The Lure of the Lanes.

Not much to say, so just a small handful of photos, all taken on a brief ride yesterday, and sort of illustrating the attraction of the lanes.

The traffic free roads, the views, the peace, the quiet, the space, the seclusion, the time to think.

The Sin Bin - Getting The Hump.

Oh my dear life, what do we have here?

It's an Aero Hump pocket/patch that's what, not as you might expect, a rescheduled April Fool.

Reckon this thing will see you going faster? Don't mind people pointing and shouting 'The bells! The bells!' at you? Well you have two ways of getting your aero hump lump. One way is to send off for the not at all duff looking kit of a piece of material and a lump of foam to insert, and then get busy with the needle and thread yourself. The other option is to send off your fave riding shirt (best wash it first) and the good folk behind this device will sew it on for you. But wait, there's more... this is not just an aero aid, oh no! It is also a handy pocket for... carrying stuff. Spare rain coats, water bottles, tools etc can all be carried in the aero hump bump lump apparently, but not your dignity, unfortunately, you'll be leaving that at home. 

The blurb claims it'll make so much difference blah, but, speaking from my vast inexperience of such matters, I don't think it'll reduce aero drag at all. If anything, it looks like it'll add to it. The outer material for the hump appears to be the same as shirts are made from, and which the air has to pass over, but you've just increased the surface area of it. Not by a lot, granted, but increased it is, and the weave/texture of the fabric isn't smooth and shiny, like if it were made of solid plastic for example. You'd think the hump would have to be matched to individual helmet shapes too, but I don't really know. What of the air passing around the pilot's lower head/chin/neck? Instead of meeting at the nape of the neck and passing over the spine, air will now meet a flat surface. No, I'm sorry, but I shan't be investing.

Motorcycle racers have similar humps on their leathers, but they generally go about their business at insane velocities where aerodynamics can make a huge difference when allied to the shape of the helmet/fairing/tail piece of the bike, but at the speeds a racing bike can achieve, even down some vertiginous mountain road, I'm not so sure.

I don't know, maybe I'm being a bit unkind, and maybe it really does offer an advantage, but I can't help thinking this is one of the dafter things I've seen lately. 

Anyway, should you actually be looking for a bit of extra speed and think the aero hump is just the thing to see you dropping your Sunday afternoon riding posse, then you can find it here Get the hump

But for me, it's going in my Sin Bin.

Warm Sunshine and Peaceful Lanes.

Today was one of those utterly superb days to be riding the lanes. There was a fresh north easterly blowing, usually a very cold wind direction that, but the sun was warm and anyway, the lanes offer plenty of shelter if you pick the right ones. Even so, I still fished out the buff that was given away with a motorcycle magazine many years ago and has proved a toasty addition on many an occasion. I can put up with a lot of things, but a cold and draughty neck is not one of them.

I feel at my happiest escaping into these sorts of surroundings these days. On a day like today, there's no better place to be.

I also fished out the Jamis for some big wheel action. I don't ride it half as much as I should, but that means when I do climb back on it, I appreciate what it has to offer all the more, mainly speed! I'm no speedhound, I'm a bimbler, but the Jamis fair flies in comparison to the two 26 inch wheeled bikes. I also like its stability and the way it leans on those smooth and fat tyres. None of that lean a bit, lean a bit more... Whoa...shi... that I get with the more knobbly shod mountain bikes.

When I blow the highlights in a photo, I really blow them...

What started out as just a routine trip around one of my usual loops ended up being a bit of a longer ride as I was just enjoying being out, absorbing the countryside and feeling wheels turning beneath me. The only time I noticed the wind was when it was whooshing through the tree tops or blowing dead leaves about on the tarmac, and that is fine by me. 

The reds and oranges of Autumn have yet to fully kick in round these parts, but there is still the odd flash of vibrant colour to enjoy.

I passed two fully lycra clad roadies while out as well, a few miles apart. The first was an old bloke (well, older than me, and by some margin too... I doubt he sees a doctor when he's ill, more like an archaeologist.) I've passed before, and true to the stereo type, he never nods or says hello. Fair play to him though to still be out at whatever age he's at, he looks as old as the hills.

The second came towards me while I was plodding up a hill in the cover of a tree tunnel, and with the shade from the trees and me wearing cool dude mirror shades, it was all a bit dark under there. But I could see a big white grin break out and a cheery hellooooooo... as a young female flew past going like the clappers. It's not roadies that are the problem, it's male roadies in my  (limited) experience. All the females smile, wave, nod or shout hello as they pass, most of the blokes just look like they're trying to ignore me, the snooty beggars. Sad gits, we blokes some times!

