Thomas Guest

Mountain Bikes going downhill

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2010-03-10

In yet another great blog post, Dave Moulton discusses the evolution of the mountain bike. He starts by setting the scene:

There was a bike boom in the mid 1970s in America, this was part of the fitness movement. European road bikes, which were for the most part fully equipped racing bikes, were being imported into the US.

Sadly many of these bikes were barely used. No wonder so many classic road bikes from this period end up on ebay in mint condition. As Dave Moulton says:

The average American is keen to try different sports, but only a few will dedicate the time and effort to reach any level of expertise.

It’s true. A thoroughbred road bike is an unforgiving machine — just looking at the saddle is enough to make a grown man wince. Add skinny tyres, handlebars you need to bend over to reach, gears calibrated for hardened professionals, and you have a machine all too likely to stay in storage. You need to be fit and confident to enjoy riding a road bike.

You even more confidence to ride off-road, though. You’ll need to be fitter, too. Cefn Bryn, at the back of my house, is popular with mountain bikers. The gradients are steep. The paths are muddy, edged with gorse, and strewn with gritty nuggets of bryn stone: tough on foot, treacherous on wheels.

So why ever did the mountain bike catch on?

Dave Moulton:

My take on why the Mountain Bike took off when it did. There was a whole generation of young adults who had grown up in the 1970s with BMX bikes; they remembered how they used to perform jumps and stunts. The MTB was possibly seen as an adult version of a BMX.

Maybe. I think he’s right to associate the mountain bike’s acceptance with fun and leisure, rather than exercise. But it’s the next paragraph which rings true with me.

For the general public too, here was a bike that was easier to ride than a road bike, with its upright position and fat tires.

Right! And let’s not forget decent brakes. Those low gears, designed for use on hills, make zipping across town a snip. Urban riding is about starting, stopping, negotiating obstacles. A mountain bike performs well.

I bought my first mountain bike, a Specialized Rockhopper, in Sydney, where I worked for three months as a bike courier. It did the job admirably and performed equally well in the same role in Melbourne. It wasn’t the fastest machine to take on the great Victorian bike ride, but we never went further than 100km in a day. It was a reliable, solid bike for touring the Tasmanian hills.

The Rockhopper came back back with me to England. I ended up in Cambridge, one of the few British cities where bikes are truly popular for getting about, where it served me well until someone stole it.

A few years later, in Bristol, I acquired another mountain bike. I can’t remember what brand. I got it second hand from a colleague who was trading up to a full-suspension model: I just wanted something sturdy enough to attach a child seat. If you’re carrying a child, you want comfort and safety.

The point is: I never used my mountain bikes off-road. A classically-styled mountain bike is not the 2 wheel equivalent of the ridiculous, grid-locked 4 wheel drive. Their design is sturdy, versatile, and well-suited to general road use. Hence their enduring popularity. My children’s bikes look like mountain bikes. The bargain bikes you pick up in supermarkets look like mountain bikes.

Unfortunately, what a mountain bike looks like has changed. In an effort to persuade people to upgrade, manufacturers keep adding new features. Isobel’s bike has suspension: that’s what kids’ bikes come with now (and let’s not mention the hand bag). Combine this spongy suspension with a heavy steel frame and knobbly tyres, and you’ve got a clumsy, energy-sapping machine.

I’m convinced the current trend for fixed wheel bikes is a reaction against the over-engineering of the urban mountain bike. Some off-road features have no place in a city. A fixie is simple, nimble, direct. A fixie can be fast, too. It has direct power transmission and few moving parts. The fastest cyclist on the planet rides a fixed wheel.

The fixie won’t catch on like the mountain bike, though. Oh, I’m sure manufacturers are delighted to cash in on these stripped-down machines; they’ll hold on to the surplus cogs, derailleurs and shifters until people realise they need them. Without gears, cycling is too much work, especially for a beginner. Pushing a bike up a hill is neither cool nor fun.

I reckon Jonny has the right idea. His matt black Cannondale Bad Boy 700 comes within a whisker of being camp (you Bad boy! you), but it’s just about perfect for urban use: no suspension, sealed bearings, disc brakes, slick tyres. Its stealth finish won’t ever look dirty. And look at the range of gears!

Not everyone can afford a Cannondale, though. If manufacturers truly want to benefit from the fixie they should cross it with the mountain bike. Then we’d have something simple, safe, accessible. Something cool enough to be seen out with. Something so much fun to ride it won’t get left in the shed.

Thanks to Brenton Salo for kindly allowing me to use his cycling in the rain photo.

What goes around

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2010-03-04

Well done whoever reinvented the wheel by putting spokes in it! Despite my mathematical training, it’s hard to believe a such spidery arrangement of wires and air can be so strong.

Just such a wheel survived a high-speed run in with an evil pothole on the north Gower road last Tuesday. Survived? Well, it remained true enough for me to complete my journey. Something was wrong though: the front brakes were juddering.

