It is, of course, traditional and wholly natural to whinge, moan and generally grumble about someone else's carefully thought through Sunday ride route. Rides just wouldn't be the same without a constant chorus of moans, grumbles and "better" alternative suggestions when some poor soul has spent the greater part of the previous night poring over a map in search of new tracks or even just new ways of linking the old ones together. Its a thankless task.
However. Good natured piss taking aside, every now and then there comes a ride which thoroughly deserves a slagging off and today's was just such a route. It was so bad I can't even bring myself to bore you with the exact details except to say that Blaze Hill, Pym Chair, The Goyt Valley climb to Derbyshire Bridge and the Cat and Fiddle all featured. By the time we arrived at the Cat and Fiddle in horizontal stinging sleet and minus a lot wind chill my morale was shot, my spirit broken and my toes were knocking inside my boots like frozen sausages in a spin dryer.
Misery, Misery, Misery, Misery, Misery.
Descending the Cat at over 40mph with an epic tail wind helped revive my spirits - not least at the thought of the majority of the group slogging head down straight into the stinging hale and biting head wind of the Cat and Fiddle bridle path en oute to Cumberland Clough and Macc Forest. The Cat was great fun till the first hairpin corner; the wind was so strong it was almost impossible to get the bike to turn-in across the wind without sliding and several of us ended up on the opposite side of the road. It took about 15 minutes from the Cat and Fiddle to the Chilli Jam Cafe - some indication of the strength of the wind assistance. I even made it back in time for the breakfast menu, but Virgil and Snowy didn't and seemed to spend an awfully long time loading The Brokeback Mountain-mobile... perhaps the blacked out windows made it difficult to see what they were doing inside?
David Cameron summed it up well when he said he realised the groups were getting bigger but hadn't appreciated until today that we had an active policy of trying to put people off riding with us.
Ride high lights? Seeing a very large Hare on the Pym Chair climb. Seeing Bingo develop a full-on sense of humour failure. Seeing Little Big Bird a. In the distance and b. Keeping on going without a word of complaint (Is there somethng wrong with you lad?) Getting back to Bollington before going blue and getting a bollocking from a Red Shirt at the Errwood Hall car park. How exactly does he think Lord and Lady In-bred got to and from their stately pile? Does he suppose they left the coach and four at the main road and walked up through the mud and shite? Did they bollocks. They got the horse to take them all the way to the front door and they probably got there by coming down the rutted track from the Cat and Fiddle/Shimmering Tor that meets up with the surfaced trail on the Cat side of the Hall.
With such small minded, prejudiced attitudes to cycling its no wonder so many mountain bikers just use common sense and ride where they want to, and with so much choice on such a shite day for the walking fraternity, why exactly did we spend so much time on the road?
As a recently much criticised man-with-a-map myself I should really take a sympathetic tack and be much more understanding and empathetic to Kev's position, but then, we are the Nancy Boys after all and I'm not ready to drive a Brokeback Mountain Mobile just yet.
Nice step, by the way Virgil. Was that an official Jeep accessory or have you accessorized it yourself?
Sunday, 3 February 2008
Monday, 3 September 2007
Alternative Entertainment
There's something remarkably liberating about cycling. Not in the obvious road-movie freedom life on the open road sort of way; the roads are far too dangerous for that and any 1950's rose tinted Enid Blighton tea and cucumber sandwiches with lashings of ginger beer illusion of freedom is likely to end under a Scania. No, its a different form of freedom all together; a freedom from expectation; a freedom from other people's (and here I really mean non-cyclists) expectations of you as a cyclist and, specifically, a mountain biker.
In our motorised world, bikes are either for Meanys, Greenys or those that just haven't quite grown up yet (That'll be me then, and probably you too). Perhaps its because a bike is most people's first experience of personal transport that bikes and bikers seem to be seen as childish things. The stereotypical image of the boy and his bike and the fact that mountain biking's like an extended "dirt is good" Persil ad for overgrown kids who think fast is fun, all reinforce the notion of our sport as pointless, frivolous, foolish and childish; just an activity for mud loving adrenalin junkies.
And lets be honest, the clothing doesn't help; much of its all a bit too grunge yoof surf skate snow board for any self respecting 30 or 40 something to get away with without being either terribly self conscious, or just choosing to forget quite how ridiculous the average slightly overweight middle aged man looks in their Max Wall winter attire of thermal Lycra leggings and winter boots...
If you don't believe me, next time you're out riding and you stop at a cafe or the pub, just take time to notice how the non-cyclists stare at you in open mouthed disbelief for some considerable time after you come in... but don't try this in Leek - they stare at any strangers there, regardless of dress sense.
But this is "A Good Thing" (Not the open mouthed staring in Leek, obviously, that gets a bit tedious after a while; they're just unused to seeing people they're not related to) because now that you're expected to behave like a childish arse, you can and no-one will be disappointed in you; its what they expect.
