Musings of a Gadabout.

Preramble - Las Americas

2012-02-13T17:46:00.011+13:00

I have somewhat of an internal conflict when it comes to blogging. I realise that this stance may be somewhat incongruous with maintaining a blog, but I hasten to point out that I never professed my boots to be laced all the way to the top. I hope you will bear with me for just a moment.

'The big OE', they reckon. I have a smattering of friends and loved ones who are keen to mark my progress through the great continent of South America so, naturally, the idea of a 'travel blog' sprang to mind. The problem with this is that travel blogs are trite, largely unhelpful and frankly uninteresting. If I were to curate some sort of online record of my foreign recriminations, then I would have to avoid this trap that is... 'the boring blog'.

I'm still not quite there yet. Writing to me is a sort of an outlet. I'm not a terribly prolific communicator, so I need another way to be able to nut things out and nagivate the little twists and snares of life's halls. Left to my own devices, and forced to confront this, I fear I may pinball these halls and wreak a path of veritable and irreparable dissociation. Words are helpful, insofar as that I can lay them on out there and appraise them, finding my own meanings and coming to terms with the results in a less severe environment. I also enjoy the challenge of writing. It's an art form and one that I am honoured to try and pursue, even if only in the form of a narrowly followed cycling blog.

This begs the question, then, of what can be so difficult about riding bikes that evokes such self-indulgent prose as that above? The answer, in short, is nothing. I could tell you that riding bikes is but the corona of a much wider arc of change within my life. Change which has brought me into contact with a lot of different sides of myself. I could tell you that it is the manifestation of a pretty huge system shock that I engineered, effected and observed in myself. I could tell you my story of change. But that, my friends, is a two-cups-of-tea story that will have to wait for a more patient day.

My conflict with blogging is that it seems rather self-absorbed. I can recognise that in some of the things I penned about cycling I fell into a rather formulaic and cursory pattern of writing. I resented the things I wrote and the fact that they focussed on me so much. What do I have to offer that is so important that people should listen?... A contradiction in terms, I know. I'm not quite there with that one, either. All I'll say is that you're here reading this by choice, so if you're hating it then I ask, which one of us is really the silly one?

I have come to terms with it in some small part, though. People want to know where I'm at, so I will maintain a record. I also love writing and I want to keep pushing that particular envelope, and this is a great avenue for that. But I want to try and change things. I want to try and crack my world view open and examine it with a brutal honesty. In my life I have always taken an aggressive stance toward those whose sensibilities I might offend, and those sensibilities which I do not care for. A childish solution to a barely extant, and largely misconceived scrutiny. This notion transposes, here; a threshold such as this one that my mind prescribes, and my words strive to resonate, will seldom be replicated by the hapless reader.

But we need standards, for without them we will tend to do lazy, and dastardly things. What I hope to achieve in the following weeks/months is to provide my perspective on the various places I find myself in. I simply hope that you will enjoy it.

Stay tuned, homies.

Leisure & Pleasure

2012-01-29T11:08:00.010+13:00

Following a pretty stellar 2011, I have regressed.

My departure from NZ is imminent and with that in mind it has seemed fruitless to try and maintain any level of sharpness on the bike.

There are a lot of great events coming up that I would love to be a part of. The Brevet in Feb; Karapoti in March; The Wainui winter race again; and The Bike Hutt's 2-hour CX race, just to name a few. But, as competing priorities have a way of doing, some things have had to give way to others. South America is going to be a great time and whilst I'll be missing out on some cool racing, I don't feel sad about it.

So, with the Rice Mountain Classic back in December pitted as a bit of a last hurrah for my racing in NZ, I welcomed the festive season with a liberal enthusiasm. Beers, rum, masses of food, laze, cricket, darts and music. But little riding. In the meantime my diligent pals had been chalking up the miles in their journey to the Kiwi Brevet, Nationals, Karapoti and beyond. Following the holidays I returned to Wellington with slightly tighter pants than the ones I had left with. I can't have used this belt hole, surely. And with days counting down until I flied out, I wanted to get as many rides in as I could on Wellington's primo trails.

Predictably, but dishearteningly, I found hooning around the trails bloody hard work. My shadow was no longer a composed unit of bike and man, whipping through the dirt next to me; rather, it was a pathetic sort of slumped figure heaving from side to side. When it came time to attack a pinch I would lurch forward and find little to lift me up the incline, saved only by the memory of how to turn the pedals. My lungs were burning. Damn those fucking cigars. I cursed the Tom from nights previous. Cavalier Tom, with his bottle of red wine. What was he thinking? My legs were shot. My enthusiasm was waning. Are my tyres going flat? Fuck this bike is heavy.