The wheel is the original one that came with the bike. To date, I reckon it must have gone round about 7 million times, covering a total distance in excess of 15000 km. Friction from the brakes has worn the rims away. They’re concave.

The rims hadn’t escaped damage. There’s a bulge where they hit the pothole: hence the juddering. The next morning I ordered a Shimano R500 online from Merlin Cycles. Actually, I ordered a pair, front and back, which worked out about the same price as a single wheel.

Merlin Cycles is in Preston. Parcelforce collected my new wheels from them at 12:58 yesterday. By 22:22 in the evening they were at the National Hub. They arrived where I work before lunch today.

The wheels were made in the Shimano factory in Malaysia. According to Wolfram Alpha — assuming (unlikely) a direct great-circle path, and assuming (correctly) that Preston is in Lancashire — they’ve already covered a distance of 11404km, almost ⅓ of the earth’s circumference. I wonder how many times they’ve gone round?

Potholes, Ponies and other cycling hazards

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2010-03-02

I didn’t even see it. My bike has carbon fibre forks which are meant to absorb shocks but the impact traveled up through my arms and shoulders and shook my teeth. I heard something clatter on the road. The pump! Thrown clean off the frame.

I hit the pothole square on and at speed. If I’d caught its edge, it could well have been me on the road. I collected the pump and rode off slowly, feeling for damage. Handlebars need tilting back down. Front wheel, usable, but judders when the brakes are applied.

This happened on the final unlit stretch of my regular Tuesday morning commute from Reynoldston to Swansea railway station, where I catch the 06:28 on to Bristol. A clear sky, the full moon hanging low. I’d just passed the Three Crosses turning. In a few hundred metres I’d ride over the cattle grid which marks the end of the common. I’m all too aware this section of the North Gower road has a lunar surface. My usual tactic is to ride close to the centre line, which avoids the worst of the craters.

Towards the end of last year, making the same journey, I was hurtling down the road which goes over Cefyn Bryn. My colleague Chris, who grew up in Carmarthen, knows this road as “the wobbly road”. It’s straight but not level. In a car, with a clear run, you can pretend you’re on a roller-coaster; on a bike, in the dark, the troughs and crests limit your vision. Something large and pale loomed in the middle of the road. I slammed on both brakes. In front of me a white horse stood quite still. Unperturbed by my presence, it leant forward, stretching its legs, and breathed out a cloud. I wheeled slowly round it. Next time I’ll be more careful.

The Wake’s Progress

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2010-01-22

Martin Fey’s new play, “The Wake’s Progress” premiered at the Alma Tavern Theatre on Wednesday. If I’m honest, I was there out of loyalty to Steve, who plays Sgt. Kennedy, and who rents a room to me for the two nights a week I’m in Bristol. It turns out I was lucky to get a ticket. It’s a spirited farce which mixes some traditional ingredients:

a corpse
a coffin
a nun
a porn star
a policeman
dodgy Irish accents
egregious puns
George Clooney
identical twins
mistaken identity
a golf course

I hadn’t been to the Alma Theatre before. It’s a great little venue. I walked away humming “Tie me kangaroo down sport, Tie me kangaroo down …”

The demise of the cycle clip

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-12-18

Apart from the obvious, you don’t need a lot of stuff to go cycling. That’s part of the bike’s traditional appeal: on you hop, off you go, lean your bike against a tree, head back when the shadows grow long, freedom!

That was me, back in the day.

These days, though, I don’t go far without a helmet. I take a lock if I’m going to leave my bike anywhere — and there are places I wouldn’t leave it for long, locked or not. Usually I have lights, tool kit, pump, spare inner tube, tyre levers, water bottle, not to mention cash, cards, keys, mobile phone.

Increasingly, too, I’m kitted out in hardcore cycle gear. On longer rides I look a proper lycra lout: padded shorts, tops with pockets on the back, dayglo windcheater, lined gloves and neoprene overshoes when it’s cold — everything as tight, bright and reflective as possible. Such clothes make a difference: they keep you warm, keep you cool, wash clean, dry in seconds, pack in a pocket. They breathe. Even the air doesn’t stick to them.

Wiggle must love me! The merchandise gets better all the time, there’s always an upgrade. The truth is, cycle clothing is a continuum: suppliers have something for everyone. You can get a mountan bike shirt equally suited to night-clubs; or you can get a King of the Mountains replica jersey complete with sponsor’s logo. You can get cycle shoes which are shoes, just a bit more expensive; or shoes with cleats which clip to your pedals, but which otherwise pass as trainers; or you can get seamless cycle boots you can barely walk in.

On shorter urban journeys though, I look normal enough. There’s the helmet, of course, but that can be locked up with the bike. My shoes have cleats on the bottom. To stop my trousers getting caught in the chain I tuck them into my socks.

