Badly Wired Blog

Surfacing.

2012-01-12T10:33:00.000Z

If there's a good thing about being ill - and in my case, it's probably being forced to take the rest time I've needed for six months or so - it's the moment when quietly and often imperceptibly, the big dial on the Wellometer (TM) swings over from 'Fecked and Incapable of training', through 'Feeling slightly better, maybe..' into the bit marked 'Vaguely normal again'.

I'm not saying it's worth it just for that, but sometimes you appreciate stuff a whole lot more for not having had it.

Which is a round about way of saying that I feel almost human again and it's bloody ace.

Memory Cards

2012-01-07T23:14:00.001Z

I found a loose memory card from the first part of 2009. The one that was in a test camera I successfully killed, I think. Good name. Places and things I can recall and a mindset that I can't. It still just feels sad, even from a distance. Nice snowy scenery though. Bring back the snow, I miss it.

One good thing though, goes to eleven. One fast kitty with bright and shiny optimism disguised as a cassette.

That was odd...

2012-01-02T16:49:00.000Z

Just back from a mildly brutal Double Cross ride over to Holmfirth and back over a ridiculously windy Holme Moss - headwinds, mild dehydration, cross tyres and the tail-end of a nasty hacking cough aren't a good combination.

Anyway, around 18 months ago, doing the same ride on the crossed-up Road Rat, I stopped for a chat with a lass on a mountain bike about road bikes and cross bikes. She'd just moved over to Holmfirth from somewhere, I think, Leeds way. We sort of chatted and headed off in different directions.

Fast forward to today and, part way down a steepish, back-lane descent, stood by the side of the road, is a blonde lass with a brand new Dawes roadie/tourer thing. And it turns out to be the same woman. On her new road bike. Which was nice, but also slightly spooky.

And to make things weirder, she'd thought about buying a Surly Crosscheck from Rich and Shona and Keep Pedalling where my Double Cross came from.

Very odd. I guess I'll see her again in a couple of years time...

Ooops, look what I built...

2011-12-17T19:14:00.000Z

Been laid out with some poxy cold for the last ten days or so. No riding. No running. A brain that feels slightly removed from reality and the start of a nasty hacking cough. Bored. Bored. Bored.

So I did what anyone in the same situation would do and converted my bastardised singlespeed hardtail into an überbastardised, singlespeed, 69er, rigid. I've ridden a 29er. For all of about five minutes. And it sort of rolled over things in a deceptively nonchalant manner, but honestly, I'm quite happy with my Ragley and the Pace and as a journalist myself, I have healthy distrust of journos and new things.

Anything new or different tends to gets a 50%+ novelty weighting because, well, journos get bored too. They like new things and shiny things. Prime example, the Whyte 46, different but not in an entirely good way. And once the lingering canon smoke of novelty had cleared, most people realised that.

Anyway, I was kind of intrigued by the idea of stuck a 29er front on the faithful 'vento, so after a bit of thought and research, I splashed out on the 26" version of the On One carbon fork. The Soma Double Cross temporarily donated its front wheel, stuck a 2.25 Ardent on it and bolted it all back together.

And? I have no idea. It looks okay, quite neat even. But I haven't ridden it yet. Weighs an okay 21.something lbs. From the wrong angle it looks like a modern-day Penny Farthing, but then it would. Mostly though you don't even notice. So there you go. .

Frame's a custom Setavento ti copy of a first generation Marin Rocky Ridge, singlespeeded courtesy of an external eccentric bottom bracket from Canada, erm, Future Components seems to ring a bell. More worryingly, the original 26" front complete with Bontrager XR4 is now on the cross bike. Perhaps fortunately it doesn't clear the fork, but just imagine it with a 2.1 Nobby Nic fitted. Or maybe not...

Morocco...

2011-12-09T12:11:00.000Z

Not quite as planned. Initially at least... it did get better though.

Soft Sunday

2011-10-31T00:20:00.001Z

The trouble with living in a valley is that every road out of it seems to go up. And the trouble with living in the Peak District is that there are an awful lot of hills. Which is great. It's easy to ride hill after hill after hill, to sneak out for a gentle roll down the Longdendale Trail and end up honking back over Holme Moss three hours later with warm legs and sparkly eyes... But sometimes you just need to CTFO.

Which is how I came to chuck the Double Cross in the back of the car and drive over to Ladybower in a very mellow, slow sort of way. Then ride gently on mostly flat tarmac and easy trails around the reservoir looking at ducks and russet brown leaves and the sun glinting on the water and the strange misery of Sunday walkers, which is an odd contagion spread by frowning.

And I was considerate and friendly and smiley. I said hello personally to every dog I passed because, unlike people, they seemed happy to be out in the sunshine. And to top it all off, I had a lavish picnic consisting of a PowerBar.

I didn't ride lots of miles. Or climb any hills. Or inch down desperately steep techy things. I just sort of trundled along in the odd October sunshine. Topped it down with tea and a flapjack and headed home for pastrami and gherkin pizza followed by melt in the middle chocolate sponge pud with chocolate ice cream.

The 100-mile road ride can wait for another day.

Chill The Feck Out.

My head's at a funny angle...

2011-10-16T23:24:00.002+01:00

I've shamelessly stolen this photo from Steve Turner. It's Saturday. Somewhere above Halifax. On a mellow group ride with mellow group people on a selection of really nice trails that aren't made from the Peak's characteristic selection of rock and rubble.

A ride marred only by some wizzened old bat of a dog walker who lectured us on riding footpaths on private land - 'it is you know' - when the council had made a perfectly nice concrete cycle path going roughly in the same direction 'specially for mountain bikers'.

In a better world we'd have fed her to her dog, but there are laws about that sort of thing and the RAC has a long and litigious reach. Besides, the dog seemed quite pleasant and vaguely embarassed by its rabid owner.

So it was a nice day. In a part of Calderdale with mostly good memories. But my head was still at a funny angle.

And today, which is Sunday, went for a proper, aimless meander on the Double Cross. Three hours of mostly riding up hills and breezing down them, except for that descent towards the Fox which was like riding a rigid steel bike with narrow, over inflated tyres down a series of bedrock steps covered with loose rubble with the sun in my eyes. So that wasn't really that much of a breeze at all.

And there were nice clouds in the late afternoon light above Hayfield. The same place the raggety moon was sat the other night, but no relation. I'm writing gibberish now. You can tell this isn't written on the assumption that anyone'll ever read it... Sleep.

Happy memories...

2011-10-12T09:31:00.001+01:00

Redemption

2011-10-02T15:13:00.002+01:00

Comedy Friday, Indian summer style and I sneak out into the heat to meet a couple of friends and ride in the sunshine. It starts badly when Rich realises that the lateral movement in his rear end is around the same as the up and down motion and abandons all hope to scoot home.

I am grumpy. It's fashionable to like heat and dust and sunshine, but I don't. I like dry and cold and crisp. I like ice. And frozen Peak ground that grips and rips like coarse Velcro. Given sunshine I mostly want to stop and bask in it. Look at distant hills. Yawn and doze and sleep. I don't want to ride in it with sweat running into my eyes and soaking my clothes.

The wrong bike, skulking. As well it might. Nothing to do with the rider's shortcomings...

And, like Gromit, I have 'the wrong bike'. I have my RC405 which after a change of head angle and fork and return to the original shock feels slow and heavy and just wrong. I have no idea why I brought it. Well I do, a small, quiet bit of my brain thinks it might be 'necessary' for the not very legit', rocky, twisty trail we've earmarked.

God knows why. Why I think the Ragley might not be up to it, it's ripped down everything else round here with a sort of bright-eyed, disdainful, insouciance.

And I ride the trail incredibly badly. Part of it I don't ride at all, I ride round it, and the rest I sort of thump and graunch and haltingly fall down. It's really quite nasty. And meanwhile Emmy makes it look easy and graceful and smooth and streaks off into the distance grinning like a cat that's massacred a whole park's worth of pigeons.

The rest of the ride is similarly rubbish on my part. I feel guilty for being grumpy and cussed. I choose a really astonishingly bad route back out of Glossop and even a new to me, entertaining, twisty, grassy descent doesn't change things.

So on Saturday I break myself in the sun on the road bike. Savouring the oddness of furnace-like heat, bright sunshine and wafting gently down back lanes strewn with autumnal leaves. In temperatures of 25˚C or so. You can't help thinking that however pleasant it is, the world is somehow broken. This is October?

Sunday. Redemption day. Early day. Head out with Dave Next Door and ride a succession of bad things on a weekend linked with the odd legitimate trail. This time I'm on the 'right bike', the Ragley. Fast, borderline psychotic, and lover of steep things.

And the right one. A tight bundle of aggressive, slack-steering confidence.

This time we ride the grassy, twisty downhill thing without the bike sucking the life out of it. Then twist our way round, via a chance meeting with a local friend out on his rather nice new bike, to the top of 'the trail'. A rubbly, rocky mix of steps and turns and twists that corkscrews its way down the hillside. It's as good as anything I've ridden in Spain or France or Nepal or the Andes and this time, I ride it properly - neat and composed and smooth.

Feeling relaxed on the bike and just, well, together. And halfway down I start to grin like an idiot, because it's a brilliant trail. And the sun is shining. And the Ragley's ability to slow down time on the steeps and the trickies means I never feel remotely out of control.

It is the right bike. And just for ten minutes or so, I feel like the right rider.

Grey with a hint of purple.

2011-09-16T08:35:00.000+01:00

Everything's gone grey with a hint of purple. Which is nice. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy riding into night. Watching the lying sun sinking behind Peak hills. A cat that looks like a badger in the half light, but is still a cat. A dim pheasant playing verge roulette. A field full of long-lashed alpacca. Or were they vicuña? Back lanes littered with a criss-cross matrix of twigs. An owl spread out wide and swooping ahead in the gloom. A hint of somewhere in the middle chill in the air. And an understated shadow of winter just over the horizon.

Angry Bike

2011-09-09T10:27:00.000+01:00

Raindrops against my window. A singlespeed. Ride over to the Fox with two tons of U-lock in my pack which I lock to a handy picnic table before hiding under a handy roofed thing with non-operative wood-burner. Meet people. Ride for two hours badly through gritty slurry and semi-liquid cow pats. Final descent on path composed entirely of the latter. Yuk. Get back to pub. Drink beer. Eat curry. Talk too much about rubbish. Unlock bike. Ride home over Lantern Pike with resurgent curry. Surprised that legs feel good. Brake pads evaporate. Home. Order sintered pads on line. Next morning wake to this... Just like old times :-)

Capitalist Running Dog

2011-08-30T22:28:00.001+01:00

I've always sort of meant to run a marathon, so when Salomon offered me a free spot at Kielder, I said, yeah, why not. Which means I'm trying to reach my legs to run again instead of going round and round in circles.

The theory is that I have some semblance of cardio vascular fitness from riding bikes a lot so all I have to do is teach my legs to run again. In theory. But of course, you use different muscles for running. Which always makes me laugh. Are there people out there with two sets of leg muscles that I don't have?

It's always seemed to me that you actually use the same muscles, but differently. In particular, running downhill uses the quads eccentrically, or something like that, anyway, they have to do that braking, cushioning thing, which doesn't happen on bikes. And then, of course, there's the impact. On every stride.

All of which seems to mean that running uphill is fine and actually quite comfortable, a bit like climbing out of the saddle. And running on the flat isn't too bad. But steep downhills are horrid.

I'm not sure what to do about that except run and run a bit more and trust my legs to deal with it in time, like that have in the past. And ultimately, I just want to get round. I don't care about running a good time, just finishing in one piece.

Oh well. It could be worse. I could be doing it in those stoopid barefoot shoes...

Woodhead

2011-08-22T22:42:00.000+01:00

Looked like this. Peaceful, beautiful, no cars.

This'll be why.

Access All Feckin' Areas? Feck right off.

2011-08-21T16:49:00.001+01:00

I like the current rights of way legislation as they relate to mountain biking. The mountain bike press love to make a ridiculously complex meal out of it, endless articles by experts and instant experts advocating wider access for bikes, same laws as Scotland, same rights as walkers and so on.

They need to get a grip. It's simple, really simple. The current rights of way legislation in England and Wales is comical. It's based on random historic accident and has nothing to do with suitability for purpose. Tracks which are sustainable for all-weather bike use are classified as footpaths, trails which run over delicate, friable peat or rare psychedelic lichens can easily be designated as bridleways. It's rubbish.

But here's the thing. Here in the real world where we actually ride, you can ride footpaths as long as you use a certain amount of discretion and, increasingly, even if you don't. Some of the best riding on this side of the Peak is technically illegal - I use the phrase 'illegal', but some magazine egghead will have different, more complicated take on it, so let's just say, it's on footpaths - and it's ridden a fair bit.

Meanwhile, the popular main routes in the Peak, the ones which are repeatedly reproduced by mtb journos and guidebook writers with minor tweaks so they can claim to be 'original' are over-run by mountain bike tourists - slow, fat, talentless weekend wannabes who buy the book or magazine and ride the routes.

Yep, the routes in the mags and the guide books. The ones which are strictly legal because they can't afford not to be. Now imagine a world where rights of way are thrown open. Imagine the updated guidebooks, the magazine articles - 'Ride The New Peak - we show you five great unridden trails' etc. Imagine hordes of riders descending on your favourite local trails in all weathers, because the bulk of mountain bike tourists have the environmental sensitivity of a Texan oil baron, and trashing them.

Mincing down the technical stuff, doing that grim-faced 'we're extreme sports people' face they pull for walkers, chewing the feck out the trails.

Stuff that. I like the rights of way legislation just the way it is. The guidebook writers and the mountain bike journos can go on rehashing the same old, same old. The bulk of riders can carry on riding those legal routes. And the rest can stay just the way it is, thanks.

And yes, that may be selfish. Or elitist. Or just plain unfair and wrong. But I really don't care. Thing is, there's nothing to stop you riding those trails right now except lack of initiative and laziness.

Summer?

2011-08-07T20:54:00.000+01:00

Soma...

2011-08-04T14:19:00.002+01:00

From the nice people at Keep Pedalling in Manchester. All skinny steel Tange tubes and disc compatability and purple-sheened silver metallicness and crossiness and... well, it's just very nice. Big thanks to Rich and Shona, without whom I'd never known it existed.

... a Double Cross DC if you were wondering.

Yawny...

