Much like any good ghost story - it all began on a dark and stormy night. And also like any good ghost story, everything began with a mystery creaking sound which I couldn't quite place. Unfortunately, nobody had told me that Hanna Barbera had bought the rights to this particular yarn.
Every cyclist eventually gets one, that ethereal indication that something's not quite right with the machine - ranging from just a quiet periodic clicking sound all the way to the full blown terminal crunch. Whatever it is, that's the cue to begin the finding-out-what's-making-that-infernal-noise dance. The main problems you have are: that it could be literally any component on the bicycle, and that it only occurs when you're moving.
So using attention that should be better employed watching the oncoming landscape and traffic, you bob and weave your head - trying to match up your particular noise with a particular part of the bike. If you have people riding along with you; you could ask them if they notice anything wrong. Sometimes this works. Sometimes someone will recognise the noise (usually because it's been scarred upon their mind as the death rattle of a particular component that's about to give way and introduce you to the earth in a particularly sudden way), or it's something really obvious - such as always happening at the bottom of your left pedal stroke (at which point you'll feel like a right numpty for not figuring that out yourself). But more often than not your friends will have less of a clue than you (what with them not riding your bike), and so will list off every possible malady from misshapen headset bearings right down to missing chain faceplates. This invariably induces velohypochondria (which is a word I just made up, and am really quite proud of): causing you to ride cautiously for the rest of the day. Inducing velohypochondria (see, I used it again) in others can be quite a powerful weapon in reaching the cafe stop first.
In my particular case, I was fairly confident I knew what my mystery creak (which had developed into a full blown mechanical screech by the time I'd got round to dealing with it) was - it was clearly my bottom bracket. Further evidence for my case came when I gave the pedals an experimental wiggle (the industry standard test), and found they moved side to side in a way well outside of their design remit. So you can imagine my surprise when I got a call from the bike shop saying that the problem wasn't my bottom bracket at all - but that the entire chainset needed replacing (chain, sprocket, chainring, the lot). That's normally a job I could do myself, but seeing as the bike was in the shop (and they had all the bits) I said they could do it.
On delivery of the bike, the woman said "not sure what's happened, the chain skips a bit - I'd be happy riding it, but I think your chain tensioner's knackered." Turned out she was right (annoyingly, I discovered this only after trying every other way to fix it I could think of - convinced that my chain tensioner couldn't possibly be at fault), but it also begged the question of what quality of bike that shop were pedalling (no pun intended, honest) given that they were happy with the performance, while the chain skipped like a particularly prawn flavoured tapioca snack.
Either way, I needed a new tensioner - and I opted for the Bachelor Single Gusset (I think that's what it's called, the packaging isn't very clear), which I'm now having trouble with too. Because it's bolt-on, it's only the strength of my own allen keys that keep the chain tight - so on today's long (and chuffing steep, thanks again ERC) ride, it kept coming loose (I wasn't allowed any say in the route, it was decided that you get as many votes on direction as you have gears).
So now I'm not completely sure what I'm going to do. I could shell out and purchase an all-singing all-dancing hipster bait of a chain tensioner, but I do feel that would be a little like cheating (as well as the rash that would bring my wallet out in). However, I have a small (but growing) pile of chain tensioners I've ridden to the end of their usefulness, and it would be a great shame to add to it after only three days. What I suspect will happen is that I'll stubbornly stick it out for a few weeks, until either I (or someone I ride with) gets thoroughly sick of the explosive bang of my chain slipping (often followed by a dull, wet, Mike sized thump, and some fairly inventive swearing) and I'll see sense and buy a new one. Until then, if you're riding in the Pentlands, and meet a man offering to buy his bike an ice cream if it only transports him over the next hill - do say hi!
Saturday, 24 March 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
Spinning Like a Loon
The eighth article! I know it's not a particular watershed, but I've now written ten posts for the blog (if you're wondering where two of them went, they were combined into larger ones). The sharper will have noticed that there is a hit counter on the bottom of the page - so I do know that people are at least clicking on the link to this page (and hopefully reading it). But I don't particularly know what you think - so please tell me. Leave a comment either here, on my Facebook page, or on Twitter: what do you want me to write about? Think the blog's any good? Ideas to make it better (dispense with the author is a valid suggestion) - leave a comment!
When you choose to be a SingleSpeedist, you choose one gear (I've got the hang of this, haven't I?).
But this week I'm not going to wax lyrical about how hard that makes it to churn up muddy inclines, or compare popped knee caps, or indeed the faces we pull when trying to haul ourselves uphill. This week I'd like to take a post to pause and think about the tragically under-geared. It's a time when we can stop and reflect about the SingleSpeeders currently on flat tarmac, whirling their legs like demonic washing machines - desperately trying to keep up with their geared cousins.
Off road, this isn't particularly a problem. A few years ago, I used ride with The Huddersfield Star Wheelers, a notable member of which was "Noggin," (no clue as to his real name). And Noggin's chief advice for going faster downhill was "just don't touch the fucking brakes!" Nowhere is this truer than a SingleSpeeder on an off-road descent. With no braking, you can do a tolerable impersonation of a good off road descent, but on road is a completely different fish filled tea making instrument.
