Smurfing

The equinox, a month of wind and changeable weather. Yesterday I went for a ride, my fitness and strength are somewhat pitiful at the present time. On my struggle out to Puketutu Island, across the causeway, into a SW blast, I held at kingly 18 kph and endured an HR of 173bpm. Who needs to ride hills with that sort of stupidity.

The crossing of the Mangere Bridge was fun, with gusts and sideways movements. Nothing like the day I was silly enough to ride and race in similar conditions around Akarana's Mangere Mountain circuit with a Tri-Spoke rear and Cosmic front. Handling was a little testing to say the least.

Anyway, here's something very graceful.

An octopus

The Orange Peril

On reflection, every day has a challenge or two in it, and some days those challenges are greater than others. On Sunday a rider, who shall remain nameless lest he shame the Bianchi more, faced a challenge. The challenge for him was avoiding a fence. The fence in question was no ordinary fence, it was a bright orange section of safety netting, sited in clear view near Monterey Park on Upper Harbour Drive. According to eye witnesses, and also the rider in question, it was in the open and straight in front. Said rider was looking sideways to try and locate the bike path and rode straight into the netting located in front of him. The other riders had already seen this and were able to enjoy the unfolding spectacle. He stretched the netting, then tumbled over onto the concrete on the other side. Thankfully, apart from a few minor bruises and scrapes and a dented pride he was unhurt. By all accounts it was highly amusing to watch.

Onto more cerebral pursuits than enjoying the mistakes of others. I have a variety of constants in my cycling kit that have been almost unwavering over several years and to me, are a matter of personal taste, but are close to essential for my ongoing riding pleasure. The list could be lengthy and include such absolute necessities such as helmet, glasses, etc, but I have chosen a few that have either changed riding patterns and habits for me or have proven unquestioningly reliable and I would recommend without hesitation.

Handbuilt Wheels - Handbuilt wheels used to be the only wheel one could get, then the factory wheels started appearing and became the staple choice for most riders. However I'd happily say from my own experience that handbuilt wheels are a far better choice for all riders. With handbuilt, from a good builder one can get a wheel that will suit your budget, riding style and needs. Tristan Thomas (Wheelworks) has built a couple of pairs of wheels for me, and they are simply superb. Comfortable, stiff, light and very reasonably priced, there's no drawback at all to them. Add in that Tristan is a damned good chap and it makes for a compelling argument for handbuilt wheels

LED lights - The slew of new cycle specific lighting technology that has arrived on the market in the last couple of years has changed riding in the dark for good. Based around LEDs there have been huge gains in battery life and safety, coupled with a massive reduction in size and weight, all at reasonable cost. The newer front and rear flashers mean greater safety in traffic, and the increased light output and longer battery life from the larger kits mean that virtually nowhere is out of bounds sans sunlight.

Velco Closureless Track Mitts - Riding with gloves is a pretty good idea, both for riding comfort (although not essential there) and palm saving for those moments when you do place hands on the deck at speed. I had never been a great fan of the track mitts with velcro closures as they often seemed to peel back, snag clothing and just annoy me. I prefer the elegance and practicality of the gloves without closures. I have sampled Prendas, Assos and Giordana and they have all been great. The Assos saved my palm in February's crit crash and now have a thumbnail sized hole in their palm, but are still servicable. The Giordana offering are less expensive and I'd wager slightly more comfortable, minimal padding Pittards Leather palms, nothing here not to like.

Garmin GPS - I was an early adopter of cycling GPS technology with a Garmin Edge 305. A great piece of kit for seeing where you've been and all the data captured from your ride. However that was moved on as soon as the Edge 705 hit the market. With full mapping and routing capabilities it has been a game changer for exploring, riding in different towns, cities and locales. Not to mention the ability to share rides with people and send them off to enjoy what I have had a grin from.

