I want my life back

This is my unofficial measurement of unpleasantness when bicycles meet rain, dark, wind, cold and mechanical catastrophe. So a 1 would represent a light sprinkle of mid-summer rain cascading over an un-jacketed rider, thereby souring an otherwise delightful experience of tanning and pedalling. Whereas a 10 would be the archetypal “dark and stormy night” attempting to fix a puncture with no tubes, a busted pump and bloodied thumbs while being frequently deluged by passing HGVs.

This morning was a strong six. Dark. Check. Early. Check. Wet. Check. Mechanical. Oh yes. After 30 minutes of sustained fettling, the screeching mudguard of doom now emits a piercing howl rather than a dull scratch. Ratcheting up the GOM score was some unrelenting rain triggered, as I moved the bike from indoors to outdoors, from an apparently clear sky.

A little music tends to ease the passage from night to day, but my MP3 player lay abandoned where I’d placed it charging the night before in a location impossible to miss at 6am. That’s an area of my commute that needs some work, as does about half of the road surface which is either pot-holed, subsiding or entirely missing.  The only joy of mid winter riding stems from darkness hiding an ever more pretzled wheel set.

So whereas last weekend I strode the quantocks as a cycling collusus* stomping up climbs and gloating over early season form, this week has been payback. Firstly a Malverns night ride shortened first by apathy and secondly by sleet. My legs were fine, but  the shop steward of the brain demanded a one-out-all-out withdrawal of labour.

We still poked a big pointy hole on the upside of 2,000 feet of vertical climbing, but sticky trails, too much great riding lately and a shared sense of can’t-be-arsed saw us lowside it home to avoid all the really hurty bits.

And we weren’t alone. At least not quite. Two weeks ago, I was lamenting the burgeoning flange of riders on my hills. But Tuesday saw just us and another pair who were talking a hell of a game in terms of a peak bagging epic** trudging through the plasticine trails, and sliding about in a generally not-very-good-at-cycling manner.

The signs of post Christmas apathy are all around. The fug of a microwaved pasty has already replaced the smell of fresh lettuce in our office. On the train – come summer – we struggle to position six bikes in a space for barely three. But this week there’s been just the one, with the rider receiving pitying looks from fellow passengers.

I know what they were thinking “Nice bike, shame he had to sell his car to buy it, because well you wouldn’t got out in THAT by choice. Or maybe he’s a nutter“.  February is always a bastard month, not quite close enough to spring for light and warmth to permeate the times when I ride, nor far enough into the season to motivate yourself that this is training for summer events.

No month 2 is a slog. And there aren’t many of us still doing it. But great riding gear, fast road bikes and a level of bloody mindedness not to let this unheralded fitness slip shall keep me going. Although I expect the Grim-O-Meter to take a beating for the next few weeks.

* Other people who were actually there may have a different – and less glowing – opinion.

** But based on the physical evidence of them blowing it out of their arse on a flat section, I’m thinking they were fibbing. A lot.

Well only if  the much heralded  “Be extremely Charitable to Verbs Day” had finally dawned.  We’ve a long and proud history on the Hedgehog of documenting* that the British Service Industry is as much an oxymoron as “A night of song and entertainment with Les Dennis“.

The Car Park/Large Note Depository abutting our offices installed a shiny line of mutli-currency payment machines where one can part with a weeks’ wages for the pleasure of parking your car for an hour, and descending stairwells smelling of old tramps and fresh piss.  The only obvious wet-wear** in this electronic package is a lonely soul hutted out of harms way and surrounded by a million monitors, which he cheerfully ignores as your homeward transport is being car jacked.

Except not tonight. A snaking, shivering and vibrationally angry queue trod a menacing line to his armoured window. The reason soon became clear – a total systems crash had left the normally chirpy machines dark and silent.  Occasionally one flickered fireflying desperate commuters to its’ blinking screen only to accept their ticket but reject their payment. These poor deluded types then attempted to rejoin the now epic queue from whence they’d left.  Ranks were closed and cold shoulders turned to indicate the only place for such technology believers was right at the back.

