A Question of Fashion or Function.

I'm not normally bothered about fashion – I wear my bum bag with pride, and usually prefer function before form in any situation. But a new stem for the Bantu is giving me a severe case of the ditherings.

Despite being the biggest frame size Voodoo offer for this model, the Bantu has always felt a little cramped, and the bars a little low. I don't like to change things immediately unless they are obviously way out of whack, so I carried on riding with it to see how I got on over time. Well, just recently, I've been getting a sore neck on the Voodoo, so that was definitely it, no more ruminating just get it dealt with. So I had me some Wiggle time (my current fave retailer) and spotted a 110mm stem – 10mm longer than the stock Bantu item, and with a positively pornographic 35 degree rise. So a couple of days later, it duly arrived, along with a bottle of Wiggle's own brand wet chain lube and the usual, and much welcomed, little bags of Haribo.

Having fitted the new stem, I stood back to admire my work and...erm... yes. It looks very dorky, to put it mildly. Current fashion dictates bars as wide as a rake handle is long and a stem so short that it barely warrants the name. I don't know why they don't just mount a bar clamp right on top of the steerer tube and be done with it. I do like the short stem wide bars look it must be said, but function should come before form... or so I keep telling myself these last few days.

Yesterday provided the first opportunity to try out the new layout up the road, as there was a welcome, if short, gap in the wet and very windy weather.

Trevella Stream running fast, and noisily, after the recent heavy rain. There is something really relaxing and enjoyable about being surrounded by the noises of nature, even fast moving water roaring like a fighter jet on after burners.

The lanes were awash with running and static water, and deep leaf mulch and mud, so things were getting messy very quickly. There was however, a great sense of calm in the air after the howling and battering of the previous few days. Everywhere seemed still and quiet, running water apart that is, and with the temperature being unusually warm for November, it all made for some very enjoyable riding.

This stream is just a tiny trickle most of the year, but with a bit of rain it soon overwhelms the culvert carrying it beneath the road to make a temporary 'pop up ford' as it races across the tarmac.

There is saying that getting old is compulsory, but growing up is optional, and if you ever want evidence of the truth in that, just come and find me on the lanes after some hefty rain. I still get childish joy from bombing through standing water and getting the bike a bit squirrelly through the mud and gribble on the roads, so it wasn't long at all before I was splattered in water and grolly and my leaky boots had allowed my feet to become soaked. But it just felt great to be out in the fresh air, dicking about with bikes, puddles, and the cameras. 

This was a slowish pass for the camera through a proper ford.

Best go back and have another go then.

There we go!

Some cyclists appear to be very wary of Fords, preferring to use the usually available foot crossing instead. Maybe it's their choice of bike (not much rubber on the road with a road bike for instance) or maybe I'm going to run out of luck someday soon and come a right cropper, but I go bozzing through fords with an immature glee and enjoy every silly moment of it. I don't shout 'wheee....' as I go though, that would be a bit silly, but my advice to every cyclist when confronted with a ford or a big puddle is not to mince about fretting and avoiding it, but to shed their inhibitions and belt through with a big smile on their face instead. Put some fun back into the riding for heaven's sakes!

Country lane bimbling can be a real pleasure even when the roads are claggy.

So, all in all, I had a very enjoyable ride, and on returning home, I gave the bike a thorough wash and lube, and it is now sat behind me in the living room, looking peachy, and filling the house with the pleasant aroma of GT 85.

Flipping litter louts boil the blood though.

So that was all good, but back to that stem. The good news is it has transformed the feel and comfort of the bike. I don't ride hard on or off road, so weighting up the front wheel isn't important to me at all, comfort is though, and this new set up is a vast improvement, as I sit 'in' the bike more rather than 'on' it. I'm still leaning forward enough to take the weight off my back too, so I'm not swapping neck ache for back trouble. So it's a win all round then? Well... there are the looks... I keep telling myself function before form, but my word it does look flipping gawky. After much peering and staring, and turning away only to look back suddenly to see how first impressions erm... impress, I have decided (I think...) that the stem, goofy though it is, will have to stay, as pain free riding trumps looks every time, and I don't mind being seen on the chaotic old clutterbus Carrera, so why should I mind being seen with a naff looking stem? Yes, function before form, comfort before looks. Now if I keep telling myself that, I might just start to believe it... 