Good Tyres - I have two tyres that I consider as reliable and no-brain choices. I have had dalliances with a variety of other tyres and have loved the ride of some, the feathery weight of others, but ultimately have always felt let down by reliability or punctures, so now I stick to two known quantities and experiment with others from time to time. The two tyres are:-

Continental GP4 Seasons - I have ridden sets of these tyres for years, wearing out numerous rears and suffering few punctures. To me, they are reliable, ride not that badly for a training tyre, are as bombproof as anything else on a road bike and last a reasonable amount of time. They are sure footed in the wet, handle metal excursions, easy to mount and readily available. I have graduated to the 25mm version a couple of years ago, and never looked back.

Vredestein Fortezza Tricomp - Not superlight, but a lovely riding tyre that is reliable and handles and rides like a charm. A good race tyre, but quite capable of functioning as a training tyre and putting up with all sorts of surfaces without cutting up, or failing.

Selle Italia SLR - I have ridden and worn out three or four of these saddles over the years. Some view them as an ass hatchet, and a weapon of torture, but to me they fit like a charm. That said, the best saddle is the one that you are comfortable on.

Good Local Bike Shop - My local bike shop is the ongoing key to riding pleasure. They are the guys who can solve problems for me, sell me items that I do need, fix the mechanical issues that are beyond me and are hugely important, plus they give me endless friendly grief and make me feel loved in a very special way. My local shop is Planet Cycles on Dominion Road and they are very good to me and my minion, I can't recommend their service highly enough.

Seventy Elephants

One of the perils of racing bikes is that there are a few hazards involved. One of the more unusual risks is the opportunity to wear bodily fluids from another Homo sapiens. Thankfully this has been a rarity in my case, but there is one occasion where this occurred and has left the memory indelibly etched.

The race involved was in Dunedin and ran from the city to Tairoa Head and then back via the high road over the peninsula to Shiel Hill. On this particular day there was a howling southerlie tail wind for the first leg and a block headwind for the return. The tailwind section was the harbour road and almost pancake flat, the return from Portobello on was a decent sized climb, with some undulation on the top and a long gradual descent.

The race was a handicap race, and given my hill climbing prowess I was placed in one of the easy marks. The flat section was pretty uneventful, with my mark catching all the groups ahead of it, and staying clear of the chasers. When we hit the climb, that all changed. By halfway up the climb the field was in tatters and I was well out of the money, having been caught and passed in rapid fashion by a number of the back markers.

As I crested the top, up behind Larnach's Castle, I was passed by a rider, who shall remain nameless, and I latched on to his back wheel like a limpet. The section of road there is rolling, then with a swift descent and a short, stiff climb before the long, gradual final descent. The elements had really turned and we had encountered a couple of cold, wet squalls. The skin on my legs looking like the skin of an uncooked chicken.

As we rocketed down the penultimate descent into a gusty wind, the rider in front cleared his sinuses and expectorated. What launched from his mouth seemed to gain a life of it's own and pulsed and wobbled in slow motion in the wind and draft. I was transfixed by this green death star of mucus that was flying between him and I. All hope was that it would pass me harmlessly, and as it left his draft it veered downward and landed smack on my inner thigh, just below the bottom of my shorts.

There, on my cold, goose pimpled white flesh it clung. A liberal dose of water from my drink bottle did nothing, it stubbornly hang on for the passage. The sheer horror of it made it seem even larger, and to my eyes it was the size of a saucer and mountainous also.

I hit the final climb, and the other rider escaped, I was alone with my cling on. I thought for a moment of stopping and removing it with the aid of grass, but realised that there were still riders behind me, and that I may have still been in the lower limits of the prize-money, so I soldiered on.

When I finally crossed the finish line I was out of the money, but was eternally grateful for the long, wet grass on the side of the road.

Compulsive in creeping

It's not a long time ago that I was thinking that this abysmal winter weather would never end, then we set the clocks forward for daylight savings, and Voila! Spring is upon us. There have appeared those brilliant, fresh green leaves on all the deciduous trees and the sun has some warmth.

