Long Wind

On By AlexIn Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

Now as a man, I’m pretty much there in terms of the operation and maintenance of a personal wind turbine* But 40 years of semi professional parping in no way prepared me for the rampant gale playfully attempting to blow us off an afternoon of high ridges.

Of which the Long Mynd has legion. From the top of every one you can see Wales and even these mere foothills of proper mountains have real altitude. My pre-ride ritual of a sneaky piss up against a bored sheep registered 20 knot sustained with gusts of twice that**. Thankfully I was relieving myself downwind – it’s just a shame I chucked the car keys that way as well.
Long Mynd June 2008 (16 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (26 of 30)

The headwind made an already trying climb seemingly like trying to ascend a knobbly wall while God turned the hairdryer past a Spinal-Tap 11. We wasted what little breath we had left attempting to verbally communicate, but the wind whipped away our words in a contemptuous shriek.

Uphill and into wind was marginally less fun that – say – angle grinding your bollocks while drunk and blindfolded. Downhill was super, singletrack-y, exposed and endless. The problem was you were not really in control of the steering*** as frisky gusts would plunge you and your front wheel into the nearest valley floor.

Long Mynd June 2008 (29 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (13 of 30)

Which was some 300+ feet below you. Luckily a combination of a death grip and extreme mincing saved the day for me. That kind of exposure doesn’t seem to worry my friend Jason, as proved by him peering into the abyss from the edge of a mahoosive cliff in an absolute raging hoolie. And he has the smallest feet of any male human over the age of about 7. Bonkers.

Long Mynd June 2008 (10 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (2 of 30)

Much fun tho hardly ruined at all by my navigational blunders compounded by an inability to reconcile a map, a GPS and a bloody massive great stone saying “YOU ARE HERE”. We got there eventually, although the track log mimics the stagger home of a serious ten pinter. In a foreign country. While trying to work out what the hell you’re meant to do with that anglegrinder.

Long Mynd June 2008 (5 of 30) Long Mynd June 2008 (4 of 30)

Still my happy-clappy karma lasted for as long as it took for some walking acne to drag his crappy pedal across my new wheel, as he boarded the train. His risible apology incensed me – as I made a sneaky exit – to the point of sneaky retaliation.
Hope he has a pump. That’s all I’m saying 🙂

* Operation: Lift cheek and fire up the peristalsis booster.
Maintenance: Sprouts and organic beer. But never at the same time. You risk the very real possibility of blowing your own trousers off.

** The Pissfaut scale is more than a mountaineering urban myth. I have witnessed with my own eyes a ‘piss-off’ where serious hillmen declare “Well Bob’s a heavy pisser and that’s gone aerial, so we’re talking 25-30 knots and that’s not allowing for gusts”

*** All together now “Nothing new there then eh?“

Stop Press!

On By AlexIn Site StuffLeave a comment

Maybe I should. My mum – MY MUM FOR GOD’S SAKE – has just registered a comment:

“should be cabbage looking, you forgot hold it under the cold tap or have a hot bath.you are excused your bad language as you have just cause.a week ago as a valued customer i was told i would be rung back in 24 hours by the manager i am still holding my breath.this is late because i could not access your blog. your disenchanted mum”

See, here is me within drinking distance of 41 and still I’m being corrected by my mum! I don’t know what’s worse, my poor old* mother having to choose between being struck off by another rubbish ISP, or gaining access to hedgy roadkill on the Internet highway. Hobson would be doing his nut!

Anyway, all I need now is to find that woman I used to work for to have my quote corrected “No I didn’t say what little talent you had, I said what little bullshitting ability you had”

😉 Chickens. To Roost. Home. Make a well known phrase if you must.

Oh Hi Mum! I’ll go fire up the blowtorch for talktalk.

* Not in the true use of the word here. Let’s all be clear. Mature like a good wine, that’s my mum. Not old.**

** Did I get away with that?

Not really a mountain, some mayhem

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography4 Comments
The start of summer, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Last night, the kids and I marveled at the huge tented sponsor’s village which comprised just a small portion of the whole Mayhem experience. It makes the CLIC-24 like a few mates riding from the local pub, but I guess 3000+ entrants, a huge field and a near 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} showing from the MTB retail sector would do that to any field. Even a wet one.