Hang on a minute! Now there’s an accessory I used to have which I could make use of again. The cycle clip — a springy half open metal band used to clamp trouser leg around shin. I stored mine as a concentric pair in my jacket pocket. Superior cycle clips had plastic coating so as not to scratch or rust, and on the very best models this coating was reflective and yellow. How far has the humble cycle clip advanced in all these years? Let’s search Wiggle.

Rembrandt and the Ice Bear

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-12-17

Today was my work Christmas party which meant a trip to London. I caught an early train and made for Trafalgar Square. An ice bear stood in front of the National Gallery. Although cold weather had prolonged its survival, its bronze skeleton had become exposed. Drip, drip, in the sunshine.

The forecast is for snow.

Inside, the gallery was light, airy and uplifting. My train had run late: I didn’t have long. I tracked down my favourite paintings which were where I last saw them. The later works need a clean up. The Van Goghs were pitted and grimy. Seurat’s bathers could do with a wash. Monet, Cezanne and Degas looked faded.

By contrast, Holbein’s Christina of Denmark seemed vivid and clear.

There were just three people in the room with the Rembrandts.

I thought about the Banksy exhibition in Bristol this summer, when people queued for three hours. I set off down The Strand. I had a party to get to.

Tesco Express car park, Sketty

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-12-10

Good to see bus passengers being told just where they stand in one of Bristol’s premiere shopping centres. Over in Swansea, too, the car → driver → bus → passenger heirarchy is rigidly enforced.

A couple of weeks ago, while waiting with Alex for the 118, this bus parking area in Sketty was permanently occupied by a stream of cars using the new Tesco Express. The driver of S866NLT kept the engine running while a brave shopping partner visited the outside world — there’s nothing worse than a cold car, and if you’re sad enough to use a bus you’ll probably enjoy exhaust fumes too.

Art attack, Shark attack!

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-11-18

Fishing in a boat. What could be more peaceful?

Go on, lift the flap…

Arrggh! Shark.

Thanks for the birthday card, Alex.

Top Tips

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-10-18

Summary

My top tips for cycling up hills:

attack
count down
curse
hold back
look right
pace yourself
relax
suffer
travel light

Relax

Yes, relax.

Riding a bicycle up a proper mountain is a very relaxing experience. There’s no rush. You physically can’t go any faster than you’re going. And you can’t go any slower because at 8 kph the bicycle topples over and you fall off. Nothing else for it but to settle in, and enjoy the views for the next ten upward kilometres. — Richard Beard

When Richard says “proper mountain”, I suspect he’s talking about the Ballon d’Alsace, highpoint of Le Tour’s first ever mountain stage. It’s a climb featuring steady gradients and rhythmic switchbacks. Richard rides a beautifully light bike with stupidly high gears, hence his resigned grind to the top. Later on in the same blog post, though, Richard admits to being defeated by a Chiltern. The extent of it took him by surprise.

In case of emergency, break out bottom gear

True road racers wouldn’t be seen with a triple chain ring. I’m no road racer. My bicycle has 27 gears and my get-to-the-top tip is to avoid using the lowest one until absolutely necessary. That way the climb can’t take you by surprise. This strategy has served me well — until I took on Porlock Hill this summer. There’s nothing surprising about Porlock Hill but it had me struggling in my granny gear after the very first bend.

Curse and Countdown

Octave Lapize was the first man to scale the top of the Tourmalet in 1910, emptying his lungs with cries of, “vous êtes des assassins! Oui, des assassins,” directed at Henri Desgrange and the race organisers. — Cycling Weekly

I wouldn’t waste my breath on cursing, but it’s one of two never-fail techniques Rob Ainsley lists in his excellent Steep Thrills article:

Guess how many pedal revolutions it is to the top and count down.

Swear copiously.

I’ve yet to try the arithmetical approach: although I avoid my lowest gear I try to keep a high cadence, and the numbers change too quickly. I think Rob Ainsley has the right idea, though, and suspect most endurance athletes are addicted to the soothing counterplay of progression and repetition. Remember the kilometer markers in the Vosges mountains, their numbers ticking down 20, 19, 18, … while the altitude clocks up?

What would Nietzsche do?

Cycle campaigner Chris Hutt suggests a philosophical approach.

Cycling up hills — think as Nietzsche, if it doesn’t kill me it makes me stronger?

Yes, well, maybe. I’d rather think as Merckx, Contador or Millar. Eddie Merckx’s rapacious appetite gained him the nickname, “cannibal”. Great climbers stay hungry.

Travel light

Cycling up hills: my strategy is to be lighter. — @garethQrees

In this year’s Tour, Wiggo became Twiggo, exchanging 9% of his body weight for the ability to ride with the elite riders on the toughest mountain stages. And the sinewy rider who pipped him to the podium chooses low-calorie beer when he kicks back with a cold one. I prefer real beer, cheers Lance, but there are other tactics for reducing load. Team leaders use their domestiques like pack horses, to ferry them refreshments from the team car. Cycle tourists travel with three socks to be used in rotation: left foot, right foot, in the wash. Shampoo and toothpaste can be shared amongst friends. Or don’t bother washing!

