Here comes the rain again.

Falling on my head like a memory, falling on my head like a new emotion
The wind, sleet and snow showers too by the look of things, which is ironic given I had been bowling along in bright fifteen-degree sunshine and some seriously swish and summery Vaude ¾ lengths arrived in last weeks’ post. The German marque is justly revered for its waterproof luggage and technical jackets but these are arguably the most civilian messenger style trews I've seen to date. Sure, Showers Pass, Protective, Polaris and Endura are hot on their heels but to the untrained eye there’s nothing overtly “technical” to give the game away when you’ve dropped in on the accountant or commercial client. I’m itching to give them a good run, probably wearing that olive green Bontrager commuting jacket for ultimate civilian effect. Alas, with temperatures firmly in single figures, I’ll stick with the winter wardrobe and seek solace in the chic warmth of this Rothera Hounds tooth cap. Handmade in Philadelphia, Mr Rothera clearly knows his way around a sewing machine judging by the immaculate stitching and flat seams-it works better than most winter types worn beneath a helmet without compromising sensory awareness. My late father was well-versed in the art of sewing having spent the first twelve years of his working life as a serviceman, so it's heartening to see the re-emergence of these and similarly traditional skills.

Speaking of pater, he regularly mused that writing a book is about disciplining oneself to spend hours chained to a desk (and comfortable chair!) composing chapters even when you really didn’t want to. Fundamental to any creative process is the ability to plough through inspirational ruts but having settled to write one book and researching another, I’m rapidly gaining an appreciation of the stamina required. Self-motivation and freelance are inextricably linked but nonetheless; a publisher’s commission and associated deadlines would certainly bolster this momentum and dare I say, a sense of progression. Far from running away, measured in-the-saddle escape is where creative solutions germinate and combining this with some banking, I happened upon this youthful looking Raleigh Dynatec. Closer inspection suggests it’s a budget model- pressed into service as a town hack judging by the plastic pedals, missing rear mudguard and seat tube bottle screws. Something of a design classic, without the corresponding price tag, their bonded construction was a big departure from the lugged and brazed steels of the era. Paint finishes were justly revered for durability, thus making them excellent second cum training bikes. One note of caution though, the glued joints cannot withstand the heat generated in curing ovens so, makeovers will need to be of an air-drying two-pac variety. Personally I’d opt for a 5/6 or 700 model for sprightly training and its more lowly 300 sibling as a winter commu-trainer/daily driver.

At one time there appeared to be a glut of cheap but cheerful, unbranded Chinese fixer frames cropping up on London street corners. On a technical level, they weren’t particularly special-we’re talking lower end Cro-moly or 7005 series aluminium but they had an air of mystery nonetheless. Spotted a couple of flat bar builds in these parts, one olive green with tan leather grips and saddle and this satin black model. Flimsy locks, poorly used seem all the rage too. Assuming a passing thief found themselves sans croppers, they’d still come away from this Specialized with a decent set of wheels. No, I’m not being smug; I just hate the idea of rightful owners making life easy for tea-leaves.
Followers will know I suffer discomfort in my left shoulder resultant from slight physiological misalignment and the inevitable spills associated with twenty-six years on two wheels. Having experienced the exquisite hot-stones and traditional therapies, I happened upon a teaching salon charging £10 for an hour’s holistic head and full body massage. Needless to say, while the settings lack the outright luxury of high street/Spa venues, cleanliness is extremely high and newly qualified therapists seemed both competent and professional.

Ah, what’s this? Justin Burls has just invited me to a sneak peek at some lovely fillet brazed prototype framesets…Watch this space…

Double Trouble (Boom Bang a Bang)

