Mucky Christmas.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

FoD Blue with Jess - Boxing Day

The 26th of December is the traditional day for me to bugger off riding somewhere for two or three nights away. This spookily coincides with an influx of relatives with whom my civil relationship is based almost entirely on abstinence. Which highlights both a lack of social skills and tolerance for which excuses are legion, even if reasons are not. I am just not good at being inside toeing the line when I could be outside nailing some singletrack.

It’s one of my many faults. I like to think it’s counterbalanced by honesty and forthrightness. Others may not agree. I’m generally over that fairly quickly

Carol cleverly sideswiped the issue this year by declaring the Leigh household a closed shop, and repelling boarders to anyone even vaguely related until 2012. An excommunication which instantly cancelled all of my travel plans, making for a more happy tribe not tiptoeing around a grumpy father.

Amazingly I appear to be getting even more riding in, all without the standard seasonal accompaniment of guilt. Today Jess and I mud-tested her new shoes and pedals, which started the ride in pristine condition only to finish it looking appropriately mucky and scuffed. Much like the pair of us – exactly how it should be.

FoD Blue with Jess - Boxing Day FoD Blue with Jess - Boxing Day

Jess has some decent skills, a nice bike, a determined attitude, more than a whiff of inappropriate bravery allied to the stamina of a dead sloth. She is only eleven and the bike has only eight gears, of which even the easiest can become a bit grind-y on the steeper climbs. Which – apparently – on the Blue FoD trail “there are millions“.

FoD Blue with Jess - Boxing Day FoD Blue with Jess - Boxing Day

I appear to have fathered a shuttle kid – this conversational extract makes the point “Dad is this the last climb” / “Yes” / “You told me it’s wrong to lie” / “Okay, no“. On the dowhills she’s a little flier tho, gradually getting to grips with berms again after meeting one earlier in the year head first having ejected from the bike. When she stands on those new pedals and looks through apexes, it’s astonishing and terrifying in equal amount the speed is carried through the corners.

When she’s tired and sat down getting buffeted and battered, she’s more a chip off the old block here. Although I’m not sure where the competitiveness and demand for where she stands against others here age comes from. Yet to learn the art of pretending not to care while fostering excuses on ones own inferior performance. The problem is her assertion that I’m pretty handy on a bike which suggests some way to travel before reaching any kind of reality.

The far more important thing – and this is one thing we absolutely do agree on – is riding mountain bikes with your Dad/Kid is just the best way to pass the time. Especially when your dad sorts out all your gear,loads and unloads the bikes, washing them when they are dirty and fixes them when they are broken.

It is a very, very small price to pay.

Done, but not dusted.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

FoD - Xmas Eve Ride

First things first, that’s a bloody good effort at an in focus photo of a fast moving rider using a cheap camera in crap light under woody darkness. I’d thought I’d mention that in case nobody else had noticed.

Other things probably passing unnoticed by the non bike obsessed public are the Ying and Yang of Christmas riding. Ying means the Winter Solstice has passed and we’re half way out of the dark, Yang the unfrozen trails that are epically muddy.

2009 and 2010 were snowy enough to force cancellation of the Malverns Ride Out/Drink Sloe Gin/Eat Mince pies/Mince home seasonal peramble. This week, we had no such problems in Spring temperatures but ploughing through non-Spring filth and slop. This made not for a particularly joyful first hour with much sliding about and removing suspicious looking moist dirt from every crevice and both eyeballs.

Apparently there’s a market for that kind of thing and having passed lots of noncelantly parked cars with dashboard lights on in the last few night rides, it seems to be quite a big one*. Finally we stopped, cracked open a cubic ton of Mince Pies which we happily washed down with a warming dram from a stirrup cup** Things improved immeasurably from there.

A post ride analysis of various empty containers suggested ten mince pies and 700ml of Sloe Gin had disappeared from our Camelbaks. For a total of three riders. Probably a wormhole or something.

Slithering onwards, a slurred enquiry demanded an answer to “are you finding this singletrack a bit narrow?”. I provided a Charades like response bouncing from tree to tree before declaring “Singletrack? I can barely keep it on the tarmac”.