Now, although I'm fortunate to live on the edge of the Peak District and can ride out from home into stunning countryside and arguably some of England's best riding, I and The White Nancy Boys do, periodically, whinge about doing the same old stuff (Anybody reading this in London and scoffing can get stuffed; if you don't like it, move... but you'll still get bored, eventually, you just won't have to spend all the time you could be riding commuting).
So a few years ago we came up with an alternative approach to riding to add some variety to our riding calendar.
First on the agenda was a Christmas Do - a lavish affair with drinks at The Poachers and curry for 20 plus in the Viceroy followed by the Annual White Nancy Boys Awards Ceremony complete with powerpoint, videos and weird, wacky and down right insulting awards. Nobby still treasures his Beaver on a Plate (it made a beaver noise when you pressed its back and was beautifully mounted... with superglue... on a large, gold plastic plate from TJ Hughes. Class, but Mrs Nobby was never quite so sure...), the Baron loves his gold plated trenching shovel (he's 65; we bought it so when he eventually kicks the bucket we can bury him in a shallow grave and it won't spoil our ride) and I love my Sheriff's Rusty Badge and Crash Test Dummy. Enough Said.
The fact that any foolish behaviour, crashes, crimes and misdemeanors throughout the year will be making a reappearance at Christmas, often on video, just adds a little extra frisson to group rides and keeps us all on our toes.
Naturally, we all have nicknames (The Baron, Big Ring, Flakey, Billy No Mates, Pudding, David Cameron, Harrison Ford, Easter Island 'Ed, Axel, Rolf, Token Toff, Bingo, Big Bird, Little Big Bird, Patsy, Frosty, Nobby etc etc etc) and when someone new rides with us take great delight in waiting for a suitable moment of weakness to find something fitting. Pudding, for example, was once foolish enough to mention that when she was little she used to tell her parents that her lunch box was full but her pudding box was empty. Pudding she is. Another individual was proving tricky; he only rode with us a few times and we'd been discussing possible names for him but nothing seemed right until, right at the end of the ride, he attempted to negotiate an obviously very deep and rocky river ford whilst we more experienced hands watched smugly from the adjacent bridge. He got no more than six feet from the bank before endoing spectacularly and publicly into very deep water... hence Harrison Ford.
Humour is, for many of us, the life blood of riding and the social scene that goes with biking a massive part of its appeal. Given that the mere act of throwing your leg over a bike means people expect you to be childish just gives you free rein to be so...
Between Christmas and New Year we have a fancy dress ride(different theme each year but one year you could have ridden alongside Hitler, Mussolini, Yasser Arafat and Aladdin (for some reason) - all on the same ride, and last year I made a particularly convincing Father Christmas with reindeer, elves and helpers. The Christmas Fancy Dress Karaoke is also a well supported and popular event; you haven't really lived until you've seen a pissed Superman, Batman, Incredible Hulk and James Bond singing Johny Cash's Ring of Fire with great gusto (i.e. badly) to an underwhelmed pub.
Then we have an Easter "Resurrection Ride" (our original fancy dress ideas for this one had to be toned down a bit to avoid being too offensive and besides, no-one wanted to carry the cross), a Druids Ride on the Summer solstice complete with (off)white bed sheets, pub crawl and curry, a summer BBQ and this year for the first time we'll probably be having a Halloween Ride and pub crawl. Notice a bit of a theme developing?
Freed of the expectation to be sensible and mature, we aren't. You shouldn't either; it doesn't always have to be a race and you'll enjoy your riding all the more for it.
In our motorised world, bikes are either for Meanys, Greenys or those that just haven't quite grown up yet (That'll be me then, and probably you too). Perhaps its because a bike is most people's first experience of personal transport that bikes and bikers seem to be seen as childish things. The stereotypical image of the boy and his bike and the fact that mountain biking's like an extended "dirt is good" Persil ad for overgrown kids who think fast is fun, all reinforce the notion of our sport as pointless, frivolous, foolish and childish; just an activity for mud loving adrenalin junkies.
And lets be honest, the clothing doesn't help; much of its all a bit too grunge yoof surf skate snow board for any self respecting 30 or 40 something to get away with without being either terribly self conscious, or just choosing to forget quite how ridiculous the average slightly overweight middle aged man looks in their Max Wall winter attire of thermal Lycra leggings and winter boots...
If you don't believe me, next time you're out riding and you stop at a cafe or the pub, just take time to notice how the non-cyclists stare at you in open mouthed disbelief for some considerable time after you come in... but don't try this in Leek - they stare at any strangers there, regardless of dress sense.
But this is "A Good Thing" (Not the open mouthed staring in Leek, obviously, that gets a bit tedious after a while; they're just unused to seeing people they're not related to) because now that you're expected to behave like a childish arse, you can and no-one will be disappointed in you; its what they expect.