Spring has apparently sprung early and in an effort to save money on our battle-scarred infrastructure, farmers seem encouraged to layer the roads in thick slimy dung, topped off with hedge clippings. This particularly conspiratorial brew is conducive to the dreaded hiss-even with 1.75 section mtb rubber and those otherwise ultra dependable thorn resistant tubes. Said concoction also serves as timely reminder that no matter how technically endowed your hoops, should you meet that thorn/nail/rock/pothole with your name on it, you will come unstuck. Mercifully, it took several miles for the offending sharp to pierce the tyre casing, serenading me with a slow, yet audible rush of air as we returned to base. With puncture season officially open, there appears no end to freeloaders expecting to drop their wounded butyl at my house for while u wait, free of charge repair (!). Yes, I served in a bike shop (where I learned to read people and their intentions in the blink of an eye), yes I am of a helpful disposition but I am not a charity, here for the convenience of others. Capiche! Now, this is entirely different from coming to the aid of someone stricken by the roadside-most of us have experienced the kindness of a passing rider(s) and hopefully reciprocated at least once during our cycling careers. Things happen for a reason. I didn’t subscribe to this philosophical (some might say, fatalist) state in my teens and twenties but it’s one I’ve assumed with time. Such has seen me review the fleets’ toolkit-specifically pumps, tubes and patch kits to ensure they were all suitably stocked and more importantly in good working order. Afterall, spare inner tubes and patches are of little consequence several miles from home with crusty vulcanising solution, wheezy pump and/or CO2 inflator. Having exhausted my supply of spares, the patch kit(s) came out to play. Experience suggests taking manufacturer claims with a pinch of salt, leaving glue/less types overnight provides the best success rates. I’ve taken to pressing them in situ using soft-jawed clothes pegs. Failing to follow this rule saw a good quality example of the glue-less breed lift after a few hours but then, I’ve never put my faith in this particular genre so reverted to the suppler, feathered edge variety.

To the uninitiated, slime-filled self-healing tubes sound heaven-sent but are a recipe for a disgusting sticky mess in the event of rolling over that sharp. Most sealants seem to have a finite life before turning chalky or randomly spewing green goo from the valves. That said; I’ve danced a jig having found one in the bottom of a pannier when the long walk home looked imminent.
Wednesday bore witness to the transformation of last week’s tatty tandem frameset. Thirty-five minutes sustained effort in the blast cabinet had consumed the barnacle thick external rot, revealing sound metal with quite extensive residual acne. Common to popular misconception, this pitting isn’t necessarily down to the blast media or operator skill but demonstrates how corrosion leeches into the host metal when neglected for any time. A call advising of this and some minor dents saw the owner decline additional preparatory work so Graham set about making good the worst areas before applying and baking the chromate. The customer chose to retain the original gold livery, albeit with a sparkle lacquer topcoat evocative of the 70s… bell bottoms, industrial strife, Eurovision and orange bathrooms anyone? Saddle rails, pedals and braking components were also passed through the mini blaster and emerged looking remarkably fresh, ready for gloss black.
Mocking and cold in black and gold I mused, capturing a few further shots and contemplating my falling blood sugar. Every colour has its own unique characteristics and gold has a tendency to bobble-if this isn’t tackled prior to oven curing it results in visible imperfections. Yellow is another tricky livery thanks to its pigment but attempting to compensate by applying thicker coats sees it emerge from the oven literally hanging from its host like runny custard. In this situation, there’s no option but to leave it marinating in the enzyme tank overnight before blasting to bare metal and starting from scratch come the morning.

Back on The Chain Gang

Receding weather fronts have permitted enthused riding/equipment testing, timely then that I should receive a helmet camera. I’ve always been taken by the breed from a documentary perspective but never had chance to play with one beyond the confines of a trade show counter. Size and weight have become increasingly immaterial- this little Easy Shot Clip HD is smaller than a micro multi-tool and comes complete with its own waterproof housing reminiscent of a diving bell. Riders using helmet cams have found themselves increasingly vilified by motoring groups and subject to more physical forms of attack/abuse from some vehicle operatives, so discrete dimensions will hopefully keep such confrontation to an absolute minimum. By the same token, small sensor sizes cannot capture the same degree of detail as larger models- an eight- megapixel camera phone will not produce the same quality images as a comparably endowed compact camera. More comprehensive testing in varying conditions and context will give a fairer reflection of its true capabilities and limitations…


Having run the otherwise fabulous Squirt chain wax for around 2,400 miles, the tell-tale metal on metal symphony chimed time so after giving the cassette a thorough comb-through to remove any residual sludge, I applied some of this Muc Off C3 ceramic lube. Ceramic blends have become extremely fashionable thanks to baron nitride and similar ingredients that are associated with longevity/corrosion resistance. Muc-off are very coy about the true composition, advising it’s a trade secret (think Coca-Cola) but it does seem slightly different to other leading brands’ and only requires a single, rather than two-stage application in the first instance.