Perfectly metabolically balanced then for a drunken assault on the Antler Trail where I became lost and confused in the manner of a senior citizen circumnavigating the M25. It seems this season’s navigational method of choice is bark. Wiggling the bars didn’t seem to make any noticable difference to the direction of travel, so I just went with the flow. Or with the tree.

Survived that, which seemed an excellent precedent to try again today in the light. 26 kilometres of slop was way more fun that it sounds. Certainly compared to pointless last minute shopping. Or dealing with bored kids. Or peeling vegetables. Staying alive was the guiding premise, something I was reminded of when later making an incautious dash to a Morrisions brimming with a Zombie/Locust hybrid making mud-surfing through crowded trees feel like a safer option.

We finished on something dry and fast before moving onto something wet and slower in the pub. This is exactly how any sane man would spend Xmas Eve. And possibly Christmas Day- but even I can see that is taking the piss.

Talking of which, I’ve run out of beer. And words. So nothing left to do but to wish my deluded reader(s?) a Merry Christmas and promise more nonsense in 2012.

* insert own smutty joke here. The whole dogging thing has passed me by. Surely that’s what the Internet is for?

** No point in slumming it. Next year, I’m hoping for white linen, china plates, silver cutelry and a butler.

Twelve days of Christmas…

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

… alternative version

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Grim winter sent to me
Twelve weeks to spring,
Eleven more night rides,
Ten frozen fingers,
Nine grimy gears,
Eight knackered bearings,
Seven splashy puddles,
Six layers of clothing,
Five muddy things,
Four great excuses,
Three degrees outside,
Two wet to ride,
And a grumpy rider in a bad mood

I’m sure you can do much better 😉

By the numbers.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

Riding with Martin has always been more about the smiles than the miles. Our rides are measured not in kilometres covered or metres climbed, because such dry metrics cannot record the pleasure of hiking up unpromising trails, only to add a hidden gem to the map of cheeky.

But we’re worried. Worried about middle aged porkiness, worried over lost winter fitness, worried watching the “Malvern Labrador“* chasing his fitness goals with the kind of single minded determination we really don’t understand.

Decisions were made – cold smelted in mud – in an airy hand waving manner that we’d try a bit harder, ride a bit longer, drink a bit less tea and eat a lot less cake. No dicking about, plan a route and get on with it. So I did just that; bypassing the midday hoards and iced up peaks – a hard tramp through multiple peaks that just happened to orbit around two cake stops.

Malvern MTBMalvern MTB

Important to ease ourselves gently into the new regime. Which probably excused an off trailexcursionall of five minutes in when a thinly disguised dirtrivuletheaded off in promising direction. That direction being directly into the abyss of the worked out quarry that has many fenced off entry points – all of which are vertical.

We made those fish-hand-movement indicating a ridable line before running away should any suggestion of attempting certain death be made. Conditions of mud and ice – both offering more grip than expected, but less than required – felt scary enough with sections ridden brakes off/eyes squeezed closed hanging on to the edge of scrabbling traction. Properly absorbing.

Malvern MTBMalvern MTB

Martin had clearly solved the numbers game refusing – for the first time in living memory – cake and tea after nearly forty minutes of riding, instead shipping us back into the busy hills on a cheeky mission to access the “antler trail“. Named not formarauding stags fighting over gene rights, rather a branch/camelbak incident picking out the “holy horns” in a tight night-riding beam a few weeks before.

It’s not legal. Not even close. A footpath would be a paragon of trail virtue compared to this well shrouded tree lined bounty below the hills. What it is though is unique within the Malverns – loamy singletrack hard pressed by mighty oaks starting fast/steep but mellowing to a perfect trail gradient snaking on a flow of sinuous curves.

Malvern MTBMalvern MTB

Come summer it’s a perfect test of weight distribution and tyre grip. Fast as you like if you’re as brave as you say. The rainy season pits your wits against slippy but predictable dirt and moist roots. Chasing Martin – for it is his trail and he’s bonkers fast in any conditions – I had both tyressimultaneouslybreak away which would normally trigger a panic/brake lever/crash process. This time I hung on and, for about the third time in a 12 year MTB career, drifted perfectly through an apex.