Now, although I'm fortunate to live on the edge of the Peak District and can ride out from home into stunning countryside and arguably some of England's best riding, I and The White Nancy Boys do, periodically, whinge about doing the same old stuff (Anybody reading this in London and scoffing can get stuffed; if you don't like it, move... but you'll still get bored, eventually, you just won't have to spend all the time you could be riding commuting).
So a few years ago we came up with an alternative approach to riding to add some variety to our riding calendar.
First on the agenda was a Christmas Do - a lavish affair with drinks at The Poachers and curry for 20 plus in the Viceroy followed by the Annual White Nancy Boys Awards Ceremony complete with powerpoint, videos and weird, wacky and down right insulting awards. Nobby still treasures his Beaver on a Plate (it made a beaver noise when you pressed its back and was beautifully mounted... with superglue... on a large, gold plastic plate from TJ Hughes. Class, but Mrs Nobby was never quite so sure...), the Baron loves his gold plated trenching shovel (he's 65; we bought it so when he eventually kicks the bucket we can bury him in a shallow grave and it won't spoil our ride) and I love my Sheriff's Rusty Badge and Crash Test Dummy. Enough Said.
The fact that any foolish behaviour, crashes, crimes and misdemeanors throughout the year will be making a reappearance at Christmas, often on video, just adds a little extra frisson to group rides and keeps us all on our toes.
Naturally, we all have nicknames (The Baron, Big Ring, Flakey, Billy No Mates, Pudding, David Cameron, Harrison Ford, Easter Island 'Ed, Axel, Rolf, Token Toff, Bingo, Big Bird, Little Big Bird, Patsy, Frosty, Nobby etc etc etc) and when someone new rides with us take great delight in waiting for a suitable moment of weakness to find something fitting. Pudding, for example, was once foolish enough to mention that when she was little she used to tell her parents that her lunch box was full but her pudding box was empty. Pudding she is. Another individual was proving tricky; he only rode with us a few times and we'd been discussing possible names for him but nothing seemed right until, right at the end of the ride, he attempted to negotiate an obviously very deep and rocky river ford whilst we more experienced hands watched smugly from the adjacent bridge. He got no more than six feet from the bank before endoing spectacularly and publicly into very deep water... hence Harrison Ford.
Humour is, for many of us, the life blood of riding and the social scene that goes with biking a massive part of its appeal. Given that the mere act of throwing your leg over a bike means people expect you to be childish just gives you free rein to be so...
Between Christmas and New Year we have a fancy dress ride(different theme each year but one year you could have ridden alongside Hitler, Mussolini, Yasser Arafat and Aladdin (for some reason) - all on the same ride, and last year I made a particularly convincing Father Christmas with reindeer, elves and helpers. The Christmas Fancy Dress Karaoke is also a well supported and popular event; you haven't really lived until you've seen a pissed Superman, Batman, Incredible Hulk and James Bond singing Johny Cash's Ring of Fire with great gusto (i.e. badly) to an underwhelmed pub.
Then we have an Easter "Resurrection Ride" (our original fancy dress ideas for this one had to be toned down a bit to avoid being too offensive and besides, no-one wanted to carry the cross), a Druids Ride on the Summer solstice complete with (off)white bed sheets, pub crawl and curry, a summer BBQ and this year for the first time we'll probably be having a Halloween Ride and pub crawl. Notice a bit of a theme developing?
Freed of the expectation to be sensible and mature, we aren't. You shouldn't either; it doesn't always have to be a race and you'll enjoy your riding all the more for it.
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
No, seriously, thanks Andy
How is it possible to go from feeling as fit as a fiddle (albeit a somewhat double-bass shaped one) to fit for nothing in just four days?
Thursday's night ride felt great; I set off with bags of energy and felt really strong pretty much all the way round, feeling only slightly fazed by Flaky's new found fitness on one short road stretch.
Sunday's marathon Peak perambulation was the flip side. OK, so I decided to wear knee pads for the first time in ages. I thought as we're off to Les Gets in just two weeks it might be a good idea to get used to riding with them and as Nobby is now auditioning for a role in the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie, I wouldn't be the only one to look an arse.
OK, more of an arse.
I think when we're talking about overweight, middle aged men in Lycra there's already quite a high starting point where looking an arse is concerned. Dressing up like a muddy Star Wars extra doesn't exactly exacerbate the problem too much.
Aesthetic considerations aside, I felt absolutely dead from the first climb onwards. They shouldn't make that much difference, surely? Should they?
Now the other teeny weeny little detail point that might have a bearing on all this is my front brake. On Saturday night I spent a good ninety minutes changing the pads. That was 5 minutes removing the old wafer thin pads and binning them, 20 minutes using two screwdrivers, a pair of long nose pliers and an adjustable spanner to try to lever the pistons out, 55 minutes of first aid and ten minutes trying to hammer the wheel in. Given that the wheel would then only "spin" for one revolution even with the heartiest of efforts I then spent a further 20 minutes rummaging through the bin trying to find the old pads "just in case".