Woo that's a shocker... The Voodoo sporting its new, gormless, look.

Or I could just wear a Balaclava everywhere.

Pride Comes Before a Fail.

Pedal up... pedal down. Pedal... up... pedal... down. Puh... Pedal... urggghhhh...up... pedal warrrrryafuggnbastad... down. Pedal... oh bollicks, bail out time.

Lay offs from the bike are a bugger. Fitness so hard earned, is easily lost at my age, (and I added a year to my count this week too... damn it...). Not like when I was a kid when fitness could be gained in what seemed like about twenty minutes. Well that's a bit of an exaggeration, call it half an hour. And once the body was bike tuned, it stayed that way with aches and pains and mid - hill bail outs only noticeable by their absence. Not so now though. Oh no.

It had only been about ten days off the bike as well, while the usual health crap held sway, but it was obviously enough to blunt my output, as I found out on the Col De Tregassow on Thursday. 

Now this hill is a bit of a beggar, by my standards anyway - it took me months of riding before I could get up it without walking when I first got back into biking. But this year I had been priding myself at the ease with which I reeled the summit in. Even the family of mountain goats that live half way up gave me unbelieving looks and shook their heads in jealous amazement... well...maybe.

It all started well, if a little wet, windy, and splattery bummed from all the gribble on the lanes.

So I as I hit the bottom of the hill I was more concerned about the mucky state of the bike, and my arse, from all the clag on the lanes at this time of year, than imminent geological traumas. But within yards of the ascent starting I knew I was going to struggle. Speed dropped... legs ached... it isn't normally like this! Ok then, grab a lower gear and start spinning... Ooof...quick... grab the granny gear before I start going backwards... Oh lordy this wasn't going well. Plans were made to lighten the load – I could lob the water bottles into the bushes, then the mini pump... the GoPro round my waist then my jacket... but it was too late and I finally expired a wheezingly dismal ten yards or so from the top. Bums. My smugness rating took a proper battering as I pushed, purple of face and aching of leg, to the junction at the summit and level ground – the hill had bitten back.

Another photo taken at the top of a descent. Downhills I like. I like them a lot.

The worst of it is I haven't been out again since either, when I should really have been getting out there to retain my (limited) fitness, but it hasn't happened. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

Grimaces, Goodies and Gateways.

The last few days have been less than great thanks to my crap back, the result of the more strenuous off road ride I did last Saturday. I count myself very lucky that I can ride a bike at all, but I can, thankfully, and for a good couple of hours too, because I plod about and my legs do all the work while I slump on the bars. But the ride around Cardinham Woods at the weekend, massively enjoyable though it was, involved a dose of body language that saw me stiffening up immediately after. Initially, for the first couple of days, things weren't too bad, but then for some reason, they got a lot worse and I was hobbling about, bent over like the old man I feel I am sometimes, and grimacing and grunting, effing and jeffing, and generally mincing around feeling like I've been stabbed right through my back and into my Sternum, and then had my upper spine set on fire. All of which is a tad less than desirable, but there we go. 

But it's not all doom and gloom at Bimble Towers, some goodies have arrived! Everybody likes goodies! 

First up, issue three of Cranked appeared, and with articles on getting lost in the Lake District and a trip from Alaska to Patagonia by Cass Gilbert among other readables, it all looks very interesting.

Excuse the crappy pictures, but I never claim to be any good at product photography. Just as well I don't too, looking at these...

Then issue 101 of Singletrack also arrived, and as someone who takes a lot of 'ride by selfies', I am jealously admiring that cover shot by Sam Needham (it goes over onto the rear cover too of course, as per all Singletrack cover shots). That just shows what can be achieved with an idea, a tripod and a remote shutter release.  There's an article about a nine year old riding the length of New Zealand, and there is also a Room 101 in the subscribers edition, which is a beggar as I've just started doing a Sin Bin on this blog, and people might think I copied the idea from them! Of course, I nicked the idea from George Orwell's Room 101 in his book 1984... oh and the telly series of the same name, but still.