That said, the instructions still recommend a four hour curing period so for most of us, this means applying the night before-a technique that comes as second nature coming from dry formulas but then wet lubes are ready to go straight from the spout. That aside, for it to impress, I need to return at least 220 winter miles from each application-a consistent average using another leading brew and for now I’m going to leave you guessing as to its identity. It seems equally fashionable-or lazy marketing on the manufacturers’ part to recommend their use on control cables but in my experience this works for a very short period, whereupon the brew solidifies, demanding solvent/water displacer bypass surgery.

There’s another school of thought suggesting that all bicycle lubes are over-priced-at least relative to those developed for motorcycle chains. Liked the idea of the Scott-oiler, especially in a cyclo cross/mtb context, although never got round to trying one but experimented with the O-ring chain lubes- Rock oil in particular. While the anti-fling properties were arguably way in excess of those required for a bicycle transmission turning at 100rpm, the consistency a little gloopy and prone to decorating the chainstays, a little went a very long way on fixed and cross country mountain bikes subjected to the ravages of winter. Other experimentation (of the legal and morally righteous kind) involved semi/synthetic two-stroke oils- Husqvarna chain saw type proving surprisingly useful (albeit relatively expensive) without attracting too much dirt or washing away in the first big puddle.

Sticking with old school for a minute, this post war tandem frameset (c.1952) arrived at the spray-shop in need of some serious TLC. A double diamond design, its once proud gold livery and decals have been somewhat consumed under a blizzard of corrosion. It’s worth remembering that in the inter/early post war years, the tandem was very much a utilitarian vehicle and everyday examples were made from heavier, plan gauge tubing which was not only cheaper but better equipped to shrug off dents and similar accidental damage. This goes a long way to explaining why this example has survived half a century or so. I’ve often toyed with a sleek utility build employing an eight-speed (Sachs Pentasport or Shimano Alfine) hub transmission hung on a bespoke, fillet brazed Columbus tubeset with every conceivable braze on- dynamo, disc mounts, bottles, cable guides etc, etc finished in battleship/dove grey (devoid of decals, save perhaps for my name). This was initially conceived twelve years or so back when drop bars were also unfashionable-at least to the light fingered but presented all manner of problems when it came to mounting the shift mechanism. Since frame and fork alone were nudging £700, experimental bodges were out of the question.

At the other end of the spectrum we have lightweight hybrids (Sometimes called North American Commuters) based around 6061 aluminium frames and occasionally carbon forks. Sensible clearances allow 700x35/38c tyres with breathing space while carriers, mudguards etc all slot neatly aboard their dedicated mounts. Hub transmissions and linear pull (sometimes disc) brakes ensure everything stops, goes and handles in reasonable proportion. However, while this level of trouser friendly enclosure makes for a long and happy union, I'd be inclined toward kevlar belted rubber, thorn-resistant tubes and a stout lock...

Cabinet re-shuffle

Coinciding with the arrival of some seasonal snow and freezing temperatures came this little brass bell. Mandatory on all new bikes sold on these shores, I’ve always been of the opinion that a well-timed greeting is more effective and OEM equipment on most human beings. However, this one is extremely discrete and the genuine brass (as distinct from lacquered/anodised aluminium) delivers a more convincing sound. A simple adjustable strap secured by a cross head screw embraces most handlebar diameters very nicely so I opted to mount ours just inboard of the Univega’s Ultegra bar cons.

A deft, split-second flick of one’s thumb rewards with a surprisingly audible ping-great for quiet back lanes and mingling in close proximity with pedestrians but not a lot of use against a symphony of pneumatic drills, motorised traffic and similar noise pollution endemic to busy town centres.

Will Meister has gently asked for the return of his Kontact saddle so we've reverted to the similarly high tech carbon railed Selle Italia Turbomatic. I generally revel in the comfort of cutaways but several wet weather outings aboard Izzie reminded me that full-length mudguards (Fenders) are mandatory if a cold, soggy crotch/posterior is to be avoided.

Who loves ya baby? Sorry, couldn’t resist… After several weeks’ deliberation, I’ve bitten the bullet and breezed these Schwalbe Kojak aboard the Ilpompino’s hoops.

