tea and pedal grease

Photo

Tue, 21 May 2013 10:00:50 +0100

Baskets

Mon, 20 May 2013 10:00:50 +0100

I can’t really remember exactly when I first got the idea that I wanted a front rack on my bike. But I’m sure I was living in Glasgow at this point and living a fairly urban existence. I do remember that there were a few months of meandering research into fork trail, porteur racks and mounting points, the arcane minutiae of front load cargo bikes.

Bizarrely, in my view, front cargo carrying seems to be a fairly rare thing in the Anglo-American cycling world. So, I found myself looking at handmade exotica, all lugged and integrated and pricetags to make a man weep. Beautiful though. And with my desire to support local artisans and craftsmanship, I wouldn’t rule out commissioning one of those the very day after I win the lottery. Sadly, I was left with more prosaic options.

So it was that I bolted an Old Man Mountain rack onto my normal bike, nicked a basket from Lidl, and zip-tied that onto the rack platform. And with that simple gear, I was left with the most delightfully utilitarian, disgustingly ugly front basket setup you can imagine. Over time, it’s been modded to the max: adorned with signs; drilled out to accept a dynamo lamp and a mudguard mount. It’s carried bags of compost, half a garden centre of plants, a huge terracotta plant pot, stacks of shopping, sheets of cardboard, barbecues, microwaves, a Brompton, and all the rest. There are just so many things that are amazing about my basket:

When I set off to ride, I can just dump my lock and normal bag into the basket and go.
There is no awkward pannier to carry around when I’m off the bike, no silly bracket to clip my D-lock to when I set off.
When a motorist tries to kill me I can just grab the lock out of the basket and smash their wing mirror off.
When I need to put my coat on, I can reach it from my bag and put it on as I ride, and take it off and away again when I don’t need it anymore.
I can put a packet of crisps in there and munch as I ride along.

My basket is basically the best thing about my bike, and I challenge the world to come up with a more convenient carrying setup for a bicycle than a front mounted basket.

Baskets are awesome.

Machines to change the world

Sun, 12 May 2013 16:07:32 +0100

A little while ago, I went slacklining for the first time. It was a softly grey evening, after work, while the chillie was simmering on the hob. My flat mate Arth and I rolled down the hill to the park. Arth set up this simple webbing line between two trees.

He proceeded to show me another way to see the world.

The slackline is a universe bender, a delicate wobbling body focuser, a machine for balance indoctrination and giggling leg jives.

With arms up by your ears and a leg flayed out for counterweighting, you pace down the line, pausing for moments or minutes when you lose momentum and balance, when you can’t quite place yourself in the ever shifting 3cm wide line world you’ve now created for yourself. With your gaze fixed midway down the line, the park blurs out. We both hooted with wild glee when I finally stuck my first crossing.

Arth told me that it was a few summers past that he got into the delicate wobble and slide of the slackline. As we pedalled back up the hill home, nonchalant in the quiet back lanes of Horfield, he told me that after starting to slackline, he began to see the world in a whole new way. Arth now scans the parks of the city for new setups, new spots to throw up the line and meander down it. He sees potential rigging points where others see oaks, sees joyful crash pads in rivers and soft pillowing field grass.

And I realised that so much of cycling is just that too: a world bender. Things look different once you ride BMX, spotting transitions and smiling at tyre marks on walls. Your eye catches every little hint of a singletrack entrance when you go mountain biking, tingling neck hairs with excitement. And you can dream with your eyes open when you shift into that meditative long distance spin on the road.

Bikes and lines are nothing less than machines to change the very world.

I’ve never really felt compelled to collect anything...

Sat, 11 May 2013 12:05:07 +0100

I’ve never really felt compelled to collect anything before. But when I bought my first issue of The Ride Journal, I decided that I really had to have them all. The stories were full of joy, the design was clean and clear, artful and photographic. And, via the awesome powers of the eBay saved search, I finally got Issue 1 yesterday, rare as hen’s teeth and beautiful as a fresh paintjob. The kettle is on, settling in for a long read. Stoked.

Dust

Wed, 08 May 2013 18:33:55 +0100

Ahh.

A few days of summer, and remembering what dust sticking to your sweaty body feels like.

The trails are running really fast, and super loose.

I’m glad I got a ride in last night before the rain started today. Get ‘em while you can kids!

Know thy maker

Tue, 07 May 2013 10:00:57 +0100

Where was that made?

Who made it?

How?