2011-07-27T10:54:00.000+01:00

Bontrager 24/12 solo 24 at the weekend. It's Wednesday now and I'm almost awake again. The right forearm I trashed at 10 at Kirroughtree, that came back to haunt me in the wee small hours of the morning and again on a final three bonus laps, feels almost normal.

My legs are still sore and heavy. And I'm on holiday. Home-brewed latte in the sunshine. Ian Banks' latest novel half read on the patio table and a pile of unread tomes to follow. A scruffy house waiting patiently to be spruced up and then the world's a slimy sea-shelled thing - Scotland, southern Spain, eastern Europe, you name it.

It's nice to stop moving. Physically and metaphorically. The weekend was ace. The best 24-hour course I've ever ridden by a country mile. A brain-frying mix of slippery roots and fast singletrack, moorland rockeries with scenic ponies tagged on and a great, mellow atmosphere.

Definitely going back next year with a fully-functioning body - touch wood - for another go.

But right now it's kind of nice chilling out on life's hard shoulder.

Don't trash your arm before a massive trade show...

2011-07-17T14:33:00.000+01:00

Just back from four days in sunny Germany - Würst, Kartoffeln, Würstkartoffeln, mit Speck, you know, sausages, more sausages and meaty things with potatoes at various prices. Anyway, always good to catch up with people in the outdoors industry, but this year I took my mate 'Crunchy', my interestingly swollen and slightly yellow and audibly creaky right forearm...

I crashed a couple of times riding 10 at Kirroughtree with a mate last weekend. I figure one injury was impact, the other was more of a sprain, both the right forearm sort of area. Anyway, to cut a dull story short, it was a great weekend with nice people and my arm got a bit sore.

The trouble with having a very delicate right arm, of course, is that you can't shake hands with it. So you end up using your left hand. In a weird, Freemasonesque reversed grip sort of way. And then the obvious question is: 'Oh, what happened...'

My favourite brand stand - Dong Garment, one of the big swinging, erm... anyway.

I reckon I told people I'd crashed a mountain bike around 50 times in two days. Oddly, though the arm was uncomfortable, it wasn't sharply or searingly painful. Just a bit sore and ouchy if you twisted your hand too much. But loads of people seemed convinced that it was broken. I don't think so. It seemed to pain them more than it hurt me. Which was odd.

I once interviewed Joe Simpson and he explained that the endless repeated telling of traumatic events apparently helps post-traumatic stress sufferers by making the actual events feel like story that happened to someone else. Ironically in my case, repeatedly telling the story, gave rise to sort of post-traumatic stress of its own.

Eventually I chose to shake hands a risk real physical pain rather than suffer the horror of telling the story once more.

Other things, a small box of Ibuprofen costs almost a tenner at the pharmacy in Zurich airport. At Tesco in Glossop, the same box retails for 42 pence... I've decided not to emigrate to Zurich airport any time soon. And no, I didn't buy them.

Motivation.

2011-07-05T09:01:00.000+01:00

Woot moggy! We're going racing....

I'm training again properly, have been for the past couple of months - well, properly for me, real racers and that can look away now. In the middle of that funny thing when your body starts doing things that you didn't think it could and the brutal high intensity intervals start to make sense. And that feeds the motivation for the next ones.

I have a bit of a grudge match with a solo at 24/12. Last year's was a mess. Head a bit wonky from memories of the year before's 12-hour solo and the crap around it, thanks for that. Leg a bit wonky after someone knocked me off on a benign arena track catching the end of my bar on a pointless overtake - 'Oh, was I a bit close?' What do you think, muppet... - and then, when I should have just dug in and got on with it, the realisation that no way, back in the real world, was I going to be able to race pairs at SITS two weeks later and, in the process, would badly let my mate Dave down badly.

Which was obvious. And if I weren't so stupid and hadn't been so blase, I'd never have put myself in that position. But the end result was that I bailed on the basis that I'd live to fight another day at SITS. Which I did, but not very well because I'd already done 11 racing hours and my back self destructed at three in the morning.

But anyway - none of that this time. Just 24 solo at 24/12. One aim - to finish the thing and enjoy riding it, because oddly, despite being a not very endurance athlete - all fast-twitch muscle and sprintiness, me - I really like soloing. It feels like good value for money. The pace is relatively mellow. And you get to watch the course unfolding like a good book, shifting and changing and wearing.

And you get to know the course, the smoothest, most economical lines, the bits where you can relax and flow for free speed and...

So there it is.

But first I get to race 10 Under Kirroughtree with a mate at the weekend as a pair. A final blurry speed fest, hopefuly, by Ragley but with fat, fast tyres, to get that out of my system. Then a bit of a taper. A long drive and go.

Nasty.

2011-06-28T09:44:00.001+01:00

I stuck 1.75 Smart Sams on the Road Rat last week, took off the front mech cos it fouled the tyre and stood back for a look. The idea was that it might give it more ability on the rocky stuff without hitting road and hardpack speed too badly.

Hmmm.... in reality it seems to be bloody horrible. First, compared to Maxxis Raze cross tyres, the Smart Sams drag on tarmac. Next, while they're more comfortable on rocky terrain, you're still on a rigid drop-bar bike and you still know it. And it looks sort of horrible cruising the borderline between monster cross and drop-barred 29er in an ugly, drunken, badly-proportioned sort of way.

The one place where it did seem to make sense was barreling down a hard, gravelly, easy bit of trail where it rolled fast enough and took some of the ping out of the terrain. I guess if I lived somewhere composed of miles and miles of gravel track, it might make sense, but for me, living here, proper cross tyres seem like a better, faster, more versatile compromise and have the bonus that you don't look quite such a niche twat.

Anyone want to buy a pair of barely ridden Smart Sam 29er tyres in 1.75" size?

Missed a trick though, it could have been so many twattish niches in one bike - imagine, a fixed, singlespeed, monster-crossed, drop-barred, steel-framed 29er, with 'alternative' Midge drops and cable disc brakes. Dodged a bullet there... or maybe an RPG round.

Me! Me! Me!

2011-06-22T16:53:00.001+01:00

Might have written this... slow, weak, rider coming through on your, erm, left, or er... or not.

Mayhem The Weird Way...

2011-06-21T09:55:00.002+01:00

Did Mayhem at the weekend as a sort of last minute substitute for a mixed team - ultimately there were, erm, three of us, when there should have been five. That and a load of brooding storm clouds and incoming isobars meant that I badged up the single-speeded Rockyvento as a Maverick, slapped a Morvelo sticker on the fork and an Alpkit one on the chainstay and slapped a Ragley Ti one on the seat-tube for max confusion and packed a selection of mud tyres.

It was kind of odd being non competitive from the start - normally it takes me a couple of laps - but had a really good weekend. For starters it never really rained properly. I saw loads of nice people I've not seen for far too long and met some new ones too. The Horror Cat got an outing with glowing red eyes and all. And surprisingly my singlespeed legs worked despite advanced mono-cog rustiness.

Ended up doing two double-lap stints then a triple on Sunday morning. I could have done a quadruple, but it felt like enough and I wanted to be able to get back into 24/12 training mode this week. So, seven laps at a briskish pace for me, lots of climbing, 70-odd miles of singlespeeding, sore hands from that final descent taken flat out every lap cos it was smoother that way, or maybe it was just over faster...

Lots of people thought the singlespeed thing was mad, but actually it worked pretty well there - lots of climbing, but most of it at an eminently singlespeedy gradient and the lack of weight, Rocky's around 22.5lb with no particular effort to keep things light and the lack of complexity help. There's a certain smug satisfaction from listening to folk desperately screwing up gear changes at the bottom of every climb while you just creak serenely on your way.

The Horror Cat did the steering, I turned the pedals, pulled on the brakes occasionally and came along for the ride.

Overall it was kind of reassuring that I could do that with very little singlespeed background this year and still feel pretty strong. Next stop, 24-hour solo at 24/12 but with gears.

Somewhere at the back of my head though, is an insidious little voice that keeps whispering about maybe soloing Mayhem next year on the singlespeed...

Floaty, fluffy, rest-day mode now.

Summer - For One Day Only...

2011-06-15T10:00:00.000+01:00

Summer was yesterday. Dry, hot, fast - seemed a shame to waste it, so I didn't. Great day.

Here and there.

2011-06-10T00:16:00.000+01:00

My mate Mike stayed over on Tuesday night. He bought curry and covered the front room in lightweight kit before spending hours wrestling with a GPS / lap-top nexus and finally getting up at 5.30 am and dragging a bloody great bike box to Glossop station en route for Manchester Airport.

He's off to ride the Divide, which is ace. And he's kind of scared and excited and wearing ridiculous old clothes to throw away in Banff and watching him filtering ride kit and backpacking kit and kit kit reminded me of packing for a big mountain climbing trip.

And I have to admit I was a little envious. But at the same time, very, very glad I wasn't off to ride endless American hardpack for days on end.

I like stopping and looking at places. The best thing about extended traveling is being able to stop and take in the good bits at will, not rush past them and through them and over them. And I can see why people like the feeling of movement, of passing through, of motion. But sometimes stopping works too.

And then later, when Mike was somewhere over the Atlantic, I snuck out for a ride with my mid-week riding bud, a twice-postponed mission in search of local tech and we found it. Awesomely lovely rocky downhill singletrack with enough flow to keep it fluid and enough rock to make it consistently interesting.

Bloody ace and ten minutes from my front door.

Sigh. Best thing I've ridden for ages and good company too. And with added cake.

Sometimes the best things are nearer than you think.

Secret Squirrel...

2011-06-03T08:40:00.000+01:00

Rode two new and potentially brilliant trails the other night, one I've been eyeing for ages, but never actually made the effort to try - obvious line, one slightly sick bit, mostly good fun with added washboard on the latter stages, thank ewe sheep.

And the other one that I had not the faintest idea existed. A storming mix of rhodi-lined ridge-contouring scenic smile territory - 40% attention on the trail and the rest on the views - diving into distinctly un-Peaky, woodsy singletrack, mulch and root and the odd rocky step to keep you thinking and, whoa, nice.

Just brilliant. And amusingly just 20 minutes easy ride from my front door.

You've got to love the way local trails can still surprise you. It's all lovely and familiar and mellow, then bam, right out of the blue. A bit like discovering your long-term partner has a secret sideline as a trampolening fire-eater or the local Indian has a 'secret menu' with loads of interesting new stuff you've never tried before. Not sure that ever happens though...

Don't get me wrong. I like riding new trails in new areas as much as anyone, but there's something properly lovely about rummaging through your local area and coming up trumps.

So where is it? Ah, that'd be telling.

Sunday.

2011-05-29T20:34:00.000+01:00

Smooth please.

2011-05-26T09:37:00.001+01:00

Local ride last night, local trails for local people. Legs still slightly wooden from the weekend. Slackened Pace feeling heavy, slow and unfamiliar - missed the Ragley for its lightness, precision and bright-eyed speed everywhere.

Anyway, brain wondering around the periphery of the landscape. Hip-hopping along distant ridges and hidden cloughs. Half-wishing I was riding on my own. Remembering why I grate with certain types of group rides, the alpha male stuff.

Thinking. Just how messy and ungainly people look when they're trying too hard to go fast. Thrashing and desperate and frenzied. And I'm not claiming immunity there, I've done it too, I think we all have.

But right now I'm trying to ride smooth and loose and neat. Speed but relaxed, economic speed. Sustainable speed. It just feels nicer. Like running your hand over sanded wood rather than a splintery plank.

Epic(ish)

2011-05-24T10:13:00.000+01:00

Did the Lakes Epic thing at the weekend with my mate Davey and it turned out to be mildly epic in a mellow sort of way. Took Rags the psychotic Ragley Ti to save some weight and add some interest and never once regretted it, well, maybe when I was pushing a 2.5 Minion DHF into a headwind, uphill, on tarmac, for ages, on day two, but off road and particularly on the technical stuff, it properly rocked...

Anyway, a sort of loop around the bottom of Skiddaw then down, via Threlkeld to Thirlmere and over Sticks Pass. Not ridden that before. Mostly the climb was a steep carry come push come short bits of granny ring spinning, but worth it for the descent into Glenridding, which was lovey and thought provoking at the same time.

And it got us down to Ullswater for a stormingly, lovely, traverse of the amazing lakeside singletrack - properly ace. Rode loads of stuff clean that I often faff up thanks to the Ragley's poise, whoomph and bright-eyed, big-grin, psychotic ti-grained soul. Got to the end of it and looked round for the folk who'd been with us at the start and they'd just gone.

Sticks Pass from the Thirlmere side - push or carry, your choice...

I'd been kind of worried that the Ragley wouldn't be able to keep with suspension bikes on the more teccy stuff, but the reality was that it handled everything brilliantly, even the fast bits. It really is something else, just over 25lb with a 2.5 Minion DHF on the front and a 150mm Revelation. The front end just feels incredibly planted, the bike oozes va-va-voom and despite the lightness, it never feels remotely fragile or vague or out of its depth.

Hike-a-bike two in the background, track on RH side aiming for that obvious notch.

There was an amusing post on the STW forum that compared it to a shag-happy nubile, but for me it's more like one of those lightly-muscled folk who look perfectly normal till the shirt comes off and you realise they're all stripped-down, 100% functional, honed power and poise. Good enough to show a clean pair of heels to a Specialized Pitch on nadgery rockery, light enough to climb hard tec and way better than me. Anyway, I love the thing to bits and Brant for designing it in the first place.

All that and it'll handle 60-mile days in the Peak or Lakes too.

Anyway... one more hike-a-bike and some lovely flowing stuff down to the overnight camp at Pooley Bridge, we came in 12th and 13th, so that was okay, but to be honest, it was just great spending a day with a mate, chatting with a bunch of nice folk, riding some lovely trails and being grateful that the rain held off until we'd finished.

Oooops, pitched side on to a serious freak gust - bang, snap, drama...

Tent pole snapped overnight in the wind. We decamped to a spare Macpac Minaret, slept, ate, and eased into a pretty wet and windy day two. Lots of road, lots of headwinds and a truncated route, but still good to be out.

One slightly bedraggled Davey at the finish of day two - hard on the
Keswick Mountain Festival which looked equally soggy...

I've run out of words now, but a cracking weekend

Can we go now?

God's own singletrack just a bit down the trail...

2011-05-12T21:06:00.000+01:00

Cross purposes.

