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Hi Mikec no, I'm neither an author or journo... I have The Rider by Krabbe, but had forgotten... need to re-read it, thx for the reminder :) cheers N

J'aime this thread. My g/f lives in Paris, well near Paris anyway in Meaux where the Brie comes from. Would v. much like to go live there. Need a job tho. For some reason many French peeps struggle to understand my version of French, I have no idea why. C'est la vie...

Thx all
@pistanator - which wham, man?

WHAM! WHAM WHAM WHAM! His fists flew, my head flopped from one side to the other as the blows landed alternating left, right, left right and for once I was glad to be wearing a helmet...

In the groove... the first ride of 2010 after a break of three weeks. It was good to be back, getting into the rhythm, Remenham Hill was climbed comfortably and the descent to Henley was the usual pell mell whirlwind with eyes streaming and bike skittering over the tarmac just the right side of being in control.

Over the bridge, through green lights, into the right hand filter lane. It may have been a Sunday but that didn’t mean everyone was relaxing and an impatient driver overtook me on my left and pulled out in front of me, but he was so short of distance before the red light he had to park up straddling the “bike box” at the right filter into Bell Lane. To avoid shortening my wheelbase even further by smacking into the back of his car, I swerved to the left and did my first trackstand of the year next to the passenger door, ignoring the car completely. A typical road incident hardly worth registering.

Red light red light red light amber GO, I took a nice line to turn right as per my right. The car driver was slower to get away and didn't like me getting in front and blasted away on his horn, the angry careless cacophony shattering the Sunday somnolence; I looked behind me and he was pulling in to the pavement near Starbucks.

So I gave him the traditional two-fingered salute, that symbol of sardonic respect and thought nothing more of it... for about two seconds after which there was a revving of engine and a screech of tyres behind me as the car came after me, chasing me pell mell down Bell Lane, which at this point is a narrow one way street. There were no exits, no alleyways to dive into, I had nowhere to go but straight on as the metallic monster chased me down, a powerful predator after its prey...

About 50m later there’s a choice - to continue straight on and exit Henley or take the right filter which would ultimately take me back to the town centre... I decided to go straight on... I rode wide to protect my line and to make sure I wouldn’t be overtaken and unceremoniously dumped into the gutter by way of being sideswiped, but didn’t figure on being undertaken and forced across the white centre line into the path of oncoming traffic... I am aghast, but with this car six inches from my left elbow there is just nowhere else to go...

...fortunately it was a Sunday so the traffic was light but even so a couple of cars had to pull in towards to kerb to avoid splatting me across their windscreen...

... sketchy protection arrived in the form of a pedestrian island next to which I stopped, the wrong side of the road but at least there was something between me and this moronic monster. I quickly dismounted, he swerved across the road and parked up diagonally across it, blocking traffic in both directions and blocking any further froward progress of mine - no escape that way. By this time I was losing grip on reality - was this actually happening? This is a Sunday morning in Henley ffs!

Other traffic began to blast their horns for this nutcase to get out of their way, I picked my bike up and skittered on cleats across to the pavement and waited. The sleek silver shark glided away down the road, the small number of other cars that had been temporarily blocked trickled passed and silence descended....

I remounted and somewhat tentatively resumed my journey, hoping that my pursuer had given up and gone on to hunting grounds anew... but within a few yards it became apparent that I was some delectable morsel to be devoured undistracted. The driver was walking down the road, down the road towards me, arms outstretched as if to welcome me into his lethal embrace; there was no way to pass.

So I stopped, left foot on the ground, right foot still attached to the bike. As he strode towards me he was shouting and yelling abuse; he got up close and personal and continued his foulmouthed assault. He was somewhat taller than me and broader too, I being only of average build. His face that haunts me still was craggy, deeply lined, like some worn, battered and ancient rocky outcrop exposed to the harsh elements over several millennia; a short but also somehow scraggy whitish flecked and faded auburny-brown tired looking beard with tired looking hair made him look unkempt, uncaring and uncared for. He looked tired which was in contrast to the vitality end energy he was putting into his verbally vicious attack.