I suddenly identified a lot more with my pet labrador, who does a convincing platypus impersonation.

Fearsome.

But what did I expect, right?

Eventually it started to come back. I could ride a little longer and felt like a little less of a meatsack. I went for a nice long CX ride with Andy, Jonty and Owen and had a load of fun - until incredibly, fantastically and in a very complete sense, I bonked and had to grovel home, tail between my legs as I held everyone else up. I went for a nice long MTB ride with mates. I dug out a memory of how to hurt and had a go at John Randal's Tinakori hill climb. I got out on my own to revisit some "old favs" knowing that I would miss the awesome single track that our fine city offers. But, really, the will to improve and get stronger, faster, fitter? It just wasn't there. And that's cool, we can't always want to push ourselves. With a new focus, I was still having fun.

I had a crack at the Round the Mountain race in Taranaki. Assembling before the race it dawned on me that I had neglected to bring any of the race accoutrement. Number? Transponder? Shit, nope. I guess I won't be getting a result. Oh well, might as well enjoy a nice ride. The racing was pretty fun. I knew enough to be able to hide in the bunch and only work when I had to. I watched as the group was whittled down until, by Kaponga, there was only about a dozen of us remaining, swapping turns through the rollers. Some of the lads were suffering - evidently they hadn't worked out the crosswinds. We helped each other out, lending shelter, and I enjoyed the weather and the smell of cow shit slinking through the air. It was a good ride.

And that brings us here. The twilight of my time living in Wellington. I don't intend to take a bike overseas so this blog will be rather inactive, I suspect. I'm sure my adoring readership will be devastated. Wellington has been very good to me, and I will miss a lot about the place. The Wellington MTB scene is a fine thing. The accessibility of trails and the willingness of the people to share the experiences with one other means the good times are all too readily at hand. Riding has given me many things over the past couple of years, and not the least of them is a set of great friends. I'll be back before too long, I'm sure. Some unfinished business and the calling of the hills will see to that.

Until then: Buena suerte, peeps. And give it assholes.

The Lighter Side Of Life

2012-01-06T17:37:00.010+13:00

Tuesday 3 January : First ride of 2012.

The initial plan was to head out on the single speed for a nice, lengthy mission in the sun but this was soon thrown out the window. You see, I had managed to cajole my patient and enduring lady into an excursion under the promise of a liberal activity / ride time ratio.

I had enjoyed the Wharangi track many times, and in varying states of exhaustion and urgency, but always in the Happy Valley -> Berhampore direction. I had scoped the climb out as a nice beginner level descent and had long planned to drag Jovi up for a hoon at it. Her confidence had been dashed somewhat by a few inopportune jaunts and the perhaps premature introduction of clipless pedals, so I was eager to right a few wrongs with a relaxed outing and (most importantly) no pressure.

The road climb was bigger than I remembered it. We opted to beeline for Quebec St and avoid the steps that plagued my dashing and well-endowed friend Oli in his excursion these ways. About ½ way up the hill Jovi was beginning to object to my route choice; “A small hill my ass” was the gist of it. Nonetheless, the trooper that she is, she plugged away and performed a fine ascent of the Col du Mornington. Worth noting is that she rolled the middle ring the whole way up and never tapped out her 7 speed cassette, owing to a combination of her previous single speed grooming and ‘srpska glava’.

At the top we found some horses n’ shit and a nice monument for mounting. We also checked out the views and took this opportunity to sit and endure a soapy OSM bar which was... sustaining, I guess.

The descent was extreme, in a meandering and faece-dodging sense. I assured Jovi that no nasty traps awaited her around the blind corners and she descended admirably. It was especially nice to see her line up some slippery and poo-strewn sections and overcome her anxiety to have a crack at them. Confidence is a fickle thing and one should never underestimate the mind’s ability to constrain the body’s capabilities. What may seem a benign descent to some was this day a legitimate challenge for my girl and I tried to remain conscious of this and offer encouragement.

Emerging onto Happy Valley Rd she was reasonably pleased and sporting some nice scratches from the obtrusive blackberry on the track edge. She had felt like it was a challenge but she had wanted to have a go anyway and I was glad that I had chosen a route that she didn’t find domineering.

With that pesky off-road section out of the way we ambled down to the coast and set about cruising round the bays, stopping for a spell to search for crustaceans and compare hamstring prowess.

