Jet Sage…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff5 Comments

From nutter blog

… visionary or nutter? Here is yet another evolutionary branch of the genus bicycle, apparently designed for the sole purpose of inhuming the rider in all manner of interesting ways. Once the jet engine is fired up, speeds of 75MPH can be attained even if a steering axis cannot. This instrument of wheeled death could travel for literally yards before impacting something hard, spikey or both.

Failing that it could just explode and it’d be all flesh coloured tarmac and identification by dental records. Check out the video on this link and marvel at the commercial nous of a man that not only builds these but schleps them out on fleabay.

Every time the world seems to finally make some kind of sense, a kind soul fills my inbox with the truth that it really doesn’t.

Don’t Know Service

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff1 Comment

… and you’re back in the room. The sleepy hedgehog slumbered in his burrow while changes in the mighty signage of the Internet forgot where he was. Luckily my customer driven, pro-active, automatic fault diagnostic system kicked in when a reader complained of having to get some work done.

The terrifying complexity of the Domain Name Service, which left old hedgy in cyberspace limbo, seems to have unknotted to the point of a fairly reliable connection. Which gives me license to ramble in my generally unreliable fashion.

Yesterday was another first in an increasing number of lasts. A final evening ride in Chilterns full of woody singletrack, dappled light, cheeky trails and a last descent shrouded in darkness. It was a perfect way to sign off from five years wheeling about in this protected pocket of mostly unspoilt beauty.

It was also a lesson in what it really means to be race fit. Not me – I was off the back searching for a coughed up lung – but my three riding buddies. Lordy, one second it’d be all easy pedalling and pleasant conversation before trail voltage would short circuit these aliens into electric fury. And 2/3rds of that continguent were gapping my arse-hanging-out person with only a single gear.

And – once it was done and beer was drunk – it was odd saying goodbye. Typical blokes of course, no eye contact, a promise to meet up at the next big event, talk of getting together at the epicentre of cabbages, all that stuff. And same again this weekend, the rest of my riding friends are congregating on the North Downs to make sure I leave the county. The way this is all ending, I may have to write a speech.

This is my final commute into London from Buckinghamshire. It’s a beautiful morning and not one I really wanted to see from the inside of a car. Of course, our last Chiltern weekend shall be spent mowing lawns between rain showers and trying to remember it’s stuff in the boxes, children on the outside.

I confidently expect more dead air over the next two weeks, after a number of painful conversations around tempoary broadband and 3G coverage. “3G? We once has the Bootleg Bee-Gees play in Hereford, that any use to you?”

What have I let myself in for?

The word of the day is..

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

… … lassitude

The word I think I wanted was latitude but then this popped into my head and my internal dictionary offered up “Cross between a dog and a grid reference“. But no, the oracle of lexicon that is the Internet offered up:

“noun
1. weariness of body or mind from strain, oppressive climate, etc.; lack of energy; listlessness; languor.
2. a condition of indolent indifference: the pleasant lassitude of the warm summer afternoon.

That is a perfect description of how I’m feeling.

So from now on, I am going to live my life within the dictionary parameters of lassitude.

English. Marvelous language. Think that calls for a drink.

Maintenance maketh the man…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff4 Comments

…maketh the man bloody annoyed. But with the barn soon to be tearfully handed over to its’ new owner and the tool wall facing temporary evacuation* to ungrabbale storage, niggly faults must be exacerbated** by pointless maintenance.

It didn’t start that way. Only replacing a handlebar, reshaped by acting as the pole during the bike’s champion winning vault high into the bushes, and stem lurked between ‘Spanners‘ Al and nice cup of early evening tea***. Imagine my surprise then when, some four painful hours later, significant component driftwood splashed against a tiny shore of virgin workshop floor.

The detritus of an enthusiastic, if misguided, 4 bike romp of random tool use included four discs, two cranksets, three brakes and a worrying number of small parts that are likely to be key for the safe operation of a device that can slam into rocks quite quickly. So as the cranks detach during such a scenario and the wheels explode in a direct huff to my ineptitude, I shall be thinking “Ah HAH, the purpose of the 3mm grang-o-gromet is now clear to me“. Before crashing into the ground resets the priority of my pontificating gland.

I have mathematically modelled bike maintenance with the number-of-cycles squared equation. Two bikes takes twice as much time, three bikes, at least twice as much AGAIN. The SX has had so little lovin’ for example, the rear mech offered a choice of two gears separated by 9 desperate thumb shifts and 31 rusty spokes. And a bent one, which is so far beyond my ability to fix, I’ve ironed it.

A real solution is to outsource the entire spannering process to a man with a proper job and a confident tooly glint in his eye. Failing that – as it costs money I’d rather spend fixing my mistakes – I could dramatically improve my fettling skills. Since that’s pretty unlikely as well, the current limit of my ambition is for two of the “fixed” bikes to magically sync up their dodgy shifting, and the remaining long ‘to do’ list to JUST GET DONE.

