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Always a pleasure collecting wheels from 36x18 - front laced with Sapim Lasers, the rear Race.
Barring a few little tweaks this is done, but fitting the wheels will be the last job before I can arrange with spotter a time to capture the finished bike.
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No but if it's crap we don't return, or give them another chance. I took another stroll on Friday. Still in the running around my area are;
The Tabernacle, W11 - interesting venue with a lot going on, and pleasant location. Manager was too busy to talk so couldn't confirm secure bike storage. Even if not it's quiet and safe with out of sight bike parking so far as passers by goes. I'll be popping in again to speak to him.
The Walmer Castle, W11. On swanky Ledbury Road. Eaten here twice - very decent Thai food. Manager's back on Tuesday so again I'll be speaking with her, but the woman I spoke to saw no difficulty in us having guaranteed storage.
Unfortunately a couple of places couldn't accommodate us, including The Hillgate in W8 which is a shame. Quiet, pretty backstreet but spoke to the manager at length and the local residents wouldn't appreciate bikes locked up outside and storing them inside's out of the question. Had high hopes for them but no can do.
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As others have said already, yesterday was a day made for cycling. Shame my physique isn't made for the at least one size too large padded Lycra shorts I persist in wearing, but a razor-sharp saggy gusset's a good prompt to awaken those cyclists' slumped in the fashion doldrums of properly fitting attire while waiting at the traffic-lights.
Off I set into the sun's promise with legs keen to oblige 50 miles without straying beyond the centre of town or repeating a street, and maybe to find a few rewarding new ones that brighten the eyes. Within minutes my mind had turned to a video Pistanator posted a while back in the 'epic fail' thread of two spotty little lads 'rapping' about how best to manage an incomparable sense of criminality that had outgrown Crewe's limitations - in recognition of their struggle to avoid eating too many sweets on bullet-ridden streets I hummed silently to their melody, which made an obvious connection to the 'what do you sing while cycling?' thread.
Funny where the mind wanders as the body fights to catch up. Dismissing such thinking I realised as I passed alongside the Thames how much we rely on sunlight to cheer not just ourselves, but the built environment that itself afflicts our mood - yet more connections. But not only that - the conditions gave me the sense I could ride forever, beyond any horizon or forever occupied pelican crossing. There's no stopping a cyclist with conviction and freedom his companion.
Apart from the Rapha cafe of course, where I paused with 28 furiously zig-zagging miles on the clock to be greeted with Dancing James who didn't, and Cornelius Blackfoot who if he did needs to improve his footwork. After sampling a couple of Greasy Slag's finest crème brûlée tarts it was time to ride...somewhere. That place turned out to be Regent Park's Inner Circle. To a cyclist I immediately noticed I was heading in the opposite direction to everyone else - me clockwise, them the opposite. This made good sense though, as it saved them from gawping at my arse unleashed from any restrictive Lycra burden. A good move on their part.
After a single lap I tired of going nowhere. Even when I'm heading nowhere I like to still remain on the go, to be somewhere different than I was just moments before. So I headed up to Highgate. What's marvellous about London is the activity in every corner - it doesn't fizzle out like a comedian's tepid punchline lost to the heights and disinterest of a theatre's stalls. Up there were people doing much the same as those in Soho or Clapham, oblivious to one another but tied in commonality. Folk lounged around Highgate Ponds as I struggled my way up Fitzroy Park, a climb that satisfied my hope to discover a new road if not my inner-masochist. To be riding around and through the best of life was somehow affirmative.
Come the end I'd crossed the river twice and only briefly broke the grip of zone 2 of this ceaseless metropolis. Arriving home Strava announced 50.1 miles, only to change its mind once the ride had been synched and dock me 0.4 of a mile. No matter. Within minutes of setting off a few hours earlier it had already been worth it. I couldn't have enjoyed it more.
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fixed
#nltcbmbc bike pile
All I see is my sexual right leg.
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Ed, Scotch Broth or Mulligatawny? Bewildering soup choice.
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The Fall, Clapham Grand - 17th May.
Chris & Cosey, Heaven - 19th May.
Saturday night's got 'stay in' written all over it.
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Digger popping up on Ladbroke Grove.
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And on the eighth day, God resumed advising his disciples.
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Godspeed, Luci.
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- 50/14.
- Bernie
- Rogan
- Pinnochio Poots
- Jake
- PP
- deLights
- shinkuu kiss
- cnkr (ian)
- tomsvoboda
- betty
- almac68
Apollo 13 - middleofnowhere
15.madfatidiot - beerfoot
- Hairy
- joe smith
- Zebs
- Whatok
- Eamesy
- hats
- Skydancer
- fade
- mountaingoatmatt
- Ramaye
- Vesalius
- Branwen
- Se1derful
- Kirth
- Crop
- McEei
- Sherbertflyingsaucer
- Lockside
- kristian
- 'swine
- 50/14.
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Looks like he's out, cheers.
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Dom's on the lookout for a beater - I'll put dibs on it for him until he confirms whether it'll do.
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Hugo Twerp-Dubious type defying the heavy wind on the Chelsea Embankment with a combination or pink trousers/riding no handed.
Forum cap on a forum head riding a non-typical forum bike going the other way just before.