I have now managed three rides without armwarmers, and my arms are looking less like white pipecleaners than they were a week ago. I have mixed feelings about tanlines.

Given my bit of Tangata whenua I tan easily and quickly, but that's only on the skin exposed. I'm also a touch leery of skin cancer (although not really enough methinks), so rarely expose my torso, or upper arms. The net result, come mid-summer, if I do make poolside is a picture of a man who is wearing a hairy, short-sleeved white wetsuit.

I do also enjoy having brown limbs, there's something vain in that idea, but it's tied in there in my thinking as appropriate to summer cycling, along with strong negative views on sleeveless tops, the place of tea in society and wearing polka dot jerseys.

Today I rode along Tamaki Drive in the early afternoon. The bays were crowded, the beaches were busy, and there were even people standing in the water. Given that yesterday I stood in the water for several minutes after dusk waiting for the tractor to return to haul the vessel that I was hanging onto out, I can vouch that the water is still nippy. I think they were a trifle optimistic, or were engaging in an act of self-sterilisation. Yesterday, I was only knee deep, I wouldn't want it any higher, and the thought of voluntarily letting water of that temperature caress my nether regions makes me pucker.

However, Spring did yield a pleasant surprise, albeit a foolish one, but pleasant none the less. As I rode townward on the bus and bike lane under the shading pohutakawas I could see a figure roller-blading towards me in the buslane, she was lithe, tanned and clad in a pair of white Daisy Dukes and a string bikini top. Dressed like that, I felt my need to chastise her for rollerblading against the traffic was a touch churlish, so I let it slide. It was a lovely sunny day after all.

Dawn Serendipity

Originally I'd thought that Eastern Promises would be an appropriate title for this particular post, but given that I have neither the desire, nor urge, to imagine Serge naked and wrestling, so I have decided to avoid the obvious.

On Sunday Serge was riding home along Ridge Road when his ride was rudely assaulted by a couple of acts of mindless stupidity. The stupidity involved was two separate carloads of unthinking miscreants threw and hit him with eggs. He didn't get details of the vehicles, except that one was a pink Subaru with a rego plate ending in 8.

He did report the matter to the police, and also went looking for the vehicle to exact some appropriate rough justice.

Luckily for the idiots, a vigilant and quick thinking police officer spotted the said vehicle today after they pulled out in front of him and apprehended them. Sixteen year old idiots. I have suggested that Serge seek some summary justice, my initial suggestion was a swift kick to the happy sack. But on second thoughts I suggest something demeaning and public would be far better.

My riding on the other hand, while all solo, as been excellent, I'm loving the new Spring temperatures and have now had two rides sans arm and knee warmers. Today, as I was in Pukekohe, I decided to climb the Bombay Hills and across to Ararimu and back around as a loop. Given that yesterday I wheezed my way around the Waitaks and wanted an easy type ride, I don't know which part of climb and up I didn't understand. Add in a stiff NE wind and the climb to the top after Bombay was a picture of a man chewing wasps.

The reward was the descent of Ararimu Road and a healthy tailwind back from Drury through Paerata. Even with the atrocious seal of Burt Road and the steady drags uphill, I was moving quite quickly with the hand on my back.

Always great to ride in some different environs.

Since I was a young boy

I have an addiction. There, I said it. My addiction is a veritable personality enhancer in my case and I have lived with, and loved it, for longer than adulthood. I do know that my addiction has a dark side and that the withdrawal symptoms are not that savage, but they are enough for me to keep the tiger in my tank and avoid suffering them where possible.

My addiction is caffeine, more precisely espresso. It is the humaniser for me. I can function without it, and will, at a pinch, drink plunger coffee, but I do love the ritual, taste and routine of a couple of cups of espresso in the morning.