The much chastised attendant was having to ring through every credit card transaction as the cashless economy foundered on the rocks of the minimum wage.  From my place mid-queue I idly calculated that five minutes per ticket processed had me standing in an every more grumpy crowd for about 45 minutes.  At which point it went properly dark and started snowing. Briefly a rumour circulated that if you had the right change, a combination of two machines and some Fibonacci key sequence may stamp your exit card, but most of us were far too savvy to fall for that queue jumping trick.***

At this point, a second attendant began to police the rank informing us all the ticket machines weren’t working, and – more importantly – how this wasn’t his fault. Bored, I engaged the fella in conversation:

“So tell me, how can all the machines fail at the same time” / “Dunno Mate”

“Isn’t there some kind of backup, fail safe, that kind of thing” / “Dunno Mate”

“Do you know when it might be fixed”  / “Dunno Mate”

“Have you asked?” / [receive look of intense trade unionism] “I only work here Mate”

Time passed. Skies turned to black. Feet turned to ice. Brummies turn to near violence. My turn at the booth ended with a brief round of applause, as I was holding real currency and thereby short-cutting the approval process by five minutes. Even exhibiting the first signs of hypothermia I retained sufficient mental collateral not to ask for a receipt. Because I have other things to do this year.

My exit from the centre of this EMP strike was briefly halted by a third “parking operative” stopping me splintering the barrier movie style, by inserting his rather over-fed girth between me and the slot where tickets open Hell’s Portal to the Hagley Road.

“What’s up” I asked innocently “Got to check your ticket”

“But the exit machine is working now isn’t it?” / “Yes”

“So why are you having to check my ticket? That’s stupid” / “Dunno”

“Did you ask?” / “Just doing my…..”

Let me stop you there I thought. Here’s some advice tho, if you’re ever lucky enough to exit via the second exit from the Broad Street car park in Birmingham and you notice a rather lumpy sleeping policeman, you ain’t see me right?

It is become increasingly clear to me, I am the only sane man amongst a bunch of lunatics. It’s like The Matrix with no red pill.

* Or if today was instead “stop poncing about with fancy words” we’d probably have to admit to Moaning.

** I’ve been hanging out with programmers for far too long “Yeah sorry chief, got to net myself some realtime in the blueroom to interface wth the wetwear” which roughly translates as “I’m off outside for a smoke and a bag of chips”

*** In the olden days, we would have RELISHED this. People would have joined the queue merely in the spirit of enquiry. World’s gone to shit, I blame the Internet.

… I wrote a letter. Yes that’ll show ‘em. ‘em being eON the purveyor of not enough electricity and excuses. We survived last winter on convection heaters and wearing eight layers of clothing.  All the time soothed by various identikit representatives from eON that, as the fiasco was entirely their fault and they’d cocked up fixing it not once, not twice but THREE times, they would pay for the eye watering costs of running five 3kw carbon unfriendly heaters.

A year on, and nothing has happened. Well I say nothing, from our end we’ve been polite, considerate and diffident asking for the occasional update on when we might be repaid. The latest email from the jobsworth from engineering this morning denied all knowledge of any agreement, and wondered if he could fob us off with a different department. Attractive as that solution was, instead I went for the nuclear option creating this email and copying it to the head of public relations and the managing director.

I don’t expect they’ll ever pay, but hey I feel better.

”

Dear smartypants,

Your recent email is nothing more than another wasted effort to resolve this problem. eON have shown a total lack of ownership, clarity and urgency to resolve a problem ENTIRELY of their own making. eON further have clear and documented liability in failing to provide us with sufficient power to run our heating system.