Filling those cross-inspired clearances gives a tidier effect, while ensuring smoother passage over erratically maintained roads. In my experience, the Kojak casings are more vulnerable to thorns and similar sharps compared with some so I’ve gone all belt and braces, fitting super dependable Kenda thorn-resistant tubes.

On a roll, I tidied the cockpit, removing the long redundant nylon handlebar bag mount, freeing up sufficient room for this cutesy baby blue Knog Nerd 5. Bringing the brands 50 lumen blinkey against the stem clamp for sharper aesthetics.

Sudden onset of sabre-tooth man-flu aside, serious outings haven’t been realistic due to icy roads and the fact those otherwise superb Continental studded tyres with 42mm casings are a non starter on the Ilpompino. On-One reckon 38mm is as big as the frame will accommodate and judging by the Schwalbe, I’m inclined to agree. That said; I’d be interested to hear from anyone with an IRO Rob Roy who’s managed this particular feat.

However, the Continentals work just dandy on ultra modern disc only cross and expedition tourers so long as you had super wide section fenders, or were prepared to forgo them altogether. Seeing as snow and Ice appears to be a seasonal regularity, I might add a set of 1.9s to the Univega’s wardrobe.

Snow-specific tyres are very much a niche product and priced accordingly but those I’ve used both on bicycles an motorcycles seem to work very well indeed. True, their additional weight means they’re a little more ponderous (like you’re going to mind, negotiating road/trails resembling skating rinks!) and pride can still come before a fall-turning a wheel in anger when entering snow covered roundabouts and junctions can result in slippage, or indeed a most undignified face-plant. However, employing a smooth, steady cadence, you’ll stand a sporting chance of remaining upright and smiling.


Received several requests for “Port-folio” work of late- businesses looking to exploit the poor economic conditions to their advantage. Every so often, I might slip something to a charitable organisation so long as I am credited accordingly but unless there’s some tangible economic reward, such requests are scooped into the spam. Old school barter is something entirely different and increasingly prevalent in situations where accepting cash doesn’t solve the problem at hand. A friend recently sorted my temperamental central heating in exchange for some family portrait photography. He wielded the spanners, I got behind the lens. My house is warm, his has some new photos-simple.

Last Tuesday was another case in point. Having finished work at a neighbours’ house, our cleaner knocked at the door needing help-she’d succumbed to a rear wheel flat and didn’t know where to begin. Bottom line, a new tyre and thorn resistant tube saw her bimbling home. Sure, I actively discourage people turning up and looking for a freebie but we pay her fairly and she reciprocates so declining to help would’ve been extremely churlish. Then there are others who just help themselves...

My sister often pops in to pass out after a hard night on the giggle juice. Most mark an end to a night's excess by savouring a Kebab or similar delicacy while stood in the taxi queue but I found her trying to toast bodyform towels in the comfort of my kitchen (!)

On that note, I’m off to test this not so little box of Muc -Off goodies.

Sordid

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…

Stripped

In between prolonged typing to an eclectic blend of Ska, Progressive rock and indeed radio4, I’ve been out sampling some lovely kit and the wonders of an unseasonably mild January. A gentle tinkling became steadily more audible, demanding a quick twenty-minute tweak of the Univega’s indexing-a not unfamiliar chore for triple set ups run year round. Budget squeezes are the default rationale’ for everything at the moment but the pothole infestation is running rampant locally- a moot point on the Univega with it’s buxom 1.75inch trail inspired Vittoria but super skinny road rubber calls for cat-like reflexes. Speaking of which, the Ilpompino’s front-end transplant might be on the backburner but I’m toying with the idea of a tyre swap-something 700x35 for super compliant passage over these inclement road surfaces and whipping the rear wheel round to take advantage of a more becoming, mid seventies gear ratio for those long, steady climbs that serve as an eloquent metaphor for life. Besides, I’ve long held an interest in massage/reflexology and look to invest in this particular discipline, although since I don’t come from a sports science or beauty therapy background, finding suitable foundation level courses is proving particularly elusive. I’ve sought out some background teaching materials for my own curiosity but need another stimulating vocation, supportive to my mainstay professions of word-smithery and lensmanship running in parallel.

Rain and slurry call for fenders and waterproofs/luggage and in this age of parental over-protectiveness, I was heartened to see a father and children commuting back from school on their bikes bedecked with fenders, racks and waterproof TPU panniers. Sadly I can’t bring you the images since photographing children outside of strictly regulated settings is deeply taboo. As both parent and image-maker, I have mixed feelings about this and understand the competing arguments.