I found out, in a very hard way, almost two decades ago what happened if I stopped feeding my habit, and also concurrently just how horrid a VO2 max test is. I was a guinea pig for a PhD student at Otago University who was studying the effects of caffeine on perceived exhertion. The test necessitated abstinence from any form caffeine for 72 hours before the weekly tests. Within 12 hours of going cold turkey I had a pounding headache that I came to recognise, but was also aware that within minutes of finishing the test I could relieve with a double short black.

Recently my machine at home blew it's release valve, and made it no longer possible, until it was repaired, to enjoy espresso at home. Never mind the poor visitors who had to endure plunger coffee, or Satan's own brew, tea, I was most put out.

So I opened the damn thing up...

Let's just say that it wasn't full of helpful labels, and my knowledge of boilers and copper piping is slightly lacking. So, it was off to prowl the interweb and forums. I finally worked out that I had a knackered pressurestat. Hmmm, sounded good, but what did it look like and was it within my mechanical aptitude to repair. In the espresso forums, there were men who fiddled with their pressurestat daily, who discussed their microfoaming techniques, who argued the merits of different heating elements. But no photos of the damned pressurestats.

Luckily, I had acquired my machine off an expert, and a phone call to him pointed me in the right direction. This man, who is extremely practical, knows the limits of my abilities and assured me that I could fix this little issue. He told me what to look for, and then roughly what to do. I found the offending part and removed it. A quick phone call to an espresso machine repairer told me that they had the part in stock, so off I traipsed with part in hand.

Slightly superior being at said repairer took my part, even though I gave him the part number and saundered off through the racking. A minute later he was back with the shiny new one. Placed it in front of me and tried to deal with me in a bit of an off-hand manner. I looked at new part, and my old part and then pointed out that the one he had given me was 1/4" thread and that mine was 1/8" thread. His manner changed instantly and he became helpful. He applied teflon tape and fitted an thread adapter. All good, part in hand I hastened home.I was slightly cavalier in fitting the pressurestat back in, and ran out of teflon tape after a wrap, but thought I should be okay. I fitted the pressurestat and fired the machine up. I worked, the blow off valve on the boiler stayed closed, the pressure came up and stayed where it should all was good. Until I peered in amongst the piping. The inadequate teflon taping of mine, due to haste and a bit of rip, shit and bust, was insufficient and the thread was weeping water under pressure. So turn machine off, go and buy more teflon tape.

Arrive home, unscrew pressurestat, burn hand a little on hot copper, retape, screw back in. Fire machine up, feeling quite excited this time. All is as it should be, then peer back in to check my thread work...DOH! The adapter that the chap at the part acquisition place had fitted wasn't completely tight, and was weeping, so machine off, no care for burnt digits now, anger dulls that sort of minor pain. Adapter off, then rethreaded and tightened that last 1/4 turn.

Fire machine up again, all it good, grind some beans and pump out a cup. Certainly not the best cup I've ever made, but it tasted like victory to me.

The last thing to make the process complete was to go and buy a kilo of happiness. My world is back to rights.

Tell the truth, shall die

It's a shame when a plan is flawed, and that flaw is exposed in a painful manner.

I decided to ride over Scenic Drive this morning. I was looking forward to the quiet roads in the pre-dawn and dawn and the sound of Tuis waking and testing their vocal skills. I had looked at the forecast and the rain radar and was confident of a dry(ish) ride.

Normally, at this time of year, I'm pretty pragmatic with my choice of cycling clothing and will carry a jacket, especially on a morning ride. I also tend to wear full gloves and if it looks like there will be rain, carry a cap and wear booties. Somehow, partly through the ride featuring quite a bit of climbing, and partly through optimisim, I simply donned a gillet and wore track mitts. I decided to ignore the little smudges on the rain radar.

The temperature was around 10 degrees, so that ensemble was the perfect choice with the dry roads and weather I started out in. I even unzipped the gillet a little as I climbed Konini Road and Scenic Drive. As I passed through Waitatarua it was drizzling a little, nothing serious, but it could be seen in my light, I pressed on. Then, just after I passed the highest point on Scenic Drive, the heavens opened. They delivered a bucket load of cold rain, then several more bucket loads. My foolish decision in leaving a jacket behind and leaving the full finger gloves sitting on the sofa was demonstrated in extremely cold hands initially, then body and feet. The lack of a cap made visibility difficult and descending a nightmare, and the lack of booties made for wet, cold feet very quickly.

