Hangovers and headwinds

A simple question. Why is it in the midst of a glorious summer under a sun kissed sky and riding on baking tarmac does an unruly headwind whip out of the annoying cupboard and beast you on the way to work? This only happens when you’re hungover. Trust me, I’ve done extensive research and my liver has suffered enough to definitively prove the hypothesis.

Thursday night after a couple* of beers and the odd healthy Malboro light (the diet of the true athlete), I literally flew home surfing on a heady toxin of endorphins and Amstal. Come the morning, the meteorological phenomena laymanly known as that bastard headwind” was in full force pushing me backwards and reminding me of what I’d eaten the previous night.

Not even the introduction of a Bacon Sandwich and a pained expression stemmed the flow of wind. In fact, one could probably effectively argue it increased it. Hangovers you see, they fire up the wind generator and mock you in a temperate fashion.

* Note: this value has had the Dimension Transitional Wife Adjustment applied. Usually this ratio reduces the original value by a factor of 3. Therefore comments such as Yeah, I just had a quick one with the boys and hurried home” have clearly been modified by DTWA.

It’s dropped off!

It’s been an odd weekend “ not totally fulfilling nor entirely without incident but odd none the less.

Firstly “ and you may wish to imitate the sound of a one person’s ego trumpet being sounded here “ I managed to limp off that total mind fuck that is the log drop at Chicksands. It looks a bit like this.

For those of you who don’t ride bikes, think of the challenge as essentially riding off a small cliff with no ground visible whatsoever as you fly blindly into space. For those of you who do, I’ll just lightly bask in your adoration.

There are a few caveats though. Firstly it’s taken a year of non progression to get this far. June 26th 2005 was a date neon pinked in the ride diary as I conquered the qualifier for the log drop. Once you’ve done the large ladder (drop 5-6 feet, carry about 10-12 feet), you’re ready for the log.

Well not me obviously. Six more visits, six times it never looked likely. There’s one bigger obstacle that the log drop, and at this rate I’ll be 192 before attempting it based on this level of progression. Secondly I was talent compensated in terms of the bike. A kindly soul lent me a six inch travel full suspension sort of trail bike that a proper rider could launch off Jupiter and land smoothly in Milton Keynes.

And for most of the day it wasn’t really happening. This super sprung bike mirrored my normal chosen steed for Chicksands only in that had two wheels. It was longer and heavier which made for some quality nose first dives off the ladders. Big forks saved me but didn’t really give me much confidence nor did lending it to a mate who rode it off almost everything with consummate ease. So not the bike then. Like that was a surprise.

The run in to the drop is a fast downslope downgrading to almost flat before the log appears large in your focus and the rest of the world disappears. The phrase A leap of faith” could have been specifically coined for this drop. I’d never really tried it before “ oh I’d rolled up to the end and stared down into the abyss but at all times both hands were locked hard onto the brake levers. This time though when I took a sighter, I knew it’d have to go the next run or it’d have beaten me for the day. Maybe forever. Lots of my riding buddies, who I don’t think are beneficiaries from of my death in service insurance policies, repeatedly point out that there’s no reason I can’t ride this. Except that I’m shit scared of course “ I’m not sure they’ve taken that into account. I was twitching nervously, sweating from glands I’m sure don’t exist in any medical dictionary and breathing like Darth Vader having sex with a vacuum cleaner.

Top of the slope, clear my mind. And I mean clear, think of nothing at all, not technique, not consequences, just release the brakes and be a happy passenger cleared for take off. Half way down my brain rebelled and attempted to wrest control of the brake levers but by then it was far too late. Failing to stop at the edge is akin to falling off the edge of a waterfall. The first thing to hit the ground would be my head closely followed by an all body impact from a 40lb bike. That was even scarier than just “ as those who understand the nuances of such things riding off the fucker

I just rode off the fucker then. It was fine, no big deal, dunno why I’d made such a huge fuss about it. Certainly the seconds of silence between take off and landing were mildly perturbing but really there was no excuse for the emotional celebrations that followed. I threw the bike away and high fived complete strangers smug in the knowledge that I was now in the log drop club” and other people weren’t. Yes, I really am that shallow. No I don’t intend to do anything about it.

Riding off it looks like this for those with cahoonies the size of village show root vegetables. I was having it somewhat more medium verging on the small.

