Buffing the Swingarm Slayer

 

Continuing my homage to Sarah Michelle Geller and her ability to destroy apparently indestructible demons with her bare limbs, here’s my what happens when “optimistic” frame design meets Pyreenean leg. My friend Rob broke this on Friday. Just riding along apparently. I am suspicious though since the very same terrain chewed out the bottom bracket of my old ST4.

So maybe it’s the mountains, or blatant copycatting from Rob or – and I think I’m going with this – not enough welding at the point of breakage. Since we’re quoting movies, let’s go with “We’re going to need a bigger weld”. Luckily Orange are already shipping a new rear end that’ll be precision fitted with another mates Mallet.

It’s mildly amusing that the original ST4 – like this one – was lorded by the MTB press as a fantastic bike that broke the trail-mtb mould. Broke itself more like. The latest one is stiffer, stronger and significantly less flawed. So it’s a bit of a surprise that’s getting a panning from the very same press.

Anyway, the new swingarm shall hopefully get Rob back on the trails soon. That’s TWO bikes he’s broken. If that’s some kind of competition, I’m not playing!

Surrey Hills

I’ve a bit of a problem with that title. First up: Surrey “ twinned with Audi, BMW and Cockage. A problematic combination of manicured county seats, and the fat arsed driving 4x4s who own them. Then: Hills “ there aren’t any. Not proper ones anyway. Put them up against a Herefordshire Alp, and they’d be left crying onto its’ brutal shoulders.

I tried “ oh God I really did “ to balance my chippy shoulder with an evidential pursuit of the actual, rather than cheap shots at the stereotypes. But dodging only shots of trail side expresso and terribly expensive non moving Mountain Bikes, this proved on the can’t-be-arsed side of difficult.

The centre of Surrey’s self reverence appears to be Peaslake. A chocolate box village serving high teas to the mostly porky, and uncouth mugs of tea at£2 a go. Lots of non riding seemed to be the new all-mountain, with 5k bikes sprawled artfully in what passed as an outdoor photo shoot for Leisure Activities for IT executives

So tick that pre-conception and let’s move onto the riding. Which I remembered as being woody fun slowed by the buy-first-ride-second tribe. Not hard, not terribly demanding, kind of trail centre-y with more expensive cakes. A nice day out, but not really proper riding is it?

It is. Oh and then some. 40k later, my legs were dribbly blomonge, my throat coated with dust, my arms wibbly wobbly appendages barely able to clasp a hero’s beer, and everything brainside frazzled to the point of exhaustion.

We rode three hills, first up was a quick hour up and over Peaslake which 5 minutes in had the kind of steep roll in easily obstacle enough to end your day there and then. 5 minutes later, I was abrading my left elbow having failed to conquer a set of steep, loose switchbacks.

Ten minutes after that, my bike separation anxiety continued with a head-first punt over a log. No excuses other than over-exuberance, chasing local and all round hardtail-fast-man Nig, and the ever widening gap between confidence and ability.

Of the forested-four, only I was fully suspended with the familiarity of the ST4 over-riding any reason to pull the Cove from hibernation. 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the time this was the right decision with trails shot through by roots and dips, the other 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} I wished for a shorter wheelbase and tighter geometry “ a base for carving turns and instant line changes.

Still run what you’ve brung, and even with the squish out back and the slack head angle up front, much fun was to be had blatting lush singletrack, pumping vaguely remembered trails, wheels pawing for grip and “ in seemingly many places “ the ground as the terrain dipped and swerved between endless trees.

Cake stop “ HOW MUCH? “ spot of bleeding, not much sympathy, epic planned under sunny skies. Two further hills to summit; Leith and Holmbury “ neither of which would seem to offer the mountainous terrain most of the still parked bikes were configured for, but challenging nevertheless.

Much as I can already hear the knashing of teeth Gloucester way, the steepness and length of some trails are greater than those in “our” Forest. Or certainly the trails I’ve ridden on. From the top of the tower at Leith hill down to the road is 20 minutes of grinning lunacy. It’s pedally in the middle and at the bottom, narrow (narrower than my 710mm bull bars a few times) and tight in places, but opening out to become sweepy and fast. Summer Lightening is an awesome trail especially covered in nothing but dust and “ latterly “ sweat.