The convection heaters were a tactical solution to keep our young family warm during the winter. As parents,  the health and well  being of our children is of course our primary concern. Whereas eON’s primary concern should be the rather more simple supply of electricity. It really shouldn’t be that difficult, nor should it have dragged on FOR ANOTHER YEAR in which eON have failed to deliver on their promises, comedically failed to sort out our account and attempted to wheedle out of their responsibilities. All this time we’ve been paying for electricity eON had promised to reimburse is for.

You clearly are not interested in us as a customer. You have many others, and I am sure we are nothing more than a difficult issue that you don’t want to deal with. From our perspective however, we are powerless in our attempts to seek closure to a very upsetting and financially crippling set of circumstances that ARE ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT. We are staggered that you offer nothing but lame excuses, and even those have to be dragged out after weeks of silence. Did anyone ever make clear to eON that their customers are kind of an important tenet of their business model?

So here’s some news. We’re not going away. We’re not going to be fobbed off, beaten down by your apathy and excuses, re-directed to someone else who will waste our time. We’ve made our case patiently and politely and you’ve responded cravenly and inconsistently. It is pointless to try and convince you of the justness of our case, although any outside review body would clearly see it as absolutely watertight. Therefore three options present:

1) Pay us the money you promised. Within thirty days.

2) Provide us with someone in your organisation who has authority to resolve this. That person clearly isn’t you. Failing that, we’ll start with the MD.

3) Do nothing (I’m guessing from the history of this fiasco this will be your default position) in which case we’ll opt for OfGen and the local press who I’m sure will be delighted to cover a human interest story where – as usual – faceless corporations ride roughshod over poor consumers.

You may take from the e-mail that we are angry and frustrated. And you may feel insulted by the tone. Please understand we really didn’t want to go for the Nuclear option, but you’ve left us with no option. eON have – for over a year – failed on their obligations to serve us as a customer. And the only people suffering in this time are us. So we have every right to be irritated with both you and your firm.

Please advise us of your response.

”

Do I sound angry? I hope so, I certainly felt fairly vexed while I was writing it.

That’s what I’d like to do with that light.  And then uncork a bit every time there is misery or unpleasantness. Because it would remind me of just what a brilliant weekend we had in the Quantocks.

Far too tired to write about it now, but it followed the well ridden path of navigational folly, not very motivational encouragement, ocean-emptying fish and chip portions, beer – natch – and some fantastic winter riding with a top crew of riding buddies.

I don’t know many things really, but I do know this. I don’t want to go to work tomorrow – I want to go out and ride my bike instead.

.. wouldn’t it be great if it were true.

”

If you’ve ever worked for a boss that reacts before getting the facts and thinking things through, you will love this story…..

From across the room came a voice, ‘Pizza delivery guy from Domino’s.’

”

That’s it from me for a couple of days. Very early tomorrow morning, I hope to be sober enough to drive the 100 miles south to open up a couple of riding days in the lovely Quantock Hills. Not been there for a couple of years, and in those years my exposure to steep, pointy hills has increased 100%. I still expect piss poor performance though, because my mate Jas turns up here later and he’s cracked the knack of getting me drunk* on almost every occasion we get together.

When I explained that we had a hard start at 0-fuckme700 hours, and old greybeard here needed some proper undrunken sleep, so let’s make it a quiet one eh, his response didn’t convince me I’d secured his agreement.

He was still laughing when I put the phone down.

* By simply asking “Another beer Al, you’ve only had 11″

The price I paid for losing my mobile earlier was to learn that even our little part of the world is sadly full of cocks.  The phone and I parted company on British Camp, the most easily accessed and therefore busiest on the Malverns. It should not surprise regular readers that I’d abandoned it, what with my personal belonging regularly being scattered far and wide over a number of continents. Phones, Wallets, Sunglasses and – I kid you not – on one occasion my car tend to go AWOL,  although mostly returned through the kindness of strangers.