You’re not Lance Armstrong

New romantic Gary Kemp rides a tailor-made bicycle. Here’s some advice an old guy gave him.

When I was doing a climb on the Circuit of the Cotswolds, an old guy told me to slow down: “You have only got a certain amount of fuel, and you won’t make it all the way,” he said. He told me to follow his pace and when I got to the top, it was good. I tend to get out of the saddle and imagine I am Lance Armstrong climbing Alpe d’Huez, but, of course, I am all spent by half way up.

Attack!

Kemp may have been spent, but half way up is a pivotal point. If, like Rob Ainsley, you’re counting down, you have fewer numbers to go than you’ve already used, and those numbers are getting smaller. You’ve broken the back of the climb. Despite what the old guy said, attacking is a sound tactic. As soon as you see a hill, get in a high gear and crank hard so you’re riding at maximum velocity when the road veers upwards. If you’re lucky, momentum will take you to the top; and if not, you will at least have made a decent chunk of progress.

This tactic has worked well for me on coastal roads where sharp uphill ascents are often preceded by equally sharp downhill drops, making it easy to gather speed. However fine the beach at the bottom, you must resist the temptation to stop for an ice-cream or a photo; and you’ll need those bike-handling skills to avoid toddlers carrying buckets and spades, teenagers with body boards, donkeys etc. Onwards and upwards.

A down-then-up road often features a speed camera at its base. Bonus points if you can trigger it!

Ride like a pro

Gary Kemp regrets trying to ride like Lance Armstrong, but satisfaction can be had from pretending to be a pro-rider and imagining hills to be Alps. It is easier if you wear proper cycling kit. A quality bike does makes a difference. You may never be able to dance out of the saddle like Alberto Contador, but if you’re wearing lycra shorts and a polka-dot jersey you’ll do everything in your power not to get off and push.

Pretend you’re suffering

Here’s one final pro-tip from a former King of the Mountains and Britain’s best ever Tour rider, Robert Millar, commenting on Bradley Wiggins’ 2009 Tour performance.

… maybe he could have pretended to be suffering a bit more in the mountains then the climbers wouldn’t have been so concerned by his presence.

Thanks for that, Robert. I’ll pretend to suffer from now on.

Oy, Hoy!

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-09-21

Six months ago I grumbled about Chris Hoy’s new role as the face of branflakes, a cereal hardly suitable for cyclists. At the time he was poking fun at the French penchant for croissants.

Despite my quibbles, the advertising campaign continues. This so-bad-it’s-good TV advert ends with the inspired dialogue.

“Oy, Hoy! Race you!”

“On yer bike!”

I’ll bet some more sports people would be ready to sign up for similarly scripted adverts. How about swimmer Joscelin Yeo, boxer David Haye, or maybe even cricketer Rachael Heyhoe-Flint?

Tour of Britain 2009

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-09-18

I took my bike to Fred Baker cycles to investigate a transmission problem — the freehub sometimes failed to latch, especially after freewheeling. It turned out the whole wheel needed changing. They had some basic quality spares in the shop but I decided to order a decent replacement. The bike was still usable.

That evening I watched the Tour of Britain highlights programme on ITV4. The Stage 5 route was a slog through the potteries. I can’t put my finger on why exactly, but the event seemed low-key: minor roads, poor surfaces, huddles of school kids clutching flimsy flags. Maybe the over-enthusiastic commentary put me off: those slopes weren’t mountains, hardly hills even, and three spectators doesn’t make a crowd. I missed the slick pazazz of the well rehearsed Tour de France coverage.

Nonetheless, I decided to check out the event for real. After all, the statistics showed the riders were going every bit as fast as any stage in a proper tour, and Stage 6 would be starting in Frome, not 30 miles away.

The next morning was a glorious one for cycling. The bike seemed fine. I avoided freewheeling and got to Frome before 9. The race was to start from Market Yard Car Park. I bought a bacon roll and a coffee, snaffled some energy bar samples, listened to the live event radio, wandered around the town centre. They’d held a Cobble Wobble race up Catherine Hill the evening before, and the shop windows along the street had cycle-themed displays. At about 9:30 a posse of police motorbike riders rolled up. A good day to commit a crime, someone said. Soon after came the team cars, glossy road bikes strapped to their roofs.

Having watched a few riders sign in I decided to head out of town. I wanted to see the peleton at full speed, not rolling out of a car park. I was surprised to be allowed to use the actual stage route less than half an hour before the race was due to start. As I climbed the hill out of town I noticed a crowd of pupils standing in front of their school at the side of the road. They wore bright yellow reflective vests. As I passed, out of the saddle and stamping hard on the pedals, they cheered and waved their flags.

A few miles down the road I found a good place to stop. For the next 20 minutes police riders flashed by. It seemed more like a motorbike race than a bicycle race. All of a sudden the peleton arrived, at speed. Seconds later, they were gone.