I’d pay good money to do it again. Really good money. Even some of my own. It was that good. The grunty hoik up the valley was made easier by fadingadrenalinespikes especially now tea and cake were definitely in the ‘training plan‘. This new regime ensured only half a pasty each washed down with hot tea knocked back quickly as the day rapidly cooled.

Malvern MTBMalvern MTB

A final tramp over and around the hills finishing on a descent predictably full of people mostly incapable ofindependentmovement. I’m a huge advocate of shared trailetiquettebut if a mountain bike is heading down a trail you’re perambulating on some 15 MPH slower, it might be a good idea to move aside. My internal laser beams were fully paid back by karma when Martin received a free puncture half a mile from home.

Malvern MTBMalvern MTB

Being a proper mate, I left him so to enjoy the remainder of the descent, dropping into icy steps, taking a deep breath, surviving that before freewheeling back to the truck. Martin turned up about a minute later which somewhat ruined my perception of just how fast I was going.

We had had a fantastic ride. Standard Al and Martin messing about and not taking it too seriously, But the GPS coughed up a nadge under 20k and quite a bit over 2000 feet of climbing. I toasted such amazing statistics with a beer or two. Softly Softly Catchey Monkey.

Training then. It’s just riding until your legs give way then is it? I’ll give that a go.

* That’ll be Jez, the third MalvernMusketeerwho has time trials on his mind and a training plan clearly dreamt up inGuantanamobay

On a lung and a prayer.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Pretentious nonsenseLeave a comment

There are times when nothing other than riding a bike makes any sense. Endless sunny days where the trail is polished, buff-dry singletrack and you’ve discovered your inner riding God*, when you’re best mates are on top joshing form and all that stands between you and a few cold beers are hours of high speed, endorphin pumping mountain biking nirvana.

Those are the days when you absolutely have to ride. Then, right in the middle of your cycling bell curve, are days when you should be riding. Be it a ‘get-my-arse-out-of-this-comfy-bed‘ commute, or an evening blast when you’re so tired from work, or slashing your weekend to-do list with a sword of selfishness and getting back two hours after you promised. Rides that are easily bypassed by thin excuses, but everyone missed is a lament, a regret of what might have been.

And then there’s riding when you’re sick, it’s dark and wintry, cold hands fumble easy summer tasks, legs hurt from the start, breath rasps in a death rattle on every climb, tyres squirm and slide through mud and grime. Drivetrains visibily erode under corrosive grit forged from wet dirt and rock. You’re half as fast as the summer and twice as knackered. Descents that are baked into a sun kissed ribbon of joy become desperate ‘hang on and hope‘ under the grim clag of winter.

You return home totally done in, but long gone is throwing the bike in the shed and grabbing a cold one. Now it’s a logistical sequence of frozen hosepipes and clammy clothes. Standing in the midst of steaming ride gear and dripping bike, a beer is the last thing on your mind. Or at least behind, a bath, an excuse for why the washing machine is going to be broken, a mental tally of components needs replacing and the worry that non responsive toes might be a symptom of frostbite or trenchfoot.

Mentalists will regale you with the joys of winter riding. Fitness, blah, deserted trails, Yeah Yeah, amazing moonscapes, whatever you fucking hippy. They miss the point, the reason we ‘normals‘ ride in winter is simply because we need to. Not have to, not want to, not should do. Need. Riding bikes is a balance to the lunacy of what we spend our day doing. A see-saw with frustration, angst and irritation that needs a wheeled offset to leave you refreshed and level headed.

It is far to easy to attempt equalisation by kicking the cat, shouting at the kids, grumpily watching TV clutching a grape placebo. None of this stuff works like a mud splattered two hours with those who share your weekly therapy session. This week, one new bike was sailing on a muddy maiden voyage accompanied by two hacking coughs, one set of recently serviced forks, a non working rear brake and our Malvern Labrador SuperFit team member knackered by lots of training.

