Riding Through The Death Rattle

Ridden to death

Ever been through one of those bicycle maintenance episodes that leaves you wishing you hadn't bothered/had just bought a new bike/had taken up jogging instead of cycling?

Mine started three weeks ago with a new headset. I tend to ride my bikes/components to death. The headset on my trusty 10-year-old Scott CR1 had died and been reincarnated four times over. Off to my local shop (Bicycle Works, Edinburgh) I went. On the way there my chain snapped.

The Rider by Tim Krabbé - a Nano Review

The Rider is the English translation of Tim Krabbé's 1978 Dutch book, DeRenner. It's long been a cult classic, but I was late to the party, despite having known of the tome for ages.

The 148 pages tell the story of the author's experience in racing the Tour de Mont Aigoual. His commentary of the 150km event is littered with various cycling-related anecdotes and others detailing his own journey to becoming an amateur racing cyclist.

It's full of great writing and descriptions of the sport that any cyclist, racer or not, will relate to. Such as this:


"On a bike your consciousness is small. The harder you work, the smaller it gets. Every thought that arises is immediately and utterly true, every unexpected event is something you'd known all along but had only forgotten for a moment. A pounding riff from a song, a bit of long division that starts over and over, a magnified anger at someone, is enough to fill your thoughts."

Or this on the pain of riding uphill:

"Climbing is a rhythm, a trance; you have to rock your organs' protest back to sleep."

No more spoilers. If you haven't read it, do so.

From Mont Ventoux to the Mont Aigoual

It was a recent reading of Ventoux by Bert Wagendorp that pushed me to finally getting hold of a copy of The Rider. In Ventoux, one of the main characters, Joost, readily quotes extracts from The Rider in an attempt to portray himself as a bone fide cyclist. (Joost's and my actions are in no way related, honest.)

The Day The Grown Man Cried

I've long been particularly susceptible to cold hands. Even a short ride to work on a not particularly cold day can leave me in a decent amount of discomfort. Last weekend's ride was a new (temperature) low for my poor icy paws, and it sent me in search of a solution.

The last couple of winters I've been riding with Sealskin's Extra Cold Winter Gloves (see my review here). With these and a liner glove I've been just about okay on most days.

Andy Hampsten recreating my ride

Dysfunctional Digits

Last Sunday wasn't okay. The temperature with windchill was about 2 below 0 Celsius. Five miles in and my hands were beginning to hurt. For the next 55 miles it was either sleeting or snowing. About halfway done and my hands were extremely sore. By 10 miles from home they barely functioned. I couldn't shift up onto the big ring and struggled to brake and grip the bars.

By home my fingers were so useless/painful I couldn't get my key from my pocket, let alone use it to open the door. Thankfully, my wife heard my knock and came to the rescue.

I'm man enough to admit that as my hands slowly warmed the pain was so intense I broke down in tears.

Emigration or Amputation

A pitiful situation you'll agree, and one that requires a solution beyond amputation/emigration to warmer climes.

Googling a solution to cold hands caused by poor circulation let to an article suggesting that hand exercises might be the key: an increase in muscle will lead to an increase in blood supply.

A glove within a glove within a glove

I'll give that a shot. In the meantime I need a shorter-term fix. Step forward disposable latex gloves. I'm going to try these as a sub-liner beneath my liner, inside my Sealskin gloves and hope they do two things: one, keep the rain/snow completely out, and two, make my hands sweat (should there be sufficient internal heat to do so).

Will either fix work? Hopefully, or it's amputation/emigration for me.

UPDATE: I've since had a few short (just) sub-zero rides to/from work and it appears that emigration is still on the cards. My thumbs in particular get really painful within a few miles. I guess that hoping the latex gloves will cause my hands to sweat will only work if my hands are sufficiently active to perspire.

Long-term I'll work on the exercises and aim for emigration. Short term I've been trying to heat my hands up whilst riding by moving and flexing my fingers and thumbs. So, if you see a cyclist riding around Edinburgh who looks like a trainee mime artist then give me a wave.

UK MTB - The Golden Age

Stumbled upon this Facebook group yesterday, UK MTB Golden Era 1989-99 appreciation group, and have wasted a great deal of time down memory lane.

