys, starting with double figures but falling to six and then just falling off.

Even by my ever lowering standards, I was entirely rubbish. Mostly because I’d forgotten how to dodge trees while travelling sideways on a sea of something that might once have been dirt. Not now though, it was a heady chemical amalgam of viscous and slop dishing out the odd soupçon of grip to keep you interested, before dispensing brown justice in the form of a handy tree.

Many of the regular Forresters were sporting mud tyres and smug expressions. My all conditions rubber were instantly converted to slicks at which point I fell off. This seemed to go on for quite a long time. Until it became a bit boring – especially for the poor sods behind who were stalled by my repeated sweaty apologies – although having stayed upright for about three minutes on one descent, I’d have paid good money to be lying again in that nice comforting mud.

That was proper scary. I have now experienced personal continental drift. From the tyres upwards, stopping briefly at the bowels and carrying on into a head wondering what happened to my “Chiltern reactions“. One crash did give rise to the concept of the “testicle fairy” where one could demand payment for a love spud, separated from its’ bag-mate through the simple un-anaesthetised application of a saddle rail.

I’ll never dare put my arm under the pillow again. And I’m also mentally drawn to exactly what the Testicle Fairy might look like. It’s not going to be Tinkerbell is it?

Entertaining as this was, as a displacement tactic it fell flat when the trail didn’t, with the not terribly magnificent six winching skywards into plummeting temperatures to access a trail I’d ridden bits of, but never in the dark. This climb seemed to go on for a while, longer for me I noticed as the mud-shod regulars wobbled upwards bathing most of the forest in a million lumens. UFO sighting must have gone up a million percent since MTB lighting went nova.

To access this fantastic trail, we first had some bone dry singletrack to climb which was both tiring and rewarding. The top of which opened out to a bank – with a entry only out-dodgied by the exit – for us to play on. A few of us played nicely with appropriate respect shown to lobbing oneself off into a dark abyss. A few others didn’t – Steve especially was having it medium, occasionally large.

We left him to it, shivering on the road side. What came out of the dark wasn’t a grinning Stevo, no what came out was that horrible sound of rider hitting ground, bike hitting ground, bike hitting rider, rider making groaning noises. It goes something like “ARGGH-BUMP-BANG-ARGGHH“.

Siren call that it is, we all rushed over to find Steve adopting a position somewhere between foetal and hibernating tortoise. He wasn’t moving much. Which considering he’d unclipped at the apex of the parabola before ragdolling down the slope and then being seriously inconvenienced by spiky bicycle wasn’t much of a surprise.

After a while – and to our shame some merciless ribbing – he declared other than an extremely sore arse, he was good to go. As long as the going was slow and easy. Then he asked where we were. A minute later he asked again. At that point he felt it probably was a good time to explain he couldn’t remember anything about the last two hours. Arse on the floor, head in the moon, concussion kicking in, time for some proper decisions.

Matt’s much maligned “capacious bag of doom” had already saved me with emergency sustenance, and now birthed a virgin space blanket we ripped open to wrap an every more confused Steve into. Ian has proper first-aid experience and Nic has much experience of just monging himself, so we left those two with the patient. The rest of us turned away from the dirt and lost our height on the fastest tarmac route to the cars.

The plan was to fetch Steve and his bike, place one safely in a garage and the other safely in Ross Hospital. Matt was designated “responsible adult unlikely to mix the two“, but before he could carry out Plan A, Plan B was triggered by a now entirely spaced Steve wondering what his name was. A quick 999 call brought flashing lights and a dash to Gloucester to get his head examined. Riding at night with this lot makes me wonder if I should too 😉

Happy endings all round tho. Steve was fetched by his partner late that night and, other than being “bloody sore“, is recovering fast. We didn’t forget his bike, and I made it to the chip shop before closing time. Well a man’s got to eat!

Closing thoughts; night riding is just the silliest thing in the world, and I never want to stop doing it. Hurting yourself is part of the game, an entry fee if you will, rewards are never earned without risk. You can mitigate it, back off a tad, ride to the conditions, cap your bravado and squash your competitive spirit. But if you ride long enough and hard enough, you are going to end up in Hospital.

Oh and people that take the piss mercilessly are also your best mates when shit happens. I’d be happy to have any of those buggers get me off a hill when I inevitably lunch myself into a tree again.

If nothing else it’d give us something to talk about instead of the testicle fairy. It’d almost be worth it for that.