On my way back, just before Pensford, my freehub abruptly and finally stopped working. I now had a bike suitable for downhill only. I got a taxi back into Bristol. Later that evening I watched the TV coverage. I saw Somerset and Devon bathed in sunshine, a high-speed breakaway topping Exmoor, pegged back by a ruthless peleton alongside the Torridge estuary, a last gasp sprint. Colour me convinced.

Banksy vs Bristol Museum

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-09-08

When I moved to Bristol, almost 15 years ago, I hadn’t heard of Banksy. But I soon spotted where he’d been. Those small stencilled designs, black on concrete, his blocky cutout signature. Spray-and-go pictures of rats, chimps, policemen, weapons. The elephant with missiles strapped to its back was my favourite.

Vandalism? Possibly; but I always liked finding one. They made me smile, like walking through an urban cartoon strip. Over the years most of those designs have been cleaned off, painted over, overwritten; others have simply faded away. In their place, the street artists have taken over. The showpiece outdoor collection changes every day in Stokes Croft.

Does Banksy still visit Bristol?

15 years on, the answer is yes.

Banksy, now an internationally famous artist, returned. For two days at the start of June the city museum was closed for cleaning — so staff and public were told. Actually the elusive artist and his team were inside transforming the permanent collection into a Banksy installation. I haven’t figured out how they smuggled in the burned-out ice-cream van, which looked too big to fit through any of the doors. Then there were a dozen amusingly adapted plaster statues, any number of hacked canvasses, a grotesque collection of tanks, cages and coops for rearing processed food.

National news covered the show’s opening. Relax, they said, it’s on for three months. As it turned out the first few weeks were the best times to get in. By August the queue filled University Road and had a waiting time of at least three hours.

Banksy vs Bristol Museum? No contest.

The show overwhelmed the museum, effectively closing it to lovers of Bristol glass, old maps and taxidermy; families couldn’t just drop in for some crayoning on a wet Sunday afternoon. For a 12 week period the city hosted the international Banksy museum of graffiti. Yet this same exhibition would have failed in the Arnolfini, Bristol’s official contemporary art gallery. Banksy’s work is commentary and reaction, and Bristol museum has much to poke fun at. For me, the best pieces were those specific to the museum collection: the wheel-clamped gypsy caravan, an eviction order taped to its window, the turd-filled ice-cream cones in the ceramics gallery, credited to “local artist”. If you tuned out the crowds and wandered through one of the outermost galleries you could almost imagine there was no show but, unbeknownst to the authorities, some prankster had infiltrated the room and tampered with the displays.

My children loved the show. They liked the cheeky jokes. They enjoyed the occasion. I wouldn’t have missed it but I can’t help thinking it wasn’t as big as it became. Some of the more generic works were overblown and unfunny. Banksy’s pictures indoors, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the exhibition room, fall flat.

Tired and hungry, we gathered by the exit doors in the main hall. But Alex’s usual museum routine includes the local wildlife gallery and he wanted a look round. We followed after him. He pressed the buttons around the relief map of the Severn estuary and lit up sites of special scientific interest. He looked over the seal’s shoulder and out to sea. Yes, said Gail, that is a poisonous adder, like the one daddy went after at the camp site. A river bank tableau, a heron waiting in the shallows. Below, a water vole stands on its hindlegs, wearing goggles and a backpack, an aerosol at its feet.

Ooh, I think that’s a Banksy!

My thanks to i_y_e_r_s for letting me include his water vole photo, and to @bristolurbanart for locating a surviving copy of my favourite Banksy.

On the move

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-09-02

So, it’s finally happening: today, we move out of our wonderful home on Cobourg Road, BS6 5HU. Actually, Gail left with Isobel and Alex yesterday, ready for their first day of the new term today. We’re off to the Gower, South Wales, which has been Gail’s dream destination for a long while. The schools and beaches are better. I shall be keeping my job in Bristol, which I enjoy — and I still like Bristol too. I’ll be working in the Bristol office for three days a week and from home the other two days. Where will home be? Initially Uplands, Swansea, camping in a large room at my brother’s house. Eventually Reynoldston, assuming our purchase goes through. Change is good. Wish us luck!

The Bristol Beast

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-09-01

On his excellent Green Bristol blog, erstwhile cycle campaigner Chris Hutt identifies a problem:

As we all know only too well the hilliness of Bristol is a deterrent to cycling, especially for those considering cycling for commuting or utility purposes where getting from A to B sometimes means being confronted with quite a climb, around 30 metres at a gradient of 1 in 10 (10%) just to get up Park Street for example.

and proposes a radical solution:

I’m suggesting a new lift of the external variety attached to the structure on the south west elevation of the multi storey car park and linking the bottom of Trenchard Street (where the ground is level with the Centre) exclusively with level 8 of the multi storey which has a direct, level access onto Park Row (below) just above the Red Lodge and not far below its summit level. The height gained would be nearly 30 metres, about the same as climbing Park Street!