2011-05-10T21:23:00.001+01:00

Things I've learned recently. I'm glad I don't test bikes for a living - I have BikeMagic's test Cotic >X< for a couple of weeks and I don't have the breadth of experience of riding cross bikes to put it in any sort of real perspective. And besides, I enjoy riding bikes, not deconstructing them.

I quite like the thing, it's basically a shorter, springier, drop-barred Road Rat with a carbon fork that's taken the horrible solid clang out of the front end. I didn't like the steering, the tyres, the gearing or the bars - yes, I know, a long list - so I changed them all. And then of course it wasn't a standard bike any more.

So you get into the thing about whether you should alter things so they work better or just ride as is. Tell you what though, seven flats in three rides or something, those bloody tyres had to go or my sanity was outta the window at speed...

Anyway, in its lightly improved state - or 'ruined' one, depending on how you feel about these things - the >X< suits me pretty well. With an 11-32 mountain bike cassette out back it climbs properly off road without giving you a hernia on every slight rise, steers acceptably and is surprisingly capable on rougher things up to and including limited rubble fields and small bedrock steps. And it has a 29er-style rollability to it that means it'll run through things if you will.

Not so lovely...

What's really nice about it is being able to mix everything up. Like Sunday, when I took it out on the road, over Holme Moss and on to Marsden via a mix of bridleways and back lanes for cake and coffee with Rich and Shona at the excellent Crumbals, then high-tailed it back home on the Pennine Bridleway. Try doing that on a mountain bike. Or a road bike.

You fair hurtle along the flatter, harder-surfaced stuff. And then there's the more technical off road bits where I sort of picked my way down. And then there was the Longdendale Trail when the front tyre decided to peel off the rim releasing the inner tube to wrap itself balloon dog style around the fork. And the hub. Hmmm... And it didn't even flat. And I didn't fall off. Slightly bizarre. Limped home with slash in the sidewall patched in traditional fashion with a gel wrapper.

I call this art.

Learning.

2011-05-07T08:59:00.000+01:00

Blimey, I actually appear to have learned something from last year's 24/12-SITS debacle, like I will not recover properly from a 12-hour solo in the space of ten days, so if I want to do the ace-looking, two-day Lakes thing in two weeks time, then I'd better not ride around in poxy circles for 12 hours this weekend...

And besides, the weather forecast looks crap. And I'm about to intervalise myself senseless for 24/12. And I can't be arsed with driving for three hours. And I'm getting dead good at rationalisation. And possibly riding my legs off over the long Bank Holiday weekend wasn't ideal.

Ah well.

We're both resting...

Bank holidaying.

2011-05-02T20:21:00.000+01:00

Hollins Cross, half way or so?

A really mellow long Blank Holiday weekend starting with a Royal Wedding special circuit of Stoopid Loop with added Whinstone Lee Tor excursion - over Middle Moor and the Roych, along Rushup, Hollin Cross and its cousin, Hope. Ladybower via the deconstructed roller coaster, WLT then Cut Gate and a mellow roll back home.

Blurry hot at the top of WLT.

Third time on Cut Gate in seven days, which is probably excessive, but it was in prime nick bar the head wind all the way across to Langsett. Pay back was a hurricane-force tailwind all the way back home for big ring smiles.

Cut Gate - the second crossing, out and back from the front door on Wednesday night.

And then things went secret singletrack, Cracken Edge twice, once alone, once with mates. Proper bonkers fun on shoulder-hugging singletrack with the odd steep drop to the left and a cracking, brain-out final flourish over series of, well, humps. A sort of dromedary, camel's back thing. Sigh.

Cracken Edge, secret squirrel singletrack with ace views and the odd drop and a camel-back finish.

And with the cross ride thrown in the middle - BM's test Cotic >X< no less - I make that around 120 off-road miles in a mix of sun and wind and mellow. The reward? Fish finger sarnies in the making and a date with UK12 or whatever it's called, on Rags and with added picnic content, because I'm not fit or fast enough to race.

Hmmm... pause for thought.

And some bonus lambs...

The angriest bike in the world.

2011-05-02T19:50:00.000+01:00

Is this one. A small, shiny bundle of bright-eyed attitude. Light without feeling in the least fragile. Frantic without feeling frenetic. Fierce but still friendly. Ace.

And in the interests of balance, here are some lambs...

Dusty.

2011-04-28T17:58:00.000+01:00

Rode Cut Gate out and back last night from the front door. On the Pace. Wondering why on earth I'd set the bars up quite so high. I think the Ragley's got to me. Anyway, cracking evening, dry, loose, dusty. Funny riding suspension again, but a bonus in the flat half-light when rocks look like shadows and shadows look like drops and drops don't really look like anything till you launch off them. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and slowed down. I'm starting to realise now that I'm not that quick at night. Maybe because I can't see anything. Mind you, the dust made it worse. But I'm not complaining about that.

S.O.S

2011-04-25T21:21:00.000+01:00

Hello, yes, AA please. No, no, it's a bike, a guest bike. No, it's not mine, but I am an AA member. It has a flat tyre, again. Yes. The seventh in around three rides. No, no, I don't have a pump, it was out of my pack because I was patching tubes again and forgot to put in back in. The tyres? Continental Race CX... Hello, er, hello...

Ace Proper Big Life Adventures...

2011-04-24T09:59:00.000+01:00

Short but ace. Popped into Manchester yesterday to visit my mates Rich and Shona at their new bike shop in the Northern Quarter and it's just lovely. Not just a cracking shop, though it is, and not just full of rather nice bikes, which is it, but properly life affirming to see your mates embarked on a real, proper, big life adventure.

I've known Rich for what feels like ages now, but is probably something around ten years. Back then he ran a car wash, which seems unlikely now, and had only just a started riding mountain bikes. Fast forward a bit and he was riding bikes a lot.

Rich, Shona and added celebratory bubbly, Keep Pedalling now up and, erm, pedalling...

And not only riding them, he'd also managed to sneak his way into a job as one of the partners at the Bicycle Doctor co-operative in Manchester. And somehow he re-found Shona, a small bundle of feisty fell-running dreadlocks soaked in years of epic travelling and retail experience along the way.

Fast forward a bit more and they're running their own, brand spanking new shiny bike shop in the Northern Quarter of Manchester. And yes, this is a party political broadcast on behalf of Keep Pedalling and I'm completely and utterly biased cos they're my mates, but honestly, if I was looking for a friendly, helpful, knowledgeable bike shop in central Manchester run by people who give a f***, I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather go.

And with that, I'm going to drink more coffee. Write a quick Royal Weddding Stoopid Loop Street Party invitational e-mail and high tail it outta here on Captain Mechanical, the special guest cross bike with added puncture content. Pedal :-)

Mechanical Mayhem Day...

2011-04-17T20:04:00.000+01:00

Cracking day of mechanical destruction and incompetence, mostly other people's for a change - started off with William, Dave's lad, noticing that his chain felt a bit rough, it was 100% dead on a new cassette. Doh... Fitted a new chain for him before he went off to Dalby, then headed out into the Peak.

This bit involved no mechanicals, just chickens, tea and cake.

Spotted the universal symbol of distress - upturned bike with head-scratching riders at the bottom of New Allotments. Broken chain and no chain tool. Or multi-tool. Or joining link. Fixed it and gave them my spare link. Good karma, I thought.

Twenty minutes later on the Roych, upturned bike number two with rider flagging me down - 'Do you have a pump we could borrow?' Er, and the rest, an inner tube and some tyre levers. Because the spare tube had a big hole in too. More karma.

Looking back down the approach to Jacob's Ladder. A nice walk for a slow, unfit,
technically useless excuse for a mountain biker.

Last steep climb of the day. Turned left at the top of the cobbles. Keeping it smooth and, boof, snapped chain. So much for karma. Fixed it by taking out dead links and pushing pin back in and minced home very carefully.

Popped in to see Dave Next Door who's been building some Kona carbon hardtail as a race bike. The headset looked odd. The headset looked odd because for some reason, Dave had managed to fit the top bearing cover, the dome-shaped thing, in place of the crown race. On a zero stack, fat-tube headset. With a large hammer and a screwdriver.

Thank god for crown race removers. Disassembled it in the grip of a special sort of wonderment. Dave is a qualified mountain bike leader and has passed a test of his basic mechanical skills. Not sure I have much confidence in test standards any more.

On the plus side, I had some nice cake at the farm near Barber Booth. And I have vague hopes that there may be just a little good karma left over if I don't laugh too much at the headset thing. I did promise Dave I wouldn't tell anyone about that particular debacle though. No karma whatsoever I guess then... Oh well.

Eccentric sheep...

2011-04-14T09:27:00.000+01:00

Less complicated than an external eccentric bottom bracket...

I will kick your arse today so I can kick it again tomorrow and the day after that...

2011-04-14T09:25:00.000+01:00

I'm sure there was a time when I could ride a singlespeed quite competently, but the newly built up one-cog Setavento seems to have its own bastardised motto: 'I will kick your arse today so I can kick it again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that too...'

The enemy in close-up vision - 32/17, almost a magic ratio.

Which is nice. For something relatively simple, it's been relentlessly complicated. Sticking the external eccentric BB on was fiddly and means slacking and re-tightening 12 set screws and the whole HT2 crank gubbins into the bargain.

And then there was the chainline, 10mm or so out, cue lots of interesting mechanical coffee grinder noises. Sorted after a thoughtful session with a steel rule and some spacer rehasing.

In profile with no relevant details even vaguely visible.

And then there was the creaking... the seatpost, silenced I think, with lashings of grease and some assertive clamp tightening. And the set up. The vento's basically a ti copy of a Rocky Ridge, which means a higher than average front end, fine with gears, not so clever when you're trying to muscle up some rubbly, steep local Peak horror with just the one. Ended up with a flipped stem and a set of On One Fleegles.

And at a dapper angle after leg collapse.

Seems to have done the trick though, weight forward and down, front end feels completely different - really planted even with the wide bars and no longer doing the pannicky, wandering thing on steep ups. I even quite like the Fleegle, sort of a no-rise riser with a fair bit of sweep, though need to mess around with the angles and the attitude in more ways than one.

Now if my legs would just get with the program... Normally takes them a couple of weeks, toes crossed.

Tinkering.

2011-04-12T09:08:00.001+01:00

Been riding my road bike, lots, trying to make up for lost time - carefully - and get my legs back. Feeling somewhat slow and lumpy. And I've been tinkering with things. Notably my old ti Setavento frame with original Marin Rocky Ridge geometry.

Everything's Gone Ti...

It was just sitting there looking light and fast and redundant, so I singlespeeded it with the bits off the Wanga, which I've always liked but found a bit twitchy on the rocky stuff, particularly with its seized carbon seatpost set at optimum over-the-bar altitude...

Getting singlespeeded...

Thing is, I don't like singlespeed tensioners and the 'vento has vertical drop-outs. The answer turned out to be a Forward Components outboard eccentric bottom bracket. Made in Canada, it's HT2 compatible and gives around a half-link's worth of adjustability at the BB.

Slightly fiddly to set up, but it does what it says on the box and, thankfully, 32/17 on the 'vento turned out to be a near 'magic ratio'. Not sure how the bearings will last or if the 12 little set screws that hold the revolving eccentric bearing housings will stay in position, but it's neat and clean and once I'd adjusted the chainline to suit, does that magically smooth and quiet singlespeed thing quite pleasingly.

Getting new paint and some cable-guide modification...

Flipped the stem - Thomson upside down spells, erm - to lower the cockpit slightly and put a little more weight on the front wheel and I have to say, it looks quite nice, weighs around 23 and a half pounds with an old 130mm Revelation Air U-Turn and fattish, Peak-friendly tyres and I'm kind of looking forward to riding it.

[I was? Hmmm... flipping the stem wasn't enough, this thing needs a lower front end, break out the alternative flat but wide bars with some sweep please. And a non-creaking head-set that works, I'd forgotten how grumpy that mark one Hope thing was... A slightly slacker Wanga might just be singlespeed better.]

A Slacker RC405?

Tinkering part two - ordered a custom angleset-type thing for the RC405 - idea is to slacken the head angle by 2˚ to make it a bit more Ragley like and stop me riding off the edge of the trail every time I swap bikes plus add some downhill stability. It'll drop the bottom bracket slightly and steepen the seat angle by a corresponding 2˚ as well - nominally that's 75˚, which is steep, proper front of saddle stuff, but it all depends on rear sag too and where the saddle sits on the post.

Getting slacker? Vroom...

I'm thinking it might allow a 150mm fork to work without screwing the climbing up, which is what it does as standard, and that I'll probably need a shorter stem, as per a Ragley. Hard to know exactly what the geometry will do. The Pace figures are all with a 130mm fork - 68.5˚ head angle, 73˚ seat tube I think - but I run a 140mm Pike, so slightly slacker and a fair bit of sag at the rear, so I figure the current effective geometry on the trail is a little slacker than Pace quotes to start with.

I guess it might all go horribly wrong, but if it does, hey, it's just a question of swapping back to the standard head-set again. And if it works, it'll be a trail-friendly, 130mm/150mm full susser with a slack front end for downs and a steep enough seat tube to keep things on track on the climbs...

Crossed fingers eh...

Spring-ish

2011-04-02T21:06:00.000+01:00

Went for a ride. Without intent. In a mellow sort of way. Learned that the Ragley doesn't really do mellow, it needs thrashing. And that it's something like spring out there. Quite nice really. And I took that bloody photo again, but with a different bike...

Predictable...

The view the other way for once with waterproof feet wondering what they're for.

Home trails.

Dry...

I could get used to this you know, really I could. Though a bit less rubble would be nice.

Dirty, filthy, titanium, road speed...

2011-03-29T00:16:00.000+01:00

An ace weekend. Saturday out with my mate Steevo for one of those even-paced Peak trundles that just seem to be just right - took the Pace, so Rags could bang his headset against the bike cave door and was all the more mellow for it.

Traditional 10 o'clock start from Hope, a steady roll along the Roman Road, up the concrete switchbacks and down a water-ravaged Lockerbrook with new steps and plenty looseness. Tea and ducks at Fairholmes, then over WLT the long way up and the short way down. Riding appallingly badly, with a cracking inability to adjust to the faster steering of the Pace, but it didn't really seem to matter.

Then back to Hope via the Roller Coaster and back down the Roman Road and a fleecing at the Woodbine. Dear God that place has got stupidly expensive. Nice to catch up with a not seen enough mate and good to ride and not feel completely broken afterwards...