Also, it's N+1 time again. I hate that term really, but it does sum up the situation it seems most cyclists find themselves in a lot of the time - fancying another bike. The Bantu is not quite a year old yet, but I've found myself looking over my shoulders to see if anyone is looking, then pulling the curtains, and secretively and furtively surfing the new bikes on the web. I don't know why I do that, 'cos I live alone, but anyway, my head has been turned by the idea of a 27.5+ shod biffabout. A half - fat fat bike.  A diet Fat Bike kind of thing. The Marin Pine Mountain and Charge Cooker both get me drooling, and that wheel size would offer me something different to what I've already got. 

Current objects of my desires, the Marin Pine Mountain and Charge Cooker. Must resist... must resist...

But with three bikes already... well two and a right old clattermonger, I don't really need another bike, especially given my gentle riding pace. That's no fun though is it? But to add to the pondering I got online and ordered the 2016 Rose bikes catalogue, and also their magazine. 

Now appearing in more photos than Kim Kardashian's arse, my old black vinyl pouffe. 

Of the direct ordering companies that are around, Rose are the ones who's bikes continue to catch my eye and I really quite fancy the idea of going down that route for the next new bike. More bang for my bucks of course, and I've read nothing but good reports about the whole buying/delivery to the UK process, and of course, the bikes themselves. It doesn't look like they do any 27.5 plussers though... Oh bums...

So that's my bedtime reading well and truly sorted for the next few days at least. 

What else? Well the weather is properly 'orrible right now, really manky and depressing. So I thought I'd do a random post, again about the pleasures to be found in cruising the lanes, but this time featuring a few gateways.

Gateways can be great. They are somewhere to lean the bike when you fancy a rest, somewhere to sit if you can get on top of the gate itself, and offer somewhere to brew up or have a sandwich if you fancy some light refreshments. They are also windows in the claustrophobic corridors that the lanes become sometimes, offering glimpses of expansive views of stunning countryside, a distant village perhaps, or maybe just a cow's backside.

 Whatever, part of the pleasure of bimbling along the lanes is approaching a gate and wondering what it is going to offer up in the way of a diversion from the usual thick hedge or line of trees. 

This was Lump, my old Giant hybrid. Lump by name, and lump by nature. Sit on either of these two objects in the photo with your eyes shut, and you'd be hard pushed to tell which one you were sat on. They're even the same colour look... But this is about gates, and on this gorgeous Summer's day, this gate offered up a superb view of rolling rural countryside and... a car on fire on the distant A30...

Many is the time I've had smoke pouring off my brakes (oh let me dream of such things, please...) as I've whizzed past a gateway, caught a glimpse of some stunning vista and thrown out the anchor to do a u-turn and head back to check it out properly. Many is the time it has been a let down too, but never mind, there are plenty more that offer a great spot to pause and gawp.

You can potter along this lane for ages, blinkered by the Cornish hedges either side of the narrow road, but then up pops this gate (above) to offer a view of Ladock church tower and beyond.

It's a shame to see so many modern galvanised gates these days, as when they were made of wood, they varied in design depending on where in the country you were, making the gates themselves interesting. They also differed depending on what the field they guarded was likely to contain. Gates with thicker bars set closer together nearer the ground were found at fields containing sheep and lambs, while bigger gates with heavier build towards the top marked out cattle and horse grazing. Now they're all built the same with an extra bar at the bottom anyway.

 A bit crappy, this shot above...

 Above and below - Probus glimpsed through gateways on otherwise well shielded lanes.

The wooden gates look far better, but I doubt the farmer is worried about the aesthetics of rural gatery, he just wants something to keep we nosy folk out and his animals in.

 Another crappy shot, but after being hemmed in for some distance by dense hedgery, it made a welcome change to see this view.

Now if this gate above had been made of wood, it could've been modified especially for the job of keeping limbo dancing sheep where they're supposed to be. Instead, the farmer had to bodge it with a pole and some twine.

So that's a look at gateways and why I like them. Next time - What's that shit on my shoe? A  handy, step by smelly step, scratch and sniff guide to identifying the doings you've just stepped in.

