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ah.. I remember Fred Binda leather toe straps were the bees' bollox...

@ Hippy.. ah.. thx.

@ vélo libre, sounds like the original advert for q/r!

Imperial money never made much sense to me - I remember the absolute clarity I had of the new decimal currency as I have 10 fingers... but as a result of the conversion I'm all mixed up on my units, even after all these years, and flip flop between inches/cm miles/kms I don't use metres as a rule (haha!) hot weather is in fahrenheit and cold in celsius.

I'm a little out of touch with the very latest in bike frames, was that frame built with fixed in mind?

Q/R is generally not a good idea with fixed, can you change to good old fashioned nuts?

Thanks Conker! :)

There are 2 climbs on Titsey Hill, the main rd and a tiny lane off to the right (as you're climbing). There used to be/there still is a hill climb TT on the tiny one.

Succumbs Hill from Caterham rdb is nice, a 1:3&3/4 left hand hairpin on top of a 1:5 start...

I live on top of the Chilterns these days and there's a fine selection of long draggy climbs and short sharp pitches.. if you wanna come and play let me know...

@hippy yeah... well. You know. Hey ho....

Bragging rights; I met Alex Moulton.

I camped on his estate. He was a fofa called Peter Knottley who penned articles about cycle touring and wrote some books on the topic. Me myself I and a couple of chums went cycle camping with Peter, destination Moutlon's place somewhere near Bath/Bristol I forget exactly where. Ever such a nice chap. We had G'n'T in his "house", got to ride his own Mk1 Moulton and he talked about what became the modern space frame design, but wouldn't let us see anything as it was still in R&D stage. So there, you can gasp in amazement and buy me a cappuccino.

ps some other bloke turned up on a trike. I had a go, they are impossible.

aha! Thx everso! :)

mmm...I'd got that far all by myself Moog... any particular bit or just generally all over?

:) thx!

Where? Please. :)

I knew it was going to be tough. To stop for a well earned and much needed cappuccino at the Henley Tearooms, or continue over Remmenham Hill and damn the consequences? The coffee won the debate and I parked up, watched the River life glide past, basking in the sunshine… the sunshine that wasn’t supposed to be there. Threatening clouds and some fine misty rain when I left home meant that I was overdressed and overheating, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Wearily I remounted my gleaming silver machine and threaded my way round Henley to the foothills of Remmenham Hill. I’m pretty confident I can make it despite having just the one gear – that direct drive is so efficient! It’s slow, legs are more tired than I thought they would be – I’m slowing, muscles burning…

… the rider next to me was from the Norwood Paragon (or No Good Paragon as they were nicknamed). We’d fallen in with half a dozen or so of them as we left Brighton on the A23. It was about 11am, we were already on the way back. We chatted amicably enough, but the pressure on the pedals increased imperceptibly, the speed gradually increasing as our grins concealed the grimace as lactic acid began to burn our muscles.

The chat dried up, the rhythm became hypnotic and it was like being on the Wednesday evening “chain gang” where much the same folk from much the same clubs would get together for an informal training session, meeting outside Geoffrey Butlers, burning up the A23, through Purley, Coulsdon…

We’d been in the vanguard of the famed London to Brighton cycle ride. Actually we just treated it as a training run – we rode the course but way in front of the casual cyclists raising funds on their rusting, creaking, squeaking steeds, groaning and straining at the yearly exercise as cobwebs are literally blown away; tyres coming alive after their yearly blow up. To ride with such folk was beneath us, no matter how worthy their cause.

But there was a practical reason too. Many of these folk have no idea how to ride in a group; week in week out we’d be there, massed start road racing, on the public highway or at Crystal Palace or Brands Hatch or track racing at Herne Hill, centimetres, at time millimetres, separating us from the pain of road burn, or worse. We trusted each other, we knew what we were doing. To be brought down by some numpty on their annual pilgrimage, damaging bike and possibly us; resulting in loss of miles and racing; the risk was too great.

So we ended up in Brighton at 10. We’d all but sprinted there, through Turners Hill that later in the day would become picnic-central. Dashed up Ditchling Beacon. The very name strikes fear into the heart of the Heart charity riders. A tough nut to crack, no constant gradient, no constant rhythm. A strange, stepped steepness, one false top after another, the pinnacle of the challenge. Later in the day it would become a brightly coloured river of people pushing bikes as they succumb to the temptation to walk, using the 24inch gear (two feet, get it?).