Perhaps a new definition of an optimist might be one who forlornly hopes that 30 minutes of climbing uphill with binding disk brakes is going to "free them off". No chance. And nor is riding downhill for 10 minutes followed by a further 20 or more of rolling trail.
By the time the pads were replaced I was absolutely cabbaged and it was fortunate that we only had all of the major climbs of the ride left to do (Mount Famine, Rushup Edge, Jacobs Ladder) and that the conditions were so completely, perfectly, dry, hot and muggy and that I was wearing "protection" for the first time in ages.
Now at this point, I have a confession to make. I had already been cursing Andy, the route leader, for the majority of the ride (it's traditional) so when his rear derailleur hanger broke shortly after he rode past me (walking, naturally) on Jacobs Ladder I was secretly overjoyed on lots of levels, but principally because it meant a bloody great rest whilst everyone dicked around with it and tried to get him mobile. As I staggered, slowly, to the summit of Jacobs Ladder (Edale Cross?) looking like a confused extra from Beau Geste and ignoring the taunts of the flip flop clad morons on foot, I knew that at the top I would be greeted by the impatient elite of our B team and that for once it would not be me that was holding them up.
There's a certain pleasure in that.
The descent back was fast, frightening and incredibly rocky but fortunately incident free.
All that remained was for Shrunken Monkey Head to split the group by impatiently leading off in the wrong direction forcing Nobby and I to escort him back to the car. We could have left him to it and gone back to join the others but we decided to do the decent thing; he's not safe out on his own and it would have been irresponsible to let him come into contact with members of the public unescorted.
Arriving at the cafe in time for Nobby and I to nab the remaining bacon and sausage was the icing on the cake and even though I didn't really fancy it, I knew that it would be worthwhile just to see the expressions on the other's faces when they turned up looking hungry.
Despite knee pads, brake pads and route, it was. Just.
I was even allowed to lie in the hammock in the garden clutching a bottle of sangria and reflecting on how pleased I am not to live in London when I got home. Perfect.
Thursday's night ride felt great; I set off with bags of energy and felt really strong pretty much all the way round, feeling only slightly fazed by Flaky's new found fitness on one short road stretch.
Sunday's marathon Peak perambulation was the flip side. OK, so I decided to wear knee pads for the first time in ages. I thought as we're off to Les Gets in just two weeks it might be a good idea to get used to riding with them and as Nobby is now auditioning for a role in the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie, I wouldn't be the only one to look an arse.
OK, more of an arse.
I think when we're talking about overweight, middle aged men in Lycra there's already quite a high starting point where looking an arse is concerned. Dressing up like a muddy Star Wars extra doesn't exactly exacerbate the problem too much.
Aesthetic considerations aside, I felt absolutely dead from the first climb onwards. They shouldn't make that much difference, surely? Should they?
Now the other teeny weeny little detail point that might have a bearing on all this is my front brake. On Saturday night I spent a good ninety minutes changing the pads. That was 5 minutes removing the old wafer thin pads and binning them, 20 minutes using two screwdrivers, a pair of long nose pliers and an adjustable spanner to try to lever the pistons out, 55 minutes of first aid and ten minutes trying to hammer the wheel in. Given that the wheel would then only "spin" for one revolution even with the heartiest of efforts I then spent a further 20 minutes rummaging through the bin trying to find the old pads "just in case".
Perhaps a new definition of an optimist might be one who forlornly hopes that 30 minutes of climbing uphill with binding disk brakes is going to "free them off". No chance. And nor is riding downhill for 10 minutes followed by a further 20 or more of rolling trail.
By the time the pads were replaced I was absolutely cabbaged and it was fortunate that we only had all of the major climbs of the ride left to do (Mount Famine, Rushup Edge, Jacobs Ladder) and that the conditions were so completely, perfectly, dry, hot and muggy and that I was wearing "protection" for the first time in ages.
Now at this point, I have a confession to make. I had already been cursing Andy, the route leader, for the majority of the ride (it's traditional) so when his rear derailleur hanger broke shortly after he rode past me (walking, naturally) on Jacobs Ladder I was secretly overjoyed on lots of levels, but principally because it meant a bloody great rest whilst everyone dicked around with it and tried to get him mobile. As I staggered, slowly, to the summit of Jacobs Ladder (Edale Cross?) looking like a confused extra from Beau Geste and ignoring the taunts of the flip flop clad morons on foot, I knew that at the top I would be greeted by the impatient elite of our B team and that for once it would not be me that was holding them up.
There's a certain pleasure in that.
The descent back was fast, frightening and incredibly rocky but fortunately incident free.