These are questions loaded with judgement, and they have been for all time. Branding as we would recognise it today has only really been around for a few hundred years, but the notion of knowing the creator of bought goods goes back far further. Apparently, there was a thriving neolithic trade of basic goods: hand axes and grain and precious stones. Ancient people’s recognised specialities and higher craft, and were willing to trade for it. Identification has always been important.

Branding has become our widely accepted identifier of quality. Companies spend millions crafting their identities and building reputations. And with this, we have a sense that we know where a product is made. But of course, that’s a little deceiving. When factories in Bangladesh collapse, we’re shown that our lovable high street brands ain’t as fluffy as they seem. When unidentified horse meat turns up in somebody’s burger, Sainsbury’s don’t seem quite so much like your local greengrocer. And when your Specialized snaps in half…

The bike world has been spammed this week by a Specialized stooge insisting the danger of ‘fake’ bikes is costing the industry millions. Supposedly, factories in Asia are making copies of other frames made in factories in Asia. Supposedly the fakes are dangerously crap, and are putting lives at risk from de-bonded head tubes and the like. The Specialized stooge has assured us that the fakes are failing the secret in-house fatigue tests they put their own bikes through.

Tellingly, I’ve never seen mainstream cycling media tests of unbranded Taiwanese carbon knock off frames. But I know plenty of riders who have been riding them for years with no problems. No doubt the stooge is trying to prompt an industry wide crackdown on renegade factories selling un-branded frames direct to consumers without their branded mark-up. But what the stooge is really doing is showing fear.

Decades of outsourced manufacturing, with outsourced employment rights and huge profit margins, might be about to blow back in the large companies’ faces. Global recession, direct internet sales, and an inexorable diminishing of the mystique of the mega-marques could all see a major change in the industry.

Here’s hoping.

“The Cup Of Tea”. Great move, for the discerning...

Mon, 06 May 2013 10:00:42 +0100

“The Cup Of Tea”.

Great move, for the discerning cyclist.

A few quid more

Sun, 05 May 2013 16:02:32 +0100

I spin through Bristol’s streets almost every day. I’m not alone in this, a few thousand probably do too. There’s a reputation, that this old ‘cycling city’ is filled to the brim with cyclists, with a flourishing scene and culture that embraces urban cycling.

Unfortunately, it’s a funny sort of half-truth. There are lots of cyclists, but really, the numbers of leg spinners, commuters and Brompton-eers in their suits pale next to the automotive swarm. We’re flies, gassed out and swatted aside. Bristol bus drivers have been convicted for purposefully running people on bikes off the road. Cyclists die; are maimed, threatened and intimidated.

It pains me greatly that the bicycle, one of the greatest gifts to urbanism, has to be advocated for by people shaking charity tins out to the internet public, but that’s where we are.

Bristol Cycling Campaign has a small crowd funding bid in place to help fund the publicising of their Cycling Manifesto. They want Bristol to become a real cycling city, with segregated cycle paths, improved pedestrian and cycle access and lower speed limits. They want what the Dutch and Danes have had for a generation, and all the wonderful cycling citizens that come out when these sort of infrastructural changes are implemented.

Every time a motorist scares you half to death, inches from your bars, every time you fear for a loved one pedalling home from school, every time you hear someone say “It’s far too dangerous to cycle, are you mad?!” think of wonderful folk like the Bristol Cycling Campaign. And consider chipping in a few quid.

Healy Pass, Ireland. Just one more reason why touring in Ireland...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 11:01:37 +0100

Healy Pass, Ireland.

Just one more reason why touring in Ireland would be so ace.

From sea to hillside

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:31:45 +0100

I’ve spent the past few weeks in Ireland, with two friends, road tripping round the west coast in Brucie the van.

But there was no cycling.

No lung tearing hills or adrenal descents, no fiddling with cable tension and listening for creaks. There were no muddy smiles or chainring tattoos.

There was just two weeks of solid surfing.

Surfing cleans you out: it works your arms and chest and leaves a cold neoprene hood tan line round your face. There’s the post surf inner warmth and huddling for a cuppa afterwards that is just so much more intense than any cycle. Surfing is just incredible, unique.

But we three are mountain bikers too, we’re cyclists. So of course there was much chat still about bikes and riding. The west coast of Ireland is a wild place, thick with rolling hills and heavy with boulders and rocks. There are jagged Kerry landscapes and softer boglands, lonely peninsulas and empty coves. Throughout the coast there are small outposts of people, villages and towns clustered round fishing ports and rivers, dotted along rough minor roads.