The western end of Scenic Drive was an extremely average experience to ride due to these factors, the descent down to Swanson, unnerving and my spirits were flagging for the sodden roll back to town. Luckily on the bikepath I was passed by a triathlete who was motoring along at a pace several kilometres higher than my miserable knee knocking. I darted for his back wheel and concentrated on hanging on for the ride. The mouthfuls of water and grit that came from his back wheel was a small price to pay for the benefit of speed and having to concentrate on staying there, instead of thinking how cold and miserable I was.

The shower at home was a painful affair and I slowly thawed out. I was a sobering lesson in ride planning and one I won't forget...for a while...

Conjuring Monsters

The following pictures tell a story. Firstly, to those who thought that this would be my next post, you are dead right, I'm not quite that perverse.

Back, earlier this year, I imagined this particular loop up, and was eager to ride it, but at the time of it's genesis the roads needed some rain to soften them and move some loose metal. Well, we have had the rain, so there really was little excuse for not tackling this loop, my Northern Hell loop. Not finding any other suitable excuses, I decided to tackle it on a fine day.

In planning the loop, I knew that most of the roads were back roads (major part of the appeal), that there would be little traffic, that there was a lot of metal, and a few climbs. I also factored in a shop or similar at about the 60 kilometre mark. I was right of two of those assumptions.

The loop is 125 kilometres and I had reckoned on about 40 kilometres of gravel and metal roads and about 1500 metres of ascending. It starts pleasantly out of Silverdale with a series of small climbs, all under a kilometre in length, with only one having a gradient greater than 10 %. The first lot of gravel is after 15 kilomtres and is a gentle descent, then down a valley, back up another, then a climb, then a steep descent, all pretty smooth, scenic and a little shy of 17 kilometres in length, good stuff, even though it's tiring like riding a windtrainer. One car and a truck in a that leg.

Then a few kilometres of quiet rolling seal before hitting a piece of road that both MapmyRide and a car trip about a decade ago made look quite smooth in profile and not too challenging. Wrong! It started with a climb from sea level up to 200m, the followed a ridge line, a very narrow, exposed road that dropped and climbed several times, before a long, steep, winding, rough and corrugated descent back to the seal at Kaipara Flats. No rest on that 16 kilometres and a bit of fatigue.

It was then that I found my assumed water station wasn't to be, so with a bit of a rationing process going on, I figured I could make the next 40 kilometres without too much hydration, although there was a small argument with myself that I could add about 5 kilometres on and detour into Warkworth for water. That would have been cheating I felt.

The next 24 kilometres were pleasant seal with the exception of one horrid little climb that hit 20%, the climb over Woodcocks hills was lovely, as always, and the descent was fun (first and, as it turned out, only sealed descent of any length in the day), all too easy I thought.

Turning East at Ahuroa to go over to Puhoi, more gravel. Ah, that was interesting. The valley was lovely and the metal spare, but the climb was stiffer and higher than I thought it would be and the descent was tough, rough, tight and damned hard work. Finally hit the seal after 11 kilometres of gravel and also encountered my first puncture, a pinch flat. Changed that and rolled into Puhoi and a well deserved shop stop.

Water, V and raspberry licorice on board and it was the final leg, up and over Krippner Road to get home. Krippner road is quite steep and is sealed halfway up, then the fun starts, it climbs up to 180 metres and includes one kilometre with a greater that 11% average gradient, hitting 16% on the metal, it was quite an effort. Across the ridge before I swept down Monowai Road and back to seal there was a lot of loose metal on the road, some quite large and a very rough surface. It was here I got puncture number two, front wheel this time. Another pinch flat.

