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.

The Sin Bin - Automatic Chain Oilers.

A clean and well oiled chain is a joy – silent and smooth running, along with easy shifting of gears. I'm a bit of a chain oiling obsessive, usually putting far too much on, too often, and so ending up with a manky, gooey paste as dirt sticks to it, sort of defeating the object of the lube in the first place. So you'd think I'd welcome the idea of an automatic chain oiler, an item that works very well on motorcycles.

Well no. Just how hard is it to oil your own chain, really? Judging by the state of some drive chains you see out and about, usually on some poor old commuting rattler, it is nigh on impossible, but the sort of person that neglects their bike to such a degree is hardly the sort to shell out a load of Lizzies and fiddle and fanny about fitting fancy bottles of oil and hi tech jockey wheels to their bike.

There seem to be at least two types on the go, one using a soft plastic bladder and a bottle of oil that requires the pilot to squeeze the bladder periodically while riding to push oil out onto the chain. The other uses a pair of AA batteries in a downtube mounted device that does it all for you, although you do have to programme it to tell it how often you want your chain squirting. So you have bottles and bladders, pipes and tubing, and oil nozzles to aim at the chain, or even a whole new jockey wheel to install. What a load of faff that lot will be! Bike frames already have plenty of cables, hoses, bottle cages, bags, pumps, and batteries hanging off them, who wants to go plumbing in a load more guff?

No no no no! Just buy some oil and put some on the chain every now and again, it takes just a couple seconds. You don't even have to use shop bought bike oil, old engine oil is better than no oil at all for instance. These things surely are a case of desperately making something to sell, regardless of whether the resulting product has any real merit.

If one of these devices turns up in my stocking one Christmas, there will be the most dramatic and bloody murder in Lapland of a popular bearded seasonal character, and his merry elves, the world has ever seen.

Conkering.

Conkers - I'd almost forgotten about them. Riding a motorcycle or driving various four wheelers in recent years, Horse Chestnuts to give them their proper title, didn't feature much. I might notice a few squashed examples on the road surface, but then my attention would flick back to whatever else was going on on the road. But out for a bimble and en route to some local woods yesterday, I came across the green knobbly seed casings, and the shiny contents themselves, the conkers.

An exciting sight in my childhood.

Conkers were a big thing in childhood, and the first sighting of them on the ground would lead to some frenzied stick throwing into the trees to encourage more to drop. Pockets would be stuffed full and the catch taken home to be prepared for combat in the school playground.

Some would be baked in the oven, others soaked in vinegar, still more set aside for the following year, as age hardens them apparently, but I never did find out for sure as I'd either forget where I stored the previous year's cache, or they were secretly thrown out by a parent. Once some sure fire world beaters were picked, holes were carefully made in them, usually with a meat skewer in my case, and string threaded through, ready for the white heat of fierce competition.

Some local woods were the target for the ride.

Conkers is a simple game, but of course, of vital importance to one's reputation and playground prestige. It was usually extremely disappointing for me though, as my favoured weapon was often smashed to smithereens under the impact from some weedy looking kid's 'two'er' or 'three'er'. Failure would often result in accusations of brazen cheating - “That's not a conker you git, that's a dwarf cannonball” but there were no stewards to initiate an enquiry or dish out suitable punishments, you just had to take it on the chin, (then try and nick the kid's victorious conker while his back was turned). There was also the pain of rapped knuckles, and if the conkers tangled then the striker could expect to get at least two fingers painfully constricted by the suddenly tightening coarse string wrapped around them. The clever kids used long shoe laces which were less abrasive to juvenile skin. I hated the clever kids.

Plenty of pine cones around too, but they are no match for a good conker. You can't play extreme sports with a pine cone, nor ward off invading critters. A conker makes a good missile as well, the aero shape and heavy mass lending themselves to such activities, but a pine cone makes for a poor impact with its light weight and bulky shape. Nope, conkers are where it's at.

Some schools have banned games of conkers now, for fear of being sued should a kid get injured in some fashion, probably by being blinded by a flying piece of shell. Where's the fun in that? The adrenaline rush of danger is all part of sport for the players, and the chance of seeing a kid lose an eye right in front of you... well... how cool would that be? That was a possibility not to be missed, so you'd make sure you got right in close when watching a contest, and squinted, just in case the shrapnel came your way. Many were the battles that took place in the middle of a circle of eagerly expectant kids, all screwing their faces up in unison as the striker took aim.