On the one hand generic legislation has freed many, many children from highly exploitative and harmful situations but the McCarthy-esque “Perverts behind every viewfinder” is borderline ridiculous. Some of the best documentary photography capturing life and times- the morays, mood and living standards of any given era have frequently captured children playing candidly in the street. Contrast that with my own detention by Police Community Support Officers who interrogated me as to my intentions-why I was taking photographs of my own son in-spite of him smiling, waving and clearly referring to me as “Dad”.

Sure, you’d be insane to point a camera anywhere near a school without express, written consent and there have been some deeply distressing high profile cases of “photographers” using the profession to lure and groom vulnerable people but unfortunately, sections of society are ruthlessly exploiting or endangering their children through regular exposure to pornography and inappropriate adults within their kin/friendship circles. Such behaviours are all too often “normalised” within families, leading to generations of very damaged/damaging adults. Richard Ballantine’s brilliant Piccolo Bicycle Book (Sadly long out of print) had a beautifully balanced chapter steering children to recognise there are good people, bad and really bad people-to be vigilant but not paranoid. Children in particular need a gradual exposure to controlled risk in order to grow as rounded capable adults who recognise potentially dangerous people and situations; side-stepping them accordingly.
Calling in at the spray-shop, another classy looking Cro-moly mountain bike frame caught my attention. Devoid of decals, I scoured the frame ends for clues as to its identity but to no avail. This was in for a wet spray, two-pac finish since removing the cross threaded Royce titanium bottom bracket would’ve meant re-cutting the bottom bracket shell (from British to the relatively rare Italian-a common fix but make sure you buy a few bottom brackets there and then since replacements are relatively tricky to find). The alternative (assuming it had been a UN52/72 square taper pattern) is to install a pressure-fit model specifically designed for worn/stripped or otherwise damaged shells. On the subject of wet and dry stuff, the squirt chain wax has held up well to everyday riding, typically returning 180miles from each application and aside from some congealed lumps nestling between the Univega’s cassette cluster; it has the good grace to drop off once contaminated with seasonal grime.

Stuff ‘em in your Sack

The arrival of these understated Louis Garneau Lathi gloves prompted me to reflect on the contrasting approaches of two riders when it came to condition specific illumination. I’m not calling for legislation compelling us to don day-glow and engage lights during daylight hours since this serves to perpetuate perceptions that cycling and the great outdoors are hazardous by default. Compelling motorcyclists in Scandinavian countries to do just this had a very short-lived effect before they once again became "invisible" to swathes of much larger traffic. Proponents of these and similarly ridiculous measures are myopic to the fact most cyclists are also car owners/drivers, sometimes motorcyclists and truckers too!
The rider pictured blazing a trail through the 4pm December murk couldn’t be more conspicuous (In fact, temptation urged me to draw alongside and ask what systems he was using but didn’t, since in his cleats I’d construe such behaviour as driver harassment). Driving back from assorted quick stop-offs during the sleepy corridor that leads us to the New Year; I was horrified to encounter an arguably more seasoned Cannondale rider with literally zero illumination. Any of us can (and probably have) been caught out by a snagged dynamo wire, expiring lead-acid battery or similar act of god but to find him bereft of even the thinnest slither of Scotchlite, let alone contingency blinkies at half-past dusk stops short of reckless. Most micro LEDs are visible from around two hundred and fifty yards, often more but driving at 40mph in 60mph zone and with unhampered vision, I only noticed him at forty yards. What if my approach had been more cavalier or my reactions/senses hampered in some way?

Cyclists and similarly “minority” traffic take disproportionate “stick” from various lobby groups as it is and the majority of us keep our houses very much in order but these incidents are precisely what gives credence to buck passing us n’ them pressure groups’ cries for greater anti cyclist legislation. Unfortunately too many careless, uninsured and sometimes unlicensed/inebriated vehicle operatives walk away from court with a few casual nods of remorse to the judge. The mighty little blinky cost next to nothing, doesn’t detract from the sleekest steed and may be the difference between a warm soak in the tub with the rides’ highs lows swooping through your consciousness or a cold, clinical mortuary slab. Stuff ‘em in your sack.

Happy New Year!