A cracking ride then, and the forecast promises more of the same weather to come, so hopefully it won't be the only bike time I get this week.

Bridleway Bimbling.

I enjoy exploring local Bridleways, like many other cyclists, you get to go off road, legally, and into parts of the countryside comparatively few other folk get to see, or know about. There is a great sense of anticipation, and excitement even, when riding a Bridleway for the first time. In fact, will I be able to ride it or will I have to push is the first question that goes through my head, often they are either too overgrown to bust through in the saddle, or are too rough on the ground for safe pottering. A lot of these Bridleways feature grassy bases, which hides all manner of stones, lumps and bumps of the sort that can deflect my front wheel in an instant and lob me into the flora – brambles usually. With my dodgy back, falling off is best avoided as much as possible. Some of these rights of way I've checked out have been impossible even to enter on foot, so overgrown are they.

The main disappointment now though is that I have explored all the easily accessible local Bridleways, so I now know what to expect, and where they go and so forth. But, I still give them a go, and yesterday (Thursday) was to be one such occasion.

The Bridleway in question is only a short one at just over a mile I reckon, but a nice enough ride. Reaching it involves the back lanes, of course, and one real lung buster of a hill. This one is bang out of order, being both long and steep, but, as I blogged only a couple of days ago, my fitness and hill climbing prowess is improving. The hill is there to be conquered. Not yesterday it wasn't. I was on the heavy old rattlemonger Carrera, one pannier loaded with camera guff, the other with the stove and coffee making kit, and my legs just weren't up for the fight. Oh well, one day I'll beat the beggar.

The weather that was forecast, and the weather itself, promised very different things.

The old wreck doesn't look too bad from some angles.

It was a funny old day really. The forecast online promised white clouds and sunshine, the day itself promised mist, much greyness and a good soaking in one of the hefty showers that had battered my windows earlier. The skies were pretty threatening, the air humid for the time of year, and the valleys still showing heavy mist like bonfire smoke as I pottered along, but it was also one of those very still and quiet days. Everything seemed to be muted, or maybe my ears just need syringing again, but it was certainly very peaceful out and about in my 'hood, and most enjoyable for it.

There was a muted air in the lanes, with only birdsong and the dripping from overladen leaves breaking the silence.

The Bridleway itself climbs up a short hill and then runs along the top towards the village of Probus, and offers some great rural views down the valley to Tresillian. I had planned on setting up the stove and brewing up a coffee at the top of the hill, but firstly it was a tad muddy at the intended point, and left me with nowhere to sit. My back wasn't feeling up to standing around for half an hour, not after pushing the old wreck up that stubborn hill, so I rode on and never did stop for a brew.

The Bridleway climbs up out of the valley below, and then runs along the hilltop.

 The pay off for a bit of hill climbing - great rural views. The village of Tresillian in the distance.

Ok, I got a bit shutter happy here, I just got carried away when the sun came out.

The good thing was I avoided getting a soaking. The sun did appear a couple of times, and while the skies often looked ready to burst at any moment, the most I got was a little damp for a few minutes in some light drizzle, which was a bit of a result.

 As the Bridleway reaches its end, it passes through a farmyard.

 It is a public right of way, but I still feel a bit self conscious riding through here.

Beautiful old barn/Dovecote on the right, ugly as sin more modern building to the left. 

All of which is a lot of boring waffle really, but I had an enjoyable ride (that unruly hill notwithstanding) while the old Carerra took one for the team and got properly muddy, leaving it looking even more unsightly than usual. The Voodoo is still luxuriating in the dry and warmth of my living room, clean as a new pin, and the Jamis doesn't see the properly muddy stuff anyway. They'll get their turn, but for the moment, it's the old crapheap that gets all the action, and filth, going.

 Heading home and the road entering Ladock village boasted a man on a roof. Every day is a slow news day in the villages, you take whatever excitement is going and run with it...

Hanging a right onto what was once a busy main road through Ladock.

Even 'Wonky Dog Farm' was still and quiet as I passed through. I am normally greeted by a three legged dog having a good old bark here.

Random Photo - It's a Hill... Get Over It!

One of the plus points to take from what has been a pretty disappointing summer is my increasing fitness. When, after a gap of about a dozen years, I swung my right leg over a bicycle again a couple of years back, I was wondering how long it would take me to get some proper riding fitness back. My last bout of riding hadn't posed too many problems that I could remember, and as a kid, well I was always on my bike, and hills? Well they were just bits where I went a bit slower that was all. So I reckoned this time around it wouldn't take long to get by biking legs back.