Taking off again we managed another small road section before a break to watch the surf roll into Houghton Bay. It was novel to stop at a bay that I had ridden past and admired so many times prior. I had always been in some sort of inexplicable hurry to reach Brooklyn, such that I never allowed myself the opportunity to stop and smell the roses - or the decaying plankton, as it were. After watching some surfers play about in the waves we set off on the road again.

Finally, we made our way around to Lyall Bay, enjoying the wind at our backs to mosey through the streets to the Pak n’ Save to obtain ‘dinner treats’ and ‘vegetable yays’.

Rather than the suffer fest I had in mind when I got up that morning, it ended up being a pretty casual sort of affair. I enjoyed my day with Jovi and using the ride as an incidental part of spending time with one another, rather than heading out on the bike in the hope of taking something away from the act of riding itself. I reckon it’s important to be able to approach riding from different perspectives, to keep monotony at bay and the old peanut in check.

It sure was a nice first outing, and a most pleasurable way to kick off 2012.

Singular Swift Review

2011-12-22T09:38:00.022+13:00

Alrighty, I just got back from a sweet ride and thought I'd pen my impressions of my Singular Swift. But before we get into all that, a caveat:

I am not an enormously experienced mountain biker. There are much faster cats than me around and I've only been riding a couple of years. I also have very little experience riding a geared mountain bike. I get around okay but my riding 'style' is very specific; I've learned to adapt to riding a single speed in terrain that is, a lot of the time, rather unsuitable. But fuck do I love it. And I think I know how to accurately reflect my thoughts. Plus, whenever I'm looking at buying something new I like to read up a lot on it, even if it is just a punter's impressions. Taking things with a grain of salt is a good life practice. Start here.

Receive - Build - Ride

The arrival of the frame/fork at work put an immediate halt to any ‘productivity’. Straight away I skived off to the stationery room to rip the box apart like a small child let loose at Christmas. Alan at Niner Bikes had been most helpful in advising me on the frame/fork combos he had on offer and he has a good network of distributors around the country. The turnaround was super quick too, having paid for the frame on the Friday and taken delivery the following Tuesday.

On first glance the frame is quite striking. It’s a little greyer in hue than I had anticipated but this is not necessarily a bad thing. My eyes were drawn to the shiny Phil Wood EBB. Apparently I am fortunate enough to be furnished with the last large frame in NZ to run this system, as the new frames house a proprietary EBB. This change is understandable, considering the price point, albeit a shame. I also understand the 2012 model also has a slightly more custard coloured logo, as opposed to the lovely cream tone on my frame.

The EBB is a most impressive unit. It sports a healthy sheen and beautifully machined threads. The grub screws mounted on the underside of the BB shell are refreshingly no-nonsense as well. The whole arrangement inspires confidence and looks nice. What more do you need?

Hefting the frame it is apparent that it’s not for the weight weenies – but then again it doesn’t really pretend to be. The scales at work tip their nose at 2.6kg for the frame, including bottom bracket and seat collar, which for an affordable steel frame is fine in my books. Amateur internet research corroborates this number too.

The cream logo with candy red bands is exquisitely understated and nicely set off by a metal swift affixed to the head tube. The whole look suggests that Singular are appealing to people through a clean cut, attractive frameset – as opposed to haranguing you with their logo by affixing it to every tube and component on the bike.

The cable routing is nice and out of the way, enhancing the already clean look of the frame. I can’t speak for their effectiveness and probably will not find out as this frame is destined for a single speed setup. On that note, the frame has a permanent derailleur hanger which was a little disappointing. A removable unit a la Niner's Sir 9 would be a great addition but, again, I return to the lower price of the Swift. The brake cable routing is just offset from the top of the top tube, a familiar approach that I endorse. The welds are not aesthetically beautiful, like on my Yeti ARC-X or Lynskey PRO29 but are uniform and strong enough, I’m sure. The fitted seat collar is a simple black unit with a nice big (6mm) bolt for ham-fisted operators such as myself.

Being that I’ve never done a ground-up build on a brand new frameset I dropped by The Bike Hutt to see Mike Anderson. Mike observed that, although nicely finished, the frames do not come prepped. This is worth noting for those aficionados planning to buy one of these and swap out their existing frame or do a full build. The small details that follow are easy to overlook but will result in a better functioning whip.