I was on my White Horse fixed wheel track bike. From recollection a 66inch gear, legs a blur as I flew down hill, never as fast at descending as a road bike with gears twice the size at the top end. But nimble enough, and efficient enough, to zing along, generally keeping pace with the multi-geared brethren; low enough gear to get up Ditchling like a true thoroughbred; rising to the challenge, getting all my power down onto the tarmac; out of the saddle on the steep rises, back in the saddle on the false tops.

No cash, no grub, no drink, no Starbucks, no nothing between us, save the salty tang of the pebble-strewn beach. So we simply turn around and head for home, leaving the seaside ghost town to the invasion that will happen 2 hours or more later. And we’re mixing it with the Paragon, on the never-ending climb back over the South Downs.

I blow up before we reach Pease Pottage. The worst place really; psychologically the worst place as I hadn’t got over the rump of the Downs; had I done so it would have been more or less downhill all the way. But I couldn’t sustain the rate of pedaling, the lactic acid build up was too great, and I pulled over into the public weighbridge lay-by and ignominiously keeled over, unable to get my cleated foot out of the toe-strapped pedal.

But I didn’t care.

I lay there, in the dust, in the sun, in some bleak empty space. A shadow fell across my face. A voice said “Do you want some strawberries?”

Bizarre. Too bizarre to ignore. I opened my eyes and a young man was there, looking down at me with some concern. Through dry, cracked lips and parched mouth I said I didn’t have any cash, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and I gratefully devoured fresh, watery, sweet fruit. I will resist a Proustian description of those nectar-giving rubies, those jewels of fruits. Suffice to say that the liquid and sugar refreshed me sufficiently to remount my trusty steel and alloy white horse and wend my weary way homeward bound…

… which is exactly what I’m doing as I climb Remmenham Hill, that multi-crowned dome. I stagger over the final lump at Hurley, past the Red Lyon, that mountainous molehill, that nipple; no, that goosebump which ordinarily wouldn’t be noticed but in my enfeebled state represents a major challenge. Oh for a strawberry seller now!

Back through Pinkney’s Green and thus home. The luxury of a soft chair, a long cool drink, and British Super Bikes on TV.

Bliss.

It is a disgrace and is indefensible. Anyone who claims that they have done nothing wrong because they were simply following the rules should be removed from office as they must have known it was wrong, but they did it anyway. If they admit to this fraudulent behaviour then they should be removed from office. May are resigning, timing their resignation such that they pocket a wad of used fivers. They are a money-grubbing do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do breed that do not deserve our vote.

In the corporate world, fiddling one's expenses is a sackable offence.

The Houses of Parliament would be very empty. Which probably wouldn't be a bad thing.

Living out in the sticks (Maidenhead) with the rolling beautiful Chilterns just there------> I have never seen another fixed. Ever. Kind of lonely. On the other hand, it's kind of cool fun too, 'specially when mixing with groups on road bikes...

Surely if a book was thrown at you, that would be abuse? Especially if it was a hardback?

ooo.. does that me me a daredevil?

[/IMG]

It was a 653 frame with chrome dropouts, highlights around lugs in red, campag throughout, cinelli bars and stem, mavic rims - I worked in a bike shop at the time so..... 86".

So.. catching up with all this having recently joined - are these rides in Richmond park still taking place?

My MBP battery is down to about 30 mins, but it's 3 years old...

Just double-checking - Salmonchild - you're replacing hard drives with SSD drives in standard Macs?

Well, it's kind of posted I guess!

Thanks for all the great comments!

Cheers

N

@dommyracer - yup!

And as so many asked for the pic, here it is!

:) thank all!

Rummaging through a draw, the boys’ school reports, miscellaneous bric’a’brac, memorabilia, wedding invitations, a collection of cards (wonder where Jo the lovely Barrister is now?) and out tumbles a black and white photograph.

I didn’t sleep much that night. But then there isn’t really that much chance to sleep before a time trial as usually they start at 6am! The result of a collision between a pedestrian and a mass start road race in the early 20th century meant the authorities did the natural thing authorities do and they banned massed start bicycle racing on open roads in the UK. Duh! as we say in the 21st Century.

