Travelling, Man.

On By AlexIn Other stuff6 Comments

Right first past the post with the pop artist who sang that un-comered title receives… something. No goggling, because I’ll know, and anyway it’s like falsifying your golf scores so you’re only cheating yourself. Although playing Golf* automatically cheats you out of most things anyway, except possibly life membership of the social cripple and comedy jumper societies.

Anyway enough of silly pastimes. And no, not for a minute could Mountain Biking ever be labelled silly. Bikes that cost more than cars, figure hugging lycra barely constraining middle aged spread, riding round in circles, getting muddy, spending the family savings on pointless pimpery and occasionally breaking out into “Dude, I railed that berm, pumped the jump, sent it over the drop and would’ve shredded the switchback except the rebound spiked the rotor arc. Bummer“. Whereas golf, don’t get me started.

New Zealand sits behind nine weeks of winter darkness, the liver damage triggered by in-law angst and New Year resolutions. Now the latter are funny, Icarus like in the face of a blazing sun, born in alcohol, crafted in imagined degrees of separation from the last time and burned in the fiery death of the real world. January brings train journeys long in faces and radically free salad, but short on joy. Roll forward a month and the comforting fug of pasties and Silk Cut once again envelopes the carriage.

Right the point. Don’t get excited, it is hardly worth waiting for but it does have novelty hat content. Because the concept of a package holiday – embedded with schedules, cracked out smiley guides and an atmosphere of Brian “grumpy as fuck” from Wolverhampton – resonates with a happiness frequency similar to the sticks and ball brigade, we’re pitching for a camping experience.

Without the actual camping of course. After a day of the ‘world is the wrong way round’ jetlag, we’ll be taking 14 day possession of this confused truck. Is it a car? A caravan? An integral part of a Blitzkrieg armoured brigade?

Like a stuka. With wheels A truck mates with a caravan.

No this Mercedes is the latest in touristy mobile homage, with an upstairs bedroom to banish the kids, LCD TV, DVD Player and some cooking stuff. And a fridge to keep my beer cold. It’s also the thick end of eighteen feet long which suggests I may need to practice with my car towing the trailer, and Carol’s wagon roped on behind.

So I’ve taken soundings from my friend Martyn who is all things camper van. His sage advice can be distilled into this:

1/ There’s a lot of truck out back. Think about that when turning, reversing and – most importantly – overtaking

2/ Keep an eye on the “dirty water“. The consequences of a high pressure blow back are really too horrible to contemplate.

3/ Procure a Driving Hat. On donning said headgear, a chain reaction of packing outside stuff, expensive electronic goods, and – if time – the children shall be triggered. Anyone not on board in 60 seconds is hitching.

Sounds good to me. And the kids are belted in so far back from the cab, they could easily be in a different country. And while I like the sound (or lack of it) of that, I’m hankering after watching TV while I’m driving.

I mean, really, what could go wrong?

* I refuse to accept that Golf is a verb. My American colleagues insist on twittering on about “I’m off for a weekend golfing”. But – because I ensure that Bad Grammar Hurts – they never make it. Honestly, if we taught English with a copy of the light program and a baseball bat, the world would be a simpler place.

Morning blues

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding5 Comments

Step carefully into the darkness. Grope for a frosty door guarding the entrance to the hard transport option. Shiver and fumble, with cold fingers, for riding gear. Add an extra layer and wheel out into the pre-dawn light. Clip in and fire shotgun audio – bang, bang – into the still of an icy world.

Crank carefully on white roads. Imagine a painful future through squirming tyres. Feel the freezing sizzle of 23c of slick on nature’s glass. Then, carefully risk upping the power needed to heat freezing extremities. Watch a crescent of fiery orange imperceptibly ascend over the low hills. Marvel as the layers of primary colours – reds and blues – push back the night.

Frozen water from autumnal storms forms winter crop circles. Long shadows are cast from bovinely stupid but contextually perfect cattle. Stop, dismount, abandon the bike to spiders busily icing Mandelbrot patterns. Marvel at this planetary show of fire and ice, until freezing hands and leaving trains drive you on.

Snick a couple of gears. Pity those unknowing stuck behind airbags and fiddling with heater controls. Sweep into the station and catch a little slide on untreated tarmac. Ignore the warmth of a stuffy waiting room. Grin at a hundred identical city coats and useless patent gloves.

Feel the morning blues. And reds – freezing fingers and hot blood mirror the colours of the sky. Stand on the platform now, savour the feelings of being warm and worthy. Remember why you ride a bike. Smile.