All that remained was for Shrunken Monkey Head to split the group by impatiently leading off in the wrong direction forcing Nobby and I to escort him back to the car. We could have left him to it and gone back to join the others but we decided to do the decent thing; he's not safe out on his own and it would have been irresponsible to let him come into contact with members of the public unescorted.
Arriving at the cafe in time for Nobby and I to nab the remaining bacon and sausage was the icing on the cake and even though I didn't really fancy it, I knew that it would be worthwhile just to see the expressions on the other's faces when they turned up looking hungry.
Despite knee pads, brake pads and route, it was. Just.
I was even allowed to lie in the hammock in the garden clutching a bottle of sangria and reflecting on how pleased I am not to live in London when I got home. Perfect.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Oh Dear, Oh Dear.
Of course, the real reason I'm pissed off about the hub/rattle issue is that I've just spent £50 on new front and rear 07 XT mechs in the hope that they would solve the dodgy shifting issue at the back end (clearly really caused by the wobbly block) and rattle at the front end (also clearly caused by the wobbly block). Both are now not needed - not yet anyway. Luckily they were a bargain saving of over £25 on rrp and will no doubt come into their own... eventually.
All I need now is a new rear tyre. As a Conti Vertical Pro UST is £35 at rrp, I had a quick peak at mtbr.com which is always an entertaining source of reviews/opinions from people that appear to ride in a completely different way to anyone mortal, live in perma sun, ride on hardpack and have probably never seen a puddle or wet root in their lives...
And I quote;
"The Vert Pro is useless. Running 25psi the tyre burps air over any drop over 3 feet and the sidewall shredded on sharp rocks." Erm.
Presumably this tosser weighs about 6 stone wet through cos if I so much as sit on my bike with only 25psi in the tyres the rim hits the road... and as for a 3 foot drop - let's just say it ain't gonna be a problem mate. Sharp rocks? Try putting some air in your tyres or just ride round 'em.
For the record, I've run tubeless for over 12 months now and have had minimal trouble. The bollox about being able to run low pressures is exactly that - bollox. The only time I can recall getting a puncture on a ride was when we rode the Shining Tor slabbed path before they finished it. I didn't check my pressures before the ride and the tyres were soft - the inevitable happened and the sidewall was trashed on a particularly sharp square edged slab. It was generously replaced under warranty...
With the correct pressures I haven't had a problem with pinch flats there or anywhere else since, but without gunk in them they do leak a little air over time. The front has a sealant in and hasn't had to be topped up for months, the rear hasn't and I top it up before every ride.
I reckon you can get away with about 5psi less than tubes which for me means about 35 to 40 psi. They definitely improve the performance of suspension at speed adding another level of compliance (less boinging about and rebound) and if I was fit and light enough to climb well I'm sure I could offer an opinion on that too.
Sadly I'm not.
I reckon once they're set up they're less grief than tubes, you get less punctures and they do improve ride and control - even for a bulldozer like me. Weight wise there's no real difference worth a damn.
Try 'em.
All I need now is a new rear tyre. As a Conti Vertical Pro UST is £35 at rrp, I had a quick peak at mtbr.com which is always an entertaining source of reviews/opinions from people that appear to ride in a completely different way to anyone mortal, live in perma sun, ride on hardpack and have probably never seen a puddle or wet root in their lives...
And I quote;
"The Vert Pro is useless. Running 25psi the tyre burps air over any drop over 3 feet and the sidewall shredded on sharp rocks." Erm.
Presumably this tosser weighs about 6 stone wet through cos if I so much as sit on my bike with only 25psi in the tyres the rim hits the road... and as for a 3 foot drop - let's just say it ain't gonna be a problem mate. Sharp rocks? Try putting some air in your tyres or just ride round 'em.
For the record, I've run tubeless for over 12 months now and have had minimal trouble. The bollox about being able to run low pressures is exactly that - bollox. The only time I can recall getting a puncture on a ride was when we rode the Shining Tor slabbed path before they finished it. I didn't check my pressures before the ride and the tyres were soft - the inevitable happened and the sidewall was trashed on a particularly sharp square edged slab. It was generously replaced under warranty...
With the correct pressures I haven't had a problem with pinch flats there or anywhere else since, but without gunk in them they do leak a little air over time. The front has a sealant in and hasn't had to be topped up for months, the rear hasn't and I top it up before every ride.
I reckon you can get away with about 5psi less than tubes which for me means about 35 to 40 psi. They definitely improve the performance of suspension at speed adding another level of compliance (less boinging about and rebound) and if I was fit and light enough to climb well I'm sure I could offer an opinion on that too.
Sadly I'm not.
I reckon once they're set up they're less grief than tubes, you get less punctures and they do improve ride and control - even for a bulldozer like me. Weight wise there's no real difference worth a damn.
Try 'em.
"It's been a cheap year for biking so far". Oh dear.