Changed and the last push down, and as I hit the seal, after another 14 kilometres of gravel, I had puncture number three, another rear pinch flat. Luckily I was, for a change and partly out of preparedness, carrying three spare tubes along with some glueless patches. After that it was all seal, apart from about 600 metres of gravel descent on the Waiwera Road.

I got back to the car with huge satisfaction. It was a challenging ride, with little rest and some very hard riding at times. The majority of the climbing was on gravel, likewise the descending was a gravel, hence little rest there. My estimated figure for gravel was out a little, and was in fact 58 kilometres of metal/ gravel roads out of the 125 kilometre total. I was also a little shy on the ascending with a total of 2048 metres gained (remember K2 is approximately 2300m and over 190 kilometres). It is a very tough loop.

The flat tyres have an interesting observation. I was riding good quality clinchers (newish Vredestein Fortezza Tricomps 23mm), initially pumped to 115 psi with a standard tube in them. These are very much a favourite tyre of mine and have proven to be robust, but with a good quality ride. The tyres are unmarked from this ride, but the three tubes that punctured all show several small snake bite marks, as well as the punctures, I suspect that there were several impacts that pinched the tubes over the course of the ride, (certainly the second rear tube had less pressure in it due to the use of a hand pump) and it was the resulting thin spots from the early pinching in the ride that punctured after some time, as opposed to a puncture at the time of impact. Additionally the leakage was quite slow, and the holes quite small, compared to a usual snake bite type puncture. That both rear punctures happened within a few hundred metres of exiting gravel (and the transitions from gravel to seal were quite smooth), I think may just be coincidence. Next time I will ride 25mm Continental GP4 Seasons, hopefully that addition volume may save some wrist action.

So, who's keen to join me soon, when I tackle it again?

The loop.


The Profile

Self Attack

My cycling year has been a fairly interrupted affair, with a variety of things intruding into riding life. The two most painful intrusions were my lie-down mid crit in February and my human mortar act in April. Both of these I have recovered from successfully, and neither have really served to dampen my enthusiasm for bikes.

Looking back over my bike riding years I've been pretty fortunate with crashes that I have escaped largely unscathed, sometimes losing a bit of bark, sometimes a few bruises and, apart from the collarbone, no broken bones. I have broken bones in a number of other manner and activities, but the two sports that I have engaged in most, that also seem to carry a high risk of bone breakage (horse riding and cycling), have proven to just be bruising and skinning experiences up until April this year.

One of the most humorous falls I ever had, and also one of the more embarrassing after the event, was mountain biking after work one summer in Dunedin. I had parked the car near Signal Hill and ridden across town to meet the others and ride in the forest on the back of Three Mile Hill.

There were four of us, and it was a lovely, warm, dusty evening. We were ripping down a section of smooth double track and I was third wheel, sitting very close to the rider in front. There was broom growing either side of the track with grass down the centre. As we swept along the rider in front of me hit a low hanging branch of broom, served and the branch came swinging back and took me clean off my bike. I cartwheeled and slide in the gravel and grass. Apart from pride, and a small cut on my knee, one of those excellent wounds that leaks deep red blood, I was unhurt and laughing, as were the others.

I remounted as last rider and rode off. It wasn't until we hit the bottom of the hill and fanned out of the road that anyone was behind me. It was then that the true horror of my crash became apparent. I had ripped the seam in the back of my shorts, from waist to chamois, and a less than sightly, hairy bike stand was on show.

Never being one for letting minor details like that stop me riding, we carried on and had a great ride, but as we finished in the forest it dawned on me that I still had 30 minutes to wobble across central Dunedin to the car, with a less than stellar rear view showing. It was mildly humiliating and thankfully unwitnessed by anyone who knew me.

Saturday morning's earthquake in Canterbury was a pretty sobering reminder of the power of nature, and just how puny we are. Here is A decent bit of science explaining just what happened.