Strange I studied him in such detail. Strange that I felt completely unmoved by the toxic torrent delivered by this bicyclists’ bane; now that the flesh and blood was not contained in the defensive aggressive armoury of computer designed crumple zones I could eyeball my adversary.

Unstoppable, the putrid torrent of vile vomit spewed forth from this gargoyle’s gutter; my feeble response of “But you cut me up back there” was swept away like a mote of flotsam and jetsam in a tsunami; indeed my timid temerity simply swirled up ever more stinking, disgusting, rotting contempt from the putrid depths of his stinking, disgusting, rotting mind.

And then he spat at me.

Spat at me.

Spat.

Spittle splattered over my jersey, his intimate insides violated my outside; each disgusting fetid fleck of white spume glistened and sparkled in the sun but, just like his words, they were revolting, repulsive, repugnant. Who was this man? What infections or diseases did he carry?

Calmly and deliberately I spat back. You spit at me and I’ll spit at you. Fair play. But he didn’t think so....I saw him raise his arm before the first strike and I ducked...WHAM! WHAM WHAM WHAM! His fists flew, my head flopped from one side to the other as the blows landed alternating left, right, left right and for once I was glad to be wearing a helmet...

As the blows fell I wondered what to do. How can I stop this berserk vandal, this ignorant pillock? This prick? This bully? This rabid emotionally retarded git? Should I kick him in the balls? After all, hard cleated cycling shoes firmly planted in his gonads would hurt. Should I throw my bike at him? Better not, it might get damaged and he was not worth that.

The pummelling stopped and I looked up, straightened up, and eyeballed this scum, this imbecile, this perverted personification of hatred, this bastard filled with blind unjustifiable anger, this exemplar of road rage lost in red mist. He puzzled me and I pitied him.

He started again, but I had plenty of time to duck again... WHAM! WHAM WHAM WHAM! His fists flew, my head flopped from one side to the other as the blows landed alternating left, right, left right... this banjaxing of my brain was getting serious...

With each blow to my calvarium I thought this might be my road to Calvary but the cavalry arrived; a bicycling band of brothers pitched up, the beating stopped, the bullying bandit backed off as a bespoked banderillero interceded and demanded to know what was going on.

Surrounded by cyclists the coward changed his attitude, portraying himself as the victim. Pathetic. Logic would say I would get witnesses, logic would say I would note his registration plate... but it was a surreal Sunday which made no sense, my senses had been scrambled and I left the scene.

As I defiantly continued my route, I reflected on what had happened. The thing that struck me, other than his fists, was that his invective and spleen was directed towards me being on a bicycle. He had tried to make me feel like low-life, like something that should crawl back under the stone from whence I came, that I was the lowest of the low; that being on a bicycle was socially unacceptable; I was a pariah; something that shouldn’t be allowed; that I was sun-human filth. I had no right to live. I was scum.

Bizarre.

When I got home the shock set in. I reported the incident to the police and got a crime number (24th Jan 2010 MH2158561/10) and got myself checked out medically... after all although I was wearing a helmet my head had been used as a punchbag. I spoke with Cycling Weekly and The Henley Standard and Maidenhead Cycling Club sent out emails throughout the cycling world hoping to find my saviours... but the trail had gone cold. It took 4 days before the physical affects wore off; if I drove or moved too quickly I felt woozy...

Whoever this guy was is a menace to cyclists, he is dangerous. He was driving a current model silver Audi estate, an A4 or possibly an A6. By forcing me across the road into the face of oncoming traffic, it’s possible he attempted murder, with his car as the weapon. Police have checked CCTV and can see the incident, but can’t make out the reg plate.

I need to steal myself and go cycling through Henley again and lay this ghost to rest.

This quote is about motorbikes, but pretty much covers bicycles too. I love two wheels, pedal or motor.

"You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.

On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness". Robert M Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Imagine the size of the spider that won't go down that glorified bath plug'ole...

I’m on fire and have to get out. Boxed in. Suffocating.

Encapsulated in my helmet I feel freer.

The evening is mild and inviting.