And with those foolish foolish words still hanging in the air as we climbed through the woods on the new Roaches ride, I was soon to discover the cause of the phantom rattling sound from the back end of my bike.
Before the ride was over I had discovered, with the Baron's help, that the cassette was incredibly loose on the freehub body and was the cause of the rattle - but it was only doing it when the chain was on the top three gears as it was the bottom end of the cassette that was loose. On top of this, the Chris Bling hub was starting to be a bit lazy on take up.
You can imagine the trepidation with which I removed the cassette (no damage to the freehub splines thank god) and then took the rest to our local friendly porsche owning bike shop for a diagnosis.
Anticipating a bill of epic proportions for a chris bling hub replacement, I sensibly waited till Fiona was away before approaching the shop. This had the benefit that the kids were running wild in the shop trashing everything so the staff were not exactly on the ball when it came to working out the cost. Somehow I managed to leave without paying a penny and was told that CK's warranty would cover it. Yippeee! The wobbly cassette was cured with the addition of the spacer ring I'd somehow managed to leave out. Oops.
Not so lucky at the counter was the grumpy roady whose titanium lightspeed road bike (apparently about £4k's worth and one of 3 he owns, all sorced from the US direct) had been brought in for some routine service work only for the nice mechanics to spot a truly horrendous crack all the way round the head tube/down tube area, so bad, even I could spot it. Apparently he'd been doing over 40mph on it the day before...
The friendly chaps at the counter pointed out that as the bike was purchased in the US it wasn't covered by a UK warranty. I'm not sure if "glee", "shardenfreude" or just general smug gittery is the right thing to describe what was going on, but you get the drift. Ouch.
As I left, the grumpy roady was on his mobile to the US whilst the helpful counter staff pointed out that it wasn't quite such a cheap bike now...
Before the ride was over I had discovered, with the Baron's help, that the cassette was incredibly loose on the freehub body and was the cause of the rattle - but it was only doing it when the chain was on the top three gears as it was the bottom end of the cassette that was loose. On top of this, the Chris Bling hub was starting to be a bit lazy on take up.
You can imagine the trepidation with which I removed the cassette (no damage to the freehub splines thank god) and then took the rest to our local friendly porsche owning bike shop for a diagnosis.
Anticipating a bill of epic proportions for a chris bling hub replacement, I sensibly waited till Fiona was away before approaching the shop. This had the benefit that the kids were running wild in the shop trashing everything so the staff were not exactly on the ball when it came to working out the cost. Somehow I managed to leave without paying a penny and was told that CK's warranty would cover it. Yippeee! The wobbly cassette was cured with the addition of the spacer ring I'd somehow managed to leave out. Oops.
Not so lucky at the counter was the grumpy roady whose titanium lightspeed road bike (apparently about £4k's worth and one of 3 he owns, all sorced from the US direct) had been brought in for some routine service work only for the nice mechanics to spot a truly horrendous crack all the way round the head tube/down tube area, so bad, even I could spot it. Apparently he'd been doing over 40mph on it the day before...
The friendly chaps at the counter pointed out that as the bike was purchased in the US it wasn't covered by a UK warranty. I'm not sure if "glee", "shardenfreude" or just general smug gittery is the right thing to describe what was going on, but you get the drift. Ouch.
As I left, the grumpy roady was on his mobile to the US whilst the helpful counter staff pointed out that it wasn't quite such a cheap bike now...
Monday, 21 May 2007
But why?
Avoidance of death or permanent mutilation is one thing, but its hardly what gets you out of bed early on a Sunday morning when there are such good alternatives;
1. A "lie-in". A polite euphemism for a sleepy Sunday morning exchange of bodily fluids followed by an argument about who lies on them and a further argument about who does the tea making
2. A lie-in. As above but without the humping or wet patch.
3. A stroll in the park. (Why?)
4. DIY . This can either be the sort that requires a trip to Wickes and hours of tedium whilst your partner stands over you telling you what's next on the list or the sort that Kev's into, but he can do that at any-time...
5. Playing NATO peacekeeper to the warring factions that are your children and all your neighbours children.
As most of us are either married or in long-term relationships, the chance of any kind of "lie-in" is slim given
a. Apathy,
b. Tiredness, and
c. The demands of the aforementioned warring factions.
In fact, given all of the above, realistically you'll get more peace, less nagging and more chance of a rest if you get up early and go biking for two-thirds of the day. And there's the added benefit of some banter with your mates, the chance that someone might fall off and injure themselves in a particularly gory or unusual way (that'll be me then) and the unique mountain biking combination of an adrenalin rush and great scenery.
Walking's all well and good, but it takes far too long for the view to change and somehow, even though you get longer to look at it on foot, it doesn't have the same visual impact it does at speed when it's rammed into your retina and every stolen glance could win a trip to A and E.
For me, there is only one other thing that could compete with the combination of adrenalin, speed, the scenery and having a good laugh, but neither Fiona nor Nell McAndrew are ever likely to agree to it, so for the forseeable future I'll be mountain biking.