And as if by magic…

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography3 Comments
Voodoo Wanga, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

… the bike frame appeared. Well not actually appeared as Teleporting is still a young science. But an almost unheralded advantage of silly one geared bikes is how quick they are to build. I accept this doesn’t make up for their many disadvantages, but work with me here.

90 minutes from bare metal to beer medal. This included Helicopter tape that didn’t stick and a three bike brake bodge after some otherwise lovely 2nd hand stoppers were missing in action. Or possibly Acton from where they were sent.

Even a brief ride – in the pitch black that is wintry mid afternoon – revealed a frisky persona mated to a Tigger like springiness. Whereas the Love/Hate felt solid and all a bit GRRRRR, the Voodoo is all skippy and fleet of wheel. It’s light too 🙂 Still after the love/hate, fitting casters to the barn and pushing that would probably qualify for such a description.

Obviously, my level of riding skill transcends geometry, frame material and component choice. But now I can be rubbish in a fetching shade of red.

Downsides? Apart from missing 26 gears? The disc hose flays around the top tube as an angry python, for which a superglue solution awaits. And worryingly, the full complement of brackets, flanges and associated paraphernalia for full gear transformation are all present.

Which means conversion to a proper bicycle is possible come trails above the water table. Let’s not go there eh? Not while I’m still clinging onto this sacrificial testicle.

Wang! A…

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments
Wang! A, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

.. noise heard as the slapping of the prudence ruler connects with the face of the monetary blind. The complexity of a chain of correlated transactions involving frames owned but not bought, a road train of wheels and sufficient brakes to stop the world, cannot be easily explained.

All I am prepared to say – until the lawyer from the Enron trial comes on shift – is that this financially neutral covenant dovetails perfectly with a bicycle purchasing policy that is far too clever for mere mortals to understand.

Including me. Although my head is still spinning from removing the three ride new* singlespeed freewheel from its threaded prison. Great design in that it affixes itself ever more firmly to the wheel every time your turn the pedal. Making it an absolutely bugger to remove – honestly it’d be quicker to wait the few millennia for the surrounding components to rust away.

I’ve never seen the vice flex before, as I hauled on the wheel in the manner of a hairpin facing bus driver before the advent of power steering. And when the workbench began to twitch, so did I with the world rapidly slipping from focus.

First rule of committed physical tasks – remember to breathe. Second rule, consider the effect of potential energy as – with a satisfying ‘paaatang‘ – the sprocket is freed with a final violent wrench. I found myself turning perfect circles in an increasing ripple of perambulation.

My ‘Dancing with the Wheels’ foxtrot came to a painful end as the radius of my spin intersected with a spikey workstand. Didn’t stop me performing a little encore running around the barn – freewheel held aloft – chanting “got you, you little bastard, who’s the daddy now?”

I am now faced with a choice. Stalk Ernie the Postie on Friday and rush the build knowing I’ll probably need to remove/sell/rehome about half the components or wait and do the job properly. Oh yeah, fridge some beers and set the grinder to stun, we’re going in.

In almost related news, we’re having a frank and open discussion around sizes of things. Carol wants me to have a smaller one that’s easier for her to manoeuvre, while I’m keen on something both longer, wider and with a bit more grunt.

Once I accept that Camper Vans for driving around New Zealand are not scaled up mountain bikes, I’m sure we’ll come round to her way of thinking.

* It’s important to distinguish between “old and worn out” and “new and knackered” because the former adheres to some quality standards whereas the latter satisfies the modern law of cheap, shit, useless; pick 3.

Hold the front page

On By AlexIn Bikes6 Comments

See that post down there? It out of date by exactly one bike. This absolutely is not my fault although any help you can offer to counter the argument “When we booked to go to NZ, you promised not to buy any more bikes” would be appreciated. Right now I’m going with “I forgot” but it’s a bit thin.

I am clearly a proper cod in need of battering. But – in my defense – I was about pay the fella who generously lent me Verty Heft some months ago. But, in a never to be repeated planetary alignment, the tractor beam that is Sideways Cycles pulled in my feebly resisting wallet with an offer that no sane man could refuse.

No sane man who doesn’t value his testicles anyway.

So when the option is between saving a few quid, making good on a deal with a mate and working a bit harder on the hills, against spunking/wasting/profligately hosing investing a small sum on a super light and frisky frame, predictably I capitulated.

I’m sure it’ll be fine though. I’ve asked Tim to package in the shape of an interesting Christmas present for Carol, bribed posty to sneak it round the back and popped round the local sports shop for a cricket box.

It’s going to be fine. Isn’t it? 😉

In leiu of any proper writing..