So we didn’t go that far. But we didn’t go to the pub either which was my first, second and oft repeated idea. Instead slithery progress was made on trails glassed with tractionless dirt to the inevitable accompaniment of poorly a-tyred mountain biker on tree. My lack of rear brake was easily offset by a mud tyre on the front which carved inside a man on all-weather** rubber to set up perfectly for a) a fab jump over a tree route and b) an accident.

A committed if foolhardy approach to a) failed to result in b) only because Fate clearly believes I’ve suffered enough lately. No way that closing my eyes and bracing for impact kept me on a trail bounded by sharp fences and eye-pokey branches. The fact that I then nearly wiped Martin and his new bike out in the ensuing “whooooaahhhsshiittnooooIvegotit………..probably” slide shows that particular God has a sense of humour.

As did we on our heavy legged return to the warmth of inside. If I had control of Wikipedia then the Mountain Biking entry would read lit 1/to gain a sense of perspective, to remember what’s important 2/to prevent obsession of unimportant things 3/ to stave off comformity.

20 kilometres on a Mountain Bike while racked with cold can do that. I’ve changed my mind about it being therapy. It’s better than that.

* who may still be a bit rubbish. But he’s better than you are that’s all that matters.

** If all-weather means Summer. In California.

Going Postal

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

It’s a title that may well have been used before. Which considering that a) the post count has ludicrously crept over a 1000 and b) I’m lazy, old and forgetful this shouldn’t represent any kind of surprise or disappointment. Although more likely is such weak word play was previously generated when my disgruntled person been forced to breach the village shop threshold.

There are many, many joyful vignettes that come with rural living. The idea that three cars constitute a traffic jam, the total absence of light pollution, the wide and unfettered views from almost anywhere, being a 150 miles from London that kind of thing. However, attempting to transact any kind of business in the local shoppe is not one of them.

Unless you’ve the entire day to spare. Which, coincidentally 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the purchasing demographic appear to have. I’ve always found it odd that very old people MUST KNOW their time is near. Sightings of enigmatic fella sporting a swishy black cloak? Sounds of scythe sharpening? 5 calls a day offering grave-for-house swaps? Yet, they are happy to waste their precious remaining time on this planet selecting and de-selecting products through simple dint of banging the tin on a wrinkled nose before rejecting it on the grounds it cannot be exchanged for ration tokens.

Assuming anyone makes it to the counter before the shop closes or they pass on to the next life – “Barbara? BARBARA, old Mrs Willis has died in the vegetable aisle, drag her over to St. Mary’s can you? You’ll need the spade” – the inevitable conversation orbits around the concepts of “Grumble, mustn’t” “Friends, mostly dead” and “Weather, mostly rubbish“. Scientific research has proven that any two or more octogenarian bodies housed in Shoppe-Space will be locked in a deadly conversational embrace until one of them dies of boredom or they are separated by a crowbar.

Now for a man who struggles with any delay to important tasks such as looking out of the window, surfing the Internet, fettling bikes, shizzle and the selling of, etc, any such event fires him off in the direction of home, unprovisioned and vibrating gently. So how chilling is the prospect of something TWICE AS BAD that cannot be bypassed by simply fucking off to Morrisons? A place steeped in myth and terror; whispers of lost generations, once hardy young souls now cold and covered with cobwebs, looking unseeing through windows of fading leaflets and complex, Byzantine instructions.

Oh yes, I give you the Village Shop Post Office.

Honestly, my modest parcel* needed nothing more than a simple 2nd class transportation to Southampton. Based on the unfolding tedium of my visit, it would have been both simpler and quicker to drive it there myself. Or possibly walk if I’d set off nice and early.

Three PM. Wet Monday Afternoon. Most of the working population are doing exactly that. The rest are crammed into the Shop, snaking back from the Post Office counter encumbered by packages of a size and shape which can only mean live crocodiles are the present of choice for the discerning giver this year. By crossing the threshold, I immediately reduced the average age of the group. To about 78.

First lady, seemed to have partially passed out – head against the glass – tapping out her instructions in Morse with a butting forehead.By the time she’d signed off and wheeled arthritically away to Port, the queue was now outside the building swelled by those poor souls who’d been rebuffed by the overflowing post-box. I felt their pain, but they’d been feeling all of mine and some more of their own if any attempt was made to bypass the human chain now annexing the tinned good aisle.