As we headed back, Nig had that hollowed out look I’ve oft been associated with. He saved a bit of energy tho for a final giggle-fest of Barries showing us all a clean set of wheels. The trail fairies have breathed on this already fine track, and it’s now a mass of berms, jumps and flat out jedi-speeder waggling between the trees.

It was warm enough to sit outside the pub, but far too hard to sit back on the bikes pedaling to the car park. I was happily knackered and somewhat humbled by just what a fantastic area for riding this is. Amusingly we didn’t really see many riders away from the car parks, other than a flange of ten or so sat waiting at the entrance to the final trail.

So yes I’ll admit there’s a raft of decent riding down in Surrey, especially if you have dry conditions and a knowledgable guide. I was pondering this as a tosser in an blacked out X5 cut me up for the express purpose of cementing his total cock status.

It seems I was only half wrong.

Marginal Madness. Added dog.

VCA 2010 RACE RUN from changoman on Vimeo.

This appears to be a man riding extremely fast on the absolute cusp of painful stackery, all while wearing a suit. Probably just the sort of thing most of us would have a crack on during an otherwise boring lunchtime.

He’s got a mate as well who is slightly less sketchy, but still has to somehow not fall down a 100 steps at a million miles an hour, with two thirds of bugger all clearance on both sides.

Then, he too is attacked by a dog that is either deaf or rabid. Probably both.

This was very similar to my ride last night. Except for the terrain, sun, warmth, absence of darkness and skills on display. The “nearly crashing” part was all there. As was the ice and freezing cold winds. If this is some kind of cosmic weather joke, I’d just like to say IT’S NOT FUNNY ANY MORE.

Right back to work. Too much of it currently.

Let there be dark.

Lumi XPG 3

My trusty night-riding light has countered three winters of abuse with an attempt to exact painful retribution. Not so much “Hope Vision 4” more “Hope I still have all my own teeth“.

The maker is Hope Technology – a UK firm based on the wrong side of Yorkshire* – housed in an industrial unit full of proper machinery. Their ability to CNC, Mill and Bevel metal results in an extensive range of MTB products. Some of them are very good, some of them are a bit special, and occasionally one of them is a dud.

Their showpiece 4-LED light that pushes the night away for 9 months of my riding year is somewhere between “special” and “terrifyingly unreliable“. Bit like kids, when they are good they are very good indeed**, but when they are bad “bloody awful” isn’t the half of it.

Wednesday night put Dr Jekyll in charge of illumination. Or not, when the light flicked to black as the bike was dropping smoothly over a rock-step. That smoothness absented itself with the light, and only the backup torch lashed to my helmet prevented a high speed gravelly facial.

This isn’t the first time unscheduled benightment has been visited on my innocent person. Nor the second. Or even the third. I now have a fairly matey relationship with the Warranty fellas up at Hope as the feckless light boomerangs between us. They’ve been fantastic at repairing way outside of any warranty period, and I’ve rewarded such customer service by campaigning the thing through years of rain, snow, frozen temperatures and occasional unscheduled trail percussion.

And while they are happy to give it another electrical brush up and polish, there really are only so many times that a fearful man can be plunged into darkness before demanding a replacement not marketed with a skull and crossbones. Laziness lulled me into accepted the “wisdom of the crowd” presented by Internet warriors who at least talked a good game. A quick scan of the ever escalating arms race between manufacturers’ added nothing but acronym confusion, so it was back to my night-riding roots with Lumicycle.

Whereas Hope are all grown up and serious nowadays, there’s still a whiff of shedness with Lumicycle. My first set of lights, bought nearly ten years ago, had clearly been designed and manufactured in a small wooden outbuilding. Yellow halogens powered by cut down car batteries dimly lit the trail for almost minutes, before fading to candle power. But this still proved to be a huge step up from catastrophic experiments with head torches and crappy clip on lights.

A decade later, development has been driven by technology, the 24 hour race scene and – somewhat predictably – huge steps in LED power from the Far East. The results are frankly staggering. Even compared to my Hope, the small form factor and huge light beam are really something else. It’s not quite the night-sun which appears to be gaining ground especially in homebrew solutions, but that’s not what night riding is about.