Marvel at my Massive Erection.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography7 Comments

The Big Tent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s not a forecast..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

.. that’s somewhere between a wild guess and an electronic shrug. Obsessed by the weather as I am, three sites lurk in my favourites offering – generally – biblical visions of the prevailing conditions come home time

1) between -3 and 8 degrees

2) Between -6 and 1 degree

3) Between -2 and 4 degrees.

The final one is the venerable beeb, the first two are clearly programmed by some stoner quiche-eater stroking a hamster. I mean really, potential statisical inacurracy of 11 degrees bounded by a total of about 30.

I could do better leaning out of the window and declaring “h’mm chilly, potentially parky later“. In fact I just have. I think the workers from the building opposite were crowded round thinking it was a suicide attempt.

It may well be if forecast 2) is correct. I appear to have contracted “frost-willy” after a sub zero ride in earlier.

I spent ages dithering this morning trying to find stuff. I failed to uncover my motivation which has been lost for the last week. Apparently it was last seen holding Spring hostage.

Large reward for its’ return.

Marginal Madness. Added dog.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding2 Comments

VCA 2010 RACE RUN from changoman on Vimeo.

This appears to be a man riding extremely fast on the absolute cusp of painful stackery, all while wearing a suit. Probably just the sort of thing most of us would have a crack on during an otherwise boring lunchtime.

He’s got a mate as well who is slightly less sketchy, but still has to somehow not fall down a 100 steps at a million miles an hour, with two thirds of bugger all clearance on both sides.

Then, he too is attacked by a dog that is either deaf or rabid. Probably both.

This was very similar to my ride last night. Except for the terrain, sun, warmth, absence of darkness and skills on display. The “nearly crashing” part was all there. As was the ice and freezing cold winds. If this is some kind of cosmic weather joke, I’d just like to say IT’S NOT FUNNY ANY MORE.

Right back to work. Too much of it currently.

Lights out

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

There is a time for quiet contemplation, trading sanguinary* for calm reflection and playing the long game. Apparently. So I’ve been told. Comes with age and wisdom allegedly. Still time then even for humans of such antiquity as me. But not today. Let me take a deep virtual breath and scream:

“I AM BORED OF WINTER NOW. SICK OF MUD, DARK AND COLD. I WANT DUST AND SUNSHINE. I’VE BLOODY WELL EARNED IT”

Last night I’d have happily settled for just a bit of light. My recent expensive purchase delivered fantastic illumination for ten road pounding minutes, before switching off, shutting down and engaging in a permanent state of electronic sulk. This happens to me far too often during working hours, so my initial diagnosis was the now cooling appliance could only be running a form of Windows software.

Sustained hopeful prodding and poking about** for five more minutes achieved only frustration amidst continued benightment. As is the way of such disasters, my helmet light was uncharged and the repaired Hope Vision was resting some fifteen miles away. Luckily a spare was harvested from Jezz’s toolbox, leaving us with the repeat joy of a soggy road climb we’d only recently dispatched.

Good thing about the road tho was its’ wetness merely irritated rather than injured – a flipped condition come a switch to dirt. Tyres properly aslither, bloke on top wobbling about and bracing for bark impact, and any braking was just crashing by another name.

So we were late, partially lighted, muddy and – in the case of my riding buddy – extremely knackered from the bastard work week from hell. Obviously being a good mate, I took full advantage by suggesting ridiculous epics deep into the hills none of which I had any intention of actually riding. This is entirely opposite to what normally happens, except we end up actually doing them.

My Yang to his Ying was feeling pretty damn good probably as we weren’t going far nor ‘lung-out-of-the-arse‘ fast. This was an entirely unexpected state of affairs as, less than two days before, I’d not so much fallen off the alcohol-free week wagon as set fire to it – before toasting it with multiple double brandies,.

And it was still a proper laugh fighting tank slappers, transferring mud from trail to face via sliding tyre, then sloshing about in dank puddles. But really, we’ve suffered enough and it is starting to take a toll.

My ST4 has a set of rumbly hub bearings that’ll not survive another month. Already the winter has eaten through a shock bushing, broken that shock, destroyed four pairs of brake pads and turned my not-long-since shiny bike into something rather less showroom.

It’s not done that much for me either. Sure I’ve managed to get/stay reasonably fit. I’ve maintained motivation through the hardest month, and plans are afoot to cash in on the coming Spring. But it doesn’t feel we’re there yet.