But to own” any drop (frankly I’ve never owned a drop, but I’ve rented a few on a good day), one has to survive three times at the scaffold of fear. Only then are you admitted to the club and can cheekily ignore it for a while on future visits claiming fork issues“, inappropriate tyres” or bad fish the previous evening“. But now it wasn’t messing with my head, it was just another thing I knew I could do. Not well, not that quickly and certainly lacking in any style, unless hanging on for dear life and gurning has come back into fashion, but serially and without too much fear.

A little faster, a little more committed and little further out before falling back to earth cushioned by my borrowed big springs changed my state to log ownee”. I’ve never been so proud “ no honestly.

Nobody cares though. All my friends did it ages ago, my wife and kids don’t understand it and “ rightfully “ care even less as long as I’m back in one piece and even my ego shudders against the prospect of shouting it from the rooftops of an Internet forum.

I tell you what though, it sure beats hell out of putting up fence posts. I should know, that’s my reward for playing silly buggers yesterday.

Other Rants.

There have been a few articles in the papers lately regarding Cyclists abusing the highway code, an increase in road deaths and a possible link between the two. Rather than waste my own energy rubbishing this nonsense, I’ll leave it to a couple of fellow ranters who do it rather better.
First Bez makes Nigel Havers look rather silly.
Oh, good grief. Look what happens when you mix Nigel Havers with erstwhile fanzine of middle-English bigotry, The Daily Mail. You’ve guessed it, Havers is on a roll this week clocking up as many column inches as he can, devoting each one to the usual blinkered crap about cyclists.Continuing the hypocrisy set by his earlier comments, Havers moans:

It was our greatest modern writer George Orwell who, in his 1941 essay on the English character, conjured up the evocative image of old maids cycling through the mist on their way to Communion¦

Gentility and modesty have been replaced by aggression and arrogance. Brimming with hostility, utterly indifferent to those around them, they appear to think they are above the law.

Of course, they” refers to cyclists, though anyone less retarded than Havers (a Teletubby, for instance) might note that it could equally – if not more equally, if Havers will pardon me briefly hijacking his Orwellian imagery bandwagon – refer to motorists, or indeed the public at large.

Havers is clearly having a bit of a blood pressure problem (well, it is for The Daily Mail after all – the poor readers can’t possibly read anything unless it’s bilious tripe, bless ˜em) – he continues,

Normal rules about red lights, pavements and one-way streets are treated as a matter of supreme indifference by this new army of Lycra-clad maniacs, whose every action demonstrates their contempt for pedestrians and motorists.

Let me paraphrase that: Normal rules about speed limits, mobile phones and parking restrictions are treated as a matter of supreme indifference by the incumbent army of tin-box-clad maniacs, whose every action demonstrates their contempt for pedestrians and cyclists. See how it works, Nigel? You can generalise about everyone. I’m sure you don’t abuse the speed limits and parking restrictions – although we all know about the mobile phone thing now.

When a cyclist bangs on the roof of my car or scrapes my mirror without even bothering to apologise, I sometimes wish for the good old days of Edwardian England, when young men would be sent to jail for swearing in the streets, causing a danger to the public or cycling without a light.

Oddly enough I’ve never had an experience when a cyclist bangs on the roof of my car or scrapes my mirror without even bothering to apologise.” Havers conjures up a ludicrous image of a cyclist riding through the streets, wilfully hammering away at cars for no reason; but then there’s the rub: Motorists who get their cars hit by cyclists believe these things happen for no reason, and that’s because they have either just nearly mown down someone they didn’t even see, or they simply believe that nearly mowing people down is perfectly within their rights (they – allegedly – pay more tax, goddam it, it must buy them something).

And oddly enough, rear cycle lights weren’t always compulsory (the reason being that it was the responsibilty of the faster vehicle to sufficiently illuminate its way ahead) – I can’t seem to find when this legislation was introduced, but it might make an interesting point – not that Havers will give a toss about the facts getting in the way of a good gobshite.

Havers really flails wildly in his ranting, pulling in seemingly random generalisations, assumptions, suppositions and pretty much anything he can to spit blood about anyone on two wheels.