.... so took Mog out on Sunday for one of those ever-expanding road trundles and felt, well, not quite good, but okay. Wore, erm, shorts and a jersey and NO windproof. Five hours, some biggish climbs, some nice views and a horrendous squeal and pulsing from the rear brake that the drop into the back of Castleton finally killed. Whew...

HRV fine this morning, weather good, clocks forward. And suddenly, this evening, it all clicked into place. At last. With 90 minutes of dirty, filthy, titanium road speed. One of those rides where there seems to be a tailwind even when there isn't one, when you just fly up climbs and every flat is blur of big-ring speed. Finished over Monk's with a big grin and a soap-time view down into Glossop.

Hello legs, welcome back.

Übergruppenführing...

2011-03-24T09:44:00.000Z

I've not done many group rides recently. Lots of pedaling solo, trying to feel what my legs are doing, looking at scenery, taking the odd snap, chatting to random folk along the way - 'Some weird cyclist collared me above Holmfirth and wouldn't shut up' - and hills, always hills.

But in the last week I've done not one, but two group outings, both with new people and both pleasantly enjoyable in a low-key, just rolling along sort of way. First one was last Sunday with Lowey and a bunch of STW forum users, mercifully there was no awful swapping of embarassing forum handles, which sort of happened after I e-mailed Dave to offer him the loan of a front brake.

Anyway, to cut a short story shorter, I did the human GPS gig from Hayfield, over the Roych, along Rushup then back up over Jacob's Ladder with a detour round under Kinder Low and down to the reservoir. Some slightly grumpy weather, but mostly just a really mellow, relaxed roll around with no ridiculous alpha-maledom in evidence and a gentle buzz from seeing other people enjoying new to them trails. But blimey, the Ragley doesn't really want to do 'gentle', wrong bike maybe...

And then last night, another mildly mellow Hayfield jaunt with Twisted Wheels peeps taking in the naughty side of Chinley Churn - Cracken Edge, which, if you've not done it is an ace bit of trail, but the exposed bit has almost fallen off the side of the hill now.

All good, but there was a strange relief in leaving the TW folk in the Sportsman and heading home solo over Middle Moor in a familiar pool of bobbling light. No stopping, no waiting, just me, the bike, a lot of memories, mostly good, some a little sad, and a track consisting mostly of loose rubble washed down by the recent torrential rain.

Screwed up the ford - I'd been riding like a drain all evening, too much tyre pressure, not looking far enough ahead - then rolled in a self-preserving, restrained way, down to the road and a final tarmac climb before the plummet down Chunal and home.

Rags and roll.

A bit like spring.

2011-03-17T23:15:00.000Z

Surfacing...

2011-03-17T22:32:00.001Z

Lundun, innit. People, lots and lots of people. People compressed into so small a space that they pop out of their cars and walk. En masse. But alone in their little bubbles. Squeezed into tube trains like rats. Everything turned inwards.

It's good to go back. Reminds me of why I left in the first place. The feeling if being entombed in concrete. Layers of suburb between me and hills. Remembering the train slicing through them like a drill escaping from a stack of Russian dolls.

Mine were actually bought in Russia. Thanks dad, sometimes having a Russian banker for a father was useful.

So, after a day of strategy meetings, coffee meetings, getting to know you meetings, I was tired of meetings and people. So instead of getting the tube, I walked. From the office in Islington to my mate's place in Finchley.

There's something really basic and grounding about walking through the concentric layers of city. The weird once broken regeneration of King's Cross. The tawdry plastic trendiness of Camden Town. Affluent beneath a still dirty crust Kentish Town and Tufnell Park. And then the long, long climb into the niceness of Highgate.

Before the empty moat of Hampstead Lane. People don't walk here any more. They drive or maybe run. And right into the Garden Suburb.

Where I stand gawping and open mouthed at the sheer affluence. Streets of ridiculously big, ridiculously clean and ridiculously expensive mansions. Big cars. Big trees. But not hedges or walls, I think, because the Garden Suburb won't allow them. The rich stripped bare.

And I find myself wondering what they people who live there are like. What they've done to have that much money. What their lives are like. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice is asking whether in a different world, I could have sold my soul to the city. Or advertising. Or... erm, anyway.

Idle thoughts. And on across the suburb, familiar running roads. With no runners. Just big, expensive cars rushing home in a bubble of shiny luxury to slam the big, wooden double doors on the world.

Funny things legs. Much under-rated. They can take you to the top of Everest or just stand in for a tube train. Bikes are faster. But legs are somehow more grounded.

Food. Chat. Drive. Fog. Crawl. Home. Hills.

The best sounds in the world...

2011-03-07T22:42:00.000Z

There are two really good noises in the world, yes, only two. One is the distinctive thunk that an ice tool makes when the placement is spot on, solid, right, in good ice. And the other is the strange hollow, crunching hum of mountain bike tyres running fast and loose over dry, hard, singletrack.

Given that Kinder Downfall thawed at least a month ago and even when it was in, looked worryingly think and brittle, no prizes for guessing that this evening's dying of the light soundtrack was the second.

But actually, what made it a really lovely ride was the company, a climby mate who doesn't ride mountain bikes much, but with a mildly broken foot ain't going anywhere fast without wheels.

It's lovely riding your local trails and seeing them, just a little through someone else's eyes. And when they're drying and fast and framed in golden late afternoon light and punctuated with incendiary grins at the bottom of every descent and hyperventilation at the top of every climb, it's just ace.

And at the end, when Danny said thanks for the ride and the loan of the bike and I said no, really, thank you for dragging me out, it was special, I really meant it. Bikes are great, but after all, they're just bikes. It's people that really matter.

Between the illness and the fitness...

2011-03-05T13:32:00.000Z

Somewhere between being ill and being better are the weird shadow-lands of 'not suredness' and that's kind of where I am at the moment. Essentially I'm okay, I have the faint remnants of a cough and that slightly comatose, post illness feeling of not being quite as sharp as I ought to be.

Handy bike and rider stand courtesy of the Ordnance Survey. Thanks guys, right at the top of the climb too, which shows real thoughtfulness.

And on the bike, while I have enough base to trundle along quite happily at a sort of seven out of ten level, when I try to go that little bit harder, push over the top of a climb, boost over some technical steps or whatever, I kind of hit a rev limiter. Which is annoying and slightly disheartening.

And the funny thing is that the ithlete app is drawing an amusing, saw-blade, post-illness portrait of instability. Drops and rises in HRV are more exaggerated and a brisk night ride is enough to send me further down that it ought to.

It's funny wondering if a three-hour road ride is going to be 'too much' and wondering if I'll be able to hack the pace on a local group ride, when I'd normally simply just turn up and ride. And at the back of my mind, there's always the worry that if I do too much, too soon, I'll break myself again, go post-viral and spiral into a rubbishy trough of uselessness.

There are worse times of year to be 'not quite well' - summer for example or when the trails are cracking with deep frozen ice beneath your wheels.

So instead I'm looking at the bright side. Planning on riding places I've never ridden, but really want to - Torridon, Mid-Wales, maybe the Alps or Pyrenees on the road bike, and wondering hard about taking a bike out to Nepal in the autumn. Poring over maps spotting local and not so local trails and remembering why I ride a bike in the first place, which isn't about racing or winning or beating people, but all about just being out there, moving through beautiful places and the sensation of a body functioning efficiently and working hard.

And yeah, going fast too - fast for me that is, I have no illusions about my relative speed. All of which makes pottering through the get shadowlands of Not-Quite-Wellshire a bit depressing. But hey, it'll come.

Bright And Shiny...

2011-02-21T23:35:00.006Z

Slush And Mud And Puddles And Random Tandems...

2011-02-21T22:22:00.001Z

Pottered along on a STW Peaks forum ride on Saturday. A few old friends, a few new ones, a few people who I've possibly met before and a few I'd not.

Anyway, a special day of wet snow and a old mate of a route - along from Whaley, up the Goyt Valley to Derbyshire Bridge, over the Old Road to Buxton then threading back along a mix of tracks and back lanes.

It's just a really nice, scenic, sociable, rolling-along sort of route. When it's not under a few inches of fresh, wet snow that is. And it was. Which made it entertainingly slithery. And pleasantly dawdly. And scenic too in a gorillas in the snowy mist sort of way.

And it had a special sting in the tail in the shape of an especially deep perma-puddle full of icy water. An ideal place to lurk with a waterproof camera and an encouraging grin... Treading water.

I Have Sat On Satan's Prong...

2011-02-15T09:25:00.004Z

Back on the devil bike on a properly vile Sunday in the Peak. I don't know, you leave your trails unattended for two weeks and someone unleashes a bloody tsumami on them, ripped to bits. But still nice to get out and let the soul and the mind roam around freely.

Oddly, after about two hours of riding through mostly sludge with a big grin on my face, my brain cell wandered off to a far distant past when I was a motorcycle journalist and the time we dubbed a particular project bike 'Satan's Prong'. I can't even remember what the bike was, but the sub-head has stayed with me ever since: 'I have sat on Satan's Prong and it was devilishly good'.

We sat around giggling at our own silliness like hyper-active teenagers. At first it was just a silly line. Then it metamorphosed into a sub-head, then somehow into a cover line. And yes, it was daft and childish and we got a bit carried away with our own cleverness - not that it was particularly clever - but mostly we just got a kick out of sneaking it onto the cover because, as a magazine, we were quietly at war with our publisher, who appeared to hate us with a cold and steely passion.

Why? Why was I thinking about it? Riding a barking mad mountain bike. Just as ridiculous and juvenile and funny. And it's the Devil Bike. And it's just good to be riding again. Hello world, hello clouds, hello sky.

Dreaming.

2011-02-12T23:50:00.001Z

Summer alpine dreaming. A project with dangerous feet...

Ovine dreaming.

And backyard dreaming.

Two dreams in one.

Summer glove and tasteless helmet dreaming.

Spanish dreaming - Oi - who Photoshopped those mountains in?

Dust - 'remember tha't dreaming.

Being Human.

2011-02-08T00:40:00.000Z

I haven't been properly ill since, oh, November 2008, which is a while, so I guess I had it coming. It being a nasty cold. Not flu. Not plague. Nothing serious. Just a really vicious cold that pinned me to the sofa and stopped me riding my bike for two weeks.

And for once, I should have seen it coming. I say that because I've been using an iphone app called ithlete - it uses a dongle thing that plugs into the ear-phone socket of your phone and a standard Polar HRM belt to measure something called 'HRV - heart-rate variability. Basically you stand there and breathe in and out in time to the animated lungs on the screen for a minute, first thing every morning and it tells you how well recovered your nervous system is based on the difference between your intake and exhalation beats, or the gap between them, or something like that.

It's a bit like taking your resting heart rate in the morning, but a lot more sophisticated. You get a graph with averages over time along with a colour indication of whether you're totally recovered - green - and can kick yourself senseless. Or not quite recovered - orange - and should take things easy that day. Or, surprise, surprise, red, the devil colour, which means chill out, take a rest day, kick back or suffer the consequences...

Given that I can resist anything except the temptation to ride my bike and am quite capable of hammering myself into a deep hole, it makes a lot of sense.

But of course, it won't stop you getting ill. But it will spot the bloody thing coming. Which, if you look at the chart, is pretty much what happened. Two gentle dips followed by a nose dive into the depths of HRV horror that equated to being knocked out cold on the sofa like a dead whale on a beach.

I think it went somewhere down in the 40s, which given that normal is high 70s or more, says it all really. And then you can see it climbing again, until it hit 72 and like a muppet, I went night riding. 'It'll be steady.' Yeah right, ha bloody ha... Too much too soon. The line goes down again and it's taken another five days to get back to where it was. Lesson learned...

Anyway, still learning how the thing works. Obvious stuff - it's intensity that blasts you. You can do six or seven hours steady and as long as you drink, east and sleep properly, it has minimal impact on HRV, but blast out a hill interval session or beast yourself on the turbo and chances are, you'll know all about it next morning.

It seems accurate too. On days when it says I'm good, I'm good, even when I feel bad. And when it says I'm a bit off it, I am, even if I seem to feel okay before heading out. Obviously it's not going to improve fitness in itself, but it's a great way of working out how recovered you are, possibly when you're good to go hard again after illness or lay off and, just as importantly, it gives you objective evidence that you should back off, even if you don't really want to.

I'm not quite sure I like that last bit. I'm not sure I want to be told whether I can go riding or not by my phone and me, being me, I'm sure at some point we'll agree to differ and I'll go off on some epic day regardless and hang the consequences, but for now, it seems like a very good idea.

But for now I'm just about well enough to start feeling twitchy, grumpy and restless, which has got to be good, right? Er...

Being ill.

2011-01-27T13:35:00.001Z

I properly hate being ill. It's like someone's hit the pause button on your life and you disappear into a weird shadow world where nothing happens except discomfort and sickness and endless parades of expelled mucus of varying shades, colours and consistencies.

And of course I'm not 'really' ill. I just have a particularly nasty cold - and to be fair, it's the first really brutal once since, oh, November 2008 or something, so I can't complain. But I hate the feeling of life rushing by outside as some poxy, microscopic virus pins you to the sofa just hacks me off.

And what does the virus get out of it? Does it multiply to the point where it can read great novels or watch classic cinema? Does it feck, it simply lurks around your breathing passages generating mucus and slyly hoping to get passed on to other victims. Oh, and watches crap satellite TV by proxy because I feel too weak to turn the pages of a book - even Feet In The Clouds, which I'm starting to think is somewhat over-rated and driven by misguided 'soft southern envy of mythical 'ard northern fell runner' stuff.

'Archie Wells was brought up on a hill farm on the highest point of Helvellyn. He grew up sleeping behind dry stone walls with sheep for warmth and ran, off road every day to Ambleside and back to go to school. Except on Sunday when, for a change, he'd run to Penrith for the Sunday service then back again via Kendal where he bought a Sunday paper for his ma....

'At the age of 14, Archie won his class at the classic Tilberthwaite Sheep Dip race, but was disqualified for being a professional on account of once having been given half a Mars Bar for finishing a minor junior's race in Borrowdale...'

'These days Archie is a compact, wiry fellow who lives in a dark, cave near Ireby. As he answers the door, you can see the fire in his eyes is still undiminished, and when he brews a cup of tea for me, it's served up in the 1954 Champion of Champions Muckthwaite Fell Cup...

And so it goes on. All you really need to know is that all the historical runners in the book are ridiculously hard and that part of the reason is that they've never really thought much about what they were doing.