“I’ll only be a minute“. Damn Straight, a final minute of life before being bludgeoned by a handy tin of Sweetcorn then finished off with a vegetable medley. Next bloke up has a bag of parcels clearly augmented by a forth dimension. Hard to know who was more surprised – him or us – as each furtive dip was rewarded with yet another shabby package. Each was carefully considered, turned this way and that before – “yes you know I think I might post that why not eh, now I’m here” – being tentatively handed over the the Post Mistress.

Let me pause here to answer any cries of stereotyping. She had a badge. It said Post Mistress on it. She had another one. It said “awarded for 25 years service“. That’s life in the public sector right there. You get an award FOR MERELY STAYING ALIVE. She’d clearly seen off my sort before and showed all the acceleration and urgency of the recently departed Mrs. Willis.

Anyway back to 4 dimensional bag man and his many treasures; finally he straightened with an audible click, smiled a happy smile and declared himself entirely package free. Then Mrs POSTMISTRESS WITH TWENTY FIVE YEARS SODDING SERVICE felt the urge to point out a suspicious offering abandoned on her counter. The entire queue swore – and considering the antiquity of many of them, I have to say I was quite shocked at the fruity language directed at “Oh, silly me, may as well do it eh” /makes small wave/ “hope I’m not holding you up”

Noooooooo, really I have absolutely nothing fucking better to do than stand in a Brownian motion of hair oil, medicinal lotions, denture cream and gout. Tell you what while I’m here, let me quiz my fellow queue lovers “Southampton then? From here? How long?” / “Four Hours?” / “Well he’s typed his pin in wrong again even THO HE JUST TYPED IT TWENTY SECONDS BEFORE so I reckon it’s good odds I’ll be there first. Anything I can drop off for you on the way?”

So with Mr. Alternative Post Office steaming gently here and the queue now backed up half way to Hereford, Infinite-Bag-Man shuffles off to the collective sigh of those of us still alive and into his place strides a fierce looking lady seemingly made up entirely of hairpins and support stockings “Right then, I’ve a problem with my pension, you’ll probably need to call Head Office”

Amazing how well brick burns isn’t it. It was probably all those Christmas Cards carefully abandoned once I’d innocently grabbed a stack of the Hereford Gazette and asked politely if anyone could spare me a match.

Okay I didn’t burn it down. But I could have and still had time to call the fire brigade, drive to Southampton, attend the local police office and be told that my package didn’t classify for second class post as I’d made a joke about the 25 year badge**. Although you know 45 minutes to be granted access to the dread portal guarding the franking machine probably isn’t that bad compared to say an eternity in hell, or a day in London.

Which is where I’m going on Thursday. Do they have post offices down there? Are they combustible do you know? I feel I have unfinished business.

* it had a lovely personality. Obviously.

** That might not have been it. But I was so close to hysteria by this point, it’s hard to recall exactly.

Shopping. It’s the new riding

On By AlexIn Bikes1 Comment

And not even for me. Thought I’d best clear that up in case you were concerned there was some pink themed hedgehog makeover happening. My riding is already on the wimpy side of cowardly and needs no accessorising with anything sexually ambivalent.

No these shall be wrapped by a member of the family not favouring the “hostage taping” approach to gift hiding and labelled for Jess. With the speeds she is building up, staying in contact with the pedals is becoming increasingly important. As is the bike – rather than squishy bits of her – staying in contact with the ground, but we’ve some work to do there.

There’s a research paper to write on how riding less encourages you to spend more. Out in the Winter filth, the difference between a shiny new part and something scratched but entirely serviceable is approximately nothing. Only on reconnection with the Internet, do doubts creep in.

And riding is something that’s gone from absolutely loads in October to a smidge under bugger-all in the last few weeks. It’s simple enough to calculate how many rides missed by multiplying a feeling of portliness with a full head of grumpy. Lack of motivation has barely made it into the list of top ten excuses what with “buggering, sodding head cold and crappy asthma” filling the first nine slots.