It's dedicated to the golden age of UK mountain biking and is full of pics and reminiscences about really 'cool' things like this:

There's even a pic of the results sheet from the 1989 Grundig World Cup race at Aviemore, my first competition, a cold, wet, muddy-as-fuck battle the skinny wee runt I was somehow survived (the proof's below - a glorious 33rd).

And these lights. My mates Jamie, Glennie, Gav and I used to blast down the local fire-road and single-track descents at 20mph-plus peering into the piss-yellow letterbox shape of light the Never Readies delivered, relying more on memory and luck to see the way.

Things aren't as good as they used to be - actually, they're way better, but boy, did we have a lot of fun.

I See Bicycles

I see bicycles everywhere I go, even Venice, where there aren't any. I'm just back from a short break to that most amazing city, during which my better-cultured half dragged me to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. Peggy Guggenheim was an American heiress who liked nothing more than to lounge around with her Lhasa Apsos, surrounded by exclusive/expensive modern art. Peg popped her clogs in 1979 and the Guggenheim Foundation opened her palazzo to the public. 

I'm not averse to modern art, just don't know much about it. My eye gets drawn to the things I like, visually - I'm simple like that (and in many other ways). As a result of this simplicity my favourites of Peggy's pieces were the Jackson Pollocks (which, to me, are mentally soundtracked by The Stone Roses - cheers John Squire), and these two below.

My main interest was the subject matter but I did appreciate the art, honest. Anyway, I'm not about to offer a critique, just thought I'd put them out there so you could join in the appreciation.

Thanks, Peggy.

Il Ciclista by Mario Strovai

Au Velodrome by Jean Metzinger

Morning Blog - The Importance of a Good Strava Title

It may just be the writer in me (or that I am full of awesome ideas) but I really think more emphasis should be placed on the titling of Strava rides.

When you save an activity, Strava allows you to change the post's title. Morning Ride, Afternoon Ride, Evening Ride (and, I'm assuming, Middle of the Night Ride, for the shift-workers) are perfectly perfunctory but they don't tell the poster or their Strava followers anything of use.

A Strava title should be a nano-synopsis of your ride, a distillation of its essence. It should sum up the experience or at at least give a little insight into what took place over those, however many, miles.

And it's not just about entertaining your followers; think of it as a form of mindful cycling. Every bike ride has, or should have, it's own story. No two rides are ever the same, from the weather to the way your legs feel. Your Morning Ride might only have been 10 miles long but there must have been something about it you could share, from bravely battling the cold northerly wind, to overtaking the number 27 bus and getting a smile from a girl on board (I can dream, right?).

The more you consider your rides, the more you will get out of them. If you constantly use default titles then you'll constantly have default rides.

Here are a few examples to inspire (or otherwise):

The Long Dark Bike Ride of the Soul
Gloves in a Cold Climate
Gone With the Cross Wind
One Hundred Kilometres of Solitude
________________________________________________________________________________

Enjoyed that nonsense? Try this:

Mindful Cycling & The Power of Now

Tour o' the Borders 2015

On Sunday, 9th August the Tour o’ the Borders sportive will be back, for it’s 4th edition. For 2015 this firm favourite Borders biking event has (in Tesco Bank) a new headline sponsor and a new route.

The old course was something of a challenge. I’d heard rumour that the new update was better (i.e. tougher) and wanted to find out what the event’s 2,000 participants were in for.

As usual, the route starts and finishes in Peebles, the small market town that’s become synonymous with two-wheeled pursuits. I headed south, over the Tweed, following a small back road that climbed the Manor valley, a gentle introduction to a route packed with ascents.

The scenery was already distracting, all around me that Borders tartan of purple heather, blue sky and water, silver-grey scree and vibrant-green grass.

A brief stretch on the main road and I swooped down passed Stobo before a right turn up the Dreva. My climbing was rewarded with a fast descent and jaw-dropping views along the upper Tweed valley. Like any Borders ride I could have spent my entire time gawping at the horizon, shouting (to the sheep; there was no on else): “look at the view!”

The single-track road soon delivered me onto a junction with the A701, where a sign tempted with a right turn to the Laurel Bank Tea Room. I resisted and turned left, along the valley to Moffat.