They probably go on regular cheap flights overseas to hip new locations in eastern Europe or Africa, feeling very good about themselves as their planes emit huge clouds of noxious gases.

They do not bother to question whether their garish Lycra garments were made by children in the Third World, or, indeed, whether their bicycle was manufactured in some exploitative, low-wage factory in China.

Now come on, Nigel, let’s see your air travel schedule and compare it to mine; let’s see where all the bits of your car were made. Have you really gone and checked out the working conditions in the cycle factories in Taiwan? Of course you haven’t. Do you really buy your clothes from firms such as Howies? Of course you don’t. No-one buys all their stuff from unimpeachable sources even if there are any. But there you go, it just wouldn’t be Daily Mail to take look in the mirror (pun not intended) now and again, would it?

And after this rather splendid spleen vent, it seems an appropriate moment to let Nick let rip at the latest oh so simple solution to the Death to all cyclists campaign supported by almost everyone in London.

The Times Online today reported that cycling deaths are on the rise. Partly this is a result of more commuters taking to their bikes in London.I can’t agree with this simplistic response from Brake:

Mary Williams, Brake’s chief executive, said: It is no surprise that cyclists, one of the most vulnerable groups of road users, are dying in increasing numbers. Britain’s roads are still plagued by speeding drivers, as well as law-breaking uninsured, unlicensed, drunk and drugged drivers.”

It’s that kind of obsession with speed instead of educating car drivers about the needs of other road users that achieves nothing. Cars infringing into my local cycle lanes mostly do it at a crawl, well under 10mph. I’d put money on none of them being drugged or drunk either.

This childish thinking has led to a policy of enforcement, enforcement, enforcement” instead of enforcement, education and engineering”

We cyclists are the ones who pay the price for that shortsightedness.

Both top fellas who write interesting, well researched and sometimes downright funny stuff. Check them out.

Proper RLJ’ing

Last week I ran a red light. No change there except this time there was a train coming. I have to cross the little commuter line on the way to the station and if the barriers are down when I get there, there’s little chance I’ll make my train because I’m late.

I didn’t want to miss the train and it was only when I’d decided to stupidly ignore the flashing red lights and was sprinting for the other side that the barriers started to drop. It was about this time that I saw the train hurtling towards me in the not so far distance. I sashayed between the dropping barriers in full view of the now ooooh that’s really quite close” speeding train and popped out the far side with a heart pumping at 200 beats per minute.

I’ll not be doing that again. A wheel dropping into the track is the stuff of nightmares. I should know I’ve been having them.

Someone one said better 30 minutes late to the office than 30 years early for the next life”. He was talking sense.

How did that happen?

Apparently, I’ve bought another bike frame.

So the phoney war for the Tool Wall is nearly at an end. My workbench is strewn with expensive cycling trinkets and the smell of fear pervades the current two wheeled incumbents, one of which is destined for its’ final journey in a bike box, via EBay or possibly a skip.

I expect Carol to perform a Rooney like injury on my testicles when she finds out. Actually I’ve already told here and even if I hadn’t, the sight of our long suffering postie sweating under yet another box of bike bling would probably have tipped her off.

All I’m missing is the frame. This is currently languishing at one of ParcelFarce’s warehouses, probably stacked neatly under a couple of cars. Assuming delivery happens before I’m too ancient to ride, a picture shall likely follow. Of the bike you understand, not anything bruised in the nether regions.

This is skipping over the possibility that nothing goes wrong with the build. I’m confident tho “ the headset hammer of doom is positioned ready for action, and the tool wall houses all manner of tools for reducing expensive bicycle components to rather less valuable swarf. I mean with my reputation, what could go wrong?

I’m going to write something about our football team’s ignoble exit from the World cup but the memory is too fresh and too painful. Sorry, the hangover, that’s the really painful bit.

Management Bullshit

This is a fantastically useful website for any of you poor fools who’ve been beached on the sanity barren corporate sandbank. You know who you are – you’re those who’d swapped changing the world for a barely concealed fist of death when confronted by such bollocks as:

However, developing operational and conceptual learning must work within parameters which address the need for strategic decision-making oriented to market growth vectors. ”

/Waves again.

If you can’t beat them (to death) join them.

I’ll wager a small prize for anyone who straight faces three hits in a single meeting. If you get fired, I’ll double the prize; if you get promoted, except violence.