After also admiring the colour, ‘perrywinkle blue’ he goads, he set to work with his array of expensive specialist tools that lounge floor builders (such is my ilk) do not possess. His eyechrometer showed that the rear brake caliper mount was uneven so he faced the surfaces where the mount will... uh, mount against the frame.

Mike then spun his whang-doodle through the derailleur hanger to clean any paint from the threads. Since I won’t be using this he told me to chuck a bit of wax in the threads to protect against the cruel ravages of rust. I haven't done this yet, but I am wont to ignore good advice.

Next up was the head tube. The surfaces at each end needed to be faced to remove paint – this ensures the headset cups seat squarely and aids the movement and longevity of the bearings.

Lastly, the brake caliper mount on the rigid fork received the same treatment as its rearward counterpart. Smoothly operating brakes are the business.

The seat tube had a little residual paint inside as well. I will be sliding a lusciously laid-back 27.2 Thomson post in here so grabbed a square of the ol’ Scotch Brite to lovingly scratch the inner canals and take any edge off the relief slot cut into the tube. Aside from this, a good dose of grease and she should be tickety-boo.

Normally, the BB is another area that needs a little love tickle but, given the Phil Wood unit is freshly machined and not tarnished by paint, one can simply lather the threads in the slippery stuff, wind the BB cups in and go for gold. EBB creaking is apparently an issue that many people come across. When installing the Phil Wood unit I used a layer of grease around the outside of the BB shell and used a bit of Loctite on the grub screws. [edit: Having test ridden it a few times, I can advise that not a single squeak has escaped the BB shell so far]. The solution could be as simple as using a good quality unit and ensuring that you maintain it.

In summary, she needed a little fettling to get to a build worthy state. If you’re contemplating a Swift I highly recommend ensuring these details are seen to. It’s a very nice frameset and it would be a shame to just cobble it together. Do it once; do it right – as they so appositely say.

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First things first. I had a nice silver Race Face Deus headset to press into the frame. I bought an extra crown race to whack on the Singular rigid fork so I could easily swap between that and the Reba 29 I had kicking around; Mike had kindly installed this when prepping the frame.

I paid a visit to Revolution Bicycles, a great little boutique store in Northland, Wellington. There my friend Alex pressed in the cups for me. This was a relatively painless procedure, given the freshly faced headtube. Alex, ever the professional, even ensured the Race Face logo faced outwards. I was well impressed with the look; I think the silver cups complement the headbadge beautifully.

The marvellous thing about a single speed is that it requires very little swearing to build. Assembling the Swift was as simple as laying out my Lynskey PRO29 and the Swift frame and swapping the pieces over. With grease in all the right places and all bolts adjusted to the appropriate guesstimation of torque, she was ready to roll. The whole build took me about 90mins, and this was making sure that everything was adjusted nicely and in accordance with my most secret, moist and neurotic desires.

[----]

I initially had the bike set up with an 80mm Reba. I'm not going to comment on it with the suspension fork on there for two reasons. 1) The Swift is designed around a 100mm sus fork and 2) I think an assessment of the frame/fork combo is more useful. I wish to reserve judgement until I can try it out with a nice plush 100mm suspension fork out front. I had a lot of fun with the Reba on, but we won't go there just yet...

When I hopped on to the Swift for the first time in its rigid guise it just felt good. I've only had 2 other 29er HT bikes, being a 2009 GT Peace 9r and a 2009 Lynskey PRO29 but I could immediately tell that I liked the geometry of the Swift over these. The end felt low enough to give a sturdy position without being too aggressive and the wide flat bar set off the whole feel superbly.

Hitting the trails I felt like I quickly got a sense of how the bike would ride. Whether this is due to my familiarity with the 29er HT format, or whether it is a result of a simply well designed geometry, I can't say. Up the climbs the bike feels solid. It's certainly no featherweight and this weight is noticeable in longer, steeper climbs. At the end of the day it's an affordable steel frame so one cannot be too picky. The bike lends itself to a climbing style where you ramp the speed up gradually and hold it there, as opposed to inspiring quick bursts of speed. It's firm and steady and the combination of the smooth ride and big hoops means it holds its speed crazy well. This is especially noticeable when hitting a short, steep pinch already carrying a bit of lick; you'll pretty much glide over the thing. It follows on from this that the bike absolutely rips along rolling terrain. The momentum is incredible and combines with the geo for a fun singletrack ride.

