Mountain Bikes going downhill
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?
What goes around
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.
Potholes, Ponies and other cycling hazards
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
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
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.
Rembrandt and the Ice Bear
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.
Tesco Express car park, Sketty
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.
Top Tips
Summary
My top tips for cycling up hills:
- attack
- count down
- curse
- hold back
- look right
- pace yourself
- relax
- suffer
- travel light
Oy, Hoy!
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
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
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?
On the move
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
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
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 …
★★★★★