I’m not going to play. The place I work it’d be “to your left a barrel of fish, to your right, a rifle”. Although the next arsehole who feels the urge “to de-risk the event horizon” will be feeling the flat of my hand.

Commuting Viagra.

It’s been a while since I’ve allowed myself a proper rant at Chiltern Railways. This isn’t because the perilous and difficult journey from South Bucks to London has in any way improved “ it’s more about a level of resignation that’s been beaten into me through a year of commuting. But today they pushed me over the edge.

Although to properly stretch that metaphor, you should think of it as being fired into the abyss by cannon. The root of my discontent is not the new platform built so far away from the station that one should be provisioned with sandwiches to fortify you on the journey. Amazing as it is, they still categorise this distant outpost as part of Marylebone station although a more geographically accurate description would be South Hampstead” The truly awful consequence of siting the platform in the next borough, is the unedifying sight of fat people struggling up the miles of asphalt – wobbly bits to the fore.

But that’s not the reason I was lemming fired into the ranting chasm. Nor was it Chiltern Railway’s total inability to communicate with their customers. They have acted consistently whenever presented with one of my written missives pleading for some rationale to explain their random decision making when it comes to timetables, bike racks and other myriad areas of Mandelbrot policy.

They’ve ignored them all.

I’ve been forced to complain to a ˜higher authority’ although my route there was plotted through terrifying thickets of ear steaming angst on rail forums. Some of the folk on there, as our American friends would label it, have ˜issues‘. I prefer to think of them as barking mad and in need of stronger medication.

Although I’m irritated beyond what’s sensible by their apathy is strategy approach to customer relations, that didn’t fire up my inner grumpy either. Even when the other day when the first train never arrived and the second one had hardly left before stopping to admire the leafy London suburbs, I couldn’t even dignify that as blog food. Once it started to move again, it did so with all the speed of glacial erosion “ still my boredom was forestalled by the educational delight of the entire Jurassic age passing by the window.

The reason for my rant was the simple announcement that This train is for London Marylebone“. No it bloody isn’t, that’s just an aspirational vision foundering on the rocks of we really don’t care “ an approach which abandoned us at Harrow. No reason was given although I’ve not ruled out a possible lightening strike brought on by a dispute over Bacon Buttie rations.

The undignified push and shunt onto a passing tube seemed like a possible solution but I’d happily forgotten that these wheeled cigars only give an appearance of speed through noise, vibration and the nervous worry that at any point, the tube would career off the rails. Time based reality distils the truth as a ten mile journey spanned thirty minutes and joggers of immense antiquity passed us with hardly a sweat.

Some bloke modelling June’s Mr. Motorway HiViz Maintenance” had the temerity to attempt to wrest further funds from my good self in exchange for an Underground ticket. Once I’d informed him that, as far as I was concerned, You’re all part of F*ckwit central stained with the inability to run a railroad“, further conversation deterioration left me with no choice but to out this bon jot Even in the remotest inbred village, you would disgrace the rank of idiot“. I’ve been saving that one for a while.

We agreed to differ and, vibrating sideways with righteous anger, I strode onto the Marylebone concourse (had to fetch the bike) only to see happy little trains running in and out of the station.

I’m starting to think this is personal now.

Still at least I can claim compensation. In this digital age, form filling should be a rather simple electronic page or, at worst, a quick email. But not this is Chiltern Railways motto: Fares from 2015, Systems from 1915” “ so it’s no surprise that it’s some kind of super complex four page form with carbon paper.

Oh the cruel irony “ we know they never respond to any communication that doesn’t involve the size of their bonus cheques, so what do you think the chances of me receiving anything back other than letterbox inadequacy? The form is pretty funny though, I’ll fill you in when I fill it in. Makes you think doesn’t it? Email travels at 30,000 miles per hour yet Chiltern Railway’s administration barely matches the speed of their trains. It’d be quicker to transcribe it on a stone tablet and dispatch it by camel.

I’m feeling increasingly impotent and while the blog is therapy of sorts, I need some kind of commuting Viagra. A man on the inside, a hotline to someone who cares, a targeted thermonuclear strike, that kind of thing.