Another report though suggested one school's ban wasn't for health and safety reasons, but because it encourages feelings of superiority as victorious players lord it up over their defeated class mates, and we can't have winners and losers in modern touchy feely society can we? My thoughts on such policies, and the pallid, lilly livered, hand wringing types that come up with them, aren't for airing here, as my swear box is overflowing as it is and the internet is far too polite a place for such bitter and eye wateringly strong language.

All these things were racing through my head as I rode on, and I might yet return to the scene and fill my pockets once more. Not to start playing again, I'm a bit old for that, but because Spiders are supposed to hate conkers, and their presence in a house will deter the bandy legged beasties from entering. I'm all for anything that keeps the hairy arsed beggars out believe me. I'd shoot them with a twelve bore shotgun if I could, both barrels too, you have to make sure after all. Either that or they're just crap at playing the game and don't like to be reminded, but for whatever reason, conkers do the business on Spiders apparently, and that has to be a good thing.

Bimbling about in the local woods.

So that's Conkers - vastly under rated sources of cheap sporting endeavour and useful Arachnid repellents. 

The Sin Bin - 24th September, 2015.

This is aimed at the salad swerving MAMIL roadie I had the misfortune to be walking behind in town this morning, as he pushed his bike along the pavement mingling with the shoppers.

Dear MAMIL,

I'm sure skin tight lycra provides many benefits for you when out putting in the miles on your slim, lightweight, performance steed. But there is an issue that needs addressing, and it is with regard to that skin tight nature of your chosen attire, specifically in relation to your shorts, and your erm... shall we say, generous build.

Nobody wants to see your fat arse in town mate! 

Particularly so as you seem to like going commando. Oh yuck! 

Your bum crack wobbling about like a caravan in a crosswind just ahead of me made me fear for the integrity of my stomach contents. It's not a pleasing sight so early on a fine morning I can tell you. That was just with you walking along the street, what the hell things are like when you are stretched forward to the bars is beyond contemplation. Judging by the faces of people walking towards you, the view from the front was more alarming than charming too.

The worst of it is you probably stood in front of a mirror in your gear when you bought it, and thought 'yup, looking good...' No no no no... No! A Hog's Pudding in a sausage skin would be more like it. 

Some people really shouldn't be allowed to choose their own wardrobes and you sir are a prime example. Wear some baggier shorts over your lycra jobbies for pity's sake, nobody wants to see your barrel like backside in such vivid, cheek wobbling clarity.

You sir, whoever you are, are in the Sin Bin for heinous clothing and visible bumcrack crimes, and I hope you use the time to carefully consider your actions! This is a lenient sentence by the way, as I was sorely tempted to wrestle your poor bicycle from your grasp and stick it right where the sun actually was (unfortunately) shining this morning. In fact there was room there for two bikes, such is the vastness of your lycra clad backside. Please, get some dignity, decency and decorum!

Grrr.....

Oh no... I know I shouldn't have started typing this just after eating my dinner... excuse me...

Death and the Autumn Equinox.

Today is the Autumn Equinox, when the length of daylight and nightime are equal, and from now on, it all goes downhill. But Autumn isn't all that bad really, in fact, I like it a lot. Autumn has an atmosphere and smell all of its own and the lanes somehow seem more peaceful and still as the year starts winding down, unless it's blowing a proper hooley of course, then things are bit more energetic, but still.

After a couple of days of not feeling so clever, a ride today was just what was needed. Setting out, I often find the rhythm for that particular ride within a few hundred yards, and today was a proper bimbling day – it was going to be a ride spent mostly in the lower gears and in single figure speeds, and when it comes to enjoying the back lanes, well that's no bad thing at all. You ride the lanes to escape the rat race, so why go hooning along them in a blur of piston like knees and pulling anguished faces? 

Forget training and KOMs on Strava and all that sort of nonsense for a change, pick a low speed or gear and stick to it, and sit back and enjoy the simple pleasures of riding slowly, that's what I say! (it's also a good excuse for not being very fast anyway, but we won't mention that here...)

The lanes this morning were utterly peaceful, just a few birds and the crackle of my tyres on the gritty tarmac to listen to – mostly. There were a few farm tractors out and about as usual, and the ever present Crows kicking off as I disturbed their peace, but days like today remind me how lucky I am to live in the countryside and not have to battle the traffic and white noise of towns to reach it.