On By AlexIn Site StuffLeave a comment

… updates have been made to the “Reader’s Choice” and “How Many Bikes“ pages. The former lowers the bar for grammar and punctuation, while the latter represents the revolving door bike rental policy.

The barn is actually looking partially burgled. With the Unicog of Wintry Hell banished to the leaky shed and the Trailstar on long term loan to a friend who may actually ride it properly, there is plenty of space for…. something else.

Although I feel a conversation which starts “I’ve been thinking about my Christmas presents….” may end with a man suffering a near fatal rolling pin based injury. An out-pouring of Christmas spirit may follow, but only if the liquid in question was TCP.

Anyway I’ve asked Coca-Claus to deliver – with the traditional Yuletide hangover – a set of God Like riding skills and some tablets to inhibit my shiny buy compunction gland.

I’m expecting only the hangover.

Measurement

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment
Moto Parker, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

The earth may have turned seven times but not much has changed. Another idiotic charge into waterworld, another joust with tractionless roots, hub deep mud and all-body immersing puddles. Still stupid, still fantastic but it got me thinking about how we slice time.

Before global warming, we had 1976. No rain for approximately ever, creepy spires steepling skywards through a glassy Ladybower reservoir, baked earth, parched vegetation and – if you are 9 years old – just bloody fantastic. That summer never seemed to end; oh you sort of knew that at some far future point, a return to school awaited. But you didn’t care because every day was a voyage of discovery, finding stuff, making stuff, learning stuff, bonding friendships. And it felt like it would go on for ever.

That’s not how life works now. I measure stress levels by the weight of the bottle recycling and general job busyness by the increasingly frenzied scrawl, which is beginning to resemble an inky spider performing an operatic death scene.

It’s a far cry from living for the moment, greeting each day as an adventure that has yet to start, and dreaming of how tomorrow might be even better. Age may allegedly bring many things but long term memory is not one of them. Years coalesce into non sequential events, time compresses everything that is important into flickery thumbnails.

Here’s an example – what happened to the summer pf 2007? Except that we never had one. Good Metrological answer but it is not the one I was looking for. I accept the climate of this low lying windswept island is basically different temperatures of rain but that’s not the point.

So what is? Maybe nothing more than an realisation that there is nothing penultimate about this life. And this must be the hazy rationale to why saying Yes is suddenly very important. Yes to riding in all weathers, yes to reading with your kids, yes to finding time to have a beer with your mates, yes to stuff that is contextually stupid but life affirmingly brilliant.

And No too. 10 days without beer made the nights slow like summers of old but lordy how keen was I do say Yes to everything else. Although I accept I may have misinterpreted the amorous signals of next doors dog. I’m coming to a reluctant conclusion that alcohol – lovely as it is – is not a substitute for real life. A bit like computers, blogs and pointless internet surfing really.

It’s funny really – many people try and alter their personal history so they are venerated when they die. That bothers me not at all; all I want is to do everything today and then the same tomorrow and the day after that. I’m absolutely fine with mediocrity but it has to be mediocrity with style.

Look I’m over 40. This gives me rights to naval gaze occasionally 😉

Yes, Yes I know…

On By AlexIn Pretentious nonsense, Site StuffLeave a comment

… I promised to swear my through an accident which bothered me less for what happened to me, but way, way more on the way it was met by a total lack of humanity from those who put the ignore into ignorance. But I’m waiting to see if it may still have a slightly happy ending. Which’ll please my mum who – because all mothers support their kids even when they have forgotten why – reads the blog and finds the swearing a bit offensive.

It would please me too as the incident messed with my version of reality, to an extent that I wonder if I’ll ever properly understand it. And you can judge if this is merely pretentious overreaction when I finally get round to writing it up.

As for the many other articles airily promised, but never delivered, over the last two years, the 22 dusty items in my drafts folder should give you some idea of the chances they have of every electronically coming to life. Snowball and Hell come to mind. I like to think of it as harsh editorial standards but really I just can’t be arsed to finish them.

And there’s something else. In January, the Hedgehog will be limping into a frankly unbelievable third year. In that time there have been tears, occasional laughter and a string of rubbish photographs. And while my ability to carry on writing it is almost as infinite as your patience for reading it, there are things afoot. Or possibly apaw.

But I’m fairly certain – for a given value of certain – that we may have to pickle the old fella for a while. And it’s odd that I care because long ago, I convinced myself stuffing the ‘hog was written for the enjoyment of trying to be clever, rather than any reflected ego in all of you reading it.

Might have been kidding myself then. Anyway – even by my loquacious standards – I have rambled enough tonight. Fear not, I’ll provide a plethora of links to funny people who will amuse you for far longer than I can. And while you’re doing that, I’ll burrow on with the secret project to see if it can ever crawl out of the burrow.