How different yesterday was, cracked earth, rock hard ground and swirling dust. The course was 100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} rattly*, riding fast and loose, cheekily off camber in sections and punctuated by two tough grass climbs. Riders were coming in from sighter laps with smiles on their faces and sweat on their clothes.

All this pre-race happiness despite the entire riding flange desperately checking late forecasts to see if the rain was still coming. And it has come, right on schedule. Wind, misty but persistent rain, entire county clamped in low cloud and general ugh. A nice man in a BBC suit cheerfully explained it’s going to be better tomorrow but worse later today.

It seems the epicentre of the front will converge on Eastnor Castle at about 2pm. Which, because Sod makes laws, is the exact start time of the race. Maybe the rain should just buy an entry like everyone else since it turns up every year and pisses on and off every rider, as they slog through the muddy and sodden course. It’s even worse than elite riders charging through shouting “Podium rider, make way“.

Yet the atmosphere was great last night, and it made me remember what I loved about these events. Meeting old friends, caressing box fresh bike bits, grabbing a beer and talking about old times. Many of which were fantastic, almost none of those had anything to with riding.

I wonder how that atmosphere will feel when we wander up later with cake, waterproofs and mud tyres for some friends who are rain racing.

Until then I tip my virtual hat to the lot of them. As I need to tip it anyway – it’s full of rain.

* So I heard. There was no way I was wasting valuable drinking time trying it myself.

Trainy Days

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography, Road Riding6 Comments
Roadrat on the train, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

It wouldn’t be the twisted democracy of the Hedgehog if I didn’t poll its’ readership* for suggested content, then completely ignore the results before rambling on about trains again.

You see where Haddenham – a tiny provincial station – was blessed with 500 parking spots, 3 trains an hour, a waiting room, a uniformed parking jobsworth, a full time station master, a proper coffee shop selling non ironic skinny espresso’s and many suits. Ledbury has a peeling wooden shack hutted by Bob*, himself surrounded by a pre-Beecham photographic collection and an aura of extreme antiquity.

So a pleasant enquiry on the availability a Cappuccino, easy on the foam, skimmed milk, choco on top is met with an old fashioned expression, and a stern lecture to whit: I should thank my lucky stars there is even a platform, in days or recent yore, you merely threw themselves at a passing train in the hope that an observant passenger may haul you in.

There are – and Beared Bob is clealy not happy about this – some sops to modern life; Fewer large animals stroll on the lines than back in the glory years of steam, rubbish fencing and Fresian roaming***. Both platforms sport posh electronic signage predicting the arrival of next train and the one after that****.

And – according to these neon glows of technological wonder – the trains always run on time. Tending to the persnickety, this perfect schedule may be symptomatic of their obvious non connectedness to any real time arrival information system.

Nor do they need to be, as a sweaty, fat man leans out of the signal box and updates us all with a cheery “The London train is running 20 minutes late. Keith the driver forgot his sarnies and he’s popped back home to pick them up“.

The train to London dwarfs the platform to such an extent that the front half is servicing passengers at Coldwell, some four miles up the track. It’s absolutely huge. And old. And slam door. Legions of train enthusiasts/pointless wankers take brass rubbings and boringly relive the golden age of the Inter-City 125.

It wasn’t golden then and it’s not fantastic now. Bang up to date the naming conventions may be (Train Host, Train Manager and the whole “Welcome to our Service/How can we fleece you today?” experience) but not much has changed in terms of tired carriages or bumpy track. Forget that Wii balance board you’ve promised yourself; just try going for a piss between Didcot and Reading without spraying everything from the knees down.

The ickle turbo that fills my bikey commuting sandwich is actually a bit better. Mainly because you spend lless time on it, and all of that is in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m still full of childish delight that no bastard love child of the Gestapo and a Butlins’ red coat churlishly waves Railway Regulations at me, whilst triumphantly ejecting my bike from the speeding train.

And because it’s not London, the whole experience is significantly less deadly and – so far – completed with the correct underwear count. Okay it still took me 30 minutes to find an office precisely two miles from New Street Station. 28 of which were desperately circulating wet Dual Carriageways wondering if “Doncaster” might not be a good route choice.