What it is very much about is sufficient light to go fast, go for a decent length ride, and go for a beer afterwards without having to rebuild complex electronics on the trail. The Lumi’s are definitely an upgrade on all fronts, but cheap they were not. But since six months of my weekly riding is undertaken entirely in darkness, and another three start that way it’s an investment worth making. That’s what I’ve told Carol anyway 😉

No excuse not to get out next week then. Well apart from the mud, rain, cold and a dose of pre-spring apathy. But that’s not stopped me yet, and we’re well past being half way out of the dark.

* Or Lancashire as the locals call it.

** We call this state “at someone else’s house”

The hardest month

Wet Wibble

Or, February – it’s a proper bastard. Aside from a few over-medicated nutjobs, there is a collective and plaintive whinge from the cycling community come November. Too cold, too dark, too bloody miserable to ride, too much effort for too little gain. Too much kit, too much washing, hit the hibernate button and wake me in Spring.

I am one of the over-medicated nutters. Although individual rides may trigger mad delusions that my life had ended only to be reincarnated as a dolphin, the collective revolution of a million* moist pedal strokes leaves Al’s world sunny side up.

Not that much of that sun is going on outside. Which brings me back to why February can only be conquered through gritted teeth, and the vague promise of something better soon.

November is fine, really. Some ace riding on still dry trails, bits of the commute lack benightment, still time for a trip away or two. December can go either way, but dicking about in the snow is the only Christmas present that makes you feel ten years old again.

And while the road bike is tending to the grim, it’s worth it for the looks on the be-suited faces of people not quite like you. Short month as well, before the excesses of a holiday period where getting out is the pefect release valve for being stuck inside with relatives who are not obsessed by cycling. Honestly, what’s wrong with these people?

January is brutal. Always cold, not much light, the misery on the faces of those swapping pasties for lentils. A spike in the number of off road riders spotted spluttering up the hills early Sunday morning. It is always like this – when the year turns – and it never lasts.

February tho, you feel cheated. Daffodils break through the winter crust, white ice is replaced by snowdrops of the same colour, occasional bright and warm days are snatched away by freezing easterlies and bands of spiteful rain. And you know it might snow again, which gets old so damn quickly and sends you back indoors in a grump.

Having missed a couple of rides already, my last commute was powered from a position of weather forecast denial. 6am in the wind and the wet confirmed the tea-leaf readers actually had it about right. After drying out at the office, the train home provided a further opportunity to view the hard rain slashing at the windows.

Wet weather gear is fantastic, but the problem is that it does not wateproof your brain. It’s a struggle sometimes to install the “it’ll all be alright in a few minutes” template as everyone else is rushing for their cars.

No choice but to get on with it. Displacement strategies include marvelling at how damn fab this is going to be in the light and warmth, calculating savings over the easy-drive option and wondering if hitting something is the right approach, as road bike brakes have a “work to rule” clause in the pissing rain.

Arriving home, you signal to the family that – contrary to all appearances – you are not an avenging swamp monster in control of an epic storm. Accept you’ve lost a bike and acquired a wheeled shed, peel off layers of dampness and hurry into the light.

Then do the same again on the Mountain bike the next night. The mud is up, the grip is down, the brakes are so much better but tyres – slicked by slushy crap – offers them nothing to work with. A dirty brown protest marks your rucksack, crack and back, but two hours of this beats an inside job with the TV.

So it’s time for a change. No more low-rent, truculent light mocking your motivation. Spring has to crank the season-ratchet and turn up the sun. What do we want?Double digit temperatures, more light that dark, sunshine and no snow“, When do we want it?RIGHT NOW”.

Maybe I’ll get some posters made up.

* well possibly not that many. But close enough if my not insignificant investment in bottom brackets is anything to go by.

Quite small but lots of fun

Jessie on her new Islabike from Alex Leigh on Vimeo.

A phrase that could be equally applied to nearly 10 year old Random, or her new Islabike. Two more crashes, much hamming it up for the camera, occasional dog.

Recording the video was quite easy, especially with a more than willing lens junkie. Riding with Random is always a pleasure – even when I was feeling pretty uggity and grim – but splicing it together using Microsoft’s finest software was not.