A lack of wizardry leaves me with no option other than to phone a friend. Because, as of this morning, let me tell you how I’m feeling. Properly spannered.

* I chose that verb with care. The idea of removing my tools to a place of safety will surely prevent my increasing violent wielding on innocent bicycles. This could all go to shit tho as I’m taking my biggest hammer with me.

** Similar to masturbated. Much wiggling of hands and cleaning up of unpleasant fluids. Scraped knuckles optional.

*** Or beer as it is sometimes known after 6pm.

Oops

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Clic-24, Photography2 Comments

Oops, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

The riderless plunge through a garden of hard edged rocks took its toll on both rider and bike. Although how the hell I managed to dent it there is a complete mystery!

Tim “Mr Fork” Flooks assures me that fork crowns are cast and so as butch as a lesbian Marine.

Sadly bars, grips and other assorted items were transformed from purposeful, working components to skip food during the transition between wheels right side up and wheels merely acting as attractors for more gravity.

I have to stop crashing. It’s getting expensive. The upside is the customisation of the bikes makes them essentially unsaleable. Which probably leaves me with no option but to ride them.

They think it’s all over…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding6 Comments

… it is now.

Yesterday was my last ever London commute. 8200 miles, 421 round trips, 3 winters, 2 crashes and a daily joust with the murderous multitude. It was anticlimactic in the extreme with no fanfares or street parades marking my final passing of burned in landmarks. No final resurfacing of the pothole slalom which tests my early morning reflexes. No genuflection from those who I have bested in endless commuter races, nor gloating from those who have bested me.

No more shall I sequence lights in a three dimensional navigational puzzle, no longer shall the green of the Capital’s parks bring respite from tons of angry metal. No longer shall my ire be raised by unanswered pleas for airstrikes to disperse random roller-bladers. Not for me the obsessional forecast checking, the weary glance at a watch which must zoom round twice more before I am home, or the logistical ball ache of switching between urban MTB warrior and sad corporate clone.

And yet there is already a melancholy, a misplaced nostalgia if you will; sharp memories of soft summer smells, the warmth of the spring sun, the glory of a fitness properly earned, the joy of leaving fifty grand cars – with their brochure 150mph top speeds – in your£100 rat-bike wake. And even the grimness of seemingly endless winters could delight in crisp sunrises slash painted by azure blue, grinning through the rain, and just the simple bloody pleasure of not being completely ordinary.

It’s not enough. The first year was great, although cycling every day through the winter feels like it happened to someone else. My motivation to ride through the wind, rain and mobile death has diminished past the point of pragmatic excuses. Riding a bike – any bike – still defines what I really want to be doing right now, but the faffing, the background hum of traffic cockage, the grooved in rote of doing it again and again is no longer enough to make me do it.

This morning’s bikeless journey was strange. My bag was too light, my mind frazzled by a constant search for commuting collateral, my body showered and unexercised. My shoes don’t cleat click on the station cobbles and my helmetless head feels unbalanced. As I risk a guiltily glance at my shackled bike, I swear it glowers back at my disloyalty.

It doesn’t feel good or bad, it just feels weird. A phantom Al clips in and heads out, as I force a right turn into the peopled sewers of the Underground. Something feels lost and I think that might be me.

But this is not quite the end. The brutal termination of a two wheels to work strategy shall be stayed for at least the summer. I’m childishly excited by the prospect of a hard packed, off-road jaunt to Ledbury station. But no more riding in the big city, no chance of commuting through the winter, no danger of the big accident I know was coming.

But I can’t stop. Not yet. It’s like a Class ‘A’ drug and while I know I can give it up anytime, but not like this. I must wean myself off it slowly, let it be chipped away, sliced by a thousand excuses, a slow death barely noticed.

But when I do, what the hell am I going to write about?

Clic24: 24 Hours of Rambling.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments

Random bloke on the course. Dawn Lap, Flickr Image

Chronological retelling of something not very exciting rarely makes interesting reading. But – in line with my aims of ever lowering the bar – that’s the way the Clic24 is being Hedgehog’d.

If you can’t be arsed to scroll down, here is the adjectival summary: late, rain, beer, tent, snore, hot, arse, stop, start, crash, bleed, beer, hurt, beer, stupidity, sleep, stiff, apathy, quit.

Long, rambling, amusing. Pick two.