Dark commutes stretch out a further six weeks, gawd only knows where I’ll dare venture back into the Forest, even the road bike almost seems like a good idea. I’m not sure I can hang on for much longer!

One thing I do know tho, is if we’d turned back, given up, called it a day as sense/tiredness/mechanical catastrophe strongly suggested we should, it’d have been a quick win but a long disappointment. Riding is always better than not riding. It’s also a shit load better when the outside environment plays nice.

Got to Keep The Faith for a few more weeks.

* My “word of the week“. Beats f*ck I suppose.

** Pretty much describes most boys sexual awakening.

That’s really annoying.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Cotswold Road Ride

Many – and most would say far too many – times have I banged on about how rubbish road riding is. The key thrust of what passed as my argument was blacktop wheeling was dull, painful and entirely missing the joy, risk and skill of Mountain Biking. It appears I may have been more than a little wrong.

Before lambasting me for a U-Turn not seen since, er let me think – oh yes, last week by the not-Forest selling lunatics as Westminster, let me first explain that the change of heart is based entirely on context. I’ve always maintained that half the fun of riding MTBs is who you are with, with the other half being where you are riding. What I failed to understand is this has a 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} crossover with road bikes.

Over 1200 kilometres have passed under skinny wheel in the last twelve months, and – until today – only 40 of them had been shared with others. The majority of the remainder are tagged onto work days, chasing trains weighed down with commuting collateral – while a very few fired the guilt trigger and had me yomping around local lanes feeling more miserable that worthy.

Today failed to deliver any promising portents. Cold, grey and wet. Chance of dampness in the air, lots of it already on the ground. 8am start, 80k plugged into Jezz’s GPS and an Al mentally porpoising between fear and boredom. The really bloody annoying thing was not just that I enjoyed it, but rather I enjoyed it quite a lot.

Cotswold Road Ride Cotswold Road Ride

Some reasons; Jezz – who is properly fit and fast – generously refused to roast me over the tarmac spit with a maximum attack from the first minute. The lack of rucksack, darkness, desperation to make a train/get home removed any real reason to whinge. A route winding pleasantly thought the Cotswolds, without climbing over any monstrous hills, made for looking around rather than looking for a spare lung.

But mainly it was not being solo. If I’d ridden this on my own a finish would be doubtful, excuses and early baleouts almost guaranteed. Which is pretty much how Billy-no-mates MTB rides end as well. Arguably You could even argue that road riding is more social on traffic free roads and without the standard straining Malvern Gurn in place.

For balance, important to state quite clearly it’s not as good as Mountain Biking. But it was today when off road trails would have been a muddy horror show. I learned some things as well: “How to trim my big ring” which I’d always assumed was some lycra-creepy initiation ceremony. And – even being a roadie novice – the art of drafting came easily to a man for whom cheating is a life skill.

First 20k were fine, second not so bad. Break for coffee and food was welcome, certainly more welcome than next 20k which dragged a little on less fun roads marked by traffic and gradients. Last 20k was surprisingly painless even with tiring legs and ice cold feet. Descending on twisty roads was friskier than I expected, and even some of the climbing felt kind of nice.

Don’t worry tho; the dark side shall not claim me. Chunky winter boots, flappy clothing and an absolute refusal to stay-press my willy in an orgy of lycra categorised me perfectly. I’m a Mountain Biker who will ride anything rather than not ride at all. Having said all that, a nice 100k out to Broadway is planned for next month, and I find myself looking forward to it.

Best hide the razor.

Let there be dark.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments

Lumi XPG 3

My trusty night-riding light has countered three winters of abuse with an attempt to exact painful retribution. Not so much “Hope Vision 4” more “Hope I still have all my own teeth“.

The maker is Hope Technology – a UK firm based on the wrong side of Yorkshire* – housed in an industrial unit full of proper machinery. Their ability to CNC, Mill and Bevel metal results in an extensive range of MTB products. Some of them are very good, some of them are a bit special, and occasionally one of them is a dud.

Their showpiece 4-LED light that pushes the night away for 9 months of my riding year is somewhere between “special” and “terrifyingly unreliable“. Bit like kids, when they are good they are very good indeed**, but when they are bad “bloody awful” isn’t the half of it.

Wednesday night put Dr Jekyll in charge of illumination. Or not, when the light flicked to black as the bike was dropping smoothly over a rock-step. That smoothness absented itself with the light, and only the backup torch lashed to my helmet prevented a high speed gravelly facial.