Losing the work phone SIM is a bugger because until you’ve smothered yourself with Nutella and been prostrated naked in front of  the Vodafone helpdesk, they refuse to even accept you have ever owned one of their products, never mind losing one. I say SIM because it was encased in my old “weekend” mobile which I’d thoughtfully left on silent. Furthermore it’s furnished with only a few names of chosen drinking buddies and my wife via her nickname*.

So the poor sod who found it was faced with a dialling dilemma: “Trousers Jenkins” or “BogDoor Bob” being a couple of the more sensible entries, and this to a man who does not have English as his first language**. Eventually my Mum received an 8PM phone call from a nice fella recently of Poland, who enquired if she had a geographically displaced son with a penchant for lobbing expensive electronics out of his backpack. After initial confusion, she rallied magnificently and soon I was on a mercy mission to re-unite myself with my phone.

Which is where the story should end happily, but it doesn’t. Because this amicable gentleman, out taking an early morning walk with his lad, had attempted to flag down some mountain bikers after failing to get my attention once I’d launched Space-Nokia-1 into a low orbit. Now if it were me, or the guys I ride with, we’d have stopped, exchanged pleasantries, and either taken it into care until an Internet forum burped up the owner, or offered any other help we could have.

Not these cocks tho. A whole bunch of them basically told him to fuck off and get out of their way. I can only assume he was somehow in their way, and their version of shared trail access worked on the principle that some animals are more equal that others. This has made me really bloody angry. For two reasons; firstly how can people of some kind of shared-outdoor-experience be so damn rude and inconsiderate? Secondly – and far worse – was the chaps acceptance that somehow “it’s okay, I don’t mind, some people are like that. Especially to us“. No it bloody well is not okay, it never is and it never will be. The shrug and phrase “especially to us” made me wince with embarrassment.

Sure I only know one side of this story, but riding in London for three years de-constructed the myth that all cyclists are good and everyone else is a twat. Almost the other way round in far too many cases, and nothing since has convinced me otherwise. So I could well imagine this playing out exactly the way it was told, and someone needs a good bloody slap. Forget the fact that cyclists are already demonised by most other trail users in the Malverns, many of who are on a mission to enact a partial or full ban. That’s merely a side show to the fact that we are the most scary people in those popular hills, and we need to show a bit of bloody respect.

That’s why we ride early in the morning or late at night. It’s why we try really hard not to bring ourselves into conflict for the sake of it. It’s because we understand the fragile nature of competing groups on a small set of hills. Well most of us do anyway.

I’m pleased I’ve got my phone back, I’m really fucking angry about how.

* we’re not going there. Glad I got it back tho

* Kindred Spirit you might say.

The pre-breakfast* Malvern hills ride is full of many wholesome and  good things. One of them is the impression that you have this small package of awesome pointedness all to yourself which, considering the barrier to entry must be breached by head torches and frozen knocking knees, seems entirely reasonable.  For a good year, we scoffed at the late rising fools playing unhappy slalom with a phalanx of other grumpy trail users.

Until now. Sure we expected New Years Resolutions translating to puffing fatties pushing up hills for a couple of weeks. And there is always the odd introverted rambler lost in his own world so never acknowledging a friendly hello (or a less polite “fck off them you miserable twat“). But these last two weeks, it has gone properly mental.

In the previous 50 weeks, we’ve probably seen a single digit accumulation of mountain bikers before the 9am watershed. Today we say double that in a single ride with a side order of over-wrapped family groups and their mad dogs. And frankly, I find this bloody irritating. Some of it is – I admit – trail snobbery  personified by the Colwall Night Riding crowd, who perambulate line astern with ever increasing numbers and ever decreasing velocity. They’re another bunch  who cannot find it within themselves to chew the fat with non-groupies, although that may be blindness brought on by an ever escalating Lumen arms race.