A few days ago, I didn't fancy jaunting up into the Pentland Hills for my usual ritual of mud eating - so I headed out for the Forth Bridge instead (to gaze upon its Victorian engineering magnificence, but nerding out about cast iron is another article for another time). The route to the Forth Bridge is mostly on sustrans bike paths and roads - which are not exactly the most technically taxing places to be, and as I was passed (again) by someone in jeans and a hi-vis jacket, it occurred to me that not enough is written about the perils of not having sufficient gear-inches.
The gear you pick for your bike has to do everything: a jack of all trades, and master of none (I was trying to think up a funny analogy about mechanical engineers, but couldn't come up with something that wasn't both not funny and wildly offensive). One (of the many, see my very first article) downsides to this is that sometimes you're powerless. Cruising on flat or slightly downhill roads, there's nothing you can do to go faster without doing the aforementioned impression of a whirling dervish. I know there are people out there who can summon cadences of over 120 revs/min (usually track riders), but we lesser mortals can only lean back and pretend that the scenery is lovely (all the while watching the people you're riding with slowly disappear into the distance). Infuriatingly, you often know that you could definitely keep up with (and sometimes pass) these people, if only the road sloped up!
Though the major problems start when you're not riding with friends. When you're on your own - perhaps you're commuting, or just using the road to get from one bit of trail to the other. Because then you're in the realm of Everyone Else on their bikes, most of which have gears, and nearly all of which have substantially less kit than you do. SingleSpeeding is often very embarrassing.
Off the line at traffic lights this is a particular problem, especially if you're the second to show up. Annoyingly for me, this only seems to occur when the bike box is already being occupied by someone particularly attractive looking (complete with basket full of kittens and flowers on the front of their bike) who under any other circumstance you'd attempt to steam past and, in passing, charm with skillful overtaking and thighs of steel (in my head, at least. And I should tone it down - my better half reads this). Or another cyclist is at the starting line, also bedecked in lycra, and that grim acknowledgement of existence occurs - along with it the tacit assumption that whoever is rearmost in four hundred yards time is clearly weak, and should start saving up for a Pashley as soon as they get home.
As soon as the light goes green - everything is brilliant, for about three seconds. SingleSpeeding has lent you the acceleration of Odin (trust me, his horse had eight legs - can you imagine how many speeding tickets he picked up?), helped in no little part by the fact that the bike weighs as much as a paperclip. And then your legs reach their maximum speed - at which point anyone else would change gear up. Since you can't, you're left proceeding, legs a-blur, along the highway at a stately eleven miles an hour (depending on your gear), which is a speed even my mum can muster in a hurry. As a result, the rival cyclist bombs off, and an almighty struggle ensues to keep the purveyor of kittens and flowers behind you.
Just consider that, the next time you see someone in full mountain bike regalia, making like they're The Swan from the Carnival of the Animals. On the surface they might be moving at a positively regal pace, but take a look at their legs - and if they're spinning like a loon, they're almost certainly SingleSpeed.
Friday, 17 February 2012
Jim's Bike
Both Bike Snob and Matt Seaton warn against it, but they both do it. As does everyone who uses a bicycle on a regular basis: get sentimental about the machines they're riding. So with the health warning that I'm about to do that: let us plunge in.
Many years ago, I moved to the US (I moved back, don't worry), and in the basement of the house where I lived the landlord had left an old, red Peugeot road bike. It was the first "proper" bike I rode, and it's the one that got me into cycling. When I left the States at the age of 14, the landlord (Jim) gave it to me, and I started to put a respectable quantity of miles in on it. My ascent of Holme Moss on it (complete with small vomit at the top) is one of my happiest cycling memories (we're a strange breed, but if you hadn't realised that - what are you doing here?). I also learned bike mechanics on it. My weekly custom of a Saturday afternoon was to take a moderately working bike, and tinker with it in such a manner that it wouldn't work until divine intervention in the form of my dad and a spanner had fixed it again.
Over time I acquired more bikes, and "Jim's Bike," (as it was known) was relegated to the status of town bike. For five years it's been reliable enough to get me to work for 9AM, yet also familiar and speedy enough to be pilotable in the early hours of the morning when I've been trying to do an impression of a plausibly sober man cycling through a (what seems to be at the time) town centre crawling with police. Through that time it's also become more and more bastardised. Every time a part falls off, it's usually been replaced by a hand-me-down from a more flashy bike in my stable - or I've bought something almost entirely inappropriate for the job, and then had to put up with it (for the last few months I've been running a red and white cable housing, claiming it's art-deco).
In short, (and to sound dangerously close to a Disney film) the stories that bike has are irreplaceable (including the excellent one about me crashing it on the way to meeting my girlfriend's parents for the first time, and having to show up with blood and knackered jeans very much in evidence).