So far, so groovy. Longest day tomorrow. Winter after that. Important to get a preemptive grump in before I start to really enjoy myself.

A final question unrelated and yet troubling. If your kids are lapped at the School Sports Day, and your representation to add “Nintendo Mario Karts” to the event list is mercilessly rebuffed, what’s the solution? All the non city kids clearly run twice round the farm every morning before indulging in a spot of cow throwing.
I could institute a strict regime of exercise to hone their athletic performance for next year. Or I could teach them stick out a leg and cheat. In my role as a guiding force for good and true parent, which do you think it may be?

* Good word. Could mean 1000, could mean 1.

** 1 of a part time staff of 2. Responsible for ticket sales, laminating of timetables, hut painting and repair, general airs of resignation and pulling of beards.

*** 1989

**** Which is generally tomorrow. And replaced by a donkey service via Reykjavik.

It must be mud, mud, mud..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, Photography7 Comments

With Mudtain* Mayhem just a few days away, this photo seemed entirely appropriate. Only last night was I covered in sticky red mud, flayed by aggressive vegetation and bitten by creatures known only as ‘lumpy arm givers’. Nothing to do with riding, I was merely visiting that special type of club so loved by the FIA president. Allegedly.

So muddy right now, and a storm has recently decamped – with a look of some permanence – on the doorstep. The forecast could be better spelt ‘meteorological portent of imminent doom‘ which fully justifies both my smugness and the decision to turn down a last minute offer to ride. Instead, my plan is to trundle the five miles to Eastnor Castle, truffle my way through the beers of various riding friends, before wobbling home to a bed that is neither on the floor or inside a moist tent.

Since I’m into recycling other people’s work, here are some more. Finally the BBC takes up the righteous cause of StupidSpeak(tm) – one of the many curses of corporate culture. I don’t know if it is rooted in self importance or the belief that turd polishing somehow takes the eye away from what is, at the end of the day, going forward, still a turd.

Either way, my focus is on teaming leading an idea pool to cruxmollify** the low hanging fruit, through a process of seamless boundary interactions, into a organisationally transitioned leveraged key outcome.

In layman’s terms, I am off in search of a cup of tea.

* It really should be called “2000 Lycra fetishists chasing each other round a small field. Reasons unknown“.

** I may have made that word up. But because Corporate sheep follow StupidSpeak, I shall experiment with it in some finely crafted emails. I fully expect someone will ‘let me know it is right on their radar‘

Mal & Vern

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments

Two blokes we met while riding up and over these steep sided and overly managed hills. The first took exception to our polite entreaties to get past, by denouncing all cyclists as trail eroding scum who’d serve the country better by throwing themselves under the nearest lorry. Or something like that; I must confess to stopping listening when I realised he wasn’t either.

Tim impressing local walker Fell off down there. Scary

The second was an old boy who very gently chastised us for riding on a path we probably shouldn’t have ,been but finished up with “I wouldn’t worry about it, nobody will care really”. And for the remaining 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of our ride, he was absolutely right. I have no intention of getting into the access issues around these closely guarded nuggets of great trails*, other than to say, there seems to be enough for everyone and much of it is fun on a mountain bike.

Lush. And Hilly. Really quite hilly All downhill to beer from here :)

We did seem to climb alot tho. My GPS sprouted** some nonsense about 3000 feet of uppage with some corresponding smile cracking trails heading back into Malvern. However, the first one we found could have been named “extreme exposure” although I felt my alternate title of “aarrgghh I have fallen down a 45 degree slope” was a little more accurate. Two rolls and a suicidal grab of a passing – and accelerating – bike generated more than enough interest for one set of pants I can tell you.

And the fall wasn’t because I was all rubbish and clipped in; no, rather I was checking out the view, and congratulating myself on all things West of the South East. One of those things was the lush rolling landscape into which I plunged – head first – to better investigate the phrase “terminal velocity“.

It’s not just the stuff you can see that is different here. There are other clues as well; the non ironic Wurzels tribute band at the School Fete, the strange popularity of Welly Throwing and the complete lack of any justification required to tuck into a barrel of Cider. At the local pub, there is one bloke who doesn’t seem to have moved during the three times we’ve been in there. Either he’s dead or very, very drunk.