And no, it’s not a collection of mixed metaphors. But thanks for asking.

EDIT: The reason this post was pulled a couple of times – for those utilising the magic of the RSS feed – was because I was concerned it was self referential BS. In face, I’m still pretty sure it is, but if we’re mixing those metaphors on the great decks of pretension, it seemed important to draw an electronic line in the sand. Or something. Right, glad that’s cleared it up 😉

Somedays I hate my Inbox

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography2 Comments
Queen Charlotte Ride, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

As head slopper-outer of the dark and fetid corners of other peoples’ inbox’s, I feel I am suffering enough. But what – you may well ask – is my reward for this tireless mopping up such a litany of disasters? A thankful pat on the shoulder, perhaps? A kind word to still my weary angst?

Not a bit of it, that picture is what. Time differences with our antipodean cousins ensure that this image is projected up front and personal in my to do list. It was captured and digitally flung across the electronic oceans by my friend Doug. The fact he was just off the ferry on the South Island and heading into 100k of New Zealand’s best singletrack didn’t exactly make me feel better.

On the upside, in ten weeks we’ll be enjoying a similar view with – oh please let it be so – similar summer weather. On the downside, the world outside our door appears to have exploded. My commute is now jauntinally nautical with storm force gusts and horizontal rain.

I no longer corner, I tack. Tomorrow I may have a go at jibbing although I’m not absolutely sure what is involved in that procedure. Sounds vaguely sexual “Yes indeedy, I gave the wife a damn good jibbing last night“.

Right I’m off to baton down the hatches and splice the mainbrace. But in a contemporary twist, I shall be using powertools.

I feel the need, the need..*

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

… for cheese* and other medicinal foodstuffs purloined from the vomity bucket of hangover cures. Before the onset of slow death that is hitting forty, all manner of voodoo and superstition acted as a crutch to prop up a crippling hangover. The experience, that comes with a holistic approach to liver failure, has subsequently proved that the the efficacy of the emperors’ new clothes pales when compared to the sure fire approach of not drinking the night before.

Sadly this option wasn’t available to me. Firstly I was suffering from the kind of bottomless depression that only the phrase”for the next two days I’ll be in Reading” can engender. Secondly our hotel greeted each guest with “Welcome to the Renaissance Reading, where the local time is 1973“. Rarely has the price of something so completely failed to reflect its’ value. And I’m including boutique bike accessories, strippers and council tax in that list.

The whole Life On Mars experience extended from the tired frontage, unlit reception, wheezy lifts and a room last decorated during the Silver Jubilee. The wallpaper was peeling flock, the bed an unpleasant blend of threadbare sheets and groaning springs. And don’t get me started on the bathroom where a nascent civilisation – homed in mildewed grout – was about ready to explore the world.

Apparently there was an executive floor but a brief inspection of a friend’s room showed little for the cream of business to be cheered over other than slightly less flocked wallpaper**. What awaited in the ‘Presidential Suite” can only be vaguely imagined – but even the Malawi Head Of State would surely have taken one horrified look before swiftly booking his entourage into the Holiday Inn opposite.

It may be unsurprising to hear that events from this point perfectly plotted the spiraling narrative of “Right who’s up for a whiskey chaser to get us started” through “A club? After forty seven bottles of wine? Spirited idea” and plummeting further downwards via “Yep, another double vodka red bull for me” and “What do you mean we can’t get another drink? It’s barely 2am?”

Forty is not a good age to start experimenting with youthful alcopops. Especially ones stuffed full of caffeine and industrial strength alcohol. You’ll laugh at this – oh I know I did – my rationale for drinking deep from the bonkers mixers chalice was because starting on lager might give me a hangover. What kind of crazed nutter first mixed Red Bull with Vodka anyway? Had they tried Crystal Meth fused with laudanum and felt it was missing a bit of a kick?

So drunken and spiked with sufficient caffeine to stimulate a person long dead, the remainder of the night passed in drunken channel roaming and occasional groans. The upside was I forgot to be miserable about staying in Reading’s equivalent to Alcatraz – however this was of little measure when the grizzly combination of an absolutely bastard hangover and two hours sleep played out during the following day.

The final irony in all this, is my consumption of hop and grape has taken a steep nose dive lately. I seemed to have collapsed a month’s drinking into about three evenings of serial debauchery. Maybe it’s time to reinstate lager for breakfast.

* From “Top Bun” which, when dealing with a hangover sharp enough to shave with, is best filled with greasy bacon and lashings of brown sauce.

** I have been waiting to do that joke for ages. C’mon it was worth the wait.