Maybe.

A Hairy Scary Halloween.

Friday night saw my phone ring and my mate Craig asking if I fancied a ride somewhere. This is always good, as without a car of my own any more (Craig in fact owns my old van) my riding range is limited. So we made loose plans to head for the Bodmin area, and to do the Camel Trail, or part of it, or maybe Cardinham Woods. We'd see how we felt when we got there.

I was encouraged initially when Craig wheeled out the Giant Hybrid (a bike I owned for a while and christened 'Lump') but, while my back was turned, he also sneaked in the 'Batbike', his battery assisted full bouncer Cube 29er. Oh joy, keeping up with that thing was going to be fun...

Warning - Northerner on board...

Craig, professional Mancunian and dispenser of wit and genial sarcasm,  at the wheel of my old van, heading towards Bodmin, which in itself is a scary prospect - they're a funny lot in Bodmin.

As it happened, we headed for the latter, Cardinham Woods, which was fine, as it is Forestry Commission land and they allow mountain biking and so forth. On arrival, the place was busy with walkers of two and four legged variety, and lots of mountain bikers. All bouncy bikes and baggy shorts, full face lids and googles. Serious stuff. Then we checked the trails. My local woods are Forestry Commission, and you just go in and ride around the paths. Here though, my bum started puckering. There were Blue and Red trails... uh oh... I'm a Bimbler. A potterer and a pootler, not a mad speed crazed adrenaline junkie, and I didn't want to be getting in anyone's way, and nor did I want to die myself to death particularly either, which could be a distinct possibility by the looks of things. I've never been on an organised 'proper' trail before with man made hazards to contend with, so I was thinking of asking for a medical helicopter and a full team of surgeons to be put on standby, or a packet of Band Aids at the very least.

The car park at Cardinham and the Batbike breaks cover.

But what the hell, I also didn't want to be a big girl's blouse over it and be a wuss in public, so I gritted my teeth, clenched my bum and prepared to get on with it.

The trails pass through some dense woodland lining the side of a steep valley so there is plenty of climbing involved, and trying to keep up with Craig on his flipping Batbike was certainly giving my legs a good pasting, but to begin with, it was all good.

Well this is easy peasy... don't know what the fuss was all about...

I must stop putting my thumbs on the ends of the bar ends like that - I'll hit a bump one day and break them or something.

Soon though, the trail pointed downwards again through the trees, and suddenly things got a little more exciting. Speed is gained cheaply on such slopes and suddenly I was arriving at sharp corners at what for me seemed terminal velocities (but for anyone else would've seemed like they'd stopped) 'Bwaaaaaahhhhh Mother!!!' Just as I thought I was going to face plant a tree instinct would kick in and I'd turn left at the critical moment and save the day, only to lead me straight over a hump and down another slope into an even tighter corner 'Whoooooaaaa Fuuuuu....' This went on and I was glad I was wearing bicycle clips as otherwise the adrenaline would've been running out of my trousers. Then there were some Pump track bits, or whatever they're called. 'Sky – Ground, Sky – Ground, Sky – Ground' all done with my stomach alternately up round my ears and down in my boots. Fuggssakes that was hairy... exciting, but hairy.

Damn those electric bikes... 

Craig is a big chap, so needs a big frame size. Add in the 29er wheels and it runs out of room quickly on tight turns, allowing me to close the gap... 

But just as I would get close, he'd straighten up again, and off he'd go up the hills, humming away like an electric golf trolley... the git!

As the ride went on, so a pattern began to establish. Grinding up hills with my heart bouncing off the rev limiter and me breathing through my backside, followed by some downhill sections where I was sure oblivion was just a slip of a wheel or unwise grab of a front brake away.

Don't know why he's sitting down, his bike was doing all the work for him... 

The left side of the Batbike. A very impressive piece of kit, but ugly as a Kebab shop fist fight. 

I did have a quick go on it up a very slight slope, and after a nano second's hesitation the battery cut in and I took off faster than a well kicked cat - this thing flies up hills. Turning circle of a bus and it's a bit of a chubber too, being quite heavy, but it makes mincemeat of hills.