Wrong!

It's a longer hill than the photo shows, honest. this is just near the top.

I'm a chunk older nowadays, and had also done a fair bit of smoking in the meantime too (although I have also successfully given up... again...) and the fitness has taken a long time coming. But this year I feel I've really taken a big step forward, probably thanks to riding all year round whereas the previous winter I missed three months entirely.

The area this increased fitness is noticed the most is in my ability to scramble up and over some of the bad ass hills on the lanes I populate. Some of these are what are technically known in geological circles as 'right steep buggers' and would surely test even the most enthusiastic of hill climbing pro racing cyclists. Look up 'vertiginous' in the OED and it'll say something like 'steep' and 'see Tregassow Lane or Lanner Mill hills in mid Cornwall'. 

Probably.

The hill in the photo above is a mere bump compared to some of the ugly gradients I encounter, but even that one would see me walking up it to start with. Now I barely notice it, which is just as well, as looking at it on the map shows a disturbing lack of tightly packed contours and those little arrows used to mark 'sod that' climbs.

But I have also recently found myself conquering those slopes I previously had no chance of getting up. Alright, I might still be puffing like the Flying Scotsman and my legs burning like a second home in Wales, but at least I can now make it up and over them, and carry straight on without needing a rest at the summit. Now I admit all my bikes are equipped with a granny gear for winching up the lumpy bits, but still, I'm pretty pleased to see such an improvement, it is very encouraging and erm, uplifting, in fact.

So now I look at prospective routes for a particular day's ride and no longer dread or fear the hills I once blanched at, and my enjoyment of cycling has gone up several notches as a result of the feeling of added freedom I've gained. I might still conk out at the top of one with a heart attack one day, a constant worry given my age, but at least I will have made it to the top probably, and not gone into meltdown only half way up a slight slope, which would be plain embarrassing.

It's like everything really, practice makes perfect, and the more you ride up hills, the more your body gains the required fitness, and you acquire the technique best for you. For me, I just get into the granny gear early on, and just pedal and not worry about whether I make it as far as last time, or to the top or whatever, and that's what works for me. Nine times out ten now, I find myself riding over the top of some gruesome climb with barely a thought given to baling out.

The trick now is to continue building on that fitness and not let it slip this coming winter.

Restorative Psithurism, Or Could it Be Freshing?

The glums have been prevalent again the last week or so. Moods are a series of ups and downs, regulated to some degree by the tablets. They seem to even things out – the highs are kept in check while the lows don't reach the full depths of despair, at least, not as frequently. But the moods still have wriggle room within these artificially imposed confines, and this last few days have been a bit flat, to say the least. I did manage a short trip into the woods for a mug of coffee, but that was as far as getting out and about went, my mojo had definitely gone awol. This also happened to coincide with some unseasonably good weather, with bright sunny days throughout the week, but frustratingly, I just wasn't in the mood to exploit them.

The forecasters had warned it would all come to an end on Sunday, as first the sun would be hidden behind some grey clouds, then rain would set in during the evening. So as Sunday dawned I tried to get things together and headed out, before bad weather would put me off even more. Not really able to decide where to go I just mounted the rattletrap Carerra and set sail, not particularly feeling the love. But as I pottered along the lanes, not really happy with proceedings, I found myself approaching a footpath I have explored before, and decided I'd mooch along that to get amongst the trees and bushes and away from the tarmac.

This footpath is one of those odd paths that goes from nowhere much all the way to nowhere in particular, with not a lot happening in between. It is also quite wide in places, although overgrown in others, and if you poke your nose into the edges enough, you find it is bordered along most of its length by Cornish hedges. These 'hedges' actually have stone walls lurking beneath their straggly green exterior, and often catch out the unwary motorist who collides with them expecting to bounce off with minimal damage. Unlike the dry stone walls found elsewhere in the country, a Cornish hedge is built with stones, packed and topped with soil. Over subsequent decades then, grass, weeds, bushes and trees will grow out of and onto the 'hedge', increasing its girth and height, while concealing its stone heart. This purposeful border suggests that this broad footpath was perhaps once a Drover's route, although I'm no expert on these matters at all, but it would fit with other similar paths in the area.

Footpaths are of course a bit of a no-no for riding a bike along, and I wouldn't dream of riding or even pushing the bike along many local paths as they see a lot of foot traffic and are tricky to navigate anyway. But other paths, such as this one that are remote from 'civilisation' and show evidence of either being little used, or as in this case, used by horse riders, well then I'll potter along them. Even at this time of year the tyres do no damage to the path, and the more folk who use them, the more likely they are to remain available for access, that's my reasoning/excuse.