Tomorrow I start commuting again using a proper vehicle to sandwich the train journey. Which means, according to my personal rainometer(tm), I’d better go and harvest the waterproofs.

* Because I didn’t sign up to any charter and I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. What’s wrong with: ne polite, be sensible, be sensitive to other trail users and get on with it?

** And as part of my new found sensitivity, other vegetables are available. I’ve no problem with the concept of Broccoli taking on some verb action. Just as long as I am not required to eat any of the Devil’s testicles.

You get what you pay for.

On By AlexIn Other stuff5 Comments

A old ‘un but a good ‘un. Only a generation ago would such stalwarts be wheeled out for a group nod, when someone had the temerity to try something different. Further samples from my own childhood include “If you rub it, you’ll just make it worse“*, “Too wrongs don’t make a right“** and “Tha’s not as green as tha cabbage is painted”***

Yet the first one should blaze a trail of truth through a galaxy hosting planets of cheap, bullshit and stupid all of which orbit the sun of greed. I have just about come to terms with head banging impotence at the million suits fucking over everyone else to turn a fast buck. And I’ve become largely uncaring over the corruption of global markets, the insanity of trading on stuff that doesn’t exist, and the decoupling of making big decisions while failing to be troubled by the consequences to everyone but you.

But when an organisation outsources the prime communication for its’ customers to lowest cost bidder and instills a script based ethic for people trying their best in a second language, it still sends me bloody nuts. The link between me paying the bills and them being paid to help me is stretched to the point where I find myself caring nearly as little as they do. Press 1 to be put on hold, press 2 to get charged to hear the website address, press 3 to start the whole pointless process again.

Wait ten fucking minutes to be told “this isn’t our problem. We don’t know whose problem it is, but we’re pretty clear it isn’t ours“. So wearily try again with another faceless company. Same shit, same script, same answer. What kind of fucking madness is it that some fruit in a suit dreamed up a business model where 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} customer churn returns more to shareholders than attempting to retain their custom, by innovative techniques such as answering the phone?

And it is not like we’re trying to order a Space Shuttle here. We just want Broadband to be activated on a telephone line but the slightly non standard configuration isn’t on anyone’s screen, so we may as well up the ante “Look screw the broadband, what do you have in terms of serviceable reusable space vehicles?” / “Sorry sir, I’ll just need to call my supervisor” Brrr. Disconnect.

I think it is right and proper to out these corporate charlatans. BT: 13 wasted minutes on a conversation which intersected only briefly on “broadband” and “goodbye“. Tiscali: You’re a shower of useless shit as well. About the same plus the transfers between 4 different departments each with a new way of cheerfully informing us that they didn’t give a shit.

Remember banks back in the 80s? You were stuck with the useless dog lobbers because switching your account was slightly more complex than building a teleport. And they bloody well knew it – now ISP’s are the new wanker bankers with their “oh but you’ll lose your email address if you cancel“.

Well fuck the lot of you. We’re taking it back. A google cry for help unearthed a little known – but highly recommended**** – ISP with a UK phone number. A nice man answered the phone second ring, made all my problems his and apologised for charging a little more than the competitors. We even registered our own domain name, so it’s a single ball-achy afternoon to change every Internet account but God it’s going to feel good.

This is all our fault of course. Since we constantly commoditise every product and demand the lowest price by removing any differentiation, what the hell did we think might happen? So fuck Tesco, M&S can go swivel, Virgin will never see me again. Maybe all of us are going to be nothing more than the demand side of global capitalism but, from hereon in, I’m voting with my cash and paying it over to someone who actually gives a shit. It might not make a difference to them, but it’ll make a bloody great difference to me.

And when my World Dictatorship get ratified, my first order of the day will be to melt down every call answering system, and send out hunting parties for any delusionist who decided shareholders were more important than customers. The scorpion pit is too bloody good for them.

I’d just like to apologise to my mum. I realise I have used up a years worth of bad language in a single post. And, of course, it is someone else’s fault. There is probably even an 0845 number to call.

* Ignored by legions of pubescent boys across the planet.