It was also a bit of a wildlife themed ride, as first up I disturbed some sort of bird of prey or other. I looked up as I was passing a gap in the high hedge where a farm gate is set back from the road, just in time to see it take off, bank to the right, and soar low to the ground down the field and away. Whatever it was, Kestrel, Buzzard or Hawk (I'm not up on my birds as you can tell) it made a graceful spectacle flying so effortlessly and silently away.

The ford at Boswiddle has only just reached the road, but will soon enough be much deeper and faster moving.

Boswiddle Ford is where I always upset the local Crows. They always start squawking and screeching as I approach the top of the steep hill which leads down to a small river, and continue their barracking the whole time I'm there. It's a spot I usually stop for a while, as it's a peaceful place (Crows apart) and the sound of the running water is rather relaxing. The water had just broken over the top of the bridge and started a narrow flow across the road – slightly surprising given the rain we've had recently, I expected to give the bike a bit of a clean ploughing through the water there. Give it a few weeks though and it will be running fast and deep again.

Another place I'll stop and take in the view when passing.

Leaving the ford, and the unruly Crows behind, I came across the sad sight of a recently killed Badger - wildlife encounter number two. Encounter number three came a little later on in the form of a young Pheasant, I imagine the victim of a traffic collision, but in this case, still alive, just. I did consider breaking its neck but thought I'd only make a mess of it and inflict more stress and pain on the poor beast, so left it to its fate. It may recover, or it may fall prey to one of the local cats, but that's life, and death, and the way of things I suppose.

Some Badgers are illegally killed then dumped on a road to look like they've been hit by a car. Possibly what happened here.

One very poorly Pheasant, but what to do with it? I chickened out and left it be.

Mind you, I nearly bagged a Pheasant or two of my own just a few yards further on. They are criminally stupid and chaotic creatures at the best of times, and it seems utterly cruel shooting such dumb critters and hardly worthy of praise or merit – I've nearly collected at least a dozen or so just by cycling about the lanes and startling the darn things. Blasting them to oblivion with a shotgun is just stacking the odds too far in the shooter's favour I reckon. Go blast something smaller and faster ya big bullies! 

Anyway, there I was pottering slowly up a hill when several junior Pheasants ran out of the hedge and up the road ahead of me. All but one finally remembered they have wings and the power of flight and took off, while the other dimwitted bird just ran up the road, looking behind now and then as it went, until finally it turned left into a gateway and disappeared.

 But that wasn't the end of the Pheasantry as the last wildlife encounter of the day involved a much bigger example, and I reckon as they grow older and bigger, so their brains grow smaller. This one went true to Pheasant form. I didn't know the dumb blighter was there, I could've passed it by and wouldn't have been any the wiser. But Pheasants don't really do stealth, or hiding, they do panic and chaos and they do it to a very high level indeed. There was a sudden screech and out from the hedge right beside me on the left burst a bigg'un. Good job my bowels were in good and strong order today, let's put it that way, 'cos I only had one bicycle clip with me and it didn't half make me jump. This one didn't leg it up the road though, oh no, it flew right across my handlebars so close I could've slapped it on the backside, and then crashed and kerthwacked into the hedge on the other side of the road. Never mind dicing with fast moving buses and taxis in towns, we country bikers have blundering brainless birdlife to contend with, and at least four wheelers are predictable. One day I'm going to come home, slightly dizzy, and wearing a dead or stunned Pheasant like a fat feathery hat, it's as certain as Christmas.

Foresters have been busy in the Duchy of Cornwall woods near Trendeal.

The rest of the ride was thankfully uneventful and very enjoyable, and I did break my self imposed speed limit by having a fair old tear up down the hill on a paved bridleway that used to be part of a main road. I'm only human and we all like a bit of speed now and then after all, and I topped out at a blistering 30.8 mph. Chris Froome's team place at Sky might be safe for a while yet, but when he goes out bozzing along on his bike he's not doing it on 26 inch wheels and fat knobblies is he. Blasting slow witted fat birds with shotguns or racing round France on lightweight super bicycles... some folk clearly have it too easy...

More Duchy land, more logs freshly cut.

So Autumn is well and truly here, and the nights are getting longer than the days, but it's winter that really gets me down. Autumn isn't bad at all, the smell of rotting leaves mingles with the smoke from chimneys as fires are lit for the first time in months, mists hang low and the countryside is an atmospheric and tranquil place to be. I'm quite looking forward to it.