When the trail tips downward the bike coaxes you into gaining more and more speed. I've ridden bikes that accelerate scarily fast and I don't think that really describes this ride. I've found the Swift really responds to hunting out confident lines through the corners and feeding the bike into them. The dialled feel prompts you to add a bit more speed each time so you definitely find yourself moving pretty quickly, but the gradual nature of it means that it doesn't punish you for a bad line choice. I liked that about the ride. I'm not going to pretend like it makes you forget you're riding a rigid bike, but I found that if you resist the 'death-grip' and make smart line choices you generally stay out of trouble and still clear rocky/rooty sections of trail at a good clip.

I've found the perfect terrain to be a gradual, maybe rolling, descent with well formed, smooth corners that encourages you to roll the bike beneath you. I've got to mention the fantastic tyre combo I've got on the Swift though, as they definitely contribute to the 'on-rails' feel of the bike. I'm rolling a nice, big volume 2.25 Bontrager 29-3 up the front, and a 2.2 Bontrager 29-1 out the back. Both are mounted tubeless to a pair of good n' wide Stans Flow 29er rims.

(One piece of advice here: get some wide bars too. 685mm at least. You won't regret it.)

I can't really describe the feeling of zooming through a well built, rolling piece of track on this bike but suffice to say that it produces a fairly sizeable grin, and even the odd audible woot! The bike simply feels well set up and ready for most anything you can throw at it. I came from a pretty light Lynskey Ti 29er so the weight did get to me for a little while. I have found that I've adjusted to the weight over time, whether through getting a little stronger or just “man’ing up” a bit, and I can now clear sections of climb that I couldn't previously. I think the feel of the bike is just so solid that you quickly adapt to how it rides and attack sections of trail with a real confidence.

In the tighter, more technical stuff the Swift seems to become a little more clumsy, but this may be indicative of the 29er platform generally (or the rider). Despite the more vague feel, the momentum the ride naturally carries goes some way toward saving you. If you're into throwing your bike around in the tight, fast stuff though I feel like the Swift may not be your cup of tea. In the switchbacks I found the steering responsive, if not super quick, but accordingly it never felt twitchy and the speed it carried on exit was great.

So, where does this bike fit? I can't really comment on how it would go geared. My guess would be pretty awesome, but at the end of the day bear in mind that it's a steel 29er; this may or may not be up your alley. If you're a weight weenie and you've got the cash, you'd do better to eye up one of the vast carbon offerings out there. I'm not too vested in having a light bike and the clean, simple styling of the Swift really grabbed me. I can't imagine ever getting rid of this bike. I think if I 'upgraded' I would build a whole new bike and keep this one around with the rigid fork permanently on. The build seems super reliable. I love the EBB system as it ensures your rear wheel is always well aligned and there's no faffing about with the disc brake to set the chain tension. I hope the proprietary unit in the newer Swift models operates as well as the Phil Wood EBB does.

If you're looking for a winter bike, a single speed or just something a little different from the cookie cutter 29ers around to add to your quiver, you'd do well to test ride a Swift. Make sure you do so before dropping any significant amount of money on another bike though, as you'll be reaching for the Swift more often than you think!

Rice Mountain - The $20 Sprint

2011-12-11T12:25:00.020+13:00

The Rice Mountain Classic; hands down the best road race in Wellington.

For all the hills that encircle our region there are very few road races with hilltop finishes. For the life of me I cannot work out why. They do change the dynamic of the race, lending themselves to those who can swing on the hill sitting in, but there are ways to mitigate that. I reckon we need to see more of it. We had some big lads still with us near the finish on Saturday. Perhaps us lanky guys weren't doing our job properly? Who knows.

Rice Mountain is well known in roadie circles in Wellington. It promises a decent amount of climbing and, in the case of my B grade race, a good 2hrs 30min or so of racing. The night beforehand I stopped by the Revolution Bicycles 'Christmas Do'. This consisted of several riggers of delicious boutique beers, a crowd of interesting people and a pile of bikes obstructing the footpath outside. The Northland locals really must wonder what the hell goes on in that little bike shop. On the way home I stopped by a takeaway joint and fetched a spicy Nasi Goreng. This would later turn out to have been a very bad idea.

Once home I set about converting my Yeti ARC-X into 'road race mode'. Mike had already given it a bit of a love tickle and lent me his Mavic R-SYS wheelset for the day, on account of my Ultegra tubelesses being out of commission. I'm a firm believer in the 'CX bike as a road bike' stance. I think that at the level I ride at, road racing geo and slightly more aerodynamic brakes are going to make bugger all difference and, for their versatility, cross bikes are a no-brainer as a punter's roadie. With the bike all set up and my gear laid out for the morning I tended to a sore knee that had been plaguing me in days previous with some Anti-Flamme and tried to get some kip.