So why all this arse-sunbeams and navel gazing in a SingleSpeed blog? Well, because I'm a muppet and have totalled Jim's Bike. In what we could euphemistically refer to as a "fatal rear derailleur/wheel interface," I managed to bend the frame cycling home from university (much to the horror and consternation of the learner driver behind me who had to deal with a suddenly flailing cyclist undergoing a massive skid and deceleration from twenty). I have taken the frame to local bike shops, and much sucking through teeth has been done, and the unfortunate reality has been reached that it will be far cheaper to buy a second hand bike than to try and fix this Millenium Falcon of a bike. So tomorrow morning I'm off to the second hand bike mart to see if I can pick up a natty (yes, I did use the word natty - and yes, I have recently watched a lot of Bargain Hunt) fixie. Or failing that something equally as cool as Jim's Bike.
I won't throw Jim's Bike away though. Not yet anyway (though my landlord may object to me hiding a bike in my flat, though given the lack of functionality I'm going to claim it's merely a "bicycle shaped object,"). I have done what we're all warned against, I have become sentimentally involved with a bike (not like that, concentrate people), and then written about it. Just as everyone has one bad novel in them, every bike blogger has at least one bad and overly sentimental article in them. For which I can only apologise (and just imagine how exciting my next post will be if I do buy a new bike).
Many years ago, I moved to the US (I moved back, don't worry), and in the basement of the house where I lived the landlord had left an old, red Peugeot road bike. It was the first "proper" bike I rode, and it's the one that got me into cycling. When I left the States at the age of 14, the landlord (Jim) gave it to me, and I started to put a respectable quantity of miles in on it. My ascent of Holme Moss on it (complete with small vomit at the top) is one of my happiest cycling memories (we're a strange breed, but if you hadn't realised that - what are you doing here?). I also learned bike mechanics on it. My weekly custom of a Saturday afternoon was to take a moderately working bike, and tinker with it in such a manner that it wouldn't work until divine intervention in the form of my dad and a spanner had fixed it again.
Over time I acquired more bikes, and "Jim's Bike," (as it was known) was relegated to the status of town bike. For five years it's been reliable enough to get me to work for 9AM, yet also familiar and speedy enough to be pilotable in the early hours of the morning when I've been trying to do an impression of a plausibly sober man cycling through a (what seems to be at the time) town centre crawling with police. Through that time it's also become more and more bastardised. Every time a part falls off, it's usually been replaced by a hand-me-down from a more flashy bike in my stable - or I've bought something almost entirely inappropriate for the job, and then had to put up with it (for the last few months I've been running a red and white cable housing, claiming it's art-deco).
In short, (and to sound dangerously close to a Disney film) the stories that bike has are irreplaceable (including the excellent one about me crashing it on the way to meeting my girlfriend's parents for the first time, and having to show up with blood and knackered jeans very much in evidence).
So why all this arse-sunbeams and navel gazing in a SingleSpeed blog? Well, because I'm a muppet and have totalled Jim's Bike. In what we could euphemistically refer to as a "fatal rear derailleur/wheel interface," I managed to bend the frame cycling home from university (much to the horror and consternation of the learner driver behind me who had to deal with a suddenly flailing cyclist undergoing a massive skid and deceleration from twenty). I have taken the frame to local bike shops, and much sucking through teeth has been done, and the unfortunate reality has been reached that it will be far cheaper to buy a second hand bike than to try and fix this Millenium Falcon of a bike. So tomorrow morning I'm off to the second hand bike mart to see if I can pick up a natty (yes, I did use the word natty - and yes, I have recently watched a lot of Bargain Hunt) fixie. Or failing that something equally as cool as Jim's Bike.
I won't throw Jim's Bike away though. Not yet anyway (though my landlord may object to me hiding a bike in my flat, though given the lack of functionality I'm going to claim it's merely a "bicycle shaped object,"). I have done what we're all warned against, I have become sentimentally involved with a bike (not like that, concentrate people), and then written about it. Just as everyone has one bad novel in them, every bike blogger has at least one bad and overly sentimental article in them. For which I can only apologise (and just imagine how exciting my next post will be if I do buy a new bike).
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Dogma, tyres, and a new Mountain King
According to tradition set down by the One (Geared) True Cycling God, Wednesday night is night ride night. However, it's raining outside - and this week I've got no-one to go with (hint, hint any similarly placed cyclists in Edinburgh), so I'm staying inside and writing about SingleSpeeding instead (aren't you lucky). Though what I want to talk about this time is not an exclusively SingleSpeed problem, indeed it's one that annoys and divides all cyclists with dogmatic vehemence comparable to that level experienced by the residents of Israel and its environs over the ownership of Jeruselum: tyres, inner tubes, and punctures.
Though before we leap headlong into this minefield, I should provide some background. Last week I tore a tyre. It wasn't pretty, and (because it happened in the courtyard outside my flat block) it wasn't even that impressive - a piece of glass literally tore me a new one. Now, because tearing a tyre (unless you're the wildest sort of cheapskate eccentric) is terminal, I needed to buy a new one. And because I had a club ride to go on the next day, I had to buy it from a bike shop.