The exhaust shatters suburban tranquility and the neighbourhood watches. Kids wake and indignant parents splutter into their evening glass of red. I pause at the top of my drive, balancing, poised, checking, then blip the throttle and I’m at the end of my road in a heartbeat.

Right. The A308. 40mph. Fuck that. I double it.

Past Pinkney’s Green and I’m edging towards the ton. Red lights approaching fast; the Euro-micro-mini may as well be stationary as I blast past. Fuck them; I’m riding like an idiot and don’t give a damn. Fuck me. Fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck everything, fuck absolutely everything.

Left. Right. Jeez I need to sort out my right turns. Odd - I’m right handed but better at going left; left feels smoother, more natural; right feels forced, rigid. Don’t know why.

The road oscillates from left to right, right to left, I smooth the line to an almost straight one. Then a sharp right - push left for fuck’s sake get your act together - then drop down big time onto a sweeping S, force another shitty 100mpg micro-green-boring-box out of my way and hit the roundabout, for once getting a good angle of attack as we bank right over to the right, round and round we go, right over, the kerb of the roundabout close enough to kiss.

Left and onto the A404 drag strip and I have a pair of undipped lights in my mirrors. I let this wanker pass, an Audi A6; my aftermarket undipped beam is brighter in his mirrors. Only a fool breaks the two second rule and I’m a fool this evening. I could clean my front tyre on his bumper and he gets the message and fucks off out of my way; I drop a gear and drop him. Effortlessly. Licence-losingly so. The last time it was an unmarked cop car on the M6 and in my mirrors I notice a car sliding out of the stream I’m passing, so I ease off the throttle.

I’m running out of road anyway.

I find I’m on the M40 going East. Going nowhere; going somewhere; going too fast; going to die and I don’t give a damn. Gerrard’s cross and I’m pissed off. I just have to go. I have to be here. Now.

I rarely ride with my vizor down and this evening is no exception. Cool night air is pulverising my face, grit and shit shotblast my eyes, but the visor is claustrophobic. Shut it and I may as well be in a car or watching more TV. But I’m getting cold and the noise in my helmet changes as I partially close it. The baritone bass of wind deepens and the contralto treble of the V4 becomes fainter.

A suped-up jumped-up teenaged baby-Citroen wants to play; grow up, you’re just kids, your green L plate is on more than just the car; you have a lot to learn. Leave me alone. Bless and Bye Bye.

A slip road. A roundabout; I know I’m going to take it too quickly but do so anyway; right, right, right, push left you git, git, git and you’ll make it; back to basics, eyeball where you want to be. I think the front end is going to let go, the tarmac seems slippery here,I get ready to bail, the surface is rippled from 18 wheelers, but it’s dry all the way round and I make it as we slingshot left, left down a Gatso’d dual carriage way; I know where the fucker is and down-change, using engine breaking to slow past it’s evil eye.

Petrol. Fuel. A pause. If I smoked I’d have a ciggy.

I pull out and find myself in a small townlette; this Pale Rider looks for trouble, but finds none. The good people are asleep. Shutters drawn, daughters locked and hidden away. Not even any traffic to play with. What the fuck do the locals do of an evening in Hicksville? I ride on out.

The man with money turned out to be a Gatekeeper; a key holder. We’d been at the IoD, that tired Victorian facade of a building. In a former life I used to live there. It’s a tired grey building full of tired grey people in tired grey suits. A recruitment con-sultant is pimping for a client; candidates with forced smiles try to act casual as they prostitute themselves but he already knows who he’s going to recommend and is working out what he’ll do with the fat fee & retainer based on the first three months of performance related bonus driven pay. Cynical? Moi? I’ve played that game too many times my friend as he eyeballs me.

A Truvelo cyclops stares balefully, indignantly at me as I double the speed limit and laugh. Fuck you. Fuck the system. I may as well enjoy it as much as I can now, under cover of darkness, before the squadrons of robot drones cloud our skies; never have so few been fined so much for so little by so many. Wankers. They’re turning the Green and Pleasant home of democracy into a police state where the troughing pigs are exempt for reasons of “security” and there’s no freedom and there's no Freedom of Information and our servants who are privileged to serve us won’t even tell us how they are squandering our money.