Unlike the author, who as a reaction to living in over-crowded, polluted, urban insanity, somewhere seems to have formed the idea of becoming one of them. Which is fair enough, but it's starting to grate. I know legendary fell runners are massively hard. I know that fell running is a daft, nigh on insane sport and what I want to know is WHY?

But that's the question that never gets asked. The 'what are you running away from?' question, if that's what it is...

Yes, being ill makes me grumpy.

Cold again...

2011-01-21T22:44:00.000Z

Work.

2011-01-18T10:06:00.000Z

Parachuted - no, not literally - into the Alps for a couple of days by MHW. New gloves, new waterproofs, ridiculously mild temperatures meant NO ICE to climb, so went for a wander across a glacier wearing snow shoes. Bizarrely mellow, nice to be up a mountain, pining for Andean peaks, funny not having an axe or crampons or prussiks and noticing the shadowy, tell-take signs of crevasses under the snow. Not a bad day at the office.

Ooops, I built a devil bike...

2011-01-16T19:45:00.001Z

Blown away, really. Just grinning. It has sharp, pointy teeth and bright shiny eyes. It climbs like a cartoon cat after a mouse and descends like a startled yak. And it carves turns like a hungry penguin hunting fish.

It wants to go fast. Very, very, very fast.

It is just absolutely feckin' brilliant.

Folding tyres.

2011-01-08T23:44:00.000Z

Somehow the two tyres that came on my first ever mountain bike some decades ago have been breeding. Like rabbits. Or Triffids. Or some sort of insane single-celled rubber organism. So now there are piles of them intertwined in the kitchen cupboard.

Old ones crusted in mud from long-forgotten trails. Newer ones with faint traces of southern Spanish dust. And, thanks to the wonders of tubeless conversions, tyres lined with a second skin of dried-on, bubbling, stringy latex.

As the funny thing about tyres is that they expand exponentially when not folded. And they never seem to wear out.

So I'm folding them. Rolling them up into neat, compact rounds with the tread on the outside so I might at least recognise them from their knobbly signature. Then stacking them neatly. It's therapeutic and strangely narrative at the same time.

Tyres catalogue days and places and conditions. Narrow Schwalbes and Michelins left over from 24-hour races, odd Fat Alberts from the days when I thought they were great and screw the mass, fast but treacherous Geax Saguaros from the post-Schwalbe era and odd things - failed experiments like Panaracer Rampages - good on paper, roll like a hedge-hog on day-old custard - a solitary Maxxis Aspen, not much quicker than an Ardent but with about a hundredth of the grip and a pair of - stil-packaged and free - WTB Prowlers, that I can't imagine ever using.

And then there's the Ice Spikers, sat quietly in the corner with their sharp teeth, hissing quietly at the other tyres and waiting for their brief week of life to come around again.

But they take up too much room. And there are far too many of them. So here I sit, drinking hot chocolate and folding tyres.

[How come I already have a tag for tyres eh?]

Good riddance to 2010...

2011-01-02T20:58:00.000Z

Finished off 2010 with a local ride for local people, up three local climbs and back again, on the Rat. Views of Yarkshire - Holme Moss - like Derbyshire but further away.

Views of dark fog at Snake Summit. Thank gawd for reflective posts, at least I knew I was at the top.

Views of Glossop's fabled twinkling New Year lights from the Monk's Road. Not many people know this, but some of those lights are simply giant fish fingers illuminated from within by the lost souls of battered haddock.

Here's to better fish in 2011.

The unbearable poignancy of snow.

2010-12-30T22:19:00.003Z

I love snow. I like the glitter and the crispness and the way it paints everything epic so hills become mountains and mountains boost you instantly into a parallel universe of comprehensive 'too loveliness' - 'too lovely' being a state of quite incomprehensible, well, loveliness really.

And underneath it all, like a quietly chugging base-line, is the poignancy of snow's transience, the knowledge that it's ephemeral, that in a day or a week or maybe, if you're very, very, lucky, a month, it will give way to that sad, dirty, wet greyness.

Snow today - grey, miserable slush tomorrow.

And unlike the Alps, where that means spring and brightness and warmth, in our benighted British climate, it's just an express ticket to sludgy, damp miserableness.

And that's kind of sad.

But it's also life. Like doomed relationships. And the best novels. And parties. And holidays. And weekends away. And none of them would be quite as good as they are, if things were any other other way.

But it doesn't stop it being sad. But in a way, it makes it even more lovely.

Merry Christmas...

2010-12-26T18:15:00.000Z

Who says Santa's dead?

Or that tinsel has no place on a mountain bike?

And you can't ride on snow?

Want this to last for ever...

Dwunk in charge of a mountain bicycle...

2010-12-19T20:56:00.000Z

Two pub rides in two days. The first one was an 'alternative works do', me and my fellow home-working / sneaky mid-week riding buddy, a spin on freshly-dusted, freshly iced trails followed by a pub lunch and 'several' pints of Mr Scrooge. Pub rides are what ice tyres were invented for... You can't beat a meandering, crackling, giggling progress through a series of sheet-iced puddles...

Then yesterday, added tinsel to the Pig and headed out local like with the Glossop Youth Mountain Bike Project, a worthy effort intended to delinquentify local teenagers with the help of mountain bikes. A fantastic day with insane clouds, treacherous trails with fresh snow artfully camouflaging plates of black ice and cheery tinsellated company.

It all finished at the Sportsman in Hayfield for, erm, a pint or two of Santa's Sac - really - and lunch, before - you guessed it - a meandering solo, 'just two more hills and a bonus descent' progression home. Lessons: even ice tyres have their limits and the steps on Middle Moor are lethal under ice.


Tinsellated...

Hick...

The Things You Find...

2010-12-14T22:23:00.001Z

At the top of Chunal no less. I have no idea why anyone would decide that the junction of the Monks Road and Chunal would be an appropriate place to site an advert for a Barbie pink, Playboy Hummer, but there it was - with a rainbow behind it no less. So if you need transport to the works Christmas do, here's the answer...

Meanwhile, in a slightly different, parallel universe, had a spectacular perfect arctic day on Kinder with my mate Dave and Zak, the crazed springer spaniel. Just lovely, bring back the snow, please.

Flat And Snowy

2010-12-07T00:11:00.000Z

End of holiday flatness postponed by a knock on the door at 9 o'clock and an invitation I couldn't quite bring myself to refuse. Proper sub-zero overnightness, frozen trails and the fierce crackle of studded tyres on ice. And one sublime descent of Coldwell Clough at 'fast as I dare' speeds in a proper toboggan run of a trough. After which an under-used Shooting Cabin felt flat and anti-climactic. Lovely in a low key, low temperature, crunchy sort of way.


Maybe we should go a different way?

Snap, crackle and pop...

Downfall tundra.

Fast.

Looks familiar... same place, different bike.

The world in shades of grey.

Sheepz.

Arctic cows...

2010-12-04T01:48:00.001Z

Orange bikes look great in snow...

2010-12-02T09:37:00.000Z

They do - one Ragley, one snowy Peak District, the tail-end of a snuck holiday mid-week ride, lights, camera, action-ish.

And then it got dark.

That's better...

2010-11-29T22:57:00.000Z

I love the way snow glitters like tiny stars in your lights when you're hooning down Cut Gate in the blackness, picking your way along a Scalextric-clean ribbon of grit-dusted snow through the jumble of rocks. The sound of ice cracking under your wheels and that funny round, hollow noise that big, tubeless tyres make on frozen ground. The funny looks when everyone else is heading home and you're off and up onto the moors. The quiet nods of recognition from other people who 'get it' - fell runners, bikers, walkers. And I love the views of distant towns burning bright in the dark. And ears burned by the cold. And the funny people who won't go out because it's 'too cold'. I guess I kind of like winter.

Out oF Time

2010-11-23T10:03:00.000Z

November. Dark, brooding, not quite winter, not quite autumn. The sound of water evicted by the tyre treads of passing cars and spat into the night. Cold enough for longs. Drowsy. Lazy. Pilot light glowing in a far buried corner waiting for full gas.

A Rat.

Coffee.

A semblance of will.

Shuffling exit delayed by sartorial dithering. Baggies? Over longs? And what's that in the pocket? Gel, ace. Flavour? A small, orange sachet of sun-block - 'Sun Shots - Five Star UVA Protection'. Blinking and cringing, out of season, out of time.

A small, sweet reminder of summer.

Deposited in the sundries pot. Replaced with matching orange Go Gel.

And out the door.

Trails Hello! style

2010-11-17T09:44:00.005Z

This week BadlyWiredDog and his glamorous Pace RC405 invited Hello! to sample the delights of their sumptuous local trails. Or something like that...

Anyway, took a London-based colleague and mate and a couple of his Sheffield-dwelling mates for a work-day rumble around some local trails for local people. After a bit of a kitchen kerfuffle over tyres - no, Aspens are not a good idea in the Peak at this time of year. And oops, tubeless Wolverines and DT Swish rims really don't get on unless you have a crowbar handy. And why don't you just borrow these Minion DHF,s eh? - we headed out on a blissfully sunny, chilly and crisp early winter's day.

Tsssk.... you really shouldn't be here.

Just the process of deciding where to go makes you rethink your local trails. Trying to decide which ones are worth the time and the effort and which doors need to be kept firmly closed.So we headed over to Charlesworth on suicide lane - 'I'll just overtake on this blind bend shall I then?' - and up from there along Coombes Edge, or whatever it's called, then down and across the Shooting Cabin in reverse.

Gotta love that climb and you have to love the views of Kinder at the end of it, looking across at the edge sprawled out across the skyline with the fold of the Downfall creasing the edge of the world. And hey, it's a quiet weekday and, well, you've got to show guests the best bits, so it was off round the corner along traversey singletrack to 'that' clough.

Perfect, nicely damped singletrack with the odd rock-step thrown in. Cruising along looking at the views while the other scream off into the picture perfect future. Smiles and laughter. Priceless.

More of the same follows - Hayfield sarnines and Eccles Cakes, then Chinley Churn in frosty sunlight and a final whooped hurrah down Coldwell Clough and a finish behind the campsite into Hayfield before a final, tired drag back over the hill to home with a sinking sun for company.

Brilliant day and nice to be reminded by others' grins and enthusiasm, just how good my local riding is. There's something quite lovely about sharing your trails and seeing them again through fresh eyes and memories, so thanks for that guys. Must do it again some time soon.

A patchwork quilt.

2010-10-24T20:27:00.002+01:00

Two really ace rides this weekend. One with a group of friends, one that started with a group and sort of somehow ended up as a solo outing finishing at home.

And right in the middle of today's ride, I stopped just below the farm full of dogs above Hayfield and just took in the views.

It occurred to me that I knew the trails in every direction, could spot the Shooting Cabin to the left, the road up past the quarry onto Chinley Churn ahead, the track junction below the promentary near Kinder Low, knew where Kinder Reservoir nestles unseen and where the track from South Head that I'd just come down, runs. And Highgate Road. And 20 Trees. And more prosaically, the Sett Valley Trail. And loads more.

All tracks I've ridden over and over again. Laced with memories good and bad, old and not so old. And I thought about the process of getting to know an area, working out how tracks join together and link and overlap, those eureka moments when you grasp that the trail you rode yesterday is just a linking bridleway apart from today's route. Like doing a crossword. Or putting together a patchwork quilt. Not that I've ever done that.

And what I love about it, is that you stop thinking in terms of pre-formed routes and instead, just go. Mix things up as you ride depending on how you feel, how stuff's riding, where your mates want to wander. Or not.

The perfect Bank Holiday Monday begins with a dawn start and no particular place to go, just a bike, some food and a blank canvas.

It might be a short day. It might not. Like the ride over to Edale for a group ride that turned into an epic loop over Cut Gate and home again in crisp, grippy snow. Or the one that was mostly about an hour or two basking in the sun below Hollins Cross and watching the world go by. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with friends. Sometimes with someone you love.

But all possible because in your head, it's all joined up together.

And some of the the best rides with friends, are when you find another patch for your quilt. A new bridleway. Or track. Or footpath. That fits neatly and logically into place. Fills in a hole. Sometimes with the blazingly obvious. Sometimes brilliantly not so.

And I don't think it'll ever be finished.

Everything's gone white.

2010-10-20T17:10:00.001+01:00

Feeling autumnal

2010-10-18T23:17:00.001+01:00

I've pretty much ridden myself into the ground - quite knowingly, Your Honour, guilty as charged - because the alternative was to look too hard at things I didn't really want to look at. And now my body's stuck two 'are these yours' fingers up at me, pumped up the lymph nodes behind my ears into hard little bullets of rattled immune-systemic spite and packed me off to bed.

Summer's last green calling card...

Just feeling deep-down tired and bruised and slightly broken. The bikes are sulking in the bike cave like unwalked dogs and the Peak has its autumn head on at last. Cold weather test kit keeps turning up with mocking inevitability. A North Face down jacket with nigh-on water-proof outer, several fleece-lined soft shell jackets and a selection of spiky things for feet. Oh, and gloves, ridiculously expensive winter gloves.

Tyres are shifting too. The Voodoo's shed its summer sandals - Dry XCR2 and Racing Ralph 2.1s - for fatter, knobblier winter boots from the tyre pile. Minion DHFs are 'in' and Ardents are 'out' and Mog, like all good cats, is shivering at the prospect of regular baths. And the Pace? The Pace has new, winter-hostile white saddle and grips to match its polar bear forks.

Coming soon to a trail near you...

It's all a bit grim. But I know it's temporary. The sun'll shine again. Grim autumnal Peak days will be mixed up with flashes of magic - nights when the trails freeze into grippy sandpaper friction fests, brooding skies with darkly magnificent cloudy eyebrows and then, one day, it'll snow and everything will be dusted with epic. And my legs'll work again.

But right now, I just want to sleep.

I really am stupidly fussy.

2010-10-13T09:27:00.001+01:00

I killed the Pushed Pike on my Pace. Or the Peak did anyway. Despite regular oil and seal changes, the vaunted reputation of Rockshox for durability and the the use of the finest lubrication - organic extra virgin olive oil or its suspension equivalent - the shiny aluminium patch on the left-hand stanchion got bigger and bigger and bigger.