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She feels sorry for you.
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Just popped round to the Garden Bar, W10 - looks and sounds promising.
They already serve groups of cyclists who've been to the Westway sports centre so aren't phased. They have ample space in the back for our bikes (plus CCTV and locked front entrance). For a regular attendance (6-10) we can just turn up and have a table set aside - any more of us they'd prefer notice.
Plus they serve Hoegaarden, as well as Leffe blonde, Guinness, a few premium lagers and a couple of locally brewed bitters. Open kitchen with menu pricing we know and love. Happy to give it a try - only problem is I can walk there, no need to cycle.
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No but I'm going down for a nosy about. Might get on the telly and wave at my family. Might get a CBE too. Or a commemorative badge.
I'm one of the long-term unemployed - it's what she would have wanted.
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Grouchiness and irrationality? I must live in a permanent state of bonk.
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Yesterday was the 'slide' to Brighton. The sun had been reserved for today, but expensive chainrings don't make us future-gazers. We took our hand and played it.
A meet in Clapham and off, under skies suggesting we might just win. Very soon and within spitting distance of Croydon, James and I had lost the group. We did not panic, or if he did it was well hidden behind his weeping eyes. Nobody wants to spend their time in the Devil's armpit so we resorted to the virtual aid every sham descendant of a hunter-gatherer must - Google.
With luck and navigational sense all my own (by which I mean entirely not mine) we both found our way back to the waiting group to be regaled of tales of a Brighton bound National Express driver with a disregard for the sanctity of life. Having debated between us when our optimism of reuniting with the group was low whether we should simulate a near death experience of our own by wandering around Croydon's IKEA instead, we knew all too well of what they spoke. We'd had our own near miss.
Onward then, reformed and rejuvenated - but the weather, lacking the fortitude of Thatcher recently deceased, was turning. Slow but insistent rain worked its magic before we reached the halfway-point pub-stop at Turners Hill, wet but unbroken. Hungry cyclists need their grub, and this pub needed an extra pair of hands in the kitchen to help their poor chef all set for a leisurely afternoon of feeding the regulars their staples meet the demands of a banquet of microwaving his jaded fingers couldn't match.
Chef could not keep up. Random dishes appeared from the kitchen to be announced by a waiter with all the certainty of a lost tourist. One of our number tolerated a comical wait for his bangers and mash - the free peas served up as consolation for his withering away during his 90 minute torture made little impression, as did my waving of perfectly bland but promptly delivered chips under his nose in a show of support. Without much thought he dispatched his gruel while the rest of us, no longer satisfied from the holes filled what seemed a fortnight ago, gazed and drooled. The bastard didn't offer us a morsel.
All eyes turned to outside, as every new punter arrived more disheveled that the last - it was properly raining now, and our post-hunger slump was kicking in hard. Bikes with sopping saddles are not very enticing but there's no choice other than stick or twist, and I saw no white flags being waved. What followed us right to Brighton were the worst conditions I've ever known. Rain may only be water and wind no more than a breeze but combine the two and things can turn deranged. A few of us skipped the next pub-stop in favour of getting Ditchling out the way. Although I've ridden to Brighton before this was my first encounter with the fabled beast, as wisely we swerved it last time. I'm sure some folk find it easy to ride up but I found it bloody difficult pushing. Come the summit any view was obscured with mist but the wind couldn't be heard any clearer. It bit and it tormented.
Snow was in the air. One by one those who stopped at the pub caught us up as we regathered once more, but mostly for shelter from the elements rather than celebration as we shivered and the light faded. Not since my days scaling the Matterhorn have I known a more sparse environment - had the world ended I'd not have known the difference. The consensus was we push for the finish before we did our best Han Solo in the deep-freeze impressions, but the run-in was what the cool kids call sketchy, and what I call dangerous.
My bike seemed to take on a life of its own. For a while I convinced myself that despite my best efforts my veering towards the centre-line was due to a wandering headset and a bike doomed to failure, but it was the viscous crosswind pushing me close to where I shouldn't stray. I had to fight my bike and myself to stay on course, the visibility next to nothing except when a welcome car overtook and its rear-lights gave me something to aim for. All I could hope for was no mechanical failure as the roads refused to signal our arrival, until - seagulls with their unmistakable call. We had made it. Without a thought for the sea we made for the train station and a return trip to London in a time that made a mockery of our efforts.
Those lacking blue lips made do with shivering uncontrollably - I found solace in a tub of M&S flapjacks. More rain greeted us in London but I flew home, never more glad for a fridge full of Hoegaarden and a pan of red-onion chutney I knocked up the day before to go with some homemade lamb burgers seasoned with harissa, once saturated clothing had been discarded and I felt a new man. The ride had no right to be as rewarding as it was. If it's tough for one it was tough for everyone. For hours we were drenched. Despite it all we prevailed, but they were the hardest 75 miles I've ever known.
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^^^^^^^Glad you're OK kid.
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Brett Anderson with trophy chihuahuas x 2 and a broadsheet girlfriend, Portobello.
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If hell is other people, golf's your mother-in-law.
On a Masters highlights binge regardless.
LFGSS
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Italian thread, 115mm.