People are an endless source of curiosity…Twenty odd years ago, I was discussing the pros and cons of old school rollers and turbo trainers with a coachbuilder and seasoned clubman at his workshop. He cast me a concerned gaze and asked me the identity of my proposed “slave” bike; “You’re not riding a Peugeot?” “No, a Raleigh”; I replied, his demeanour relaxing as he produced a sheared fork steerer and Peugeot branded 531 blades. “I’ve to braze this one back for a club mate-seen quite a few recently-seems they can’t withstand the twisting forces and it doesn’t help that some people like to honk.” Climbing out of the saddle- on the indoor trainer (!) Oh well, guess you can’t legislate against stupidity, takes all sorts to make a world, other clichéd reflections ad nauseam…
Often I disengage my racing mind from the day’s endeavours by wandering round the web late at night, in totally different directions from my profession. Frequently this leads to urban exploration-abandoned buildings, factories, and industrial sites. One such meander brought me to a site dedicated to long, lost, forgotten and ignored areas of London whether it be wartime defences, public houses, bunkers or abandoned houses.
Strangest of all was the curator’s collection of disused toilets. Having meandered chest-height through vile smelling waters while investigating disused military bunkers in Jersey, I couldn’t imagine their appeal. Public toilets often invite all manner of activities for which they weren’t intended. I recall as a very small child, my mother being frightened to enter one in Chelmsford because a woman was laid on the floor, threatening to commit suicide. I’ve found people unconscious, needles protruding as if javelin from their arms; overheard violent beatings and witnessed a host of similarly sinister events over the years.
Coinciding with the return journey of a ride to the now sorry looking remains of Danbury Palace came the full-bladder shuffle. Locals might contradict me but the hedge option wasn’t available so I persevered, dropping down the cassette to negotiate one final ascent before the leisure centre car park facilities.
Two minutes later and with the Univega tethered to suitable ironwork, I dashed to a flat-roofed embodiment of 70’s architecture. An unmistakable stench of urine and faeces confirmed this was the privy that time, planning departments and cleaning contractors’ clearly forgot-a distinct lack of lighting accentuating the sense of menace. Men hovered round the main overflowing porcelain troff, some silent, others more vocal in their relief.
Preferring the privacy of a cubicle, with desperation in the driving seat, I nudged the door open with these Polaris Bojo, deftly leaped over the trail of human excrement clearly leftover from an evening’s scatological scrabble and emptied my bladder, averting my gaze in an attempt to temper urges to vomit. 
Phone numbers touting sexual favours adorned the textured ceiling and I was torn between a sense of “so long as it’s confined to consenting parties” acceptance and downright revulsion. Broken sanitary facilities deepened this repugnancy but mercifully a bijous pack of baby wipes sits in the bottom of my pannier for such emergencies. Outside and in stark contrast, a steady precession of people carriers ferrying three generations of family sought their rightful places in the parking bays. 
A quick rummage through my lockable pannier unearthed the wipes and arsenal of LED lighting that might otherwise vanish. Reasoning I had deferred drafting a very specific, book project synopsis long enough, it was time to churn home at a more purposeful pace.
Un-tethering the tubby tourer, we rejoined the steady procession of mid afternoon traffic and I cursed myself for choosing 3/4lengths over traditional tights since the air temperature had plummeted to around three degrees, my calves steadily assuming the pallor of raw steak.
By contrast, these Michelin Country Rock were a prudent choice, moulding limpet like to the slimy, battle scarred asphalt. Identical in diameter to the Vittoria Randonneur trail, lighter, supple casings translating into a more spirited passage over paved surfaces while equally competent across dry, dusty trails. Forgoing the belt and braces Kevlar sandwich opens the door a little wider to the dreaded hiss but in my experience, this seems largely negated paired with thorn resistant tubes. Only time and some serious winter miles will tell…
Often I disengage my racing mind from the day’s endeavours by wandering round the web late at night, in totally different directions from my profession. Frequently this leads to urban exploration-abandoned buildings, factories, and industrial sites. One such meander brought me to a site dedicated to long, lost, forgotten and ignored areas of London whether it be wartime defences, public houses, bunkers or abandoned houses.
Strangest of all was the curator’s collection of disused toilets. Having meandered chest-height through vile smelling waters while investigating disused military bunkers in Jersey, I couldn’t imagine their appeal. Public toilets often invite all manner of activities for which they weren’t intended. I recall as a very small child, my mother being frightened to enter one in Chelmsford because a woman was laid on the floor, threatening to commit suicide. I’ve found people unconscious, needles protruding as if javelin from their arms; overheard violent beatings and witnessed a host of similarly sinister events over the years.Coinciding with the return journey of a ride to the now sorry looking remains of Danbury Palace came the full-bladder shuffle. Locals might contradict me but the hedge option wasn’t available so I persevered, dropping down the cassette to negotiate one final ascent before the leisure centre car park facilities.Two minutes later and with the Univega tethered to suitable ironwork, I dashed to a flat-roofed embodiment of 70’s architecture. An unmistakable stench of urine and faeces confirmed this was the privy that time, planning departments and cleaning contractors’ clearly forgot-a distinct lack of lighting accentuating the sense of menace. Men hovered round the main overflowing porcelain troff, some silent, others more vocal in their relief.
Preferring the privacy of a cubicle, with desperation in the driving seat, I nudged the door open with these Polaris Bojo, deftly leaped over the trail of human excrement clearly leftover from an evening’s scatological scrabble and emptied my bladder, averting my gaze in an attempt to temper urges to vomit. Phone numbers touting sexual favours adorned the textured ceiling and I was torn between a sense of “so long as it’s confined to consenting parties” acceptance and downright revulsion. Broken sanitary facilities deepened this repugnancy but mercifully a bijous pack of baby wipes sits in the bottom of my pannier for such emergencies. Outside and in stark contrast, a steady precession of people carriers ferrying three generations of family sought their rightful places in the parking bays. A quick rummage through my lockable pannier unearthed the wipes and arsenal of LED lighting that might otherwise vanish. Reasoning I had deferred drafting a very specific, book project synopsis long enough, it was time to churn home at a more purposeful pace.Un-tethering the tubby tourer, we rejoined the steady procession of mid afternoon traffic and I cursed myself for choosing 3/4lengths over traditional tights since the air temperature had plummeted to around three degrees, my calves steadily assuming the pallor of raw steak. By contrast, these Michelin Country Rock were a prudent choice, moulding limpet like to the slimy, battle scarred asphalt. Identical in diameter to the Vittoria Randonneur trail, lighter, supple casings translating into a more spirited passage over paved surfaces while equally competent across dry, dusty trails. Forgoing the belt and braces Kevlar sandwich opens the door a little wider to the dreaded hiss but in my experience, this seems largely negated paired with thorn resistant tubes. Only time and some serious winter miles will tell… 