I was managing to stay out of other folk's way which was good, as going as slowly as I do, they can be heard approaching from behind, and at one point I did try and latch onto the tail of one unsuspecting rider to see if I could stay with him, but he was all asses and elbows and pulling shapes and I'm a big chicken, so that plan failed and I continued on, scaring myself at times still, but also learning fast the old tricks from childhood woods hooning,  and latterly on motorcycles, of looking further ahead and picking the right lines and threading twists and turns together and so on. 

 What's this section called? Breakneck? Oh... that's nice...

There has been a lot of hard work put in  to make these trails enjoyable and the Forestry Commission are to be commended for doing it. We've had a fair old bit of rain recently, but the trails were remarkably free of mud, and safer for it. In fact the bike got far muckier on my recent trundle round the local lanes. 

It all soon became less terrifying  and more fun, lots of fun in fact, but as ever there was a penalty to be paid. My usual slow riding sees me sat on the bike most of the time, only occasionally standing over rough bits, and with my legs doing all the work. All this haring about between the trees and flying round hairpin bends (well... sort of...) meant using a lot more body language to keep things together, and that meant my back started getting stiffer and more painful. So the last mile or so was a struggle, an exercise in just making it back to the van, so I didn't have the free movement to flip the bike about, even to my modest levels. But I made it round, sweating like a glass blower's backside and with aching legs, burning lungs and a stiff, raw feeling back. But I was happy. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride, it took me right back to my childhood when my mates and I would ride our 'trackers' at maximum speed through the woods at the back of our houses. I also saw it as an achievement as on another day, with a less positive mood, I wouldn't have even tried it, and although my back was crippling me by the end and for most of the following day (yesterday), I was damn glad I went for it and got round.

I'd just struggled up the slope on the right, and was breathing harder than the Flying Scotsman, while Craig was explaining how his bike just purrs up the hills with no effort involved in the pedaling. Next time I'll let his tyres down or something...

Craig zig zagging his way down a series of switchbacks.

No choice for me - Blue! Craig opted for the red 'speed freaks and mentalists only' section.

Craig wants to go back again soon, so I'll have to weigh things up still, but probably would have another go. I just need to get some baggy shorts, and learn the lingo – 'Rad' and 'Dude' and 'Gnarlmungous' and so on.

And here he is, whooping like a child and swearing enthusiastically (whooooaaa shi.... fooooksache.... waaaahhhhhh nooooo.... wooo yabastad! etc) as he makes his way down the red 'Hell's Teeth section. It's safe to say he enjoyed that bit rather a lot.

Trick or Treaters? Pfft! They didn't scare me... Flipping narrow tracks between trees on near vertical slopes, even at my dare devil single figure speeds, now that really was a scary Halloween. Bloody good fun though.

Busy Place, the Countryside.

So the unseasonably good weather these last few weeks has come to an end, and the lanes are set to be wet and mucky now until Spring next year. Goodbye dry and dusty, hello wet and squidgy.

I've had a bout of the glums in recent days, the bad old feelings of lifelessness and fatigue taking over again, and all enthusiasm for anything disappeared under my duvet where I spent a lot of time looking for it, but failed dismally to find it. Sunday was a beautiful day with no wind, just warming sunshine and glorious autumnal colours and smells. Even that failed to kick my spirits up the backside and lift the gloom as I closed the curtains again and headed back to bed.

But this is all part of a cycle, ups and downs, like one of those pump tracks or whatever they are where young folk with jeans halfway down their asses get airborne. One minute you're flying and showing your keks, the next you're in the bottom of a pit. Just as the better times come and go, so do the days of feeling kicked and crushed, it's often a case of just giving in, riding them out and the better days will slowly appear once again.

Well yesterday was a better day – I may not have been sliding down the bannister and singing 'the sun has got his hat on' when I woke up to the world, but I was feeling a bit more like it, so I quickly decided a bimble around my usual lanes would be just the ticket.

Grumpy looking skies looked ominous but the only rain that fell was while I was under tree cover once again.