1. A "lie-in". A polite euphemism for a sleepy Sunday morning exchange of bodily fluids followed by an argument about who lies on them and a further argument about who does the tea making
2. A lie-in. As above but without the humping or wet patch.
3. A stroll in the park. (Why?)
4. DIY . This can either be the sort that requires a trip to Wickes and hours of tedium whilst your partner stands over you telling you what's next on the list or the sort that Kev's into, but he can do that at any-time...
5. Playing NATO peacekeeper to the warring factions that are your children and all your neighbours children.
As most of us are either married or in long-term relationships, the chance of any kind of "lie-in" is slim given
a. Apathy,
b. Tiredness, and
c. The demands of the aforementioned warring factions.
In fact, given all of the above, realistically you'll get more peace, less nagging and more chance of a rest if you get up early and go biking for two-thirds of the day. And there's the added benefit of some banter with your mates, the chance that someone might fall off and injure themselves in a particularly gory or unusual way (that'll be me then) and the unique mountain biking combination of an adrenalin rush and great scenery.
Walking's all well and good, but it takes far too long for the view to change and somehow, even though you get longer to look at it on foot, it doesn't have the same visual impact it does at speed when it's rammed into your retina and every stolen glance could win a trip to A and E.
For me, there is only one other thing that could compete with the combination of adrenalin, speed, the scenery and having a good laugh, but neither Fiona nor Nell McAndrew are ever likely to agree to it, so for the forseeable future I'll be mountain biking.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Mountain Biking - Why Do I Do It?
So, why mountain biking?
I’ve been getting on bikes, staying on them briefly and falling off them again quickly since I was about five… It’s a matter of debate whether I’ve got any better in those painful thirty-six years, and on reflection, almost certainly not.
What is certain, to paraphrase somebody (probably Churchill - it's usually him or Shakespeare) is that I’ve taken more out of cycling than cycling’s taken out of me – though it has had some pretty big chunks;
my T12 vertebrae is now distinctly wedge shaped
my left collar bone has been restored to something approximating normality with the aid of more titanium than you’d find on most four grand bikes (you’re surely not a real cyclist till you’ve done a collar bone, though I can now understand how that American finished the Tour de France with his broken – I swam a mile of crawl before they screwed and fixed mine and although all the bits grated together a bit, it didn’t actually hurt, which makes you wonder why he didn't win after all. Puff.).
My right humorous took a major wallop on Polaris (not funny) and on the X-ray looked like the top of a fence post somebody had been hitting with a sledge hammer for a day or two; that hurt nearly as much as the T12, but now only makes itself known if I try to lift something heavy over head at the wrong angle. Say, like a bike over a Lyme Park stile for instance.
To be fair, there have been plus points; I did get a free ride in a helicopter one bright and sunny Easter Sunday and the whole town of Bollington kindly turned out to point and watch (they don’t see many bright red helicopters landing on White Nancy). Viewing the photographs of Nobby grinning like a Cheshire Cat outside my ambulance also gives me a warm and pleasant feeling... particularly when I reflect that it was only a matter of weeks before he was similarly afflicted at Glentress.
Once the helicopter landed at Wythenshawe and the pilot stayed in it with the engine running (presumably to stop it being stolen) there followed eight days flat on my back in hospital whilst I coughed painfully and they decided if I’d walk again, and I did. As far as the toilet. Here I discovered that eight days of constipation caused by lying flat on your back, eating hospital food and abusing morphine creates its own uniquely painful set of problems which very nearly meant I couldn't walk back again. On the plus side, I lost an incredible 9 pounds in the eight days I spent in hospital and in case you're wondering, that weight loss didn't include the fruits of my labours (oh how apt that word was) in the hospital toilets. Lovely.
I’ve also done a couple of ribs – very painful – and an early introduction to the pitfalls of mountain biking on your own on tracks you don't know when you're shit on a shit bike, that's too big for you, too heavy and lacking any suspension. In my defense, I cleared the 6 foot drop which appeared in my path out of no-where (it may have been less but from my vantage point in the grass on the down hill side looking back it certainly looked all of six feet) and landed, heavily, both wheels down at the same time. It was a text book landing right up to the point when my right pedal dropped, dug into the slope and stopped the bike dead. This sent me, my ribs, bike and handlbars cartwheeling down the hill in a tangled mess of bike and bruises. The real pain came when I realised I was in the middle of no-where, still had to ride home, the bike was rideable (bloody Saracen) and as this was in 1989/90 I had no mobile.
So, why do I ride mountain bikes?
Because it's safer.