Left at a roundabout and 11,000 revs in 2nd, clutchless into 3rd, 90 on the clock and I’m at the top of the hill and staring at a fluorescent stripped arse moving at 40; I bury the front tyre into the tarmac, the front suspension compresses and rear tyre lifts, but something tells me it’s not a fair cop and I relax; but still not totally sure and as I filter past at a legal 60 it’s just the RAC.

It’s too soft. A perfect all rounder, a jack of all trades and master of none, neither one thing nor the other. It’s OK, but bland. That’s why I bought the Harley; a bike with so much character it’s alive. The VFR is a tool. A machine. Japanese engineered to within an inch of its life; a millimeter; a micrometer.

If the man from Del Monte says yes, a 675 awaits. Or a full litre, maybe a 1098. The Fireblade is superb of course but I already have one Jap bike. The 675 appeals because it looks gorgeous, it’s patron saint is St George and in the heart of that dragon beats three cyclinders, so I’d have 2, 3 and 4, a straight flush; but it’s really a busted flush.

StJohn on a St George. Ha!

Another roundabout, overtaking a Mondeo,we parallel off onto the short dual carriageway and I hit sand, or dust, dirt and my bike slides to the right, to the central reservation, to body-part ripping, bone shattering arco and deadly debris-strewn grass. Let yourself go and ride it, but you wouldn’t enjoy this ride baby. I ease a millimetre off the throttle, the bike sits up, sorts itself out and we’re back on the mettle, waking the sleeping truck drivers in their articulated caravans; the wailing of the engine echoes the wailing in my soul.

Red raw eyes stare back at me from the mirror, salt stains from mostly wind-induced tears smear across my glasses. It’s too early in the season for bugs, beetles, moths and dumbledores to splatter their insides across lenses, but even so there’s muck aplenty. The peace and quiet is almost painful as normality seeps back with gentle warmth, hugging its way around my body as I peel off my leathers with care.

I stare back into the mirror, blink, and there she was, gone.

@kisu_shimo thanks for the link, shame there aren't any paragraphs in that post....

Thanks all - @mikec, the name of the pub refers to the poor wee kids that used to be shoved up chimneys to clean them (in the good old days)...

So there I was, in the middle of the countryside, flat tyre, no money, no cell phone, and the only spare I had featured a standard length valve which, no matter how much I wished it, wouldn’t poke through the deep section rim enough for me to get the pump onto it.

Bugger.

A glorious December morning, sunshine, blue skies, a hint of frost, just the kind of weather to get me out of the house, away from the Mac, away from blogs, video, PDFs and the entire web. A hearty breakfast of porridge and a couple of mugs of extra-strong fresh coffee and I’m getting my gear on, looking forward to a great ride. Shades on, and I’m away.

The bike’s feeling good and after over a week of not riding, I’m feeling frisky and keen. Although the wind is non-existent, it’s as if there’s a tail wind as I zip though Pinkneys Green and head towards Henley. The Red Lyon Lump as I call it presents no problem, even though I haven’t truly warmed up yet. Past The Black Boys at Hurley and start the Remenham Hilll climb.

Last time I was out, the rain had produced rivulets down the side of the road and roughly here was a pheasant, feebly flapping rain soaked wings in a pathetic attempt to hold on to life. Today though, fingers of warm sunshine poked through the trees as I got out of the saddle and danced up the hill.

The bike moves under me, swaying from side to side; rhythmically, metronomically, legs push down and pull up, keeping those pedals turning smoothly, no wasted effort. Out of the saddle, dancing on the pedals, dancing, dance, dancer. A dancer. The Dancer. She interrupts my meditation and a vision of that dazzling bundle of vibrant energy takes my breath away.

Over the top I go, overtake and drop a touring cyclist, and drop like a stone, descending the ski-slope, legs a-blur, eyes watering, it feels like I’m in a Spitfire descending so fast the aircraft will vibrate to pieces. Over the bridge and there’s starship Starbucks, my regular refueling point, so regular the Barista already has my regular cappuccino going though the system before I’ve even got my gloves off.