Firstly, as with all Windoze products, the support for anything not written in Redmond is fairly poor. But clever with it. For example, it didn’t crash catastrophically until I’d spent an hour editing various bits of the footage. Had I saved it? No, of course not as it takes bloody ages. Did the application fail gracefully? No, it died with an apologetic error message before chowing down on my best work.

Being an idiot, I tried again. Being Microsoft, it trashed my work again. So I switched from AVI to WMA through shareware developed by the admirable Hamstersoft, and went for third time lucky. On this doomed attempt, the application generously allowed me to save my magnum opus in all its’ edited finery, before letting me down somewhat with the resultant video being more occasional jerkiness and static shots than actual 30FPS HD as promised.

I wish my trials and tribulations ended there, but of course they did not. Finally after some video success, I still had to trawl the murky backwaters of the Internet for accompanying free music. That voyage of discovery did bring me into contact with some really decent tunes, so not quite the entirely pointless endeavour I had anticipated.

And now being a keyboard expert on the underground Seattle Indie-Rock scene, I’m 99{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} certain this makes me significantly more windswept and interesting. Possibly not a universally held view.

To summarise, bike good, rider happy, ancient parent proud, Microsoft rubbish, opensource marvellous, free-music lovely, Holland on Thursday. It was all going so well until that last work based directive was slipped in. It’ll probably give me something to write about, I wonder if it’ll give me some more free time to do so?

Good Times.

Scotland 2008 MTB (24 of 99)

Having depressed myself through the simple act of reading the consultation document/done deal sapped out by the FC for the ensuing forest sell off*, I felt some cheering up was in order. And with the fruity grape being back on the weekend agenda, the simple solution would see me muzzily nose down in a fine Merlot. Occasionally rising above sofa level to extract chocolates from the Kids’ secret store.

However, the serial killer attempts on a liver that’s already suffered quite enough over past weekends has put me right off that idea. Weekends are precious enough without a bastard hangover chaser. So instead I harvested a couple of my favourite photos from a roadtrip back in 2008.

Looking backwards tends to focus the minds eye on a hinterland missing much of the grimness experienced in the then. Rain, lots of that. One of the guys seriously, and understandably, out of sorts, a couple of others missing, and the feeling that this was the end of something.

And yet how can any trip including these great moments be anything but a happy memory. First we see a hamming of up by a lying of down for road sign lampooning. At the end of a long climb where Dave and I invented the idea of vertical geography sliding off to “Hills Conventions” under cover of night and vying for the “biggest bastard” award – “Well say what you like about Scarfell, he might be a bit craggy and sold out to the tourists, but check out those shoulders, he’s a freaking monster”**

Scotland 2008 MTB (49 of 99)

Second up was changing a tube high up above the Lakes wondering if there could be any better time for a sit down and look around. I remember the complete sense of peace we felt up there. There is a certain singularity to road trips- you faff, you bullshit, you drink too much beer but when you ride there are no boundaries, no being home for six, no work shit polluting your mind, nothing to deflect a focus form the sheer joy of being free in the mountains.

Scotland 2008 MTB (41 of 99)

Finally is my good friend Andy – a fusion of great antiquity and shortness of form that clearly marked him out as the “Proto Gnome” – launching over a meaty rock step on his£100 hardtail. He then cast around for a loaner full-suss from us normal sized riders to try again only, this time, with a bit more aggression. Much shuffling of feet and desperate excuses grumped him up until I carefully pointed out that “I would lend you the Pace, but really I need it to work afterwards

I write this and in my head is “we can be heroes if just for one day“. Three images, one ride, many more to come, so many more have passed. I guess the point is that we should celebrate – not lament – the good times, and only look forward to the next much anticipated event.

The slightly more pretentious angle is that going out and doing stuff creates memories that will sustain you in dark times. Because the worst regret of all must be not doing it in the first place.

* An entreaty so brazenly craven to Government policy, it smacked of Turkeys’ voting for Christmas.

** You probably had to be there.

Consulting the inner cat

Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride.

There are times when riding – as with life generally – that make you think ‘woooah that was a close one‘. Events that invoke the thought that one just dodged a bullet, sailed a little close to the wind, felt the icy shiver of impending dread, that kind of thing. Generally followed up by a commitment not to do it again, or at least not for a while until the balance of karma is restored.