When I was nineteen I broke my right cheek bone and permanently lost the sight in my right eye on a road bike in the days when only people that wore socks under their sandals wore helmets, and they were mainly geography teachers. I've also hit 2 cars on the road, one of which was stationery when I hit it at over 20mph and did £1,500 of damage to it (including a new tail gate, smashed rear window and very badly damaged roof...) and the other decided to pull into a parking space without spotting me doing 30 up the inside down a big hill. Fortunately I only have a small souvenir scar from that one.
Despite a moderately impressive collection of injuries from mountain biking that, if you didn't know me, could easily be the product of years of ambitious freeriding rather than years of abject cowardice, road riding is just too boring, too monotonous and too damn dangerous. On a mountain bike if you don't like the look of it, you can always get off and walk and work on trying to improve your skills or commitment or courage.
No amount of training, courage or commitment is going to save you from the one vehicle that doesn't see you. If you ride regularly on the road, it's not so much a case of "if" you get hit by a car, it's "when".
And what happens then is pure lottery. Feeling lucky?
I’ve been getting on bikes, staying on them briefly and falling off them again quickly since I was about five… It’s a matter of debate whether I’ve got any better in those painful thirty-six years, and on reflection, almost certainly not.
What is certain, to paraphrase somebody (probably Churchill - it's usually him or Shakespeare) is that I’ve taken more out of cycling than cycling’s taken out of me – though it has had some pretty big chunks;
my T12 vertebrae is now distinctly wedge shaped
my left collar bone has been restored to something approximating normality with the aid of more titanium than you’d find on most four grand bikes (you’re surely not a real cyclist till you’ve done a collar bone, though I can now understand how that American finished the Tour de France with his broken – I swam a mile of crawl before they screwed and fixed mine and although all the bits grated together a bit, it didn’t actually hurt, which makes you wonder why he didn't win after all. Puff.).
My right humorous took a major wallop on Polaris (not funny) and on the X-ray looked like the top of a fence post somebody had been hitting with a sledge hammer for a day or two; that hurt nearly as much as the T12, but now only makes itself known if I try to lift something heavy over head at the wrong angle. Say, like a bike over a Lyme Park stile for instance.
To be fair, there have been plus points; I did get a free ride in a helicopter one bright and sunny Easter Sunday and the whole town of Bollington kindly turned out to point and watch (they don’t see many bright red helicopters landing on White Nancy). Viewing the photographs of Nobby grinning like a Cheshire Cat outside my ambulance also gives me a warm and pleasant feeling... particularly when I reflect that it was only a matter of weeks before he was similarly afflicted at Glentress.
Once the helicopter landed at Wythenshawe and the pilot stayed in it with the engine running (presumably to stop it being stolen) there followed eight days flat on my back in hospital whilst I coughed painfully and they decided if I’d walk again, and I did. As far as the toilet. Here I discovered that eight days of constipation caused by lying flat on your back, eating hospital food and abusing morphine creates its own uniquely painful set of problems which very nearly meant I couldn't walk back again. On the plus side, I lost an incredible 9 pounds in the eight days I spent in hospital and in case you're wondering, that weight loss didn't include the fruits of my labours (oh how apt that word was) in the hospital toilets. Lovely.
I’ve also done a couple of ribs – very painful – and an early introduction to the pitfalls of mountain biking on your own on tracks you don't know when you're shit on a shit bike, that's too big for you, too heavy and lacking any suspension. In my defense, I cleared the 6 foot drop which appeared in my path out of no-where (it may have been less but from my vantage point in the grass on the down hill side looking back it certainly looked all of six feet) and landed, heavily, both wheels down at the same time. It was a text book landing right up to the point when my right pedal dropped, dug into the slope and stopped the bike dead. This sent me, my ribs, bike and handlbars cartwheeling down the hill in a tangled mess of bike and bruises. The real pain came when I realised I was in the middle of no-where, still had to ride home, the bike was rideable (bloody Saracen) and as this was in 1989/90 I had no mobile.
So, why do I ride mountain bikes?
Because it's safer.
When I was nineteen I broke my right cheek bone and permanently lost the sight in my right eye on a road bike in the days when only people that wore socks under their sandals wore helmets, and they were mainly geography teachers. I've also hit 2 cars on the road, one of which was stationery when I hit it at over 20mph and did £1,500 of damage to it (including a new tail gate, smashed rear window and very badly damaged roof...) and the other decided to pull into a parking space without spotting me doing 30 up the inside down a big hill. Fortunately I only have a small souvenir scar from that one.
Despite a moderately impressive collection of injuries from mountain biking that, if you didn't know me, could easily be the product of years of ambitious freeriding rather than years of abject cowardice, road riding is just too boring, too monotonous and too damn dangerous. On a mountain bike if you don't like the look of it, you can always get off and walk and work on trying to improve your skills or commitment or courage.
No amount of training, courage or commitment is going to save you from the one vehicle that doesn't see you. If you ride regularly on the road, it's not so much a case of "if" you get hit by a car, it's "when".
And what happens then is pure lottery. Feeling lucky?
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