Was I really out of action just a few days, or was it weeks... months even? How could things change so quickly? Firstly it seems there is some building work or other going on to the East of the village here and the result is a steady stream of six and eight wheel tipper trucks roaring along part of my favourite loop, filling the lane with diesel smoke, noise and big lumps of assorted Scania, Daf and Volvo. Oh and mud. Lots of mud, both from their tyres leaving the muddy site, and from them going up the verge and dragging mud back into the road. Deep joy.

Ok then, some on the fly route modification saw me take to Tregassow lane, only to find just as much mud, and a steady stream of farm tractors barrelling along and filling the lane as they go, making getting out of their way a bit of a problem in some places. It wasn't like that last time I went along there.

There's tarmac somewhere under all that slop.

Thankfully though, I soon passed the field they were dragging produce from, and beyond there the lanes were free of heavies, if not gooeyness. The leaves have fallen big time now and where my knobblies last fizzed on dry tarmac, they now splashed through puddles and squelched through decaying foliage. Some of it is flipping slippery too, as we all know wet leaves can be. Going down the steep S bend in Tregassow Lane, which is also blind, I got a ridge running up the middle of my saddle from where my clenched buttocks were snapping at the fabric as I tried to avoid locking wheels and subsequent impromptu break dancing. Falling off on that vertiginous hill would see me bombing down on my backside like a winter Olympics luger who'd forgotten his tea tray. Not a good look I find.

Autumn is starting to reveal the twisting boney skeletons of the local trees.

Safely down and pausing at a bridge to gawp at the waters flowing underneath saw the first of three encounters with chatty folk I was to have on this ride, another unusual occurrence as I often potter about these roads without meeting a single soul. A van pulled up as I was taking a photo and a local chap asked if the water was running very fast or not. From there things moved on and we had a right old natter, and this chap was quite a character too, with a fine sense of humour to match his equally fine beard.

Not so bad here, but these Ash leaves can be as slippery as a well greased Weasel, and test one's sensitive braking abilities to the max on severe downhill sections.

The second encounter came at the top of Tregassow Hill where I met a roadie stood by the roadside and talking on his phone. Wondering if he was ok I stopped to check and found he was just out for a big old ride around with a mate who knew the planned route, but who had dropped him and beggared off into the distance. Some mate. So this chap was ringing this 'mate' to find out where the hell he was and which road to take given the choice of three at this particular junction. So we stood and had a brief chat, stuggling to make ourselves heard over the growling tippers coming past every couple of minutes.

Carrying on saw my choice of lane once again take me away from those blasted tippers and I just had the ever present catastrophic Pheasants for company – bloody things they are, crashing, flapping and screeching about. Oh and Squirrels, lots of Squirrels, all flitting about and launching up trees and so on. Pheasants could learn a lot from Squirrels about making quiet escapes, but they don't take any notice, obviously.

The colours of death and degradation.

Colourful life is still to be found in the hedges and verges, although this Cranesbill Geranium is likely an escapee from a nearby garden.

My third encounter came near home as I gamely made it up yet another unruly hill, and I met three women walking a varied assortment of dogs. I bumped into them at just the point where I usually stop to take in the view through a gateway (not really, it's where I bail out normally and start pushing, but I prefer the former explanation). So another brief chat was had and I made friends with a Pug. Least I think it was a Pug, it could've been a Terrier that chases parked cars, but what struck me more than her 'hit in the face with the flat side of a plank' looks was her name – Marion, apparently. An odd name for a dog really, made me wonder what the other assorted mutts were called, but I didn't get the chance to ask.

Muddy puddles failed to wash the gribble and slop off the bike, so it was out with the pressure washer once home as this is a house bike, and I don't want it dripping wet mud on the carpets.

So that was a brief ride around my local loop and I couldn't believe how busy it was, with mud flinging heavies, chattermongous people and flat faced dogs too. Apparently the trucks could be rampaging along my fave bimbling routes for months to come, which is not good news at all, but hey ho, I'll just have to find other routes around my 'hood.

But it all sort of proves that even though the lanes are supposedly quiet, there is still all sorts going on. This time it was added humans going about their business, but the nature related stuff was in evidence too as the landscape has changed with the falling of the leaves and various beasts beat hasty retreats and so on. Busy place the countryside sometimes.