Apparently devious cyclists have been using the existing car park lifts for just this purpose for some time now, but as we all know car park lifts aren’t exactly … welcoming. Chris suggests a plush external lift, offering cyclists a direct route, ample space and city views.

Good thinking!

On similar lines, why not reopen the Clifton Rocks railway, with a specially adapted carriage for cycles? Or, better, have a sag waggon tour Clifton, Kingsdown, Brislington, Totterdown in turn, offering assistance to disinclined riders? Why not commission the stretch limo Chris Hutt spotted occupying the cycle lane at the foot of Park Street for just this purpose?

I’m not convinced though.

Bristol does indeed have lots of hills and we should celebrate them: we’re a cyc-ling city, not a cycle-lift city! As a first step, I suggest creating a new cycle path out of the short but steep existing footpath which connects Stoney Lane to the City Farm pub. The proposed route integrates perfectly with the new (but woefully level) St Werburghs/B&Q bikeway. At a 1 in 3 gradient, it would also qualify as Bristol’s (Britain’s?) first hors catégorie cycle track.

Next, we could arrange a Bristol Beast event, an urban version of the famously savage route around Exmoor. I reckon a single lap of the city going up all the roads with names ending in “Hill” would compare well with any mountain stage of the Tour de France. I can visualise the epic climb up Mont D’Arbres Neuf, spectators lining the pavements, the world-famous Stokes Croft graffiti as a backdrop.

I’d be up for it!

Stretch limo picture credit, Chris Hutt.

In Search of Robert Millar

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-08-14

Strangely, the cyclists who seem to cope least well when the curtain falls on their careers are the climbers. I mean the pure climbers — the very few who, when the road soars upwards, are able to take flight, as if they are fleeing those whom Millar nick-named the “animals” — all-rounders like Hinault, LeMond, Indurain, Armstrong. Necessarily, the climbing specialists are small, fragile, birdlike in build, power-to-weight ratio being all important in the mountains. And perhaps, in some cases, a rider’s physical build is not so easily separated from his psychological make-up.

— Richard Moore, “In Search of Robert Millar”

Richard Moore’s superb book, “In Search of Robert Millar”, has provided me with the perfect come down after the thrills of this year’s Tour de France. Any talk of Bradley Wiggins being the best ever British tour rider is premature: no one can seriously dispute the book’s tagline, “Unravelling the mystery surrounding Britain’s most successful Tour de France cyclist” — unless, that is, they want to remove any qualification of Millar’s achievements and nominate him simply as Britain’s most successful road cyclist.

Millar’s palmares includes king of the mountains in the Giro and the Tour, a 4th place finish in the 1984 Tour, 2nd places in the Vuelta and the Giro, and victory in the Dauphiné Libéré.

The book is no hagiography. Millar is revealed as a complex and contradictory character; a man who defies any attempt to get close to him. He comes across as awkward, shy, and abrasive. Many people fail to get his sense of humour. Moore believes Millar had the ability and drive to win a grand tour but lacked the personality. Winning such a race requires the respect of your team and indeed of the peleton, political skills which Millar lacks; and Moore identifies this weakness as the main cause of the conspiracy which tricked him out of victory in the 1985 Vuelta. Millar eventually seemed happier as a super-domestique, a professional who would work for the team, but who remained capable of stealing stages.

Millar refuses to play the media game. He has often been rude to commentators and journalists. Yet he has also proved himself to be an articulate thinker and writer.

Since retiring from the sport Millar has again taken flight. Where is he now? What is he up to? Few people know. Email is the only way of reaching him, and in the book’s epilogue Moore does at last make contact with Millar. He reprints their brief email exchange, ending his book with Millar’s own words:

No more questions.

This is a satisfying, thoroughly researched, well written book. Certainly it asks and investigates difficult questions, but the answers aren’t always forthcoming. The story continues …

★★★★★

Porlock Hill on a bicycle

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-08-04

The road signs warn you early about Porlock Hill.

Even if you snub the alternative route and reach the base of the hill you’ll be offered the option of the scenic woodland Toll Road.

It’s true, the air here is acrid with the smell of burned out brakes and clutches — maybe that’s why the house is for sale — and you’ll see a line of cars parked hard against roadside while pale-faced drivers recover.

The Exmoor cycle route, signed in the picture, follows the toll road too. That’ll be a pound please!

I went straight up.

The road climbs approximately 400 m (1,300 ft) in less than 2 miles (3.2 km) up onto Exmoor: a very steep hill with gradients of up to 1 in 4 and hairpin bends. — Wikipedia

My normal tactic when cycling uphill is not to use the lowest gear: keep it in reserve in case the going gets really tough. Porlock Hill blew that strategy apart on the first switchback. For the rest of the climb I was in bottom gear, out of the pedals, sweating and yawing like a porpoise

When I reached the top of the steep bit my legs were jelly. The road continued to climb, albeit more gently, for some way. A few miles on, the A39 from Lynmouth to Lynton is equally steep, but for a mercifully short section.