Riding solo into the wind, I tried to maintain a decent pace but was anxious of the toil to come. During the Tour, that would be a good point to join a group and share the wind-breaking effort.

I settled in to a rhythm, soaked up the sun and soon enough the rolling road delivered me to the turn to Talla. The reservoir’s vast body of dark, sparkling, water provided a heavy, calming presence off my right shoulder. And I needed a little sedation.

The Talla Wall is new to the Tour route. I could see it from miles distant, a thin scar at the head of the valley, angled unrealistically upward.  Just near its foot a motorbike roared passed, then came the sound of its engine struggling. I was out the saddle the whole way (through necessity more than choice), wrestling bike and gradient. Talla is amongst Scotland’s best climbs, better suited to the Italian Alps and a sadistic corsa rosa, one Tour veterans won’t forget in a hurry.

The Wall’s top brought oxygen debt, lactate overload, cool air, views to rival the last lot and one heck of a descent. Gilet zipped up, bidon half-emptied and I was off. Once again the Tour will be ridden on roads closed to other traffic, leaving riders free to take racing lines, providing speeds to compensate for the Wall crawl.

I turned onto the main road at St Mary’s Loch, the tailwind welcome, down time in which to eat, drink and spin out the legs. Just as well: the next climb was approaching fast.

A left over the Yarrow Water at the Gordon Arms (there’ll be a feed station there during the Tour) and onto the Berry Bush.  It’s one of those ascents where you think: the top must be round the next corner. Except it’s not; same goes for the next corner, and the one after. See that road, far in the distance, right up by the top treeline?

I got there, eventually, glad of the next descent, the turn at Crosslee and another tailwind. I raced along the Ettrick Valley and then onto the Witchyknowe, another Borders legend climb, and one that’s featured in previous Tour routes. I’d ridden it a few times before, usually fresher. With all the day’s hills and miles in my legs it matched its reputation.

Over the top and Newton’s Law of Cycling was back in play: what goes up must go down -- a descent that makes like a blast down the Seven Stanes’ Spooky Wood (minus the berms).

Back over the Yarrow, along the undulating valley road and another right at the Gordon Arms -- this time up the Paddock Slacks. I knew it would be my day’s last serious ascent and my stiffening legs were glad. Make it over and I’d be (almost) home and dry.

Make it I did, rushing down passed Traquair and onto the Cardrona road, Peebles in my sights. A touch of cramp on that little rise passed Kailzie and it was over.

74 miles covered, sufficient climbing (approaching 5000 feet) and descending for a decent Tour de France stage, plus scenery to rival any on the planet; the new Tour o’ the Borders route is even better than the last, and that’s saying something.

A link to my ride on Strava here.

Tesco Bank Tour 0’ the Borders
tourotheborders.com
Sunday 9th August 2015
Entry cost: £58

The Civilised Cyclist

I learnt in-the-saddle etiquette from my peers at Elgin Cycling Club, back in the late eighties. Whenever we, either as a bunch or in small groups, passed another cyclist we'd give a wave and/or (depending on our oxygen requirements) say hello. We'd even offer these cheery (cheer was weather dependent) greetings when the other cyclist was a complete stranger, and a complete stranger who was also a member of a rival club.

Waving Cyclist poster from: cafepress.co.uk

I am still in the hospitable habit. I'll greet pretty much any 'proper' cyclist I encounter -- young, old, in lycra or baggies, on carbon or rusty steel. I only switch off my social skills during the weekly commute (it would require far too much waving), otherwise I'm an amiable sort.

The same can't be said for most of the roadies I encounter around Edinburgh. The friendly types are becoming something of a rare breed. I'd estimate that around half of my greetings go unheeded. From those cold types the best I get in return is a glare or disdainful eye cast over my old and trusty (once re-bonded) Scott.

Perhaps these uncivilised sorts are too busy saving energy for the next Strava segment, or too engrossed in their dreams of Tour success to be polite? Perhaps waving, nodding and saying hello are old-fashioned habits and I'm a fogey stuck in my ways? Perhaps, but I'm going to carry on.

What's your policy on politeness? Does it breed camaraderie among us two-wheeled types or is it a waste of precious energy? Let me know in the comments below (or just ignore me and ride on by).