Honestly, on a dark night I’m sure the Malvern residents are frantically dialling 999 to report an extremely slow moving UFO.  But seeing trail numbers increase by day makes me even more irrationally angry.  I want to stop them and demand their cycling credentials “Have you ridden at night EVERY week come rain, wind, snow or creeping apathy?” “What about taking in that extra hill even when you legs are pretending to be un-set jelly” and “Do you know the way of the secret paths? Do you dare ride them when it’s shitty and muddy?”

The answer has to be no, which makes them undeserving in my view, and that’s the view that counts. And I’m counting far too many trail users when only the righteous are up and riding. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised after a recent thread on a cycling forum had so many authoritative voices on winter conditions in these hills. All I can hope for is their enthusiasm will be diminished, and we’ll get the hills back to those who have properly suffered. It’s that or get out of bed even earlier, for which I am insufficiently motivated.

On the slightly less grumpy side of things, we had a brilliant ride and the ST4 is big-grin central over all terrain. My latest fascination for all things statistical shows 5 rides in 8 days, climbing over 8000 feet in a little more than 105 kilometres.  So impressed with my performance, my breakfast choices were bacon or egg. I couldn’t quite decide so plumped for both.

Advance warning, Thursday Night Ride this week. And I’m bringing my list of questions and big stick, so be ready if you’re out on my trails

* which is good as it’d be recycled noisily within minutes of the first climb.

That’s what  my dusty HRM indicated after I’d harvested it from the foetid outreach of a forgotten draw to which electronic tattery is dispatched. There is all sorts of esoteric shit in there which considering the high incidence of fadderyness exhibited by yours truly is no real surprise. What was that it seems everyone has a similar repository for stuff too expensive to skip, but not interesting enough to use.   Mine is larger of course – including strange shaped beepy things with fading displays that don’t seem to do much other than chirp noisily.

Bit like some people I work with. Anyway new batteries refused to kick start my heart as far as this £20 single use monitor was concerned, and dead it remained until I sprayed my nipples with WD40* while threatening the strap with a hammer. I was going to write a bit about the total pointlessness of such devices, only to find I already had. Back in the days when I was a bit more amusing as well

It will accompany me  riding come  Sunday, for the sole purpose of knowing how many beats my pounding heart is banging out while I’m involved in some unpleasant hill based action. My theoretical max is pretty low now what with me being old and all that, but I reckon I’ll top that even if I have to die trying. It’d be a good way to go.

Because I may be killed anyway by my mountain bike friends, who are already threatening ex-communication after the public  debagging of my furtive roadie-lust. Any further mentions of “The Essex Lightening” ** shall bring down the might of previously mild mannered riding buddies. I am concerned by their threats of exactly what I can expect once they’ve had a chance to forge weapons from the carbon frame. The “It’s all bikes, it’s all good yes?” has fallen on deaf ears this time, so I’d be leaving the HRM, GPS and any visible Lycra behind for our Quantocks trip next weekend.

There is a thing here thought – past years have seen January as a boiling over of  Christmas excess not lanced by frozen attacks of random hills. Maybe it’s the new bike thing, maybe it’s a not getting any younger thing, maybe its a wanting to get fit thing but whatever it is, I’d ride every day right now if I didn’t have to go to work. Sadly, those new bikes have to be paid for.

Heart Rate now 51 as I sit here typing. I am off to see if there are Elephants’ in our recent ancestry.

* Not strictly necessary, but having already purchased something called a “mini wedgie” today, I felt it was appropriate to continue the smutty theme.

** Thanks to Ian for naming the road bike. I like that very much

Upping the ante is where it is at for 2010. My heroic couplets from last weekend are now cast into shadow, when compared to my attempted-death-by-commute this morning. If you were hunting for a set of circumstances to ensure a proper accident, it’s hard to think of anything more causal than these sick puppies.

Ice and Snow. 23c slick tyres and 100psi. New road bike and dubious battery lights. Zero visibility fog and, oh I don’t know let’s just go with bowel clenching terror should we? An hour earlier than Sunday, a further degree colder and a rider injured from a tripping incident involving a dark room and a black, slumbering mutt.