I made the return journey this morning from Combe Martin to Taunton, taking the B3558 across the top of Exmoor. It’s a rolling route but nowhere near as severe as the coast road. This time my enemy was filthy weather. It felt like riding through a sodden sponge. Rain bounced up from the road and the wind shook great gobs of water from the trees as I passed beneath. Does Alberto Contador ever stop to wring out his socks, I wondered?

Soaking in Simonsbath.
Drenched at Exford.
Wet through by Wheddon Cross.

A bag of Roly’s lemon and stem ginger fudge dispelled the gloom and sped me on my way.

King of the Puddings

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-07-26

Bradley Wiggins is poised to finish fourth in the Tour de France yellow jersey competition in a couple of hours, equal best place ever for a British rider. What will he be doing immediately after getting off his bike?

As soon as the Tour is finished, my wife Cath is going to tie me up and force-feed me cake. — Bradley Wiggins

Brad may have proved himself a fine road racer but he trails Matthew Barker in cake consumption by some way. Here’s a photo of Matt tackling a category 1 cream tea; a feat unremarkable in itself, but bear in mind that it’s 11:00 in the morning and we’re about to climb Cheddar Gorge. Some dessert!

Matt didn’t complete one of the cakes but he destroyed the competition before it had even started. And he still nipped across the road to the sweet shop for some pick and mix fudge.

Sadly I have no photo of the hors catégorie lemon meringue pie Matt attacked two years ago in Carmarthen, but the memory lives on.

Today’s route:

start on the Clifton side of the suspension bridge
head out to Clevedon, admire the pier
across the flatlands to Yatton
Strawberry Line cycle track to Cheddar
Refreshments
Up Cheddar Gorge and over the hill to Chew Valley Lake
Follow the Avon Cycleway through Pensford to Saltford
Back home along the Bath to Bristol cycle track.

Recommended. The Strawberry Line is rough going in places, and has those annoying speed restriction gate things every so often. And don’t lose your way after the lake like we did.

Most aggressive rider prize

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-07-25

After riding more than 3000km, the standings in the general classification are:

CONTADOR A. 77:06:18
SCHLECK A. +04:11
ARMSTRONG L. +05:21
WIGGINS B. +05:36
KLÖDEN A. +05:38
SCHLECK F. +05:59

Contador’s lead looks unassailable but less than 2 minutes separate the next 5 riders, and 2 minutes isn’t much when facing a headwind on the top of Mont Ventoux.

It promises to be a royal fight.

One prize in the Tour doesn’t come down to minutes and seconds or the crafty accumulation of points. Le prix de la combativité is awarded after each stage to the rider who shows the most fighting spirit. Usually it’s some valiant fool who breaks away early on only to be reeled back in then swept aside by the peleton in the last few kilometres. A jury of eight specialists decide who gets the award; and the next day the heroic rider gets to wear a white number on a red background instead of the usual black on white. There’s also a “super-combativity” award given at the end of the race.

The whole thing seems very French, to the extent it can’t be translated exactly into English: neither “combativity award” nor the more common “aggressive rider award” sound quite right.

There is plenty of real aggression in the Tour, though. We’ve seen riders shoving each other and hurling bidons at wheels in bunch sprints. Brad Wiggins expressed delight with his form in the Pyrenees this year by hitting the team van at the end of the stage. Bernard Hinault, le blaireau, three time winner of le prix de la combativité, knew how to use his fists as a rider, and this photo of him dealing with a protester on the podium last year shows he’s not lost his touch.

Let’s not forget the time Bjarne Riis suffered equipment problems during a time trial, and decided to take it out on his bike.

Some years ago Richard and I played fanstasy Tour de France, selecting our own team from the pool of riders and following their progress. We awarded discretionary plaudits for valour and aggression: riding through injury, for example, with a broken collarbone maybe; wearing lycra shredded and bloodied from a fall; there were points for striking out at the idiot spectators who try and run alongside on the climbs; double points for punching a journalist. We packed it in when we realised this behaviour might just be down to drug abuse.

Go Wiggo! Fight them to the line!

Someone race Cavendish, please

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-07-20

The Tour de France takes a rest today (though not for the riders in the Étape du Tour, who’ll take on Mont Ventoux six days before the pros), giving me a chance to try and make sense of a strange and compelling weekend of racing.

Yesterday’s short sharp climb to Verbier made perfect sense and settled a few outstanding questions. Noone climbs like Contador, and the Madrileño confirmed his position as race favourite and Astana team leader. The way he dances up the steepest slopes is truly thrilling. I can’t wait to see him climb Ventoux. Armstrong rode with the elite riders, but I’d say Klöden may well be shaping up as the Astana number 2 — he’s a strong time trial rider who looked in fine shape on the climb, edging Armstrong at the finish.