To paraphrase: “got lucky once, probably won’t next time” deep breath, nod to deity/pagan god of choice, move on. Today I had a ride just like that except for the moving on bit. If I were a cat, I’d be desperately scanning the small print for options to buy extra lives.

Riding with Martin always goes like this. Afternoons out are short on miles, long on smiles and celebrated for going heavy on “shiiiiiit, eek, arrrghh, phew, never-in-doubt” moments. And because of riding lots, I’ve lately been overcome with a high dose of smug.

Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride. Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride.

Enough in the legs to climb anything – albeit still quite slowly – and enough pedalled in muscle memory to let the bike go fast and be fantastic while I hang on up top. Not asleep at the bars tho, because this kind of riding guarantees serial hits on the adrenal gland.

First a top to bottom trail starting wide and windy, dropping into narrowing singletrack that throws out wheel stopping rocks and increased gradients before you can say “I wonder if I should have braked back there?”. A cheeky left throws up more steepness, a set of “qualifying” steps punching you straight into a second set easily identified by being sodding narrow, buttressed by shoulder high rock and long enough for major internal organs to switch locations.

Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride. Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride.

Wet as well today as were all the trails. Best to look vaguely in the direction of proposed travel, loosen your muscles and your mind and go with the flow. I did, Martin didn’t leading to a bit of light ribbing especially as he’d brought his big bike to the rock party.

Multiple goes on a lovely steppy drop proved insufficient for Martin to understand how my camera worked. Never mind, big climb to height, fall off the side of another hill where I arrested a monster back-brake slide with a flick of the hips before my smugness was replaced by confusion as Martin snaked down the trail at a speed and smoothness entirely missing from the bloke behind.

No matter, one big climb to gurn, one favourite descent to dispatch. Lately I’ve been having a splendid time down here thinking that maybe – of all the riding crew – now I am the quickest. Chagrin served up with a double can of whupass for me then, as Martin careered off at a truly remarkable speed. Somewhere on the way down – between remembering to breathe and trying so hard not to crash – it became apparent that the only way of catching him would be to fly past at head height having been spat off at high speed.

Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride. Malvern "Ooh I say" Ride.

Consulting my inner cat, I found a large flashing zero in the “remaining lives” column, and a terrified kitten hiding behind it. Did my best tho, still got whupped. But it’s not just bravado, or the not unreasonable joy of arriving alive at the bottom that makes us do this.

I cannot tell you how much fun riding fast, jumping off steps, bouncing off rocks or holding a two wheeled slide can be. I just know I want to go back and do it all again.

Off the Pace

Pace 405 XCAM (1 of 7)

A very nice man from Chepstow left happy-faced with most of the Pace yesterday. He has many adventures planned so, even if this enthusiasm wanes, is sure to ride it more than I ever did. That would be a total of four times in 2010, none of which gave me much pleasure.

Which explains why I am spared the standard remorse and hand wringing when selling anything two wheeled. Because I certainly didn’t do it for the money. As the old joke goes how do you make£2,000 buying and selling 2nd hand mountain bikes? Start with£5,000.

Scotland 2008 MTB (74 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (48 of 99)

The Pace was a damn fine bike. This excellent suspension platform, allied to a frame long on stiffness and short on pointless faffery, was the product of extensive rider-led development. The problem is that while it will be a great bike for someone else, it just wasn’t for me. Too tall, too short, too much travel, a little too heavy, a lot too much bike for 95{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of my riding.

I persevered because, on trips to the districts of Peak and Lake, it proved its’ metal on rocky terrain. Mostly unperturbed by chaotic gardens of granite, it would carry a committed pilot downhill at silly speeds while still being engaging enough through sinewy singletrack. Further it was almost entirely unfazed when being thrown down the Cwmcarn DH course by a man whose riding style could best be described as “hanging on gamely“.

Cwmcarn Uplift Day Pace 405 DH

So largely viceless, heavily competent, nicely built, and sufficiently dynamic to span most genres from messing about in the woods to day long epics in the hills. And without wishing to head up my own arse in pointless analysis, maybe that strikes at the heart of the issue. The Ti Cove hardtail is more fun in woody singletrack, the ST4 is as brilliantly flexible and yet somehow more focussed, and – if the urge to be silly overcomes me once again – I’d have no qualms trailering the little DMR on an uplift day.