Because I had to go to a bike shop, I couldn't order the tyre I usually plump for off the internet (a yellow Panaracer Fire XC Pro, don't you feel better for knowing that?). I could get a red tyre of the same type, but then I'd have one yellow, and one red tyre - which although I could try and pass off as an ironic statement, I don't think a sweary lycra clad mud-mad has quite the hipster cred to work that. So because of my (I now realise, stupid) decision to clad my bike in yellow tyres, I had to get a black tyre - which, because of the stocks in the local shops, meant I had to get a pattern I'd never tried before.
I had entered the difficult and dangerous world of asking other cyclists for tyre advice.
I should quickly mention why I usually go for the tyres I go for: my dad told me they were good when I was very small. True to what The Amazing Randi (no, really, that's his name - go look it up) says about smart people believing non-smart things because they were told them when they were young, I have stuck to Panaracer Fire XCs for over a decade because my dad (who is a world authority on almost nearly everything) told me they were good. Having said that, they clag up with mud at the slightest provocation, and make the most appalling racket above thirty miles an hour on asphalt.
Needing new tyres, I stepped breezily into my local bike shop and asked what they could offer. Having established that I was going to be encountering mud from time to time, and that I didn't want to shell out the GDP of a small African nation (or even a middling sized one for a particularly lustrous pair of race tyres), I was presented with a few options. "But you don't want these ones, because you'll ruin them in an afternoon," the man said. "And these others here will be slippery as a whale's intimacies until you've broken them in properly." (I'm paraphrasing).
So I chose the tyre that hadn't compared infavourably to excited sea-mammal gynecological regions. Turns out it's a Continental Mountain King. And it's ace - not least because I get to hum Hall of The Mountain King every time I start on a ride. Or at least, it was ace. I turned up to a ride with some mates (never mind what I said at new year, we're sticking with "riding mates" for now) and was immediately scolded for not only having mis-matched tyre colours (something I was expecting, and was ready with the argument that mis-matched tyre colours are as elegant as a fine wine made from a blend of grapes), but for being the retail chump of the millennium for permitting a sales person to talk me into buying the waste of kevlar, rubber and steel I'd encased my wheel with. Apparently, they'll slide off wet tree roots like warm butter off more warm butter, and I better not be planning on going anywhere rocky any time soon - unless I like the taste of rocks.
And herein lies my point. Most tyres are fine, and you'll work with what you've got. Like most trivial minutiae in life, we'll find a way to catagorise it - and use those catagories to jeerily abuse our friends when they're mildly hung over (my hangover free 2012 took a nosedive after being enticed to a nightclub full of fellow engineers). But do mix it up. Try different tyres occasionally. I would say that if you're SingleSpeeding, a Panaracer Fire XC on your back wheel is probably an excellent choice, but you're still going to run out of torque and grip on muddy hills - so choose what you like. Whatever you do, don't use your tyres as an excuse. Unless they're clearly on their last legs, or are definitely unfit for purpose (ever done the "accidental cyclocross" thing on a road bike through a farmyard three inches deep in manure?), you're going to be fine. If I had a quid for every time I've heard "I would ride that, but I've brought [apparently inferior tyres], whereas I need [imperceptibly different rubber circles]," I'd be able to support Scottish distilleries in a much more enthusiastic manner than I currently do. If you don't like riding down wet rocks, just say so - and everyone will nod and understand (and then we'll grin when you make an arse of yourself trying to carry your bike down them while wearing cycling shoes).
I realise I haven't talked about punctures - I'll save that for another (less confused) time (and I also promise I'll get back to that review of chain tenisioners). But one last piece of housekeeping: IronHep (I think he capitalises it like that). George is a guy I went to university with (and he's alright, despite being a triathlete of the most sordid and peverted variety). He's a far more serious and sane cyclist than I could hope to be (he even runs and swims too, ladies), and is doing the Iron Man later this year (I hear that's pretty serious, they don't even have a beer shortcut). Take a stop by his blog for a glimpse of a slightly more serious trainer.
Apologies for having accidentally written a blog post completely about cycling, but on a cycling blog that will occasionally happen. Happy SingleSpeeding!
Though before we leap headlong into this minefield, I should provide some background. Last week I tore a tyre. It wasn't pretty, and (because it happened in the courtyard outside my flat block) it wasn't even that impressive - a piece of glass literally tore me a new one. Now, because tearing a tyre (unless you're the wildest sort of cheapskate eccentric) is terminal, I needed to buy a new one. And because I had a club ride to go on the next day, I had to buy it from a bike shop.
Because I had to go to a bike shop, I couldn't order the tyre I usually plump for off the internet (a yellow Panaracer Fire XC Pro, don't you feel better for knowing that?). I could get a red tyre of the same type, but then I'd have one yellow, and one red tyre - which although I could try and pass off as an ironic statement, I don't think a sweary lycra clad mud-mad has quite the hipster cred to work that. So because of my (I now realise, stupid) decision to clad my bike in yellow tyres, I had to get a black tyre - which, because of the stocks in the local shops, meant I had to get a pattern I'd never tried before.
I had entered the difficult and dangerous world of asking other cyclists for tyre advice.