And how about Brad Wiggins? Shedding 9% of his bodyweight has morphed him from track rider into Grand Tour contender. Best of all, he’s enjoying himself. I think he could come out of Thursday’s time trial — his favourite discipline — as Contador’s main rival for yellow. Awesome!

Saturday’s stage was more complex. I’m struggling to understand what Mark Cavendish was playing at. Cavendish already has a remarkable 4 stage victories in this year’s Tour, matching the 4 he took last year. Well, the number is remarkable, but this year the sprint finishes have seemed routine: the Columbia train leads him out over the final few kilometres, then his team-mates peel away in sequence leaving him to deliver the killer blow. The trouble is, Cavendish’s rivals have already rolled over and died.

“Sport evolves and, if you go back to the 1970s, I never, ever had a lead-out man, not once,” Hoban said this week. “Everyone was there, man to man. The way they do it now, with a team like that, if they are leading out at 65kph very few people are going to come over that. Anyone to challenge Mark going at 65kph has got to do 70kph.”

— Barry Hoban, quoted in the Observer newspaper

You’d have thought this supremacy would leave Cavendish way out in front in the green jersey but he hasn’t chased enough intermediate sprints. This leaves him (left him) head to head with the mighty Thor Hushovd in the points competition. My opinion? I don’t think Cavendish relishes scrabbling for points and it’s brought out his petulant side.

He says he’s fastest. His rivals admit he’s fastest. He is fastest. But he still wants a race!

On Saturday we had a strange situation. Popular Columbia rider, George Hincapie, was in a breakaway and had a realistic shot at yellow. So team Columbia wanted to slow the chase. But team Columbia also wanted Cavendish to win the peloton sprint for the points given to the 13th place finisher; and so, once more, the train chugged down the final kilometre with everyone watching the clock. Cavendish barely bothered to race for the line. Yes, he blocked Hushovd when he could and should have flown away from him. He wanted to win but in as slow a time as possible.

In the event Hincapie missed out on yellow by just 5 seconds. You can’t blame Cavendish for that, but Cavendish is a team player and I suspect he cared more about his team missing yellow than his subsequent disqualification in the sprint. He just wasn’t bothered about a race for 13th place.

Whatever, it’s probably cost him the green jersey and taken the edge off the showdown next Sunday. I hope he stops feeling hard done by and comes out ready to race. I know he cares more about being fastest on the Champs-Élysées than the points competition.

Attaque Armstrong!

tag@wordaligned.org (Thomas Guest) — 2009-07-08

The Tour de France 2009 is shaping up to be a truly great race. Any pretence that the Astana team is led by race favourite, Contador, has been dropped — by Armstrong at least. The tough-talking Texan has spoken in several interviews about the team having more than one leader, in his (singletrack-)mind at least.

Armstrong’s legs did the talking on Monday, a flat 3rd stage of the race. Usually the peleton would stick together on such a stage and it would end with a bunch sprint, probably won by Cavendish, and there would be no changes to the general classification (i.e. the yellow jersey competition).

Cavendish did indeed win the sprint but the big news of the day was the break in the peleton, something which can happen in high winds. After the split Armstrong rode in the front group; with Contador in the second group. The split extended to 40 seconds and by the end of the day Armstrong led Contador in the race by some 20 seconds. In the post-race interview shown on ITV4, did Armstrong say he should have dropped back to help Contador? Hell no, he accused Contador of tactical naivety, gaining unexpected support from a disgruntled French rider.

Frenchman Christophe Le Mevel claimed it was Contador’s failure to stick to the wheel in front of him which caused the split with around 30km to go. — BBC Sport report

In yesterday’s team trial the Astana team rode well together to win the stage, and came within tenths of a second of grabbing the yellow jersey for Armstrong.

It is interesting to note that had the field not split on Monday, Contador would have been in yellow in Montpellier. Before the Columbia-led move, to which Armstrong and team-mates loyal to him gratefully contributed, Contador was just 18 seconds down overall. Had the bunch stayed together, he’d have been in yellow by 22 seconds after the team time trial. — Cycling News

Contador still looks the man to beat and yesterday’s team time trial has set him up well over many of his rivals. Let’s not forget how well he did in the prologue; let’s see how he fares in the mountains. Armstrong may be able to needle and even outsmart him, but I can’t seem him outriding him in the Pyrenees, the real start of the yellow jersey competition.

As a rider, Armstrong has been admired and feared more than loved. He’s determined and ruthless rather than charismatic. During his 7 Tour wins he stunned his rivals to the point they even failed to capitalise on his mistakes. I suspect he’ll be depending on mistakes now, and I can’t see Contador making another. What’s more, Armstrong will need charisma and love in his future political career. He is turning the 2009 Tour into a great race, but one he will ultimately fail to win, and he will speak truth in defeat; and we will, at last, love him for it.