For a remote rural footpath, this is pretty wide. This not being an old mining district, an old Drovers route is a possible explanation.

This path is also a nice and easy one for my creaking body to deal with. It's mostly flat and even, just the odd divot left by a horses hoof to negotiate, so I'm unlikely to become unseated and lobbed unceremoniously into the bushes.

So I bimbled my way along the short path, scraping past and ducking beneath some of the lurking brambles, accompanied only by the wind 'freshing' about the tree tops. I can't come up with a better word to describe the relaxing and invigorating noise right now - not a rustle, nor a roar, so freshing will do for me.

Actually, a quick Google finds Psithurism is the word given to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves and trees. I prefer my 'freshing' to be honest, it's easier to spell and pronounce for a start, and is onomatopoeic too - they really should've come to me first when wanting a word to describe this particular sound, my rates are very reasonable after all.

This ride didn't see me finishing up full of joy and happiness, but it did lift my spirits a notch or two. There is something powerful about just 'being', just 'living the moment', alone and out in the countryside, that restores a feeling of life where mere existence went before. I may not have been doing cartwheels or singing to myself on the rest of the ride, but I did feel a sense of refreshing renewal, and a more positive state of mind as a result of this brief excursion. I also felt the snags of a few brambles through my trousers too, but I can put up with those, they're a small price to pay really.

Grooted Bikes and Nosey Dogs.

A dirty bike is a happy bike, so a good friend on the internet tells me, and that being the case, well then the Voodoo must've been pretty contented with life recently. 

You know how happy your dog looks rolling in something utterly despicable and smelly? Well that's how this bike will have been feeling. It'd been a while since I last cleaned it, and things had finally got to the point where I couldn't take it any longer, it was properly grooted (technical term), and sod the bike's inner well being, my happiness needed to take its turn.

I don't know how this feather came to be clinging to the down tube through thick and thin, I haven't collided with any birds that I can think of, although on the back lanes you're never far away from collecting a dimwitted Pheasant. Nope, no idea how it got there, or how it lasted for several rides in such a vulnerable position. 

Now I should tell the tale of the pleasure to be had from spending quality cleaning time with one's mount. The slow joy of going over every inch of the machine, cleaning and polishing, brushing and rubbing, and restoring its glow before then drying and oiling, and then standing back to rejoice at the fruits of one's labours...

Sod that! Much as I enjoy having a clean bike, I no longer enjoy the act of cleaning it. Never mind anything else, it can play hell with my back, so it's best done with as quickly as possible. So I got busy with the pressure washer (I know, but it's worth risking blowing the grease out here and there just to get the mud off so easily) and the bucket of suds. Then in the evening, I wheeled it inside and gave it a once over with some GT85 and some Pledge, meaning the living room now smells very nice indeed. GT85 has to be the second best smell known to man (the first being Castrol R, obviously).

Now that's better.

So having now once again got a clean shiny bike, what's the best way to keep it that way? Ride something else, that's what. Enter the Carerra and another ride into the local woods for coffee. 

 It's clangertime! Heading out on the old snotter.

The spot by the river I had in mind meant riding along the lower path in the woods, and as the name suggests, it is at the bottom of a socking great hill, so prone to staying wet and muddy when other paths in the wood are dry. So I wasn't going to ruin my good work by taking the Voodoo, not the day after giving it a good tickling with the sponges and dusters. Nope, it had to be the old clanger, that's what old snotters are for after all.

 This section wasn't bad at all, as it drains and is dried by the sun well. Other parts of this path though were still just a tad sticky and gooey.

So once again, a relaxing and enjoyable time was had chilling by the stream in the peace and quiet. Well almost, as I was mobbed by about half a dozen assorted dogs on two occasions, as they headed out, and then back again, on their morning walks. Their owner was of little help, she looked as mad as they come, with wild hair and an equally bizarre clothing sense. So noses and cocked legs were everywhere, but I think my discarded jacket, and my mug of coffee escaped unscathed. The old wreck was not so lucky however as a rather manky looking spaniel peed on its front wheel, adding to the indignities thrust upon it in the form of cosmetic neglect and relegation to hack status. 

Nice spot to enjoy some peace and quiet. Well, mad women and their dogs apart of course.

I'll make it up to it though, as I have a new chain and cassette ready to go on for winter, and no doubt I'll lob a bucket of only slightly grimy water over it at the same time I fit them, that should do the trick. It might be a bit of a heap, but I'll keep it running as long as I can. 

Old biffabouts are worth their weight in gold when it comes to just getting on and riding wherever whenever.