** Yeah, but it’s fun trying.

*** Bemused at the time. Still bemused 30 years on.

**** You should see what they say about Tiscali and BT. Try ISPReview. It’s pretty damn cathartic.

5

On By AlexIn Site Stuff2 Comments

In a moment of pandering populism, and because working is preventing me from riding and writing, I’ve gone with a line from each of the barely started nonsense.

I once wrote down a erstwhile thesis on farting. All my work since then has been on the decline. It was the standard for grading based on smell, sound, length and pitch. Included in the many sub groups and derivatives were the ESF, the vegetable, the kamikaze and the trumpet.

* The answer of course is neither. Get meat paste you pretentious knobber.

He looked at me strangely and told me that I should thank my lucky stars there was even a platform. Until 1997, you merely threw themselves at a passing train and – if you were lucky – got hauled in by the other passengers.

Unless performance drinking counts. Opionion is divided I think it does, everyone else disagrees.

Er’s unked and purgy, wuzzy wench.

If you continue to be unkind, I’ll go and sulk behind option 6. Then who’ll be sorry eh? Well me obviously and nobody else would give a monkey’s trunk. I think I have made a very important point there 😉

Trunk Monkey

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

We all bring our own belief systems to the Internet: My future partner is out there / Nobody knows I surf all day for porn / I play Second Life Ironically / People read my blog / etc, etc.

But at the core, we really know 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}+ is really a bit shit. Especially if you didn’t grow up wondering why your dad still reads the newspaper, and how come nobody under the age of 40 ‘gets’ MySpace. And yet occasionally, just occasionally the wibbly coughs up something so damn odd you have to share it.

Call it a pointless Mash-Up. Label it viral marketing. Accept it is American. But you cannot do anything but love the Trunk Monkey.

Or maybe it’s just been a very, very long day.

No idea, frankly.

On By AlexIn Site Stuff11 Comments

During a particularly difficult work conversation many many years ago, my somewhat prissy and process focussed boss spent five minutes articulating pomposity as an art form. Before finishing up with “your biggest problem is you are not a completer/finisher“.

No it wasn’t. I had two bigger problems than whatever the fuck that means. Firstly, I was properly brought up not to face-slap a women however much their smug, sanctimonious bearing twitches the fist of death and, secondly, I needed to pay a new mortgage about 1{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} more than firing out a resignation barrage ending with”Why don’t you just stick your completer-finisher up your fat arse. You’ll be needing to take your head out of it first”.

She also accused me of being – in no particular order – lazy, wasteful of what little talent I had, obstructive, mule headed, difficult, loud and generally insubordinate and lacking in respect. I TREASURE that appraisal, God I’ve so sold out. Anyway this is probably why I find myself with 13 unfinished articles. Two of which I promised for magazines back when paper was the kind of novelty that’d get your head stoved in by angry tablet makers.

But until someone – and I’d suggest a process driven individual with a penchant for detail task management* – turns down the ‘stuff happening’ meter, it’s difficult to see how the odd amusing sentence or two is going to be dragged into the published world**.

So I need your help. It’s about you bloody put something back rather than just participating in this group therapy experiment. So given the choice, which of these would you rather tut over your morning coffee***

1) A whine about what happens when starting running after ten years meets the reason you stopped
2) What to do when your satellite navigation rings. Apart from narrowly avoiding crashing, while spluttering “woooah fucking aliens are right in here with me”
3) Commuting: The view from a hut. Jeez, that’s almost as dull as it sounds
4) Local dialect. The Western Debrett etiquette correct response on being asked if one wishes to “grapple with my ball joint”
5) A random line from each.
6) Nothing. Just STFU. It’s just you and your imaginary friends you know. Blogs are barely one step up from sidling up to random blokes in a pub and telling them what you had for breakfast.

It’s 6 isn’t it? Thanks for letting me down gently 😉

* You’re dull. Get over it.

** Except for those two articles. They’re finished. Just need a final polish. Honestly.

*** Other beverages are available. Tea for Northerners. Something fresh, fruity and blended with hedgehog sperm**** for the southern metrosexuals and vodka for those of us facing a tough day.

**** Quite tricky to extract. Allegedly.