It was an interesting process to watch - the shiny, polished, burn-scar patch ridged gently, then like some sort of mutant birth mark started to spread up the stanchion. In a dry region it probably wouldn't matter. In a dry region it probably wouldn't have happened. But in the Peak, the end result was that a mix of grit and water tip-toed past the wiper seal, foam ring and oil seal and contaminated the lubricating oil in the fork lowers, screwed the action and caused yet more wear. Weekly oil changes. Not good.

This stuff - doesn't like moving parts...

So in the end, much as I loved the Air U-Turn with its Push damper for its ability to wolf down repeated rock strikes at speed and come back unflustered for more, it had to to.

Normally I'd just swap like for like, but Air U-Turn Pikes are like hen's teeth now, so after several calls, mails and googles, it was off to buy a Dual Air Revelation, a 2011 with 150mm of travel. It's white, which after three years of black Pikes is weird. And it's light, around a pound less than the Air U Pike, I guess.

Memories are made of forks

So anyway, tore the Air Pike apart and swapped the Push bits into the Pig's Pike coil - result - and stuck the Revelation on the Pace instead. Done and ride.

At this point, I'm meant to rave over how amazing the Revelation feels, but actually I'm so used to the Pikes that fresher, lighter, longer, whiter forks feel disconcerting.

I know how much weight shift it takes to lift the front end, not any more, 1lb less makes a real difference. The extra 10mm travel seems to raise the front enough to screw up steep climbs, grrrrr, miserable failure on Lockerbrook fighting just to keep the wheel on the deck, and the stickiness and set-up teething issues mean that the bike feels like a strange, foreign thing. No more plugged-in confidence, just this slightly disconcerting, alien, front-end frisk.

Darn, innit....

And I don't care what anyone says, you can feel the difference in stiffness, the Pike was somehow just more implacably planted, the Rev just has that little bit less - but then that weight had to come from somewhere and that somewhere is the chassis.

To be fair, it's getting there. The seals are breaking in and upping the negative pressure pulls the fork down far enough to compensate for the extra height and adds small-bump plush as well and I'm recalibrating front-end lifts as well. Give it time. And failing that, give it the Pushed Pike from the Pig.

Pig Pushed - win!

I don't believe in 'perfect bikes', that's just an industry marketing strategy and I feel slightly sorry for people who seem to be engaged in a doomed pursuit of the bike that will somehow transform their riding, and when something I have just works, I don't generally see the point in changing it unless I have to, because that just interferes with what matters, which is riding.

Oh, and the bike looks odd with white forks. Less solid, more flighty. Which clearly is utterly petty. But there you go. Black forks are stiffer and faster and just work better. Give it time.

And if time doesn't work, then it's off to eBay for another Pike Air.

Just follow manufacturer's instructions...

2010-10-10T21:31:00.000+01:00

hey pig
yeah you
hey pig piggy pig pig pig...

Pig on Saturday, Pace on Sunday, Voodoo on Thursday, angst on Wednesday, Road on Tuesday, rest on Friday. So what the hell was Monday?

Mucho wetness...

2010-10-07T10:07:00.000+01:00

There's a tipping point to riding in the rain. When things get silly. And no matter what you do. Or wear. Or which trails you ride. You will get absolutely. Brutally. Completely. Soaked. With a capital 'S'. So you might as well enjoy it. And that was Sunday.

It might look suspiciously like a stream, but this is actually the tarmac track from Mellor Hall - I think - over towards the church. Nice.

And this here's the top of the Shooting Cabin, erm, about 50 metres of foot-deep water. Full pedallo mode on.

Silly and grin out loud funny. Bring on the winter.

It's all about the sheep...

2010-09-24T16:47:00.000+01:00

Faith in human nature and bikes roughly restored. And sheep too. So what is it with me, I go riding with mates in the best places and I come home with pictures of sheep. Again.

'If I act coy, will you love me? Will you?'

Not just any sheep mind, these were weird homing sheep that spotted us from the other side of the field, trotted over and stood there looking all clean and blow dried and 'your sandwiches wouldn't melt in our mouths' seductive.

'And now I'm playing hard to get...'

They were some sort of pedigree sheep I reckon. Show sheep. Pampered, prima-dona-ish, glitterati types, fed on prime, virgin alpine meadow grass, specially imported from Switzerland and shampooed daily at an exclusive local hair salon...

'Flutter...'

... in the Goyt Valley. So maybe not.

Anyway, a brilliant secret singletrack mission, some on tracks I knew already and some on new stuff. And all of it ace in a twisty, rocky, moor-ish - see what I did there. And see what I did there too, lazy or what - forbidden fruit, weekday morning sort of way.

'Can I eat it?' - either participant...

Made all the better by getting home in time to hear rolling thunder usher in an afternoon of blackest, darkest, Peak rain. Good trails, good company, good sheep. What more could you ask for?

Fork hell

2010-09-22T10:29:00.000+01:00

I'm essentially conservative when it comes to my own bikes. I don't see the point in changing things that work well, I tend to replace like with like unless something comes along that's either a definite upgrade or free, preferably both...

... so the trashed Pushed Pike - anodising worn off big time, gritty slurry getting in past seals and gungeing up fork as a result - on the Pace is a pain in the butt. It's a brilliant fork, eats rocks at speed unlike a standard Pike, and has a steamroller-like implacability to it.

One problem, they don't make Pike Air U-Turns any more.

Rats. I've bored 'them as ought to know' stupid with questions, been confused by the new RS line-up with multiply revised Revelations in 2010 and 2011 spec, thought about Sektors, tried to work out which other RS fork will take the Push damper gubbins currently in the Pike and the answer seems to be to buy a Revelation with the dual wotnot rebound damping and stick the Push damper in the coil Pike that's currently on the Blue Pig.

Or I could stick the coil Pike on the Pace and Push it then put a cheaper Sektor on the Pig. Or I could hang around eBay with my hands in my pockets, whistling quietly, until a suitable donor Pike appears. Or... I could just buy a bloody fork, stick it on the Pace and then go ride it.

And then there's colour. The Pace looks right with black forks, but mostly 2011 Revelations seem to be white. And what is a 'titanium spring tube' anyway? Hmmmph...

Sod it. White 2011 Revelation RLT Ti it is. And if I don't like it. Or it looks wrong. Or both. I can simply stick it on the Blue Pig and put the Pushed coil Pike on the Pace. Or could I buy a 140mm Maxle Recon and stick the innards from the Pushed Air U-Turn in it. Or I guess I could just go ride my bike.

Sorry, just wanted to share my inner turmoil. If the Revs were readily available in black I'd just buy the bloody things. Or I could get a Sektor and save 200 quid. Or...

Wetness returns...

2010-09-20T16:11:00.001+01:00

Blimey, did I really say that I liked autumn? First proper wet ride of the season yesterday. It was supposed to be the Mary Townley Loop on cross bikes since some people are racing the Three Peaks next weekend, but given that it was tanking down with rain in a biblical stylee, a mass decision was made to head out to Marsden for tea and cake and back again. Good move as it turned out.

It were wet in a proper wet, northern, grey sort of comedy riding up streams kind of way. And then the streams sort of rode up us and well, the rest is wet history. Boots, gloves, base layers you name it. It always seems worse because you've half forgotten how to dress for chilled rain, waterproof gloves and boots are lurking forgotten in distant cupboards and so you're not really properly dressed at all.

But the cafe - Crumbles on the Corner - in Marsden, was amazing in that steamed-up, fogged-up, friendly and welcoming way with ace food and the best cakes ever. Apparently they're sourced from local women and clearly there's something in the local gene pool because they're all extraordinarily yummy. The Caramac and ginger one went down very nicely thanks.

Then it was back on the bikes for a cold, wet, shivery slog home to Rich and Shona's for assorted chilli, cake, ace home-made crumble and inane jabbering, mostly by yours truly in full-on, over-caffeinated mode. I shouldn't be allowed near coffee without the presence of a responsible adult.

A funny old business autumn. Time for recalibration. New Specialized Defrosters - thank you eBay - and looking around and forwards not back. And time for some Nepal dreaming.

Another one gone...

2010-09-17T10:01:00.001+01:00

Love my road bike. Hate fucking moronic brain-dead murdering car drivers. Over the crest of Chunal and flat out big-ringing it down into the sweeping S-bends towards Little Hayfield. Pedal down, knee out and leeeean into the lefthander, drift to the side of the overbanding, loads of traffic coming the other way. Dead people, commuters.

Then, fuck, some wanker in a silver grey Defender driving straight at me, overtaking on my side of the road, because I don't exist and he's a fuckwit and he'd rather kill me that get home 30 seconds later and of course, in his superfast Defender, he's going to scream past the 20-odd cars in front of him and reach clear, blue tarmac.

But first he wants to kill me. Tuck hard left into the wall as close as I dare, too much focus even to bother to shout at the cock. And then the moment's gone. I'm still alive, anger brushed into me by the draft of his passing. And I want to murder him. I want to slam his head repeatedly into the dry-stone wall. I want to torch his wanky, life-styling Landrover in front of his piggy eyes. But mostly I just want to kill him. Because then he'll understand.

And the funny thing is that I'm angry, but I'm not scared. I don't really know why. It's not like nearly dying on mountaineering epics. Or almost dying on my motorbike when I was 19. For some reason, I just don't care any more. Not in a bleak, despairing sort of way. Not in a 'my life's pointless and worthless' sort of way. Not in any sort of way at all really.

Two weeks...

2010-09-09T23:44:00.001+01:00

Two weeks - mostly - off the bike. Resting. Feeding ducks. Dosing myself with weird supplements to make it feel as if I'm doing something about it. Just broken by my own stupidity, which is arguably better than being broken by someone else's stupidity, but has the flipside of removing any possible get out clauses.

Bikes sulking and stropping in the bike cave. Bike shoes skulking unseen. Chain lube getting dusty.

Mornings watching RHR dropping daily, frustratingly, slowly, like a stone through treacle - 50-ish - 48, 47, 46, 44, 43, 43, 42, 41. Which is almost normal.

So this evening, the Pace got dragged out, lubed up, lit up, pumped up and loved. Local shop ride, old people, new people and familiar trails, grippy in that slightly damp grit way. Up Chunal, cruising, then onto the Shooting Cabin backwards. Clean across the bridge, then swing right and wide, cruise the first step then through the scrabbly loose stuff, gently through the ruts then wide, left and soft-pedally up the loose climb.

And yeah, to cut to the nub of it, better. Or at least close to it. Just lovely to be back on a bike, the speed, the movement, watching the sun slowly sinking. All the familiar sensations I've missed - the chattering speed of loose, rocky descents; burning legs on friendly climbs; a half creditable attempt on the Middle Moor steps - I'll nail it one day and soon - and a fuss-free clean of the bottom of William Clough.

And the kick is back - fierce and bright and sharp. I can't stop smiling.

Bits of people...

2010-08-20T22:05:00.000+01:00

I bought Cycling Plus out of curiosity, it doesn't have any emotional ditches hidden inside and well, I was curious. And it was kind of okay. I read Rob Penn's article about building his ultimate bike, the one that's also a BBC television programme and a book, the one where he goes around the world speccing out the parts he reckons are the best then building them onto a Rourke frame.

It made me think. Not that it would be so amazing to travel around cherry-picking parts from Campag and Chris King and obscure Italian componentry brands, but that it would be infinitely better to build a bike made from parts created by people you love. It's a good idea in theory I guess, but problematic in that you'd have to pragmatically build a series of relationships with people who made every part of a bike - saddles, bars, frames, wheels, spokes... It's a big ask. And to be honest, somewhat unrealistic.

But it made me think about other stuff. About things and love and the reverberations of stuff that sits in your house, in your life. Things that other people left behind. Books, pictures, music, the funny Ecuadorian thing on top of the VCR, the bar tape on my road bike, the strange selection of penguins that pop up all over the house, the little pot the garlic sits in, the plant on top of the bookshelf, the comedy fridge magnet, the Chrismas pudding tea pot and the odd French coffee mug with the hare on the side. And the tea-pot, the little one.

They're all little bits of people. Little triggers for memories. Freeze frame segments of points in life. And I guess somewhere out in the world, little bits of me are floating in other people's lives.

Tree...

2010-08-18T18:39:00.000+01:00

A few days of taking things easy and wishing the sky were bluer. I see a grey sky and I want to paint it blue? Doesn't really have the same ring to it does it. Oh well, black it is then.

Bad ideas...

2010-08-17T20:41:00.001+01:00

Trying to do two 24-hour races in two weeks, one solo, one as a pair. A very bad move on both counts. Besides, I hate the way racing gets in the way of riding bikes - tapering, recovery, tapering and in this case, the bit where tapering and recovery become the same bloody thing. Arse.

So I'm sitting here with tired legs - running was a bad idea too - pondering why, when going slowly is logically a good idea, I don't really want to go slowly at all. It doesn't work. I don't work.

So instead, I'm sitting here contemplating another bad idea involving chocolate sponge things with Belgian chocolate melting middle things and cream and ice cream and a very good idea involving a mountain bike and a flight to Kathmandu. Or maybe Morocco.

And other recent good ideas included lying in the sunshine at Ladybower yesterday in the sun and watching unidentifiable great big propellor-driven aeroplanes flying overhead. Changing Mogg's bar tape for some rather fetching blue Techno Spugna french blue stuff - it says it's navy, but it ain't unless it's the French navy. And finding a way of converting spangly new road wheels into 2010 Revelations to replace the trashed Pikes on the 405.

Ah well. Swiss Alps. Yes please.

One black finger...

2010-08-03T10:23:00.002+01:00

I broke a spoke in my rear Kysrium last week. No obvious reason, just getting out of the saddle at the bottom of a rise and, ping, metallic rattle, gone. And because of the spacing and the tension on Kysriums, it was enough to bend the rim far enough out of shape that it rubbed the chain stays on both sides. So thanks to International Rescue, Glossop Chapter for bailing me out and saving my cleats and chain stays.

And then, when I got home, I realised the chain was broken too - one inner plate snapped. And of course, because I like to make my life difficult, it's an 11-speed Campag chain. So there I was, one rare spoke and one rare chain to the bad and one sulking Planskey X or Lysnklet Ti Pro Road Mog scowling in the corner.

Cue endless calls and searches and eventually spokes ordered by the three from Pedalon - thanks Kie for telling me how to date the wheel, first digits of the bar code on the rim sticker if you're wondering - along with the stop-gap installation of a ten-speed quick link, which does work, even if technically it didn't ought to.