The result of this law was, what with human nature being what it is, that a different form of competition was formulated, that of time trials. But these had to be underground; not in the literal sense of course, but in the clandestine sense. The early morning starts meant that there was less chance of being spotted by the constabulary, or the general population, As the competition was a time trial, with riders set off at minute intervals, there would be no massed bunches of cyclists forming a danger on her (or his) Majesties’ Highways.

To further conceal this sport, riders would wear what were then innocuous sets of clothes made out of black alpaca, and all the race courses were designated secret codes. The first 25 mile time trial I road, for the Anerley Bicycle Club, was the G15/42 which I can now safely reveal was, and still is, on the Holmwood bypass on the A24, just south of Dorking.

Different courses had different attributes, despite the best efforts of what was then the RTTC to ensure a level playing field. The 10 mile time trial course on the Tonbridge bypass was known as the “Ski Slope” course, as the start was at the top of a hill that you didn’t have to subsequently climb to finish. But the mother of all courses, the one all the fastest riders wanted to ride, the one where records were set, the one most notorious and famed for its speed, was the E72.

The E72. The A12. The Colchester bypass.

It was controversially asymmetric then; the outward leg with the prevailing wind being longer than the return leg. Because it was fast, it was difficult to get on the course, but the local club held a limited number of races for us mere mortals and it was in one of those races that I had a crack at beating John’s sub-hour time.

Having slept fitfully, I rose early, collected Jackie, and pottered in the little Fiat to Colchester, which took quite some time. Warmed up, loosening legs, getting the blood and heart going. The marshals supported the bike as the time keeper counted down…5…4…3…2…1… and with an explosion of effort and energy I was away, winding up the 86inch fixed gear, muscles began to burn but I knew it would all settle down once I was up to speed.

And I rocketed along! The tail wind was good and strong, helping to increase my speed by 2, 3 maybe 4 miles an hour or more, the constant stream of traffic also helped waft me along. It wasn’t a float ride, I knew that very soon after starting, but I knew I was going quickly. But not too quickly; I had to have plenty left in the tank to get back, not because the course was hilly, but because of the wind. Helpful now, a mortal enemy in about 15 minutes, when I would turn and….

…it was like hitting a brick wall. Instead of legs spinning around with almost no resistance, I was suddenly trying to turn the one gear through treacle, whilst towing a lead weight. This was going to hurt. Doubt started to creep in. I lost my rhythm. Breathing was all over the place. A guy on a road bike blasted past, able to take advantage of his multiple gears. I tried to keep pace, but couldn’t raise my game.
It felt like I was crawling back, the black tarmac oozed past, the wind battered my face, spittle and snot and sweat were blown backwards as I pushed and pushed those pedals, trying to get on top of the gear, trying to be smooth, like Greg Lemond, one of my cycling heroes. Would this never end?

Finally a marshall! I take the slip road, up over the bridge and left own the side road and give it my all, sprinting for all I was worth, with heavy dead legs, lunging over the line. And it was all over. The pain, the effort, the wind. I slowed and Jackie came up, all excited and shouting “you’ve done it!” and held me upright with hugs and kisses as I loosened the toestraps that kept me attached to the bike.

I hadn’t beaten John. But I had got under the hour. Just. 59 mins and 54 seconds. The Anerley was founded in 1888. This was 1983. The black and white photo is of a 20 year old me, on the way to becoming the first rider in the Anerley to get under the hour on a fixed wheel bike. Funny thing is, I didn’t know that then, I only found out about 5 years ago. Wish I’d been told, all those years ago. It might have made a difference.

Climbing shoes - if you're new to it then go for something with a thicker stiffer sole, generally these would be a lace up "boot" style rather than slip-on slipper style. The latter offer more "feel" but if you're not used to it may not be much fun. Also they wear out faster that the former too as the rubber is thinner.

In terms of fit, unlike a street shoe where you want a 5mm or so gap in front of your toes, you foot should fill the shoe completely without being uncomfortable. There is no point in having crunched up toes as this doesn't help your climbing and, after half an hour you need to take the damn things off - not always practical if you're 150ft up on a multi-pitch route...

Expect to spend circa 40 to 50 quid. Generally there is no crap quality climbing gear.

Don't wear socks. Get used to smelly feet. No one takes it personally.