A kindred spirit

My friend Nigel who has a similar amount of patience but a little more mechanical skill than yours truly. He sent me an innovative way to powertool (yes it is a verb and if it isn’t, it damn well should be) around, or more accurately, through a problem.

“Race Face turbine cranks arrived on Saturday very nice and shiny. Whipped off the old rings, shove on the luuurrvely new Blackspire 38T downhill ring (Rohloff see). Would it fit on? Would it feck – so it’s a 5 bolt compact chainring to fix a 5 bolt crankset… hmm, bl00dy holes wouldn’t line up.

Suffering sense of humour failure by this time I barely managed to restrain myself from flinging the chainring round the garden in case I should happen to accidently decapitate one of my neighbours having breakfast next door.

Time to raid the beer fridge instead.

So, off to Blackspire website to see whether I’m supposed to be using a different kind of chainring. Find another chainring size 38T singlespeed-specific only (38 – aye that’s proper singlespeeding that it) available in good old US of A. That’ll be $67 to blighty then – bollox.

Head downstairs decide to do what I probably should have done in first place, line up old big ring against my new one to see if they’re different.

Holes line up perfectly but the beer has cleared my head and I can see that on the old ring the mounting point round the holes are nicely rounded where they meet the cranks on either side, on the Blackspire they’re as square as a square thing. Mmm.. how to file a bit of chainring – hacksaw is way too much work. Divine inspiration came to me in the form of a power tool last used 4 years ago to encourage the new oven to fit in the place where it was supposed to fit. Yay, angle grinder, time to wake the neighbours up!

5 minutes later.. I wonder if the Health and Safety inspectorate would approve of my improvised bench vise – chainring on edge of doorstep left foot holding it down with the angle grinder spinning away like a mad thing a few millimeters away. I guess not but I still have a foot attached to each leg and best of all a chainring that fits. What’s more I proved my theory that a 5 bolt chainset would give a more consistent chain tension at all parts of the crank turn (that weirdy EBB thing again).

Celebrated by riding it to Hyde Park, getting blind drunk and riding back again. Rohloff in traffic is absolutely marvellous. Arrive at traffic lights, oops forgotten to change gear oh well…”

You see, it’s what I’ve always secretly known. Most problems – and I’m thinking big here, consider the positive implications of the aggressive wielding of an anglegrinder during EU budget debates – can be solved by the dual application of nature’s medicine and inappropriately brandished power tools.

Bristol Bikefest. Ow, Ow, Ow.

On your right please mate, whenever you’re ready“. Oh I was ready alright, ready to lie down in the cool embrace of the leafy wood and wait to be stretchered out or abandoned as a rotting corpse, whichever came first. Either were preferable to actually riding another lap, or come to that another corner.

Having not ridden my hardtail for more than two hours at a stretch and almost never ridden for six hours in a day, my piss poor performance hardly merits an entry. But being crap wasn’t what really bothered me, it’s the whole endurance” scene man “ I’m more you Enjoyence rider; couple of laps, have a few goes at the good bits, retire to the bar and point aggressively at those zero fat body Nazi’s tightly wrapped in billboard lycra.

It hadn’t started badly. Having feasted on a balanced carbo load of fish AND chips washed down with a couple of fizzy lagers, the prospect of spending any longer in a waist high field of blowing pollen drove us out to do a lap. Since this was the night before the race, the track was all ours which considering our pedestrian pace was no bad thing. At 8k, the course is short enough to be tackled with vigour, but varied enough to suspend tedium on multiple laps. Rocky and rooty sections linked buff singletrack and height was gained on a couple of easy climbs. Super quick on a hardtail if you had the strength to manual over obstacles and stand tall when the trail added gradient and undulation. Big grins at the end of the lap, we felt pretty good for the race tomorrow. But that probably was the post lap beers talking.

Continue reading “Bristol Bikefest. Ow, Ow, Ow.”

Burnt at one end, reamed at the other..

The Bristol BikeFest was a fantastic event. If you like that kind of thing. Which I really don’t. I’ll download the entire theorapy session later but – and this is the last time – I’d yet again failed to detect the subtle nuance between Endurance Racing and Enjoyment Riding.

The bike was great. The course was fantastic. The weather was hot. The beer was most welcome. I hated it after about 3 hours.

Oh and waist high grass, a strong breeze and a hayfever sufferer make not a happy trio.