Continue reading “Clic24: 24 Hours of Rambling.” →

I am 98{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} man…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography7 Comments

Flickr image

… and 2{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} Mendip. There is an intense moment of silence which follows the bangs and crashes of a big stack, and into that noise void dropped the thought that I’d completely screwed up less than a mile into my first lap. My plan had been simple; easy spin up the first climb, get a decent sighter of the downhills, and don’t race anyone – especially those with constipated expressions and lean bodies.*

Like all hastily conceived plans, it overlooked a integral component of a successful execution. And that component was my mechanical prowess when performing the complex task of correctly inflating the front tyre. This new boot took one look at gravity driven singletrack and decided to take its’ rubbery business elsewhere. Specifically a swift ‘see ya’ to the rim before flailing around the fork in a mildly comedic manner.

For anyone watching, anyway. I was struggling to find any time to see the funny side as the next few seconds were packed full of incident. If your car tyre ever punctures at high speed, the deceleration process is both rapid and uncontrolled. Now try that crossing rocky ground with half the number of wheels and at one tenth of the width. And that wheel is handling both steering and braking.

Except, of course, it isn’t doing anything of the sort. The front wheel immediately tucked under pitching me headlong over the bars, into a landing zone of spiky rocks and tough looking trees. This was the full crash experience – Surprise, terror, impact, pain, bounce, impale, roll and more pain. Then the silence. Then the ‘what the fuck happened there?’. Then the full systems check as body parts checked in with various degrees of damage. Finally time for a decent groan, after a cautious move to semi prone breaches the adrenaline/pain barrier.

Important to focus on the positive. My smashed up knee from 2006 took a blow right to the centre of the original damage and it’s articulating pretty well. My dislocated shoulder from last year suffered an identical impact as I’d instinctively thrown out a hand and – aside from some desultory bleeding – that’s fine as well. The bike – when I find it over the other side of the track – has some interesting new gouges but appears functionally undamaged. Lots of riders stopped to see if I was still alive, while commenting “woooah, that was a big one”. Which was nice.

The rest of the lap was not nice. I inaugurated myself into the “order of the purple hand” as the lefty changed colour, swelled up and bloody hurt. Refreshingly, all the injuries appeared to be on pedalling centres – ankles, knee and a banana sized rash on my hip. So to summarise; 1 mile completed, can’t use my left hand to brake or change gear, can barely hold the bar and my head feels a bit like it’s been slammed into hard rocks at 15MPH.

Time to MTFU** and get on with it. Which I did although not before two more punctures reduced me to a puncture repair kit and a bloody annoyed expression. The first set of marshalls clapping eyes on my less than pristine person offered me a ride in the broom wagon, but that didn’t seem the right thing to do. And it was with that attitude, I completed that lap and a few more afterwards.

But it was fantastic. Not the crashing but the great cause, the organisation, the course and the other riders out on it. The St. John’s ambulance guys did a fab job of patching me up again, even tho I had to show another grown man my willy as he tutted his way round a couple of deep scabs. I’ll write some more later – about the event not my new found interest in getting my knob out.

I’ve documented my hatred of event racing many times before. And that hasn’t left me, but this event is something I really want to do again. If only to make it past the first descent without barrel rolling down the track. Because then it would make it even better 🙂

Today, a goodly portion of my left side is purple. This is officially the summer colour of 2008, and I’m well ahead of the game what with the Voodoo already being that shade***

* It’s really not meant to be a race. A few people didn’t get that at first, but I’d like to think my pithy comments may have helped to shape their opinion. If you can’t beat ’em, insult the buggers as they fly past.

** Man The Fuck Up.

** It is not pink. A few people also made that mistake during the weekend for which they received a sharp glance and a sharper bit of glass in their tyres.

Clic for more

On By AlexIn Clic-245 Comments

More laps, more food, more beer, more stories, more pain, more is it over yet?

I’d like to say we’re ready. Which isn’t a total whopper if you suffix it with “as we’ll ever be“. Nigel has unearthed some terrifying mobile fire going by the name of “Chernobyl“. It’s a fiesty old stove neatly circumventing any safety regulations on the exceptional grounds it is a recognised antique. It runs on a cheeky combination of paraffin and eyebrow hair – at least they were the flammable ingredients that set fire to Nigel’s house during pre-event testing.

Jason is bringing a rebuilt bike accompanied by bowels of pasta and an assortment of beverages. I will be packing the car with everything I own including spare tyres, an extensive toolkit for other people to expertly spanner with and a crate of beer. Dave will rock up with his Shoreditch combover and a mobile phone glued to his ear. I haven’t had the heart to explain that the nearest thing to digital communications in the Mendips is the postal goat.

I have unearthed the tent of extreme frustration and will spend many hours trying to build it before giving up and sleeping in the car. I’m also planning to take two bikes. That’ll be one for each lap then 😉

Right, well much to do before packing, panicing, re-packing, getting Carol to help and then sitting on the M4 while pre-ride drinking time ticks away. I’m taking the camera so prepare for Flickr overload come next week.

Oh and a belated thank you very much for all your generous donations.