The whole trip was filled with a clear theme: Ireland would be amazing for two particular kinds of pedalling fun.

All the wild little roads are potholed and winding, with rough surfaces and barely any vehicles. They meander along the coast, with big old views and heaving passes. Wild camping spots are everywhere. The coastline is just begging to be explored on a long slow tour. We talked about stopping at all the little fish restaurants, evening pub grub and boiling icy clear sea water on the Trangia for the pasta, sheltering from the wind.

On a surf trip, you spend a good chunk of time straining your neck out of the window, looking for waves, desperate to see over the rise of a hill or around a corner, scanning for setups, coves, beaches, points. But, as riders, we scanned the hillsides too. Now and again someone would say “Look” and draw a path with a hand to show a trail on a hillside, a line down a rock chute or a trail on a ridgeline. But there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of trails into the hills. Land access in Ireland isn’t quite where it is in England and Wales, let alone Scotland. And so, inevitably, to fat bikes! No trail? Pfft! Bloody eight PSI and four inches wide and you’re unstoppable! So we gave it all the chat and imagined the rides out into those barren hills on the stooopid fatties.

More bikes required, and definitely another ferry ticket for an adventure or two, that’s for sure.

Flat tyres suck. That’s all. Oh hang on, that’s not...

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 23:20:26 +0000

Flat tyres suck. That’s all.

Oh hang on, that’s not all.

Tubeless systems all make me want to murder kittens. Tubeless rims make changing tyres an act of masochistic self abuse. They’re so annoying I’m going to rebuild my hubs onto a sensible tube rim. UST, Stans et all: go away and give me my tubes back.

Power

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 21:05:46 +0000

Should we care if non-skaters are allowed to hold powerful positions in our culture? Should we care if skaters associate with these people and buy their products? Will it change how we skateboard, how we view ourselves, and how we view the world?

-Lurper, for Jenkem Mag

There is a renewed realisation of the threat posed by ever encroaching capitalism. All over the world, in every nook of human culture, there are people asking similar questions of themselves, of their lives and activities.

But mountain bikers, well, they don’t seem to be.

Trek, Giant, fucking Specialized. Hmm.

Maybe we should take a long hard look at ourselves, and ask if we care that non-riders are allowed to hold powerful positions in our culture?

Boneshaker X BBP

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 19:57:36 +0000

There was a bonfire in a baker’s bicycle rack. Thats almost all you need to know.

But of course there’s more.

The inimitable Boneshaker boyos hosted what must surely have been the social highlight of the Bristol cycling scene so far this year. The Bike Project workshop was dreamed into a candlelit cinema art space to celebrate the launch of issue #11.

Human-high bike part figures hid behind the yard trees, quill stem fingers laced around branches, emerging through the woodsmoke. There were bikes chained to walls and organic apple juice. I’m sure there was free range beer too, but whatever. Prints and t-shirts, badges and zines, elderflower cordial and a huge projector screen.

Clearly though, this wasn’t a bloody Odeon. Old sofas, oak benches filled, standing room only and the crowd weren’t shy: heckles and hoots, and high levels of stoke. Hollywood didn’t get a look in here either. Playing were shorts from the Bicycle Film Festival, internet bike culture couture and strange viral videos . But best of all, our impromptu community cinema was powered by carbs. To one side, a polo bike, the tall bike and couple of mtbs were rigged up to a cycletricity generator, and a constantly changing crew were spinning out smooth wattage, powering the laptop, projector, sound system. It was beautiful: slow rhythmic whirring and hot changing riders so everyone could have a go.

People say cinema is passive, picturing popcorn and slouched red velvet chairs. But this was something else. This was raucous human power, this was actively building and reinforcing the community.

Old friends and new ones, beautiful art and bike culture joy.

Welcome to Bristol.

The mountain biking zoo

Fri, 15 Feb 2013 10:00:28 +0000

Slickorange mud, rain thinned and everywhere: Llandegla.

It is very much a mountain biking zoo. Fifteen year olds chimpanzees on one brake seat slammed dirt bikes, pump track pimps to the boy. There’s the hoary old hardtailers, with their barends and Ronhills, fluro jackets used since the 90’s. Stand back, or else you’ll see through the worn thin lycra! Don’t get too close to the downhillers either, they bite: incongruous eight inch saggers, with tattoos and radness and whatever. There’s the species just newly discovered, and hugely delightful: the hire bike tracksuiters, with perma-smiles and a brand new stoke for riding. Then the flash carbon enduro parrots, with wide bars and ten speed Hope hub clickclickclickclick mating calls. You’ve seen that species, indigenous to every trail centre in the land.