Back on the road again, I’m destined for the Hambledon Valley, that picturesque place of pilgrimage, the most quintessentially English of countryside. But the back of my bike suddenly feels sluggish, floppy, dead. I look down and see a tyre squidging underneath me. Oh well, punctures happen.

I pull over into a bus stop and whip out my spare. Wheel out, tube out, run fingers around the inside of the tyre, tube in, valve going in first. But the valve is too short for the deep V section of my wheel rim, I can’t get my pump on to it. Perplexed, I consider my situation. Quite how I’d selected the wrong inner tube, I’ll never know, and there’s no point in beating myself up about it. The old tube went flat slowly, so maybe it’d take half a dozen stops to refill with air from the rather cool and effective micropump to get me back to Henley, but then what?

Then two other cyclists pitch up and ask if I’m OK. A three-way conference about what to do and my new best friend Kadir donates his spare, his companion has two and a repair kit. I love the world of two wheels; motor or human powered, it’s full of kindness, generosity and gallant behavior.

Grateful for Kadir’s precious gift, I take care inserting it, but the Dancer’s on my mind and the spanner slips and I rip my knuckle open on the spare rear cog. I don’t really feel it, a gobbet of blood wells up and I shake it off into the ground.

Relieved to be on my way again, I dance away, picking up speed, reaching a comfortable cadence. I don’t believe it. I’m two minutes into the ride home and bump, bump, goes the rear rim on the tarmac. I know without looking that the tyre is flat as a pancake and I know the cause. Despite checking I hadn’t found the shard that caused the first one and it was still embedded in the tread, piercing Dunlop’s vital innards.

I pull over at Mill End, a T-junction. I again remove the rear wheel, strip it, and find the sharp assassin. Once again I’m in a quandary. Once again a two wheeled savior offers help. Half a dozen glueless patches, one of which seals the hole, allowing new life to be pumped back in. Once again I set off, chilled now and needing to get warm.
Once again I’m dancing, up past Danesfield House. Once again she’s on my mind.

The Dancer.

There was no apple in the garden of Eden.
There were no three kings.
Carrots are not orange (not naturally anyway).

Yes that's not far ... in coffee republic at the mo if you fancy a brew..

Winter Olympics have been going downhill all the way since we won gold.

http://thenewcaferacersociety.blogspot.com/

I thought it was a pretty balanced piece although the cyclist that crossed the road "with no regard to his safety" was clearly brain dead and lazy commentary as the cyclist was clearly looking very carefully at the traffic.

What I dread is more regulation and bike licensing...

That is VERY funny! :)

@crimsonape... it actually happened - one of my customers when I worked in a bike show had buttercup yellow forks and rear stays and pale blue main tubes...

You have your brand new bike sprayed exactly the same colour scheme as your crappy old one, no matter how truly appalling bad, so that your partner won't notice the new bike.

Ah! Short version for you: Went cycling. It hurt.

From what you said he seems pretty genuine, assuming the info he gave you was genuine. You have his reg no so if the details aren't correct report it to the police and get a crime number.

Running windows on a Mac isn't in emulation mode - it's running natively on Intel chips ?(my understanding). A year or two ago (i.e. before Windows 7) PCWorld did a test of laptops to find the one that ran Vista fastest, and it was Mac which pissed them off a bit as they only included Mac for a larf.

When I did a price comparison (a while ago) as close as poss spec for spec, Dell was £200 cheaper than Mac and Viao £500 dearer. But both are Windows machines so go figure.

Rhubarb is the devil's poison, I won't even touch it with a stick.

Quite right - why spoil a good crumble with that food of the devil?

@Gatti: 'scuse my ignorance but what's "tl:dr"?

Think I'll make a crumble this eve...

I've just remembered the name of the hill - it's Quarry Wood... Maidenhead CC use it as one of their end of season hill climbs... where in Maidenhead are you - I'm Furze Platt.