This isn’t the first time unscheduled benightment has been visited on my innocent person. Nor the second. Or even the third. I now have a fairly matey relationship with the Warranty fellas up at Hope as the feckless light boomerangs between us. They’ve been fantastic at repairing way outside of any warranty period, and I’ve rewarded such customer service by campaigning the thing through years of rain, snow, frozen temperatures and occasional unscheduled trail percussion.

And while they are happy to give it another electrical brush up and polish, there really are only so many times that a fearful man can be plunged into darkness before demanding a replacement not marketed with a skull and crossbones. Laziness lulled me into accepted the “wisdom of the crowd” presented by Internet warriors who at least talked a good game. A quick scan of the ever escalating arms race between manufacturers’ added nothing but acronym confusion, so it was back to my night-riding roots with Lumicycle.

Whereas Hope are all grown up and serious nowadays, there’s still a whiff of shedness with Lumicycle. My first set of lights, bought nearly ten years ago, had clearly been designed and manufactured in a small wooden outbuilding. Yellow halogens powered by cut down car batteries dimly lit the trail for almost minutes, before fading to candle power. But this still proved to be a huge step up from catastrophic experiments with head torches and crappy clip on lights.

A decade later, development has been driven by technology, the 24 hour race scene and – somewhat predictably – huge steps in LED power from the Far East. The results are frankly staggering. Even compared to my Hope, the small form factor and huge light beam are really something else. It’s not quite the night-sun which appears to be gaining ground especially in homebrew solutions, but that’s not what night riding is about.

What it is very much about is sufficient light to go fast, go for a decent length ride, and go for a beer afterwards without having to rebuild complex electronics on the trail. The Lumi’s are definitely an upgrade on all fronts, but cheap they were not. But since six months of my weekly riding is undertaken entirely in darkness, and another three start that way it’s an investment worth making. That’s what I’ve told Carol anyway 😉

No excuse not to get out next week then. Well apart from the mud, rain, cold and a dose of pre-spring apathy. But that’s not stopped me yet, and we’re well past being half way out of the dark.

* Or Lancashire as the locals call it.

** We call this state “at someone else’s house”

The hardest month

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography, Road Riding6 Comments

Wet Wibble

Or, February – it’s a proper bastard. Aside from a few over-medicated nutjobs, there is a collective and plaintive whinge from the cycling community come November. Too cold, too dark, too bloody miserable to ride, too much effort for too little gain. Too much kit, too much washing, hit the hibernate button and wake me in Spring.

I am one of the over-medicated nutters. Although individual rides may trigger mad delusions that my life had ended only to be reincarnated as a dolphin, the collective revolution of a million* moist pedal strokes leaves Al’s world sunny side up.

Not that much of that sun is going on outside. Which brings me back to why February can only be conquered through gritted teeth, and the vague promise of something better soon.

November is fine, really. Some ace riding on still dry trails, bits of the commute lack benightment, still time for a trip away or two. December can go either way, but dicking about in the snow is the only Christmas present that makes you feel ten years old again.

And while the road bike is tending to the grim, it’s worth it for the looks on the be-suited faces of people not quite like you. Short month as well, before the excesses of a holiday period where getting out is the pefect release valve for being stuck inside with relatives who are not obsessed by cycling. Honestly, what’s wrong with these people?

January is brutal. Always cold, not much light, the misery on the faces of those swapping pasties for lentils. A spike in the number of off road riders spotted spluttering up the hills early Sunday morning. It is always like this – when the year turns – and it never lasts.

February tho, you feel cheated. Daffodils break through the winter crust, white ice is replaced by snowdrops of the same colour, occasional bright and warm days are snatched away by freezing easterlies and bands of spiteful rain. And you know it might snow again, which gets old so damn quickly and sends you back indoors in a grump.

Having missed a couple of rides already, my last commute was powered from a position of weather forecast denial. 6am in the wind and the wet confirmed the tea-leaf readers actually had it about right. After drying out at the office, the train home provided a further opportunity to view the hard rain slashing at the windows.

Wet weather gear is fantastic, but the problem is that it does not wateproof your brain. It’s a struggle sometimes to install the “it’ll all be alright in a few minutes” template as everyone else is rushing for their cars.

No choice but to get on with it. Displacement strategies include marvelling at how damn fab this is going to be in the light and warmth, calculating savings over the easy-drive option and wondering if hitting something is the right approach, as road bike brakes have a “work to rule” clause in the pissing rain.