There’s work as well. That’s proving quite busy and not very ‘switchoffable’ unless I’m riding bikes which is another good reason to ignore the weather forecast for this week. Which – if one were tempted to take a sneak peak – looks bloody cataclysmic. If the rain doesn’t drown you, the wind’ll send you through someone’s roof a few hundred feet below. Best make sure I’ve clean shorts on then.

My own virtual retail experience has been centred around all sorts of pointlessness. First I had a hankering for a Cross bike frame very much like the one sold because it was surplus to requirements* then a Carbon hard tail frame from a manufacturer last mentioned in the same sentence as “Never again, not another penny of my hard earned to that bunch of scaffold pole welders“.

Thankfully fiscal restraint has been maintained. Partly because I know it’s just boredom, but mainly because it’s really entirely impossible to justify. Having two working mountain bikes and the same number of perfectly operable road bikes should be more than enough for a man blessed with just the two legs.

That’s rationale thought right there. Impeccable logic. The calm demeaner of a man happy with his lot.

It’s a bit dull tho.

* those requirements being “I want one”

Let them eat cake…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, PhotographyLeave a comment

Post ride cake

which – whatever your non wiki’d history teachers may have told you – MarieAntoinettenever actually said. So 250 years or so later, the mantle of cake eating has been vigorously grasped, forked and shovelled by none other than “no not another slice, I really couldn’t, body is a temple you know, oh go on then, just a small one… er not that small” porky Hedgey here.

But first I had to earn it.

Today’s ride went something like, apathy, rain, cold, wind, giggle, cake, grind, giggle, cake. The longer version started with me motoring into the hills through a curtain of rain hanging from an endarkened sky. Further reasons not to leave the safety of the car were a swirling wind and biting cold that speaks far too loudly of the Winter to come.

I was only half joking on offering an alterative indoor beer serving location for the ride to Martin, but he is made of stouter stuff and off we trudged up one of the many steep, grinding climbs that define the difference between the valley floor and the peaks.

“Martin and Al” rides lack the discipline, pace, distance and general seriousness of the mid-week night rides. These worthy tenets are replaced with exploring, silliness, careless line choice and – often – thumps of rider into fauna. Today we had all of those in a smidge over ten miles, with even that short distance split by tea and cake at St Anne’s Well.

Cake wasn’t foremost in our minds what with survival filling all the available space on a descent from North Hill that was even more sideways as usual. Two key factors; one a sizeable cross wind cheekily punting us into a rocky void, and two my choice of tyres which are the “go to” excuse of any proper mountain biker.

“Yeah would have ridden that, but these tyres (point vaguely at rubber which looks suspiciously like everyoneelses) are rubbish. Wrong trousers as well. Bad egg for breakfast. Honestly lucky to be here at all“. Secretly I’ve always viewed perceived tyre performance as marketing fluff, but in the case of Ignitors, Maxxis really aren’t kidding in labelling them not suitable for mud. Unless you’ve a penchant to lob yourself off the trail into the nothingness of a semi-vertical drop.

I wasn’t. So installed Mr. nesh&frightened and his brakey/slithery descending technique. Which left the rest of me time to worry if those bloody tyres were about to explode having been wrenched on with the force of a million newtons. At least it had stopped raining, which would make it easier for the emergency services to collect me from wherever the fall line ended.

Fun though, oh so much giggly fun that ended near the cafe. Which was open. And Martin had cake funds. Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, we stuffed some chocolate cake in their instead. Suitably replete, the horror of a climb all the way to the Beacon was mildlyassuagedby a speed of ascent on a par with an oak tree. And quite an old oak tree at that.

Switchbacking to the Beacon, a rather wonderful vista opened up with blue sky backlit by a fast approach twilight. Views across the Northern hills down to a twinkling Malvern below wereuninterrupted by many humans who had long scuttled back to roofed safety. From the top we rolled fast, chasing the fading light with the kind ofunreconstructedjoy you envy your kids for.

Just a great flow down a brilliant decent chasing a fast mate knowing that 20 minutes away awaited a steaming cup of Tea perfectly accompanied by a slice of that rather fab cake mostly made by Jess. That’s a good a way to finish a weekend as I can think of.