The Season's Cycle

I live my life by the season. That's not a spelling mistake, I don't mean seasons, plural, I mean the cycling season.

The Giro ended on Sunday so that means I'm currently in pre-summer. (You wouldn't know it by the weather, but that's a gripe for another blog.) That means there's a month until summer proper, i.e. the Tour. To get me through the intervening period I have the Tour de Suisse and the Dauphine. Then it's July, the high point of any year, the maillot jaune and matching fields of sunflowers, white, green and spotty jerseys, the Alps, the Pyrenees and eventually, the Champs Elysees.

The end of summer proper (pic: letour.fr)

The first Monday after the Tour will be flat and empty. I will steel myself and look toward an Indian summer, in Spain. La Vuelta will be a golden opportunity for the Scottish weather to redeem itself, for some riders to salvage a hitherto empty season or, for others, to build their form for the Worlds.

The Worlds: a rainbow through the flattening light of rapidly shortening days.

Lombardia, the race of the falling leaves, the inescapable reality that it really is almost over for another year.

By Paris-Tours I'll already have begun to taper down. In winter my attention will switch across the Atlantic, to San Francisco and the my other sport of choice. I'll sit up late on Sunday nights, munching nachos, getting sick of the endless adverts and praying that Colin Kaepernick has a return to form.

Kaep (pic: sportsworldnews.com)

Through the dark winter days I might cast half an eye at cyclo-cross and the six days, trying not to wish my life away.

I won't fully wake from hibernation until Paris-Nice begins its race toward the sun. By then I will be returned to the cycle, just weeks away from that classic time of year, the month of Milan San Remo, mud, cobbles, murs and bergs.

And as the last Ardenne is crested my mind will already racing ahead, to May, the Giro and another year come full circle.

Mindful Cycling & The Power of Now

We've all been there (presumptive, I know), riding along, legs whirring round all showy souplesse or (more likely) painfully pedaling squares, and with a head full of chatter:

It's a tailwind. I'm not as fit as I thought. It's just the wind. Wait til I turn back. I'll be struggling. Why do I always get a headwind; why is it never a tailwind? Bloody wind. I'd be flying without the wind. What's that strange noise? That clicking. Sounds like termites. Termites, in carbon fibre? I should have cleaned my bike. I should clean my bike more often. Why am I so lazy? My legs hurt. So few miles covered and already my legs hurt. I should be fitter. I should train more. Why don't I train more? Why am I so lazy?

It can go on for miles and miles, a whole ride, easily, mental chatter that's more distracting than any creaking bottom bracket.

The solution? It's not taking better care of your bike, training more often, or even an end to headwinds (although all of those would be beneficial). The solution is mindfulness.

Turbo Tracks

You've got your turbo set up in the spare room or shed, there's a towel draped over the bars to catch the sweat, a fan set to overdrive to imitate that cooling headwind. All you need is to choose the soundtrack to this session of suffering. There's no doubt that turbo training is amply aided by good music but in these days of shuffle does anyone ever listen to an album all the way through? Here's a prod in the direction of five albums to coax you out of shuffle and onto the evil turbo.

1. “Tour de France Soundtracks” by Kraftwerk

Electro pioneers Kraftwerk recorded what must surely be the Großvater of all cycling-related albums. Tour de France Soundtracks takes the spirit and concept of their 1983 single Tour de France as its hub and expands eleven spokes outward to form an unashamed, spinning celebration of cycling’s greatest race. You only need to take a glance at the track listing to find yourself on familiar ground. From the opening Prologue, through Tour de France Etapes 1, 2 and 3, onto Chrono, Aéro Dynamik, and Titanium, this is an album that covers all bases, taking your turbo-session on a mini grand Tour adventure. The track Elektro Kardiogramm even has samples of a heavy-duty heartbeat and some laboured lungs at full puff, just in case you aren’t working your own hard enough. If cycling is poetry in motion then this album contains what is perhaps the best cycling poetry ever written:
“L'enfer du Nord Paris-Roubaix, /La Cote d'Azur et Saint Tropez, /Les Alpes et les Pyrennees, /Derniere etape Champs-Elysees.”

Homemade Chamois Cream

On a follow up to my last blog about a Heath Robinson-style mechanical hack I thought I'd share my "recipe" for homemade chamois cream.