And in the same way we’ve had proper pre global-warming snow this last two weeks, the fog of this morn was of a type last seen when nefarious Jack was ripping through London. So thick you could chew on it, while waving a hopeful hand in front of a face merely panicked one into believing you’d been struck blind.

I risked catastrophic voltage collapse, with a clumsy grope to high beam, only to see it reflect back at 90% brightness and 0% improved visibility. And what I couldn’t see, I could hear with that horrible crunching sound of slush under tyre. The new mudguards were almost too efficient, with their low tyre rubbing profile delivering forty minutes of finger-on-blackboard aural stabbing.

The bike is fantastic though. Oh it properly is, light, stiff and flighty. Where the Kona would accelerate under spongy protest, the Boardman springs forward rewarding each pedal stroke with a surge onwards. When you hit any incline on the Jake, your options were a right hand ratchet and a long spin or a black-spotted, rivet-ridden, busted-lung sprint praying the gradient gave out before you legs did.

The Boardman isn’t like that. Because it weighs 8ks plus some commuting collateral, and has a BB junction forged from a pineapple hunk of carbon. I found myself shifting down the block and accelerating up hills. This is unheard of, and made me very proud I’d bested something similar last year.

Don’t get me wrong tho – this bike has the potential to hurt you. Because it is so rewarding to crank out maximum power to bring forth the horizon, then soon your aspirations are ruthlessly gaped by your fitness and ability. But even in sub zero temperatures, blinded by the fog and scared of the ice, I glimpsed that road riding might actually offer something other than non motorised commuting.

Lance was wrong. It’s all about the bike.

Verbal has just bought a skateboard. She’s already conquered the ex-board to the point where we no longer pre-book a hospital appointment every time she swishes along on the deadly thing. Which has taken a while as that wheeled lunacy is nothing less than an accident that hasn’t quite happened yet.

But apparently it’s rubbish at tricks mainly due to the weight and the inability to plot a course that involves straight lines. So a £10 skateboard from Argos* and some youthful enthusiasm has already turned the kitchen into an impromptu skate park. My first attempt was pretty typical of anything that merges an Alex, something with wheels and anything requiring balance skills. I gave the board some ‘umpty with my right foot only to find I’d suddenly acquired seven league boots without the luxury of a seven league crutch.

The board sped off backwards almost kneecapping the dog, while I – in the manner of comedic potential energy – rocketed forward landing carefully on my face and elbow. This illicited howls of delight from the kids “Dad THAT WAS ACE, DO IT AGAIN” and a whimper from yours truly here. The dog pitched in with his terrifying slobber of life, and I was back on my feet before drowning was added to an escalating list of injuries.

I wasn’t allowed a skateboard as a kid. This may have been, in part, due to the demand being made while lying in a hospital bed with a busted pelvis. Even back in those unenlightened times, the physio couldn’t see any benefits whatsoever of placing a healing mid section of hip atop a small wheeled cart with no brakes. I did sneak a go on my mates, which was my first and last attempt at the alien skills of the boarder. Too fast to get off, too scared to turn it uphill, my brief – yet tremendously exciting – skateboarding history ended in Mr. Mills hedge having easily cleared his low front wall at the point of impact.

So, already my ten year old daughter is better than me. That will not stand. And neither will I at the moment especially having googled “Advanced Skateboarding” only to find myself entirely wrong for the sport. I have no trousers with gussets terminating just above ankle level, no wild thatch of hair, no ability to rotate and flip my ageing body except from vertical to horizontal and no tattoos.  Surely though, an experienced Mountain Biker like myself with the hand-eye co-ordination of a special needs stoat should be able to master the simplest tricks.

Like getting on without falling off. I know some of you must have pierced the inner circle of these dark arts. Time to pony up and share your secrets!

* A place I’m coming to think of as “The LIDL REJECT STORE“