Scotland 2008 MTB (64 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (66 of 99)

So with these three frisky concubines in the sheddy harem – each alloyed with unique gifts – the Pace has become something of a dusty embarrassment. It was a bike I wanted very much from the first release pictures, so it’s more than a little disappointing that style, terrain and greener biking grass had left it being nothing more than an expensive wall ornament.

Scotland 2008 MTB (23 of 99) Scotland 2008 MTB (48 of 99)

I am sure that my next trip to rocky places will have me cursing the decision to turn a quick buck. But that will to be mitigated by the genuine pleasure of someone else having a weekly blast. Something I will follow up on first hand having vaguely arranged a meet sometime in the Spring.

It’ll be strange to see someone else riding what still feels like my bike. But – at least this time – I don’t think I’ll be asking for it back.

Progression

It is said that you should never meet your heroes. And that’s probably right, because a simple human can only be an imperfect reflection of perception. I think the same is true of finding yourself face to face with a younger version of you.

I will quickly concede that such an event is unlikely. And we should be thankful for that, what with the certainty that meeting a doppelgänger face on will inevitably firm up a suspicion that you are a a whinging blowhard.

But the partnership of everything digital and low cost storage shoves a trillion pixels deep into the foetid outreach of your hard drive. Last night – while cataloguing kids videos* – I found that lot amateurishly spliced together up there.

Most are from Chicksands bike park – in an eighteen month period starting mid 2005 – except the bit where I’m terrorising the good citizens of Oxford. First visit to Chicky scared me half shitless just looking at brightly coloured Stormtroopers throwing themselves into bottomless voids apparently of their own violation. Then I tried some of the allegedly easy stuff and the other half of being shit scared kicked in.

North Shore wasn’t for me. Singletrack in the sky the non vertically challenged would say. I would stare at the unholy union of a Scalextric track and a hamster cage in wonder, but could only see pain, humiliation and A&E. I had a go of course, and scored two out of three.

The drops tho – they were easier. Again advice was always at hand “Just ride off the fookers” a tongue-ringed denizen of the dirt articulated while waving in the general direction of a handy abyss. Tried that, found it okay if I disengaged any part of my brain involved with brake levers, progressed onto some bigger ones, got scared again, compensated with a bigger bike and finally took flight off the big fella.

That’s so far behind me now, it seems to have happened to someone else. Paradoxically I have convinced myself that – should the opportunity present itself – there would be absolutely zero issue with lobbing myself back into space. Sure I’d need to get used to flat pedals again, but it’s just riding a bike isn’t it? And I’ve been doing a lot of that.

240 hours in 2010 to be precise. Into which I’ve squeezed 3012 kilometres of pedalling including 80,000 metres of climbing. Commuting accounts for about a third, night riding for about the same and only two of my six bikes feature heavily. Apparently 165, 000 calories have been burned along the way which probably explains why my clothes still fit in the face of a diet made up largely of beer, wine and pringles.

In my gravity phase of 2005, I probably didn’t ride half of that and was entirely un-bothered – walking uphill was the new cross country we used to say. It’s hard to plot any kind of progression in all of this because while today I’m not mad keen to go back to tweak the nose of vertical terror, that’s not to say I never will.

What I have concluded from this navel gazing is this; last year was a fantastic year in terms of frequency, company, fitness and variety. 2005 was genuinely awesome in that I massaged my cowardice through a whole year of going bigger. Clearly an annual recalibration of maximum personal terror then working backwards persists a belief you’re still pushing it a bit.

And I am. Pushing it a bit. Mainly in age and ongoing decrepitude. Left knee, left shoulder, right ankle, asthmatic lungs, short hamstrings, lack of moral fibre, etc tell me only one thing. Not to stop, but to bloody well get on with it while I still can.

Happy New Year to you all. I’ve already go a ride in 🙂

* On New Years Eve. The 2010 version of boring your family with a holiday slideshow. Soon I’ll be drinking sherry and eating vegetables.