Not given prongs

With Spring arriving yesterday in an entirely appropriate manner, I could see no reason not to ride and that I did. Even though it is spring I still haven't had a ride since Autumn, except of the garage variety, that have been sans longs or knee warmers. Unfortunately even yesterday was still not going to buck that trend, but it was a beautiful day.

Somehow, as I headed out, a slightly odd idea formed in my mind. That idea was to go and tackle Mountain Road. For those of you unfamiliar with Mountain Road, just think greater than 11% average, some steep sections, some even steeper sections and no relief. It's a narrow winding wall.

It is sufficiently tough that it requires a bit of forethought and some testicular fortitude. Where the trap of it comes is that the first kilometre isn't too bad, gets up to about 10% and lulls you into a false sense of confidence. Then it steepens and gets narrow and windy. Soon it is just a bush-lined hell. It's relentless, and if you've been foolish enough to have gone too deep early, there's a terrible price to pay further up.

I decided I would ride it, and would take it as easy as I could, being unsure of form, and not having really done any climbing training recently. What transpired was some relative joy. The climb was not as painful as I remember, I didn't resort to my usual postman's weave and I judged the top correctly.

I emerged around the top corner relieved and happy, I still couldn't answer the question from the chap working on his verge, without fear of inhaling him. Actually I was surprised he even asked me, as I'd wager my head looked like a giant beetroot with dribble, sweat and snot, but then it is Mountain Road.

I'm aiming to go back in a fortnight, it was that good!

Here's some brilliant noise!

Croissant versus Naked Woman

The other day as I was grinding out time on the weapon of mind destruction in the garage my mind started wandering. I idled away passing of the mental desert by thinking about the sub-sects of cycling and how they can be drawn into stereotypes. From there it was a small and tidy step to lining those various factions up with dead musicians.

So without further ado here's my take on cyclists versus dead musicians.

Racing cyclists = Freddie Mercury. That whole prancing prima donna behaviour, the macho/camp effect is here in this group in spades. Sometimes it obscures the dedication and will to succeed, but there is talent and persistence galore. I'm just a trifle concerned that a quick straw poll amongst this group would find a reasonable percentage who fantasise about dressing as a housewife and pushing round the hoover.

Fixie riders = Sid Vicious. Hard to really add to much more, think Sid Vicious (Real name John Beverly) as the ultimate fashion victim, think that travesty of "My Way", think looked good, not original, playing bass badly. It's just like the whole skinny jeans, brakeless thing, just smack on wheels. They aren't rebels at all, just naughty children.

Modern New Bike Acquirees =Michael Hutchence. I talking about those mid-life crisis types who acquire a bike as part of the "New Golf". They typically have the latest and best, are competitive and are rebels, well in their own minds. Like Michael Hutchence they are successful in their careers and lives but I'd wager that cycling is a little like Michael's dalliance with a belt and a door. Auto-erotic asphixia anyone?

BMX = Darcy Clay, rebels and innovators, widely misunderstood, can be tragic. Jesus I was Evil.

Single Speed MTB = John Bonham. They are just louts, wanting to have fun.

Time Triallists = Karen Carpenter. Obsessive and dark, while appearing to be light and normal. The Carpenters sounded like some over sugared confection and looked as wholesome as white bread. The reality was Karen's inner demons and lyrics to make you afraid of unrequited love and bunny-boiling stalkers. Those who ride time trails are equally obsessed, and every bit as lonely. It's a special sort of pain.

Triathletes = Richard Harris. Really an actor but had a hit with "McArthur Park", couldn't sing, mumbled and slurred his way through a turgid mess of words. Sums up those strange folk who need to bookend a ride with swim and a run.

Knocked out a great ride with The Croc today, I'm not the man I was.

Of matters at hand

Last week I escaped the bonds of the city, an eastern migration that was a trifle too short. There has been a surfeit of precipitation in the Eastern Bay of Plenty, and I witnessed the effects as I drove - numerous slips, stop/go men, diggers scooping, water-logged paddocks and dirty rivers.