Chain ordered, spoke ordered. Brand new Bontrager Race X-Lite transmogrified wheel installed and dis-installed because, well, it just looked wrong. Pimpy as feck with white spokes and red alloy nipples, but just not right with stealth grey titanium, though it would look great with pimped out black and red and white swoopy carbon I guess. Anyone want to buy a mismatched wheel-set of uncertain provenance?

Big props to Pedalon for delivering next day after a 3pm order, but shock horror, the spokes are black, but hey. So in it goes, some gentle tweaking on the wheel jig and now I have a rear silver Ksyrium SL with one black spoke. And you know what, I really like it. There's something human and real and endearing about imperfection in the middle of something as improbably perfect and round as a wheel.

And it's one raised black finger to roadie fascist, black and white thinking, life tyrants. Besides, it was hard enough finding a black spoke, I simply can't be arsed with finding a silver one...

24/12, the condensed version...

2010-07-26T12:12:00.001+01:00

I learned some stuff last year, notably that cycling is just a game. In real life, other things matter more and while riding bikes is great and kept me more or less together for the last 12 months, it is 'just' riding bikes. Life and death and people and love - friends and partners and family - all trump bikes when the chips are down.

Blimey - pre-race mode and almost organised....

But in a race, that shouldn't matter, that's the point of it, isn't it? Suspension of normal rules. So why after nine-and-a-half hours and nine-and-a-half laps of a 24-hour solo at 24/12 am I very rationally debating the pros and cons of jacking it all in? The thought process goes a bit like this:

Me: 'This is shite, the course is getting desperately wet and slippy and dangerous and some knobber has already knocked me off once and made a big dent in my shin.'

Me 2: 'Man up, it's about finishing and doing, not having 'fun'.'

Me: 'Yeah, yeah, I know that, but if you're not enjoying the riding what's the point? What's the point of riding at all?'

Me 2: 'Because you're going really well, feeling strong, eating and drinking well and if you bail now, you'll regret it later, you know you will.'

Me: 'But I'll also be trashed for SITS in two weeks time and let my mate down whereas if I stop now, I'll be more or less recovered by then and - shhhh... - it might be dry there. And I could ride faster, I hate riding slowly, hate it...'

Me 2: 'You knew that when you sent the entry off ffs, you idiot. Look, just keep turning the pedals and we'll talk again later.'

Me: 'But riding bikes is just a game. And right now, this isn't fun. Isn't enjoyment what this is all about?'

Me 2: 'Pathetic cop-out. But if you're happy with your decision then what the hell. Just don't whine about it later.'

Me: 'Deal. '

And I'm quite happy to have stopped. I'm not really a natural endurance rider - fast twitch sprint athlete me - and somewhere, I think, my internal rev limiter clocks in at around 12 hours, I loved the 12-hour solo I did a year ago. Maybe it's just mental and maybe in drier conditions I'd have seen things differently, but then 24-hour racing is as much about dealing with the conditions as it is about riding fast, dry, sinuous singletrack. So there you go.

So I went to bed and did some pitting for my friend Julie and was chuffed to bits for her when she not only completed her first ever 24-hour solo but came a solid third as well - thanks Rory for reminding me that helping a mate do well counts every bit as much as your own stuff.

And the best bits of it all were catching up with friends I've not seen for a while - hello Rob for one - and Pitch who had a cracking, gutsy ride and everyone else and some sterling chats out on the course, for some reason mostly with women soloists - why is it that lasses seem happy to chat while blokes, even slow ones, seem fixated on burying themselves deep in some personal pain cave.

Anyway, powder mostly dry for pairs at SITS, ten hours of fun, slippy riding under the belt, limited nausea, one ace sausage and bacon sarnie and too much driving. Now about that big pile of kit in the front room...

I thought I was someone else. Someone bad.

2010-07-03T23:22:00.002+01:00

Thank god for bikes. And friends. And ridiculous inquisitive lambs on perfect Peak summer days.

A very happy unMayhem...

2010-06-27T17:48:00.000+01:00

It's taken me a week not to write anything about Mayhem. Somewhat amusingly, I managed to assemble a team consisting entirely of people called 'Dave', well, apart from me, obviously, I'm not called Dave.

Friday... note traditional clouds...

But the things I'll remember aren't really the racing - we did okay by the way, ninth in vets sub-class, or 'oldies' I think it's called, yep, officially an old bastard and 27th in Sport Men out of around 110 and 250 teams respectedly - but actually it was mostly just a really nice weekend.

Warm, sunny, hot, dry, and loads of mates to bump into a chat with. And I had a teepee, a nordic one made by a company called Tentipi and it was properly ace. A really nice vibe. Super practical and, get this, because it has an adjustable vent at the top, you can have a firebox inside the teepee...

... so, at three in the morning, when normally you're huddled in a sleeping bag or draped shivering in a belay jacket between laps, we were grouped around a crackling fire feeling, erm, hot. Which was brilliant. And next day, when the sun was doing its own scorched earth thing and normal tents were performing a passable imitation of a sauna, inside the teepee, it was, as Kevin McCloud, or however he's spells it, might say 'cool and light and airy'. Really nice. Goes well with the the prayer flags too. And the Horror Cat.

As a team we did okay, as an individual, hmmm, well. I guess the thing that's been driving me in biking terms has been soloing 24/12, the 24-hour version, so a lot of what I've been doing has been long, hilly and steady. Not a lot of intense threshold stuff. I did some sprinty intervals in the four weeks before, so I had a proper singletrack overtaking spurt, but...

So the first two laps were briskish but in a sub-threshold way, and then I sort of lost interest, or not so much lost interest, but didn't have the motivation to hurt myself. And didn't really fuel properly either. Which was ironic given that someone spent a big chunk of last year trying to convince me that I was overly aggressive - yeah, right - and there I was without the competitive urge needed to punch my way out of a wet paper bag. Fierce, me...

But there you go. I'll leave the fast racing to the fast people and most of my mates went pretty well, the odd podium and some quick laps and one unfortunate crash. And the most important thing was that apart from one dark cloud of a conversation that I kind of wish I hadn't had now, it was a weekend of sunshine and lightness.

Got to stop that bloody Maverick from creaking though... If someone finds my creative urge, could they post it to me please. I feel like I've been run over by a steam roller. Which in a way I suppose I have.

Bike building...

2010-06-08T08:53:00.001+01:00

Odd but positive week. One of naming things Earthsea style. Finding that I now own one 2010 Bontrager Race X-Lite rear road wheel and one 2007 Bontrager X-Lite front wheel. And a new bike.

It's one in, one out around here, so the 'vento got debuilt and its assorted gizzards, bits and pieces went off to the transplant bank. I love the process of building bikes. There's something lovely about starting off with a frame and a pile of assorted parts and watching them morph steadily into a living, breathing animal. The precision of bolting things together. Adjustments. Clicks. A blend of exactness and feel.

And then the first ride and that odd mix of novelty and familiarity. And, oh, blimey, it does that really well. Like the first time you sleep with someone. But probably best not to sleep with a bike.

What's it like? A steamroller downhill making implacable progress with a funny mix of roll-over lateral stiffness and roll-round flexibility. Slack and solid and muscular. And a steamroller uphill, tolerating appalling line choices to clean the bulk of Middle Moor in reverse - no, I didn't get up the steps, but I will - and beguilingly accurate as in 'I'll just ride this narrow rut ridge because I can' sort of way.

And on the flat, a stroppy, surly, uninterested teenager moping along with its hands in its pockets and whining quietly to anyone who'll listen.

Like it.

Trusting the bike that bit you...

2010-05-27T09:22:00.004+01:00

My Voodoo bit me last week. Took a chunk out of my elbow and had a quick gnaw at my right knee for good measure. Evil little git. Cruising fastly down an innocuous, used-to-be-rocky descent, thinking how smooth and quick it is now when, POW! Front wheel smacks hard into something invisible and KERBANG, I'm flying through the air in slo-mo, with 'this is going to...' OUCH!

Followed by that cursing, near tears, two minutes of indignant pain mixed with self hatred - YOU IDIOT! - followed by limping CSI forensics. Yes, that's the gouge where the bars hit the ground. And the skid mark and, oops, that'll be two inches of angle iron poking out of the trail. Which would explain why the front tyre is flat and...

So of course it wasn't the bike's fault at all. It was mine. Predictably. And whoever stuck that bit of metal in the middle of my trail. BASTARD!

Tube replaced. Home limped to. Damage tallied and Wanga stowed in the bike cave.

And now two weeks later, scabs and bruises crisping and fading, I contemplate riding the thing again. Except now I don't trust it. Despite knowing that actually the crash wasn't the bike's fault at all, somewhere at the back of my mind, I kind of suspect that my Pace would have shrugged it all off, shivered, shuddered and carried on. But slim-tubed, steel hardtails aren't quite as forgiving.

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.

And it's not rational, but somehow I feel I have to change the bike to trust it. Because it's bitten me once. So tyres that are perfectly good are about to be torn off and replaced with something else. That rear Saguaro that's always felt a bit loose in sketchy dry conditions, it's out of here - the compound's just too hard, right... And yes, I know, it was the front tyre that did it, but what's logic got to do with it?

And the front, which incidentally has flatted again just sitting in the cupboard, a Minion DHF, that's going too. Despite me knowing rationally that nothing I replace it with is going to grip well on sharp bits of metal. But it's out of here anyway.

Because strangely, trust isn't completely rational. And it's easier to blame the bike than my own blase incompetence. Easier to assert that the Wanga is actually possessed. And evil. And new tyres? A ritual offering to appease the bloody thing.

But the funny bit is that while I know it was my fault and I know that the bike was essentially blameless, changing the tyres will make it feel better. And it'll be the first step on the ladder to rebuilding faith in the bike and, more importantly, faith in me riding it.

What tyres for trust?

Trail centred...

2010-05-24T21:38:00.000+01:00

I've never really been a trail centre kind of guy. I'm a Peak District sort of cove, I like messy, rocky, jumbly things that make you think about lines and don't come with guarantees. Trail centres, on the other hand, always seem kind of predictable - if this is Saturday it must be Llanyafanglenerleithenbeattie, you know, the one with the bermed singletrack heading down through the trees and the rolling kickers on the final descent to the caff.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying trail centres are bad things, for starters, they keep real trails quieter and provide jobs for pixies. And I'm not saying that you shouldn't love them, just that I don't.

Or that's what I thought until Saturday. While the more skilled folk took off for an uplift day at Innerleithen, more average riders like me headed off to Glentress on a glorious, sunny day and teetered around first the black route and then, in the case of three of us, the red for dessert.

And you know what, it was lovely. No soul-destroying fire road climbs, not too many people - fear of heat stroke ain't all bad - some lung-burning, switchbacked middle-ring drags into open-skied hill tops but best of all, a succession of swoopy, bermed, mellow, singletrack. Blimey, some of it was even starting to disintegrate for a more 'natural' sort of feel. And you know what, sometimes it's nice to have your very average riding ability flattered and kid yourself that you might be fast-ish and even smooth.

It was lovely. Not whoop out loud lovely, but warm, mellow, shared smiles at the bottom of the section lovely. And they have cake there, which is more than you can say for Cut Gate...

Hmmm... I could get used to this.

Home is where your bread maker is.

2010-05-14T18:25:00.003+01:00

People write lots about exploration and travel and holidays, but not so much about coming back. After big trips, it's the difficult bit. The journey becomes home and you lose your connection, struggle to stop moving. But after short jaunts, the ones where you've never acclimatised fully to being away, never have to, it's just lovely.

Simple things - the taste of your own coffee, the feel of your own mugs, the mingled scents of garlic, fresh bread and chain lube. Sitting reading in your favourite chair. Radio 4 in the background. With a choice of clothes. And plants. And, of course, a choice of bikes. Erm, yes, I know. The strange warmth of familiar roads and trails. And knowing that the local phrase for 'new jockey wheels, please' is in fact 'new jockey wheels, please'.

Nice to be away, but nice to be back too. Home is where your bread maker is.

A small, familiar oasis of biking tranquility.

2010-05-10T20:27:00.001+01:00

I remember the first time I ever visited my friend Simon in Spain. We rolled into Malaga airport, with bikes, at about nine in the evening. Strolled out into a wall of fresh, evening heat, stashed the bikes on a trailer and drove off into the night. Chugged off might be more accurate - back then, Si was driving a knackered old Mk3 Polo diesel - the passenger window was jammed open, the door was jammed shut and the whole thing was fragrant with the delicate scent of diesel.

About three hours later, we arrived. Somewhere back in time. White rounded walls, stepped alley ways and a total absence of light. Medieval. Bikes in bags dragged slowly through narrow passages and, finally, into the cool, low innards of a traditional Spanish house. Bird sounds. A lizard in the shower. And next morning, a view down to the sea that made you want to cry.

The plan was to stay for a week with Si, who'd just set up Freeride Spain, then take off for a week touring southern Spain - Sevilla, Ronda, Granada... Except that somehow the blend of hot, dusty, technical riding. Laid-back Spanish living. Bonkers strong coffee in the sun. And the best company. All those things made it almost impossible to leave.

And when, finally, we tore ourselves away, we virtually had to force Simon to take our money. The daft sod.

Since that first visit, ten years ago, I've lost count of the number of times I've been out to Spain. Through good times and bad - there was the epic week when I'd been climbing near Alicante and drove over to find Simon with a broken leg, near bankrupted by a cantankerous Oldmobile people carrier, and shivering in near freezing temperatures - riding old trails and new. Always happy to be here, always welcome.

I've watched Freeride Spain grow from random beginnings, to a small, happy, family business. Seen Simon and Emma marry. Met Maxi. And the bump to come. Got hammered hopelessly on gin and tonics. Crashed myself senseless. Laughed. Cried. Sometimes simultaneously.

And here I am again in the sun. Alternating road and trail. Missing my road bike. Loving my mountain bike. Drinking Spanish coffee in familiar bars. Stirring tea in a familiar fishy mug - the last survivor, I think, from a bulk buy of Orgiva crockery.

Feeling mellow and slightly sad for reasons I don't quite understand. And happy too. Coffee. Tapas. Groomed tarmac with drivers who treat cyclists with patience and consideration. Empty, fast, dusty technical trails. Climbs that throw you into the sky and dare you to look back. Road rides above the bluest of seas. Good friends and cold beers. A little oasis of comfortable familiarity.

I'm not sure I want to go home.

Packing...