Why did I decide to try making my own chamois cream? You could suggest that I'm Scottish and miserly by nature but such stereotyping would be in poor taste. Or perhaps not. I was in my LBS one day, picked up a small pot of Swiss-branded chamois cream and was shocked to discover that I wouldn't get change from a tenner - I'd barely get a bawbee back for a twenty. (What's the Swiss for daylight robbery?)

As with all modern-day problem solving I headed straight to Google. The interwebs contained a bunch of folk (of all nationalities) who'd similarly balked at the cost of a branded chamois cream and decided to concoct their own.

Let's get cooking

Zen and the art of Bicycle Maintenance

Toward the end of last year I splashed a bit of cash on revamping my Kona Kula Supreme hardtail MTB. Apart from an occasional off-road foray the poor thing had mostly been used for commuting and it was showing (visual and vocal) signs of service. It creaked and it clicked, the suspension forks had not a bit of boing left in them and changing gear was a lottery at which I usually lost.

So out came the debit card and I purchased a new drivetrain, derailleurs and shifters, new disc brakes, new carbon rigid forks and a new bottom bracket and headset. A weekend of swearing and grease-smearing and my Kona was re-born. The brakes were dangerously good, the shifting was sharp and, generally, my 'new' bike was a blast to ride. Only problem was the rattle. Whenever I rode over any rough ground (which was pretty much always) my new dream bike sounded like my worst nightmare.

When it comes to unidentified mechanical creaks and rattles I'm a bit like the narrator in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Once noted I am unable to leg go, simply must strip the bike down, find the cause and fix it. I eventually narrowed it down to the front end. It wasn't the hub bearings, the bottom bracket, the headset, and no other miscellaneous nuts or bolts were loose. That left the brakes.

Ugly but simple & effective

Unable to find any faults there I resorted to the tried and tested "just Google it" mechanic's method.

A search for "Shimano XT disc brake rattle" led me to the MTBR.com forum and a possible solution. I could either ditch my still perfectly usable finned pads for a new set of the non-finned variety or do as Niner_Boy suggested and wrap a small elastic band round the top of each pad. Could it really be so simple? Short answer is yes.


I now purposefully seek out the roughest, most rattly ground to ride over and -- not a peep. Thus I will remain happy, in a perfect state of Zen calm. Until the next unidentified noise arises.

Do you have any similar bike maintenance hacks, lo-fi or otherwise, that you'd like to share? Feel free to leave them in the comments below. I might need them some day.

Review - Showers Pass Cloud Cover Smartphone Case

Not my problem

Towards the end of last year I headed to Google in search something to replace a recently ripped zip-lock sandwich bag. Perhaps some cling film or a nice piece of Tupperware, you say? Well, no. I was in search of something in which to stow my phone when out riding. I’d needed to protect it from rain and/or sweat (yes, it is occasionally warm enough for sweat in Scotland), because the sandwich bag, whilst cheap, just wasn’t cutting the (rye with pastrami, cheese, pickles and) mustard. I found it impossible to operate the touch screen when the phone was in the bag and my clumsy oaf fingers did the ripping thing each and every time I tried to open the zip lock.

Review - Sealskinz Extra Cold Winter Cycle Glove

The weather for bike riding has been resolutely manky of late — no great surprises: it's Scotland, in winter.

My cycling revelation has come in the form of comfortably warm hands.

I think I probably have bad circulation. It doesn't even have to be that cold and I don't have to be out that long. Even a twenty-minute ride to work on a day of close to 0 degrees C and my digits can be so cold as to be useful, painfully so.

I had tried a variety of gloves, windproof, waterproof, windproof and waterproof, with thermal liners, and all to no avail. This winter I decided on one last shot at finding a decent glove. I'd been considering lobster-claw-style mittens (the idea of these being that your fingers are paired together and thus help keep one another warm) but was wary of the loss of dexterity and doubted that two cold fingers pressed together would be much warmer than having them individually wrapped.

Following a blitz of online research, and checking what my local shops had in stock (I wanted to be able to try them on before buying) led me to Sealskinz' Extra Cold Winter Cycle Gloves.

Majorca Made Easy

When you think 'package holiday' sand, sangria and sunloungers spring to mind. To the list you can now add sports drinks, saddles and shaved legs.