I should quickly mention why I usually go for the tyres I go for: my dad told me they were good when I was very small. True to what The Amazing Randi (no, really, that's his name - go look it up) says about smart people believing non-smart things because they were told them when they were young, I have stuck to Panaracer Fire XCs for over a decade because my dad (who is a world authority on almost nearly everything) told me they were good. Having said that, they clag up with mud at the slightest provocation, and make the most appalling racket above thirty miles an hour on asphalt.
Needing new tyres, I stepped breezily into my local bike shop and asked what they could offer. Having established that I was going to be encountering mud from time to time, and that I didn't want to shell out the GDP of a small African nation (or even a middling sized one for a particularly lustrous pair of race tyres), I was presented with a few options. "But you don't want these ones, because you'll ruin them in an afternoon," the man said. "And these others here will be slippery as a whale's intimacies until you've broken them in properly." (I'm paraphrasing).
So I chose the tyre that hadn't compared infavourably to excited sea-mammal gynecological regions. Turns out it's a Continental Mountain King. And it's ace - not least because I get to hum Hall of The Mountain King every time I start on a ride. Or at least, it was ace. I turned up to a ride with some mates (never mind what I said at new year, we're sticking with "riding mates" for now) and was immediately scolded for not only having mis-matched tyre colours (something I was expecting, and was ready with the argument that mis-matched tyre colours are as elegant as a fine wine made from a blend of grapes), but for being the retail chump of the millennium for permitting a sales person to talk me into buying the waste of kevlar, rubber and steel I'd encased my wheel with. Apparently, they'll slide off wet tree roots like warm butter off more warm butter, and I better not be planning on going anywhere rocky any time soon - unless I like the taste of rocks.
And herein lies my point. Most tyres are fine, and you'll work with what you've got. Like most trivial minutiae in life, we'll find a way to catagorise it - and use those catagories to jeerily abuse our friends when they're mildly hung over (my hangover free 2012 took a nosedive after being enticed to a nightclub full of fellow engineers). But do mix it up. Try different tyres occasionally. I would say that if you're SingleSpeeding, a Panaracer Fire XC on your back wheel is probably an excellent choice, but you're still going to run out of torque and grip on muddy hills - so choose what you like. Whatever you do, don't use your tyres as an excuse. Unless they're clearly on their last legs, or are definitely unfit for purpose (ever done the "accidental cyclocross" thing on a road bike through a farmyard three inches deep in manure?), you're going to be fine. If I had a quid for every time I've heard "I would ride that, but I've brought [apparently inferior tyres], whereas I need [imperceptibly different rubber circles]," I'd be able to support Scottish distilleries in a much more enthusiastic manner than I currently do. If you don't like riding down wet rocks, just say so - and everyone will nod and understand (and then we'll grin when you make an arse of yourself trying to carry your bike down them while wearing cycling shoes).
I realise I haven't talked about punctures - I'll save that for another (less confused) time (and I also promise I'll get back to that review of chain tenisioners). But one last piece of housekeeping: IronHep (I think he capitalises it like that). George is a guy I went to university with (and he's alright, despite being a triathlete of the most sordid and peverted variety). He's a far more serious and sane cyclist than I could hope to be (he even runs and swims too, ladies), and is doing the Iron Man later this year (I hear that's pretty serious, they don't even have a beer shortcut). Take a stop by his blog for a glimpse of a slightly more serious trainer.
Apologies for having accidentally written a blog post completely about cycling, but on a cycling blog that will occasionally happen. Happy SingleSpeeding!
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
New Year's Resolutions
Despite what physicists (and occasionally Dilbert) tell us, there is some significance to the moment at midnight on December 31st. For one thing, it marks the moment when cycling magazines and websites start running ambitious stories with titles like "The New You!" and "Make this year your fastest season EVER!" It's also when people (and I include SingleSpeeders in that category) begin to think about New Year's Resolutions. Actually, that's not quite true - if you're organised, you've almost certainly been thinking about them for some time, and are all set to implement them as soon as the bell tolls twelve. Sadly, I'm not quite that good (I tend to be the sort of person who doesn't start drinking up until long after the barman has called last orders).
As a cyclist, it should be relatively easy to think up some resolutions, and if you ask your riding friends what they've though up, there are a standard set of answers (cycle more, stick to a training plan, spend more/less money on the bike/family), but this is a SingleSpeed blog so here are my one geared new year's resolutions for your delight, delectation, and general ridicule:
1. Come up with some witty responses for use when on the verge of meltdown courtesy of being nearly killed again on the roads (if you know any good ones, please leave them in the comments, or tweet @SingleSpeedMike).
2. Grow a cavalier style goatee beard to stroke rakishly in the event of resolution one ever having to be used (all the while addressing everyone as either "my good man," or "you blackguard!" depending on which side of the bike-automotive confrontation they're on).
3. When it gets tough on the bike, stop thinking up Churchillian style speeches ("never have so few men, with so few gears, deserved so much pint, from that barmaid"). It only gets funny looks from my riding buddies.