2010-05-03T07:59:00.000+01:00

In a pre-Spanish packing frenzy - bikes, bits, clothes, sticky tyres, pads. New seals and oils in the trashed Pushed Pikes so now they're trashed, plushed Pikes. RP23 or DT Swiss for Spain? CK BB snugged up, lubed up and happy again. New P20 on the table. List of things to do on the bench. Procrastination on the mind because I hate / love packing frenzies. Hence the lap-top on the lap.

And somewhere on the edge of awareness, a quiet, warm, smile drifting into the edge of the weather map, because... well, because I'm off to where it's warm and dry and the trails are fast and dusty and rocky. And beer comes with free snacks. And I'm going to see friends who I haven't seen for far too long.

Full circle.

Last ride before heading out, as non-Spanish as possible, so Voodoo singlespeed on illicit Peak singletrack. Lovely. Right, better do some packing. Tomorrow I wake up in the sun.

Magic people, Voodoo people...

2010-04-30T05:58:00.001+01:00

Winter has gently killed my bikes. Attrition. They all have something mildly wrong with them - worn bottom brackets, slack pedals with plates that no longer hold onto fresh cleats no matter how much you wind in the tension screw, forks that need servicing, broken spokes, wafer-thin brake pads, grips that don't....

... with one exception. Mr Wanga, with his lithe steel tubes, stainless Surly cogs and chainrings is in the rudest of singlespeed health. Admittedly that's because he's had minimal use this winter, but hey, I'm slightly scared of the evil little bastard and his surrounding invisible zone of malevolent mechanical mayhem. Lifetime ticklist includes a washing machine, two cars, numerous expensive bike components, though rarely his own and, apparently, a classic Anglepoise lamp while sojourning darn sarf.

But needs must, so out he came for yesterday's night ride. And do you know what, it was ace. I'd forgotten - again - how much I enjoy the absence of chain clatter and shifts, the focus on lines and traction and that funny thing of out-climbing geared bikes not because you want to, but because you have to. The bike made me do it, your honour.

A sweet, gritty evening made sweeter by knowing that I'm off somewhere warm and dry and friendly in just a couple of days time. Like staying with friends because it is staying with friends, ones who I've not seen for far too long.

Mr Wanga however, is staying in his bike cave.

Is it breakfast time yet?

My gormless battle against the forces of evil...

2010-04-25T08:30:00.008+01:00

Like the Buzzcocks said:

"Turn up early in time for our date

But then you turn up late

Something goes wrong again.

Need a drink go to the pub

But the bugger's shut

Something goes wrong again

And again and again and again again and...

Something goes wrong again.

Ah something goes wrong again

Something goes wrong again

Something goes wrong again..."

You get the idea. But the question is, where do you cut your losses. Where do you say, that's enough and look for help. Talking bike maintenance, not life, though they have their similarities. Funny how simple faults in both escalate into WWIII. So, just for the sake of argument and illustration, it starts with a worn bottom bracket in a Cotic Road Rat, maybe a cheap Isis one that's been thrashed senseless for, oh I dunno, 18 months or so.

And the grease that it slicked through its threads has long since gone. With the result that the bottom bracket and the frame have built up a touchingly intimate relationship. You know the stuff, they are so close that they don't know where one starts and the other ends. Sweet.

Before...

So it begins. With moderate persuasion. And nothing moves. So it's out with the Plus Gas, the world's most elusive fluid, and an overnight soaking. But still nothing budges. Maybe this is the point where a sensible person says, enough and resorts to, 'professional help'. But not this idiot. Bolt the extractor in place and use a lever, a very long lever, the upright from a bike stand, erm, maybe. Not that I'd know of course.

And that sick feeling when what ought to be the bottom bracket succumbing to ungentle persuasion actually turns out to be the steel tool stripping the alloy splines from the bottom bracket. Ooops. And then you notice that the insert on the other side, that you thought was slightly truncated, has in fact sheered and two thirds of it is still screwed into the frame.

At which point anyone with half a brain would seek professional help. But, I'm quite stupid and stubborn and somehow the external bit of the bottom bracket ends up getting sawn off and chiselled. Ooops. Not a good idea. Not even sure where it came from.

And this is the defining moment, where it is, of course, too embarassing to slink off, tail between legs, to a professional mechanic and explain, haltingly, just how it is that your frame is clinging stubbornly to the stunted, battered remnants of a bottom bracket, with no obvious way of getting it out.

But of course, that's the nub of it. Going past the point where your mistake is redeemable. Jumping off the edge. The moment familiar to anyone who's ever dismantled a transistor radio. Or a toaster. Or a VCR player. Or an STI shifter. Or an iBook for that matter. When you know, at a gut level, that if you undo those screws, it will never go back together again. But you can't stop. You have to break it. To see how it works. Or just because.

Step away from the seized bottom bracket. And think. Hard. Furrowing your brow will concentrate thought waves more thoroughly.

Anything is preferable to the humiliation of turning up at your local bike shop with a frame in which the bottom bracket is not just seized solid, but all means of turning it have been perversely removed by an idiot. You could like and say your mum / mate / the dog did it, but that's not going to cut it. They will know instinctively you are solely responsible and, as soon as the door closes behind you, the workshop will reverberate to howls of scornful laughter.

So... competing solutions. Hacksawing through a hardened steel axle - exactly how much holiday do I have left again? Then the revelation that if caustic soda can remove stuck alloy seatposts from steel frames, then maybe it can do the same - ah, good God, Keanu Reeves is a flat-faced wooden excuse for an actor, sorry, random channel hopping - to an alloy-cupped bottom bracket in a steel frame.

Nasty stuff. Chemical gloves and goggles, plasticene cups and seals to hold it all in place. The careful pouring and re-pouring for three days, watching bubbles rising and the solution turning a filthy grey. And refresh. Then one morning, the liquid's gone. Enough aluminium dissolved to let it through. Disebelief. Rinse, chisel, hammer, bang, and it's out, mostly. Paper-thin, alkali-ravaged aluminium and the mangled remnants of something that used to be and now isn't quite.

Something that used to be...

A thorough rinse to remove the residue, which amazingly didn't kill the paintwork, then in with a new bottom bracket complete with copious amounts of copperslip. And a deep sigh of relief, because now no-one need ever know just how stupid I really am. And really, I am quite, quite stupid. But there you go. I guess most of us have done something similarly dim and maybe even got away with it sometimes.

Caustic soda'd...

Next time, I'll know when to stop. Er, right...

The Great Smell Of Mountaineer.

2010-04-21T11:42:00.004+01:00

Wrote this for wurk, but I like it enough to stick it on here as well:

I guess it had to happen eventually, the other day the postie rocked up with a box-full of outdoors-friendly male grooming products called, wait for it, Rockface! I added the exclamation mark by the way, it just felt right. Grrrr... Ruffty tuffty crag-friendly gels, scrubs, balms, shower gels, moisturisers and the rest.

The fantasy...

It smells like, er, 'top notes of green apple, bergamot, mandarin and coriander, middle notes of jasmine, cedar leaf and muguet and a base of precious woods, musk and amber'. So sort of fresh and well, like cosmeticy moisturising, after-shavey sort of things.

But here's the rub – and I don't mean a gently exfoliating scrub containing micro particles for deep cleansing, removing impurities and conditioning the skin – the whole point of being outdoors is not having to wash or worry about how bad you smell.
The great smell of mountaineer features top notes of semi-digested dehydrated food and unburned petrol or paraffin, middle notes of glacier cream and lip balm and a base note of powerful rancid perspiration leavened with fresher sweat, DEET and mouldering baselayer.

But what makes it special is the unspoken pact that no-one in the group should wash until you're off the hill. Miraculously, stick to this long-established protocol and eau de grimpeur remains completely undetectable – you can share a tiny cramped tent with your mate for, ooh, a week, without the faintest awareness of your mutually dubious aromatic condition – it's God's way of making mountaineering bearable.

The reality :-/

But where it all falls down is when someone breaks the faith, washes and anoints themselves with fresh-smelling unguents. Suddenly not only are your nostrils invaded by, yes, 'top notes of green apple, bergamot, mandarin and coriander, middle notes of jasmine, cedar leaf and muguet and a base of precious woods, musk and amber', but you become instantly and uncomfortably aware of your own personal stench.

The most graphic illustration of this on a big scale was arriving at Lukla en route to Everest Base Camp after starting from Jiri. The Jiri walk-in is a glorious week-long trek through lush cloud forest and up into the foothills and washing facilities are best described as 'basic'.

The result, by the time you reach Lukla, is a satisfying ripeness and only the vaguest memory of the smell of soap and anti-perspirant. Unfortunately arriving at Lukla is like taking part in an overblown chemistry experiment.

And one more gnarly action shot for aromatic luck.

Suddenly the streams of unwashed trekkers from Jiri are mixed in the vast test tube of Nepalese streets and Tea Houses with a torrent of trekkers fresh from Kathmandu and still subtly treated with cosmetics, toiletries and, er, grooming products. The funny thing is that in the petrol-fumed streets of Kathmandu, the smell is virtually undetectable, but transplant the wearer to Lukla and...

Let's just say that I could smell the new arrivals with their clean trekking pants, newly washed armpits and moisturised, exfoliated faces from at least 20 yards away.

Of course the effect is temporary, two days down the trail and everyone is, once more, a mass of mutually undetectable reeking trekker, but the Lukla experiment tells you one thing – there is no room for male grooming products in the outdoors...

Scorchio...

2010-04-17T22:20:00.001+01:00

Everything's gone dry. Trails that ten days ago were a mess of gritty mud have dried into rippled, rutted, fast-packed Peak ceramic. Shorts are a given and not an if. And you can almost ride and then put the bike away without washing it.

Almost but not quite because the perma-mud along the track below Derwent Edge is still fighting a valiant rearguard action against sun and drying winds. Which in a funny way just makes the rest of it even better.

A lovely ride of halves in the sun today. Started alone on familar trails unvisited for a while, tip-toeing along delicate lines, remembering how the Pace feels on hard, dry, grippy ground, consciously relaxing and letting the bike have its head down a rubble-filled toboggan run. Then gawping foolishly at the views across to Kinder before heading up again, tyres drumming on rock, legs hurting in a good way.

Then, by chance, meeting friends high above Hope and tagging along for a chattery, mellow, hour or two. Round to Ladybower for tea and cake then up the slabby climb, along and down my favourite climb. Compromised. Skimming through rock gardens and digging old lines from deep inside the reptilian, mountain biking bit of my brain.

Before saying goodbyes and winching back, slowly onto the high ground again. Enjoying the peace and the views and the sunshine. No hurry. No racing. Just a gentle roll back to the car. A happy day.

Not a number...

2010-04-14T13:03:00.003+01:00

Very entertained by gamboling number- and colour-coded lambs on the way down from Kinder yesterday. Ewes match their lambs, colour and number. What does the colour mean? Search me, maybe they just ran out of paint. Good grief, it'll be baaa codes next. I'll get my coat...

I'm rubbish ...

2010-04-12T22:15:00.000+01:00

Recced the Whitton on Saturday. Over Wrynose from the Langdale side, over Hardknott, then down, turn around and back up the Whitton way. Legs not working. Lungs not working. Rubbish. But the Duddon valley is still lovely.

Just Riding

2010-04-08T09:30:00.001+01:00

Blinding ride on Monday. Straight out of the front door and into the blue. Or the grey. Pausing to meet an old and good riding mate in Royston Vasey then off for a chatty roll aong the Longdendale Trail and over - via the old railway line from Dunford Bridge - to Langsett.

I don't rate brutality. It's premeditated, a choice and I don't think the hills make choices, they just are. But the climb over Cut Gate, all five miles or so of it, was quite hard. Into a screaming headwind, ridden on sludge. The sort of day when you think, 'it's just me', then realise that your mile-toughened mate is also having something of an epic. Granny ring all the way, mostly rideable, but every so often a step or nadge where you're already at redline and there are no more revs for the step up, so you're off and walking.

The relief of the top and the familiar sight of Ladybower spread out below. Loving my bike for taking me there, then down, cautiously at first, along eroded, rutted trail, then as things firm and loosen at the same time, that mental plummet back to ground level and the roll along the side of the reservoir. Chatting to leisure cyclist - leezure cyclists - on hire bikes, knocking along with a couple on a tandem, noticing, wryly that we're the only people there liberally splattered with gritty mud.

So the pasty and tea was earned. And needed. And go away, sharking, begging ducks. Cheek.

And after all that I nearly cleaned the Lockerbrook climb, failing mentally rather than physiologically near the top before the roll over to Potato Ally, the Roman Road, Jaggers - a familiar Peak litany - up the 'surprisingly rideable' and unsurprisingly unrideable climb to Hollin's Cross.

Just lovely to be out with stellar views across the Edale Valley to Kinder and, tucked away in the corner, Jacob's Ladder. But that's for another day. A quick conference and we opt for a headwindy roll along the road rather than the Rushup Quagmire, then right onto the Roych track, the first time I've seen it without snow drifts this year. And it's April for gawd's sake, how did that happen?

And is it wrong to laugh at a convoy of 4x4s stranded and grounded on bedrock slabs? Especially when they're so shiny.

Then it's the last proper climb out of the ford. Winching up in the small ring, head-windy miles leeching into tight calves and hamstrings and taking enough of an edge off things to make the final steppy climb over South Head a two-stage affair. Then springs unwinding on the plummet down Highgate Lane into Hayfield where the shop is shut, but the caff is seductively open.

Way too close to home, but hey, never look a gift cake in the mouth. And we do get gift cakes as well, scones which would otherwise have gone in the bin. What a great place, fab cakeage and should be on all western Peak itineraries. Mountain bikers welcome, muddy or not. Try the muffins, they rock, but then so does everything else.

And so finally limped over Lantern Pike and screamed back into sunny Glossop with legs both in pieces and reassuringly still quite functional. A lovely day with a gentle hint of spring in the air and good company. Not about the speed. Or the pain. Or the miles. Just the riding.

Mountain biker in disguise...

2010-04-03T22:26:00.001+01:00

Walking and seeing things at a different speed. Perspectives; the layer of rubble at the base of the cross-sectioned shivering road. Mountain bike tracks in mud and lines that, to a walker, look remarkably like ruts. The tiny details you don't see from the saddle because you're moving too fast, too focussed. Strangely therapeutic. Except that I feel like an undercover mountain biker. Eyes scope bike lines. Fingers twitching for imaginary brakes. Bike envy at muddy tyre tracks. Tomorrow...

And bonus dreadflocks...

Very tired. You should get a bell for that.