Jet2's new cycling range not only provides a family holiday with a spot (or five) of riding, it also caters for the dedicated lycra type seeking some quality time alone with their bike.

From the choice of locations I'd picked Majorca. Year-round the island buzzes bright with cyclists but peak biking season tends to be during the cooler months. It's comparative, of course. The January average temperature of 15 degrees Celsius makes Majorca the go-to destination for Brits seeking some quality winter riding.

I'd arrived in summer season and camped at the Iberostar Playa de Muro, a four-star whose cycling facilities have been modelled on those offered to skiers at top European winter resorts.

Let's be brave

The SNP – I've been a member since the 80s – are the brave party (not Bravehearts, that's a nonsense slur opponents without a clue throw our way), prepared to make bold political decisions in order to force change for the better.

Last weekend I attended my first party conference. I was buoyed by the bold and positive talk — Scotland can and will be changed for the better. We just have to work hard to make it happen.

Then came the debate on cycling:

Whose Idea Was This?

Today's road ride went a bit 'Goonies do cyclocross'. A leisurely ride around the lanes of East Lothian got blown off course by a road closure at Longniddry.

"Just turn left here," I said with zero authority, "and we'll soon be back on the right road."

We weren't.

Over the level crossing, along a single-track road. Single-track road became dirt track. Dirt track became field. Field became mud track (not sure if that was an improvement). Mud track became giant puddles and then finally - we're saved! - back to dirt track, then single-track road, then proper road.

It was all good (muddy) fun and reminded me of Gavin, my friend from childhood. We used to do loads of off-road 'adventuring' on our 55lb Raleigh clunkers, following deer tracks to who knew where. Sometimes they would lead to exciting new rides, other times they would lead to being arse-deep in sheep shit or scrambling up a ravine dragging our beasts of burden, cursing and swearing in that colourful way only teenage boys can muster. On the rides that went wrong, just at the most-wrong point, Gavin was prone to stopping and asking,

"Whose idea was this?"

The gone-wrong rides were never Gavin's idea, only the good ones.

So I was channeling Gavin this morning. As we crested the rise in the field to see another rise and no sign of road I turned to Mike and asked,

"Whose idea was this?"

It was his, definitely his.

Riding Home

On Culfoldie

Last weekend I was back home and managed to sneak a bike ride in between various family 'duties'.

Back home for me is rural Moray in the north-east of Scotland. I was lucky to have grown up in such a spot but didn’t think my location fortuitous at the time (the adolescent me craved the bright lights, attractions and fellow indie kids I imagined the city held within).

Going home avec velo and I realise how great a place it was, and still is.

Compared to the roads around Edinburgh (where I now reside) those of home are in far better condition and are far quieter too. Many of my once regular routes lead onto single-track roads that barely see any motorised traffic. I can be lost in that escapist, peaceful bliss within minutes of home.

Raging at the wind

I love finding nuggets of cycling wisdom in unexpected places.

Neil M. Gunn was an a highly influential Scottish author. Born and bred in the far north of Scotland, his work was heavily influenced by the landscape that surrounded his Dunbeath home.

Caithness is a windswept part of the world, as any member of the Caithness C.C. will surely testify. Judging by his novel Highland River (which was based on the author's childhood) Gunn clearly knew a thing or two about the habits of wild salmon. The short extract below shows he also knew a thing or two about a cyclist's relationship with the wind:

And nothing can bring the spirit to breaking point more surely than the wind, which legend shows the northern folk have always feared and hated. For not only does it whirl the seas into tempest and wither the green shoot, but drains sea and land of colour and puts darkness upon them -- the shadow of the ancient nameless ones that rode the gale with shriek and howl, or moaned round gable ends at dead of night. Into a head wind the boys would bore, standing on their pedals, straining at their handlebars, their hearts bursting, until they could have given shriek for shriek and wept in mad rage.

There will no doubt be many an occasion this coming winter when I find myself leant over the handlebars, face contorted, vocally, (yet inaudible due to Mother Nature's howl) cursing the wind.

When that happens my thoughts will turn to this extract, to the coastal roads of Caithness, the teenage Gunn and his pals racing homewards, their hearts bursting, ready to weep in rage.