Except possibly two slices.

Are you sitting comfortably?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Photography, Road RidingLeave a comment

Bike Science

Then we shall begin. The working title for this post was “Weird Science” which created a rampant Kelly LeBrock fantasy putting me back a good half hour, and generating outpourings of 1980s teenage angst not suitable for the Public Internet. So sitting then, that’s far more respectable and middle aged.

Which is exactly how I was depicted during my fitting at Bike-Science so I’m not sharing those photos. Instead here’s Jez -half man, half Sasquatch- attempting to wrest his huge frame around that all Carbon Time Trial bike. I couldn’t decide if it was flexing or quaking.

Me? I was quaking at the prospect of being wired up to the mains, rendered in 3-D then gently let down that no amount of precision bike fitting could compensate for my injury and age ravaged collection of stringy bones. First tho, Jez was fitted up on his new TT and older Road bike. This took a while which played to my secret hope we’d run out of hours before I could be humiliated. Sadly unfulfilled, my time would come.

Andy – the man behind the camera and concepts of BikeScience – takes you from your existing riding position to something more precisely engineered through a combination of tests, fitting and adjustments. Some of it is about angles of knee, hip, back and wrist. Some more looks at tweaking out wobbly pedalling actions all in the pursuit of efficiency and comfort. The changes don’t feel that great, but the results are really quite outstanding.

For me, the experience started on the bike pedalling away but going nowhere. Turbo Trainers are for proper roadies so I didn’t put much effort in. Andy kitted me head to toe with electrodes and motion captured my hunched back turtle posture. I assumed his frown was for my frankly pathetic effort at pedalling, but no it was more about how I’d shoehorned my organic gibbon frame into the carbon road bike one.

He then dispatched me from bike to bench to test my flexibility and core strength. Unsurprisingly none of those three things were easy to find. And between my grunted exertions on being asked to wrap a foot around a ceiling light, I could feel the smug grin from Jez whose been secretly manning up with daily core exercises for a month.

So the synopsis after ten minutes of failing to do anything other than excuse my piss poor performance through a rambling history of my broken bones, Andy determined I lacked hamstring flexibility, hip rotation, any obvious core strength plus one leg was shorter than the other, both of which were pointed inwards at funny angles. Yes I was paying good money to be told this. It’s like a dentist visit being castigated for a rubbish cleaning routine.**

I lifted my now trembling body back onto the bike – in a manner best thought of as an aged seal making landfall on a slippy rock – while Andy worked his magic with the numbers. Firstly he threw my seat post away lacking as it was sufficient layback, moved the huds and saddle up, had me pedal a bit, moved a few more bits, checked his stats, pondered a bit more, turned me around and stared on the other side.

At the end of this witchcraft, I was actually enjoying the turbo because the new position transmitted what little power I can generate to the rear wheel without me rocking about or gnashing in pain. Simple stuff maybe, but clever. It’s the difference between owning a hammer and knowing what to hit with it**

A quick 90 minutes on the road bike the next day was significantly more pleasant than I remember with none of the shoulder and back aches normally associated with the black stuff. The proof will be on longer rides and only if I keep up the seemingly easy but actually bloody difficult exercises Andy set me. And modify Wog the Wibbler to the same dimensions, currently it’s a million miles away which may explain why riding that one wasn’t always that comfortable either.

It’s a great setup Andy has and well worth the money if you want to ride longer and harder. Put me in mind of the session I did with Tony last year; for the price of a wheel, you get something that makes a real and long lasting difference for your riding. It doesn’t translate so well to MTBs, which doesn’t in any way explain why I still had a hankering for this hanging on Andy’s wall!

* not that I’ve been to the dentist for three years. Teeth haven’t fallen out yet. Are dentures expensive tho?

** In my case of course, that’s “everything”

The Ami Bios Paradox

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography3 Comments

Oh the irony

This was my PCs response to the remarkable conceit that – after 1000 posts and nearly six years – the time has come for a vanity self publishing project. I can sense that my readership (the time-rich, the dribbling, the family members, the hanging-in-there-it-might-be-funny, a small but valued crowd) are almost as excited as I at the prospect of new ways for the Hedgehog to spam his shit*. More on this soon. Obviously. I mean I know I’m interested.