So slickorange mud, menagerie car park…and? Flow.

Singletrack mostly smooth as a roadie’s calf, humped just the same and FLOW.

Smooth, that is, save for the massive and hilarious braking bumps before each and every root, rock and tiny suggestion of a bend, not to mention the actual corners. It’s pretty wild out there in the zoo, kids, keep your fingers ~~on the brake levers~~ inside the vehicle at all times!

So apart from the incompetents tearing the trail up, it’s a bit of a rocket ship this one. And there are jumps! Actual jumps, with downslopes ten foot out, that reward actual nosing in. So much better than those normal trail centre efforts, with landings right after the tranny that need to be hucked to flat or else squashed to oblivion like a racer boy. No, Llandegla has jumps; and a funny tabletop six pack right on the main trail, complete with paramedic brace board rescuers at the trailside. Like I said, it’s wild out there kids.

So roll up, roll up, drink tea in the cafe, buy expensive new shorts in the shop, and shred. Because it’s only the inhabitants that are really wild.

Cuisine de Van.

Wed, 13 Feb 2013 11:01:31 +0000

Cuisine de Van.

Penmachno, all hail

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 11:01:30 +0000

We were parked up in a funny layby overlooking a North Wales river. The sun was out, bitter cold nonetheless, but the stove was on in the back of the van and ham and egg butties were frying up. Giggling at a group of thirty or so kayakers struggling over a dry stone wall, we marvelled at our new gas burner, and fizzling oil.

All was well with the world.

We’d had our wet shoes over the air vents for an hour or so in a vain attempt to dry them before hitting Penmachno. But there was nothing more for it; wet shoes, full bellies and baltic winds.

It’s a fair grind uphill straight from the van. Solid fireroad with expansive views, and sudden smack-in-the-face headwind as we wound rounded the corner at the top. Full on wind savagery - you’d expect nothing less from an exposed Welsh hillside.

And the trail, ah, the trail. Singletrack slipping past, thick corners and tender moments of loft, where the trail would rise and fade out, subtle and thrilling. The trail faeries were out with their strimmers and rakes and spades, and they hooted for us, stoked cold. We thanked them, still stupid with endorphins even before that final descent.

And it’s a ride that feels like a real ride, does that seem clear? You climb and climb, winch high and see barren hillside, get your kidneys shaken raw by the rocks on that top section, feel big and solid on the hillside and end up plummeting to the van, emerging from the sterile Penmachno pines to ancient farmland views. It’s a real ride, you know?

And we whooped and huddled and packed away bikes with smiles and oil and blood.

And all was still well with the world.

North Wales.

Sat, 09 Feb 2013 11:30:39 +0000

North Wales.

Don't forget your longjohns in Betws y Coed

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 21:34:26 +0000

They’re used to driving, my friends. I’m that annoying friend, licence-less and car-less, snitching lifts and tagging onto trips by training to obscure dark stations in the backwoods of Britain.

So we drove, late night and pizza fuelled, reggae and raving and constant banter. The usual. We’re a tight nit little group. Brucie the van has three seats up front: it’s a bloody rocketship of adventure nowadays.

There’s been a month or so where I haven’t camped. I suppose it’s easy for a lot of people to just think “Well, it’s winter mate, who goes camping in January?” And yet, with the baffles of my down bag clinched up tight, listening to the quiet, the tree branches shuffling above me, I knew I’d missed it so much. I relish the peace, the frigid dawns, the adventure. I need the outside: the woods; the mountains; the seas.

It was a damp night, a soggy car park pitch right by the Marin trailhead. And it was ace, even though I forgot my longjohns. Don’t ever forget your longjohns on a winter camp, kids. Your bum will be cold.

The Marin trail feels like a big old ride. There were mountain views, and snow capped peaks, and rocks. That’s one of the best things about north Wales mountain biking, of course, the rocks. Big slatey, jagged rocks, and steeps, steep like roof tops.

And my shoes were dry right up till the last fifty metres of that final singletrack carve. But they’re still wet now.

North Wales

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 00:17:32 +0000

We are but twenty miles from Betws y Coed. I am very excited.

"Come along inside… We’ll see if tea and buns can make the world a better place."

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 10:00:37 +0000

““Come along inside… We’ll see if tea and buns can make the world a better place.””

- Kenneth Grahame