“I don’t know whose bike they serviced Al, but it certainly wasn’t yours‘ grunted a multi-tooled Matt as he attempted to wrest his brand of mechanical perfection on a bike leaking vital bodily fluids onto his dining room floor.
Things had not been going well. Even before the front brake vomited the compulsory hydraulic medium linking lever to rotor, doubts had serviced over the efficacy of the bike shop from which it had arrived. Two days late scooted on a cloud of – if we’re being charitable – implausible excuses ranging from the aforementioned ‘full service’ to the APC courier being the victim of an alien abduction.
The mech hanger was cantered at an angle best likened to a drunk hanging onto a lamppost for support. Many of the bolts appeared to have been tightened with a straw, including those connecting the front and back of the frame together. They hadn’t even bothered to throw a bucket of water over it.
No matter after harvesting the Bird for a basketful of parts I’d not unrealistically expected to be operational on a bike ‘having had only 5 test rides‘, we had liftoff. Into the back of the van at least, and it was barely 8 hours later that I was in there with it as we headed off into the wilds of South Wales; destination Brechfa Forest.
Good trail centre this. Black and Red aggregate to 38kms of tough climbs, natural descents, then lots of berms, few rock steps, fast singletrack and – being Wales – endless wet from above and below. That’s about the soggiest ride I’ve done this year but the sun was shining behind my new bike glasses.
The Mojo is proper carbon light, it has a spectacularly clever suspension linkage which propels it uphill even with Mr Potato head here mashing the pedals, but point it downhill and it’s strangely neutral. This is not a bad thing but it’s different. It’s very flattering if you’re a little tentative and bonkers rip-your-face off if you’re not. Reminds me more of the Stache than the FlareMax.
Bikes have a personality. No they do. This in no ways mandates even the thinnest sliver of an excuse to name them.* There’s a whole other post there you’ll be glad I’ve yet to write. Suffice it to say by the end of the a five hour river ride I’d concluded I needed to up my game a bit, and those 2.8 thinly treaded tyres were going to give me some trouble.
Trouble I chose to ignore after shuttling to the Wednesday night ride start where powerful lights reflected brightly from water cascading of the local fields. It can’t be that bad I thought. No, it was quite a bit worse. First climb, tyres filled with Ross-Clagg, jammed that toxic mix of clay and grit into the chainstays and rocked momentum to a hard stop. Yep all the clearance back there to work superbly in a US State where it hasn’t rained for 4 years. Herefordshire in winter is not twinned with California.
First descent was like the first climb. Only with more crashing. Had a bit of a sulk then and thought about going home but decided I couldn’t get any muddier and I wanted a beer with my mates. Slogged round. Fell off some more. Drank beer. Made plans.
New tyres, still pretty fat but this time slotting into their apertures with finger-wiggle room to spare. Okay I’ve done nothing but add cost and weight since I bought the bloody thing, but now all shall be well. Off to the Malverns to try it out there.
It was at this point where the pre-ownership rigorous maintenance schedule really began to shine. The non drive side crank was barely prevented from exiting the axle entirely by a plastic sacrificial component which, while cheap, could only be sourced by sending smoke signals to the moon.
I only found this out after spending two rides in the village of ‘Much Creaking’ – a place where my fellow villagers were calling smiting and bloody murder upon my innocent person, due to the endless cracking and grinding emanating from the transmission. Thankfully Matt fixed it with a big hammer, some lock-tight and stern words in the shadow of his angle grinder.
Since then it’s been bloody great. Bike Park Wales was a revelation trying to keep my younger and much more skilled riding buddies in sight. Had lots of those little PR things light up in the Devil that is Strava. Okay only about about 2 seconds a run, but I’m shallow enough to take that.
A mucky forest ride followed by two gloriously dry ones has done nothing to convince me this is nothing short of a super-bike even if I am a long way from a super-rider. And that’s before putting some proper chubbies back on. Which will make it even better. Because that’s what the marketing men say and they’re at least as truthful as the orange nut job running the free world right now.
The crappy bike shop behaviour still pisses me off. But in three months it won’t because the only memory will be that I paid half the sticker price. Which was still quite a lot. But hey, at least one person thinks I’m worth it.
*nominative determinism might come into play here. Although I’d probably steer clear of the Cove G-Spot if such things were taken seriously.