It wasn't all gloom though, the sun and it's warmth travelled with me.

At the top of the Maraenui Hill between Opotiki and Te Kaha was a particularly large slip dominating an already unstable piece of land. Today a decision was made by the appropriate authorities to close that piece of road indefinitely until a solution is found. It will return to single lane sometime in the near future, but will be sometime until it is fully opened. For residents of this area it is a major inconvenience, there is no other route than to go all the way around East Cape via Gisborne to get to Opotiki, approximately 440 kms. It's not a heavily travelled road, but it is a vital lifeline and the closure is a reminder of the remote nature of life in the Eastern Bay of Plenty and East Cape.

One of the pleasures, a guilty one maybe, is visiting Two Fish Cafe in Opotiki. It's always an unalloyed pleasure to visit. The coffee and food are as good as anywhere, and the service exceptional. As always I scoffed their Raspberry and Lemon slice, the perfect mix of sweetness and astringency. I also sampled their Ginger Crunch, extremely good, I'd wager that a Ginger Crunch expert would rate it highly.

Riding is challenging at best at the moment, this sodden August makes for a challenge, by my reckoning we have had 3 days in the last 30 with no rain at some stage of the day. Thankfully the instrument of terror in the garage has been getting a flogging, boring it may be, but it saves the outermost holes in my belt from getting worn.

As bad as we have had in Auckland, spare a thought for those who dwell in the Village of the Damned, Christchurch. On average both Christchurch and Auckland have a similar amount of sunshine hours in August (approx 110 hours). Auckland has had a miserable 83 hours, but the pasty thighed southerners have been cursed with 45 hours for the month, less than 2 hours per day. No wonder they relish being dour.

I'd recommend that they consider mini vibrators.

The Hedge Sparrow

Use of profanity is sometimes an artform, recently I was pondering this and decided to do some research. I quite like Goodfellas, the Martin Scorcese directed epic. The word "Fuck" is used 422 times in the movie, quite spectacular, and far more, even on a cuss per minute basis than most other films.

But for sheer damned cussedness, Steve Martin, in Planes, Trains and Automobiles takes the biscuit. Fuck or Fucking 18 times in just over a minute. I think that was quite a tirade.

This run of weather is eating my soul, I knocked out a very pleasurable ride with Mikeal and Doris from their castle in Sud Auckland. We rolled around the excellent roads of Karaka, Waiau Pa, Clarks Beach, Patumahoe, Pukekohe, etc. Avoiding the worst of the weather and enjoying the ride.

For a while Mikeal and I traded names ornithological. Everything from Albatross to Chinstrap Penguin, Royal Spoonbill to Knot, Crested Grebe to Swallow, most amusing, especially when Mikeal named the Jabberwocky. I'm certain that Lewis Carroll was most proud, but his fearsome beast was foul, not fowl. Minor malapropism, it was a Jabiru that the Onastic One was meaning.

Then we passed time with the name game, famous people, Doris is a whizz at this game, and soon Mikeal was suffering from an "E" blockage and I was stumped by "H". It certainly passed the miles well, but I must say it is a poor second to telling bad sex stories.

The Northern Hell still beckons, but this weather is just too unreliable.

Walking dogs.

First up, a sobering lesson as to why one should always have one's trousers tucked into one's socks when working with eels - The ass card

The little question I asked a few posts ago about the literary quotation was illuminating. Two responses, one from Mikeal, adamant that it was about sex, and one from Jorge, feeling his way around cartoon sitcom. Neither close.

It was from The Sheltering Sky, Paul Bowles' 1947 novel of beauty, death and desperation in North Africa. The quote was a death and what happened next, well you're going to have to read it to find out.

Well done CTB, yet again you have shown real metal, read about his grit in Tahiti here.

There has been an enthusiastic response to my post describing my failed parachute construction, I will post more of these type of misadventures from my growing years, especially when the demonstrate basic laws of physics.