4. Think up a better name for the people you ride with than "riding buddies." "Buddies," is far too American; "friends," sounds far too wimpy; and "riding mates," sounds dangerously close to having sex with them. Speaking of which...
5. At least when my better half is in the same room, I will not salivate on the internet over bike parts I cannot afford, whether they be carbon fibre or alloy, intended for use on or off the road, with gears or without. (I promise I won't do this, but if you're bound by no such promise, Bikeporn is excellent).
6. Wear or carry at least one comedy item to every race (I used to strap a fluffy squirrel to my handlebars, but sadly Cedric bit the dust last year due to artistic differences with a holly bush).
7. Gurn less, gurn better (this may seem like two in one, but if you've ever seen my face, you'll agree).
8. Visit more pubs (I feel I've been letting that side of the blog slide recently).
9. Stop giggling when someone asks how many inches [of suspension] my bike has (further to which, stop grinning like a loon when I say "none!").
And finally:
10. Stop attempting to calculate the cadence of the-people-with-which-I-am-riding (that won't do will it?), and then trying to feel a sense of superiority because mine is faster/slower (it's amazing that it works both ways). Trying to do this not only takes my mind off the trail, but also has me staring intensely at other men's legs.
No more promises for a while now, that's all there is to it. It only remains to thank everyone that's reading. You've now spent enough of your collective lives here to push me up to both first and third on Google (not that I check too often). As ever though, if you can think of anything better I should be doing, the comments section is open - as is my Twitter page.
Happy SingleSpeeding New Year!
As a cyclist, it should be relatively easy to think up some resolutions, and if you ask your riding friends what they've though up, there are a standard set of answers (cycle more, stick to a training plan, spend more/less money on the bike/family), but this is a SingleSpeed blog so here are my one geared new year's resolutions for your delight, delectation, and general ridicule:
1. Come up with some witty responses for use when on the verge of meltdown courtesy of being nearly killed again on the roads (if you know any good ones, please leave them in the comments, or tweet @SingleSpeedMike).
2. Grow a cavalier style goatee beard to stroke rakishly in the event of resolution one ever having to be used (all the while addressing everyone as either "my good man," or "you blackguard!" depending on which side of the bike-automotive confrontation they're on).
3. When it gets tough on the bike, stop thinking up Churchillian style speeches ("never have so few men, with so few gears, deserved so much pint, from that barmaid"). It only gets funny looks from my riding buddies.
4. Think up a better name for the people you ride with than "riding buddies." "Buddies," is far too American; "friends," sounds far too wimpy; and "riding mates," sounds dangerously close to having sex with them. Speaking of which...
5. At least when my better half is in the same room, I will not salivate on the internet over bike parts I cannot afford, whether they be carbon fibre or alloy, intended for use on or off the road, with gears or without. (I promise I won't do this, but if you're bound by no such promise, Bikeporn is excellent).
6. Wear or carry at least one comedy item to every race (I used to strap a fluffy squirrel to my handlebars, but sadly Cedric bit the dust last year due to artistic differences with a holly bush).
7. Gurn less, gurn better (this may seem like two in one, but if you've ever seen my face, you'll agree).
8. Visit more pubs (I feel I've been letting that side of the blog slide recently).
9. Stop giggling when someone asks how many inches [of suspension] my bike has (further to which, stop grinning like a loon when I say "none!").
And finally:
10. Stop attempting to calculate the cadence of the-people-with-which-I-am-riding (that won't do will it?), and then trying to feel a sense of superiority because mine is faster/slower (it's amazing that it works both ways). Trying to do this not only takes my mind off the trail, but also has me staring intensely at other men's legs.
No more promises for a while now, that's all there is to it. It only remains to thank everyone that's reading. You've now spent enough of your collective lives here to push me up to both first and third on Google (not that I check too often). As ever though, if you can think of anything better I should be doing, the comments section is open - as is my Twitter page.
Happy SingleSpeeding New Year!
Thursday, 15 December 2011
The Seasonal Shopping SingleSpeeder
Do you know how long it took staring at the ceiling to come up with an alliterative title?
Being an ex-pat Yorkshire-ist in Scotland, parting with money in return for good and services is not something I find comes naturally. Even the weekly expedition to collect food from Lord Sainsbury is a source of excitement (I can't be the only one who has a ritual trip down the white goods aisle, just to check if some unheralded scientific breakthrough has suddenly made slow cookers plummet in price).
So when society (and the expectations of those I wish to keep as the nearest and dearest) turn around with a stern look on their face and dictate that I go and spend money, I'm way out of my depth. As you might have guessed - I've been Christmas shopping (I'm also going to have to tread carefully, because I know that people I've bought things for read this blog, so if it begins to read like a heavily redacted expenses claim, I'm very sorry).
First thing's first - no christmas music. Not yet anyway. I don't like Shakin' Stevens for 50 weeks of the year, so I'll be damned if I'll listen to them for more than a few days. And Noddy Holder's pension must be large enough already, without me propping it up. (As an aside, can you imagine how catastrophically shite life would be if it genuinely were Christmas every day? Nothing would ever get done, snowballs would be something you legitimately order in a pub, and we'd never get to Boxing Day. The very fabric of society as we know it would fall apart).