Arriving home, you signal to the family that – contrary to all appearances – you are not an avenging swamp monster in control of an epic storm. Accept you’ve lost a bike and acquired a wheeled shed, peel off layers of dampness and hurry into the light.

Then do the same again on the Mountain bike the next night. The mud is up, the grip is down, the brakes are so much better but tyres – slicked by slushy crap – offers them nothing to work with. A dirty brown protest marks your rucksack, crack and back, but two hours of this beats an inside job with the TV.

So it’s time for a change. No more low-rent, truculent light mocking your motivation. Spring has to crank the season-ratchet and turn up the sun. What do we want? “Double digit temperatures, more light that dark, sunshine and no snow“, When do we want it? “RIGHT NOW”.

Maybe I’ll get some posters made up.

* well possibly not that many. But close enough if my not insignificant investment in bottom brackets is anything to go by.

Mostly Human

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

Birmingham International airport has one very big thing going for it, it is not Heathrow. So the experience is marginally less unpleasant, slightly quicker and dispatched under the generally cheery auspices of officiating brummies.

But I don’t want to accentuate the positive here; it’s still fundamentally a dreadful way to travel. Not only did I map out the ten hour trip to Amsterdam by car, I very nearly grabbed my passport, a wad of tunnel funds and some pro-plus in order to drive there. I’m still not sure it was the right decision to fly.

Of the many horrors awaiting anyone careless enough to be trapped in a major Airport orbit, a prize for the most demeaning, pointless and wasting of time has to be the security checks. First let’s do pointless – actually let’s not because Bruce Schneier is significantly better informed and qualified that me.

Demeaning? Absolutely. It’s actually kind of interesting to watch a self-referential business person transformed to mumbling apologist on removal of their suited armour. Clothes maketh the man (or – and possibly – more noticeably Women) eh? There’s something in that I think, from all the research thirty minutes of watching it happening to other people.

Also briefcases? Definitely old school business accessory that. I counted more squashy man-bags than plastic Samsonite squares and this is the West Midlands, not some sophisticated metropolis. Because I knew what was coming – although by Christ I didn’t think it could possibly take so long on a Winters’ morning at 6am – my clothing, electrical accoutrements and hand luggage had been carefully chosen.

No laptop for a start. Two days with corporate lifeblood squeezed through the restricted optical arteries of a dumbphone. No suit because the Dutch office is of the opinion that a tie is not terribly important*. No little baggy for my toiletries either. An oversight mocked by the looping videos on how to remove your jacket – I guess to better show any concealed firearms – and the appropriate presentation style for exploding shampoo.

I had plenty of time to dream up a range of excuses ranging from “No shampoo, check out the thatch, can we compromise that toothpaste isn’t a liquid?” to “That man over there, yes him, he stole it, and he was messing about with his shoes as well“. Second one should have distracted the dozy staff enough for me to hurdle the barrier and make a run for it. Possibly ending with being shot by less dopy armed police, but embarrassment saved from having to beg for a ziplock.

The airport used to have two terminals. Now it has one. The upshot is a phalanx of herded passengers pressed into not-so-neat queues all waiting for one working scanner. On remarking at this apparently obvious bottleneck, my reward was a long suffering “well the new machines are slower and we’re not allowed to have any extra staff” followed by what I can only describe as a “trade union snort of derision“.

So we queued and queued in that uniquely British “musn’t grumble” approach to organised stupidity. Except for the expensively suited tribe who tapped Blackberry’s and watches, demanded to be upgraded to first-in-line, before being reduced to sheepishness by scanner wielding busybodies in a strange game of strip poker.**

My turn tut-tutted those behind, once my polite request for a bag was met with a large bellied man demanding to know if “he was a bloody bag salesman” to which one can only respond with “I don’t know, are you? If so, I’m in luck eh?“. Rather than the cavity search such cleverness probably deserved, he cracked a weary smile and fetched something rather less threatening than the rubber gloves I expected.

I made the plane with about 30 seconds to spare. Through the departure gate essentially mooning at the shocked gate staff, with my still unbelted trousers showing a fair slab of builders arse. Honestly in future, I’ll just get my ticket tattoo’d on there.

Next month France beckons. I’m going on the train.

* So easy to bore you all with a diatribe on the laughable conflicts of corporate uniform. But I shall not. As future employment is important to me.

** If you read this in a certain way, it does sound like an exceedingly hasty form of foreplay.