Back when computers were maintained by ex-TV repair men steeped in the secret lore of the Soldering Iron, this sort of thing used to happen all the time. Much to the amusement of the latter day Luddites quipping “Does it need a starting handle” and “Can you get the football on that”. Difficult and dark days for us Pen Protector Brethren. But while we may have lost the battle, we won the war – see those good friends of mine in the vanguard of personal computing? Look at them now. All working in IT. H’mm.

In 2011 tho, that message is bloody stupid. Operating systems and clever hardware gubbins take care of all the old problems. Of course they do, otherwise what we’d be looking at in fifteen years of constant revolution would be a few nice screen drivers covering up loads of shitty hardware. Nobody would buy into that, surely.

Before I lost the keyboard, my will to live had already declared itself mostly expired. Excel handed me a jaunty rotating orb, no autosave and the prospect of recreating the last hours grind.In frustration, I may have gently tapped the keyboard to non-violently show my displeasure. At which point it stopped working. Only not quite, with occasional random key presses illiciting contrary beeps from deep inside the PC case.

The mouse was also partially crippled. Wanging it about in the approved manner generated nothing on screen until – in a sudden rush – mouse poo trails would be etched onto the screen and applications were mysteriously opening and closing. Considering demon possession the culprit, I was on the cusp of an axe based exorcism when a tiny inner voice** wondered if it might not be better to research the problem before the firing up the killfile.

I find this is a known problem. And not just because I know about it and have shouted “the bloody keyboard’s knackered” at a chicken who was largely indifferent to my plight. This makes it absolutely on message with the rest of the family when faced with my mindless ranting. The Internet on the now non broken Mac explained that the wireless keyboard communicated with the receiver using a secure link, and may need resetting.

Sorry? Secure Link? For a keyboard? Who is going to intercept my messages? Frankly if I see that chicken wearing a headset and taking notes, I’ve got far bigger problems than broken technology. Someone in marketing has clearly been involved here “yeah well we can sell it for more cash if we go for the ego-message and tell them they’re all really important so need secure comms”. Dilbert-Esque.

The resolution was to press a combination of keys designed for a man with four hands and a spare nose. I tried it, nada. Then it became apparent additional software was required. Which I couldn’t download as I had no keyboard. So I mailed it from another machine. But Outlook wouldn’t let me open it without a verification code. Which I couldn’t type in. Because – and I think you know what’s coming – I HAD NO SODDING KEYBOARD.

Out of options I went for the nuclear reboot. And you can see what happened. What you can’t see is me motoring off to Ross to borrow a spare keyboard from a friendly sysadmin, and returning with a murderous glint in my eye “you’ve got one chance PC, see that keyboard in my left hand? That’s your chance. See this axe in my right hand? That’s the consequence of playing hardball”It crumbled under the very real threat of hardware evisceration.

Triumphantly logging back into Windows, my analytical and honed mind fashioned a sequence of idiot-proof testing involving pushing of buttons, removal of batteries, scratching of head, flipping of leads and loading of drivers which fixed absolutely nothing. It was then the realisation struck that the last 20 minutes of extreme troubleshooting would have been more effective had I remembered the plug the keyboard receiver back in.

It was so nearly the axe then. But no, after a further year or so of my fading years and more blind alleys than a Microsoft Mobility Presentation*** success was a non flatulent keyboard, a mouse without St. Vitus Dance and barely any noticeable percussive damage to expensive technical items.

The way things are going thought, it’s hard to see how this can be a stable state of affairs. I’ve not put the axe back in the shed yet. But I have sharpened it.

* this is a marketing term. Not a medical condition. I know about marketing now. I’ve read a book. And renamed my home office to “The Evil Marketing Shed“. Everything else you’ve heard about marketing is fluff – all I’m missing are some braces, a breath spray and a personality bypass.

** The infinitely minute bit of Al marked “common sense”

*** I find IT “in jokes” work well to people not involved in IT. To be fair they don’t work that well for the rest of us.