Then, because of the way we do commerce in the country, I have to go into shops and actually buy things. Going into buildings is something I consider myself to have a good grasp of, as is the concept of buying things; but combining the two is tricky for me. Largely because of the people who work in shops.
I appreciate that working in retail is terrible. You meet the dregs of human society trying to get as much as possible in as short a space of time, but I do nearly all my shopping on the internet - so I'm not used to people trying to help me part with money. My idea of shopping is to approach a row of shops with a clear idea of what I want, and then try to find all the shops that will sell me said item - and then buy the cheapest, as I would if the shops were web sites (see what I said earlier about natural parsimony). But when I get collared by Dave, and he tries to derail me into buying a soap I neither need or want, I tend to either go glassy eyed and dribble, or do something daft. Today I walked into a major cosmetic and hygiene product retailer (you know, the one promoted by the Veggie Society who are also slang for an alcoholic), and was immediately taken by a bout of overconfidence. "Girly" shops are not native territory for me. Indeed, if the shop doesn't smell of either Nikwax or WD40, I'm probably not welcome. But I'd just had a poke around The Bear Factory without major mishap, so swept into this soap emporium, and immediately collared Dave to give a man who considers Swarfega to be the height of cleaning technology a brief tutorial as to what I should be buying. It quickly became very apparent that the questions I asked had very little bearing on what Dave wanted to tell me, and he'd forgotten more things about tea scented soap than I'd ever learn. The tipping point came when he turned to me with a completely straight face, and asked where I wanted the products I was buying to be on the spectrum of pampering to cleansing (I had no idea these were diametric opposites). My resultant giggling fit (for I do have them sometimes) forced me to leave the shop with no cleaning products whatsoever, not even a tissue. Dave: I can only say I'm sorry.
Apologies if you were expecting a blog post about bikes. Turns out that being a lazy-ass post-grad (hyphenated any way you like) eats more of your time than you'd expect, so I went out for my first ride in a month yesterday. Normal nerdiness and bike puns will resume, I promise.
Being an ex-pat Yorkshire-ist in Scotland, parting with money in return for good and services is not something I find comes naturally. Even the weekly expedition to collect food from Lord Sainsbury is a source of excitement (I can't be the only one who has a ritual trip down the white goods aisle, just to check if some unheralded scientific breakthrough has suddenly made slow cookers plummet in price).
So when society (and the expectations of those I wish to keep as the nearest and dearest) turn around with a stern look on their face and dictate that I go and spend money, I'm way out of my depth. As you might have guessed - I've been Christmas shopping (I'm also going to have to tread carefully, because I know that people I've bought things for read this blog, so if it begins to read like a heavily redacted expenses claim, I'm very sorry).
First thing's first - no christmas music. Not yet anyway. I don't like Shakin' Stevens for 50 weeks of the year, so I'll be damned if I'll listen to them for more than a few days. And Noddy Holder's pension must be large enough already, without me propping it up. (As an aside, can you imagine how catastrophically shite life would be if it genuinely were Christmas every day? Nothing would ever get done, snowballs would be something you legitimately order in a pub, and we'd never get to Boxing Day. The very fabric of society as we know it would fall apart).
Then, because of the way we do commerce in the country, I have to go into shops and actually buy things. Going into buildings is something I consider myself to have a good grasp of, as is the concept of buying things; but combining the two is tricky for me. Largely because of the people who work in shops.
I appreciate that working in retail is terrible. You meet the dregs of human society trying to get as much as possible in as short a space of time, but I do nearly all my shopping on the internet - so I'm not used to people trying to help me part with money. My idea of shopping is to approach a row of shops with a clear idea of what I want, and then try to find all the shops that will sell me said item - and then buy the cheapest, as I would if the shops were web sites (see what I said earlier about natural parsimony). But when I get collared by Dave, and he tries to derail me into buying a soap I neither need or want, I tend to either go glassy eyed and dribble, or do something daft. Today I walked into a major cosmetic and hygiene product retailer (you know, the one promoted by the Veggie Society who are also slang for an alcoholic), and was immediately taken by a bout of overconfidence. "Girly" shops are not native territory for me. Indeed, if the shop doesn't smell of either Nikwax or WD40, I'm probably not welcome. But I'd just had a poke around The Bear Factory without major mishap, so swept into this soap emporium, and immediately collared Dave to give a man who considers Swarfega to be the height of cleaning technology a brief tutorial as to what I should be buying. It quickly became very apparent that the questions I asked had very little bearing on what Dave wanted to tell me, and he'd forgotten more things about tea scented soap than I'd ever learn. The tipping point came when he turned to me with a completely straight face, and asked where I wanted the products I was buying to be on the spectrum of pampering to cleansing (I had no idea these were diametric opposites). My resultant giggling fit (for I do have them sometimes) forced me to leave the shop with no cleaning products whatsoever, not even a tissue. Dave: I can only say I'm sorry.
Apologies if you were expecting a blog post about bikes. Turns out that being a lazy-ass post-grad (hyphenated any way you like) eats more of your time than you'd expect, so I went out for my first ride in a month yesterday. Normal nerdiness and bike puns will resume, I promise.
Thursday, 3 November 2011
Hills and Beer in Scotland
I moved to Edinburgh.
I also (accidentally-ish) became a sordid engineer.
Because this is neither Homes Under the Hammer, nor an education column - I won't go into why, suffice to say that between Finals before the summer, and moving to the Democratic People's Republic of Scotland I haven't had a great deal of time to update ye blogge. There are some stark differences between Oxford and Edinburgh that are worth mentioning. ("Really Mike?" I hear you cry. "Will you next explain to us the religious orientation of the Pope? And the habits of clenching bears?").
For a starter there's the hills. In Oxford, there is one hill - and people flock for miles around to marvel at its grassy inclines. In Edinburgh, the Pentland Hills Regional Park takes care of any and all of your topographical desires. I've dropped my standard gearing from 32:16 to 32:18 (nerd alert), and increased the front disc rotor width out to the full downhill-monty width of 203mm. These seem to (with a few notable, and to my riding buddies hilarious, exceptions) get me out of most problems.
My current nemesis is a hill called "Puke Hill." So named because of the effects it has on the even slightly hungover who try to cycle up it. I joined Edinburgh RC about a month ago, and they took the view that baptisms of fire should not be the sole property of the Holy Ghost, so took me straight up it on my first outing. Sadly, I don't actually have any figures for the hill in terms of length or elevation (other than "it's chuffing difficult"). Hopefully by next week I should have a photograph or two to put up. Colourful names seem to be a running theme through the Pentlands. My definite favourite is the Chocolate Slide of Doom, which as you can imagine, provides a heart-in-mouth ride - all too commonly followed by a mud-in-mouth moment, especially after it's been raining.
No SingleSpeed ride would be complete without beer, so that's worth mentioning too. I'd had Scotland down as a land of distilleries, interspersed by an immoral quantity of kilt. But apparently this is the tourist view (the one they'll gleefully sell you on the Royal Mile), and Scottish breweries are actually a thing. Above are four I picked up from a local supermarket (beers, not breweries - do keep up). The only one I have tried as yet (keep watching the Twitter feed if you've nothing to do, and really want to know effect these have on my ability to use a BlackBerry http://twitter.com/#!/SingleSpeedMike) is the Bellhaven 80, which is decidedly mediocre. With any luck, Brewdog should come up trumps - they've got a special place in my heart for repeatedly sticking two fingers up at the Drinks Industry Regulators (something we're going to need more of in Scotland if the government have their way...).
I also (accidentally-ish) became a sordid engineer.
Because this is neither Homes Under the Hammer, nor an education column - I won't go into why, suffice to say that between Finals before the summer, and moving to the Democratic People's Republic of Scotland I haven't had a great deal of time to update ye blogge. There are some stark differences between Oxford and Edinburgh that are worth mentioning. ("Really Mike?" I hear you cry. "Will you next explain to us the religious orientation of the Pope? And the habits of clenching bears?").
For a starter there's the hills. In Oxford, there is one hill - and people flock for miles around to marvel at its grassy inclines. In Edinburgh, the Pentland Hills Regional Park takes care of any and all of your topographical desires. I've dropped my standard gearing from 32:16 to 32:18 (nerd alert), and increased the front disc rotor width out to the full downhill-monty width of 203mm. These seem to (with a few notable, and to my riding buddies hilarious, exceptions) get me out of most problems.
My current nemesis is a hill called "Puke Hill." So named because of the effects it has on the even slightly hungover who try to cycle up it. I joined Edinburgh RC about a month ago, and they took the view that baptisms of fire should not be the sole property of the Holy Ghost, so took me straight up it on my first outing. Sadly, I don't actually have any figures for the hill in terms of length or elevation (other than "it's chuffing difficult"). Hopefully by next week I should have a photograph or two to put up. Colourful names seem to be a running theme through the Pentlands. My definite favourite is the Chocolate Slide of Doom, which as you can imagine, provides a heart-in-mouth ride - all too commonly followed by a mud-in-mouth moment, especially after it's been raining.
No SingleSpeed ride would be complete without beer, so that's worth mentioning too. I'd had Scotland down as a land of distilleries, interspersed by an immoral quantity of kilt. But apparently this is the tourist view (the one they'll gleefully sell you on the Royal Mile), and Scottish breweries are actually a thing. Above are four I picked up from a local supermarket (beers, not breweries - do keep up). The only one I have tried as yet (keep watching the Twitter feed if you've nothing to do, and really want to know effect these have on my ability to use a BlackBerry http://twitter.com/#!/SingleSpeedMike) is the Bellhaven 80, which is decidedly mediocre. With any luck, Brewdog should come up trumps - they've got a special place in my heart for repeatedly sticking two fingers up at the Drinks Industry Regulators (something we're going to need more of in Scotland if the government have their way...).
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