Waking in the morning I felt that familiar tingle of nerves that can only be associated with race day. I wandered about trying to ready myself before the Nasi Goreng from the night before made its presence known. About 30mins and 3 trips to the loo to rid myself of that cheap assortment of 'spices' later, I was ready to go. The plan was to meet Angry at his pad for a lift out to the 'Rapa. We had agreed upon 7.15 am, which is ambitious for me at the best of times, but with last night's chillies staging an attack on Hilton's white line, the meeting time was positively in jeopardy. If you can imagine the state of a Courtenay Place public toilet at 7am on a Sunday morning you may find some sympathy for me. Particularly when said toilet was playing an upbeat, instrumental version of Burt Bacharach's 1965 hit single 'What The World Needs Now Is Love'... It was a grim scene.

Eventually we were on the road, distressed tracts and all. We turned up at event rego well in time and found the usual suspects to have a natter with. I rolled around warming up with Ryan, a friend I had met through Mike on a boss CX ride out these same ways some weeks earlier, and we chatted about what the race had in store for us. My previously sore knee was feeling pretty good, if not 100%, so I was looking forward to giving the race a good nudge. The A-graders were set off just after 10am and before long it was our turn to go.

It was a fairly disorganised bunch, but I think that's to be expected in B grade. To be fair I wasn't putting my hand up to get us operating smoothly and I think I was aligned with the others in thinking the race would be fairly benign until the climbs started in earnest. Passing through a coned off section of road we had to suddenly tighten the bunch. I didn't have time to gesture that there was a big fucking road sign blocking the road and was upset to hear the sickening thud of somebody behind me hitting it, followed by the unmistakeable sound of more bikes piling up. I don't know if the guy was right on my wheel or a few riders back but I felt incredibly guilty that I might have contributed to, or at least failed in preventing, a nasty accident for someone. I tried to push it from my mind, there were a number of factors at play there and in any instance it wouldn't do any good dwelling on it.

After the Miller's Rd circuit we began to hit the series of climbs leading toward Admiral's Hill. Cam Wood had raced this before and I rode alongside him for a while as he told me the places I'd want to be near the front, as the bunch was sure to splinter there. If there's one place you don't want to be in road racing it's off the back of a bunch, working to get back on. The first hill, Limeworks I think, was fairly uneventful. I slid up toward the front and found the pace very manageable. It began increasing after here though and those who counted themselves as contenders began to shuffle toward the front. The second hill, up the steep side of Kourarau was where some action happened. I found myself up with the front guys and watching the pace carefully to see if anyone was going to show their hand. The tempo was relatively comfortable, but certainly with purpose. As we crested the top we had formed a small group of maybe 7 guys and put a gap on the main bunch.

The descent down the other side was fast. Really fast. It was pretty awesome to be tucked in behind the bigger dudes who were pushing it down the hills. Lining up the long, wide corners was a hoot and I was enjoying cornering on a super stiff wheelset, trying not to think about what might happen crashing at those speeds. We stayed away until the approach to Admiral's Rd, at which point those who were really serious made their way up the front. Cam said to me that if I didn't rate myself as a pure climber I might want to try get a gap here before hitting the climb. I mulled this over a little, but eventually figured there were plenty of places to push the pace on the climb, and was mindful of burning my matches before we'd even hit the bottom of it.

Starting up the climb the group began to string out. My 'strategy' if I had one was to push the pace and try get the group down in size, but leave some in the tank to counter any moves. This worked pretty well, it seemed that the climbers were happy to let me set the pace and in retrospect I should've probably capitalised on that by putting in some serious digs. Still, I didn't know the climb very well and once you've blown your load in road racing there is no coming back.

There's a small section of Admiral's toward the top that dips down and the pace approaching this was fairly solid. It served to split the group up so there were now maybe 10 contenders vying for the front. A couple of guys put in some efforts to go off the front but they didn't really look dangerous so I hung back with the skinny minnies who I figured would actually cause some mayhem toward the finish. On the final section of the climb the pace had become quite high. I was feeling good, like I could've gone really deep, and was confident after having pushed a good pace up the hill. All of a sudden my thighs started surging with cramp. No! Shit!

Cramp is not something I'm normally afflicted with but it sure is a nasty experience. I got up out the saddle and adopted a pedalling style that stretched the muscles out and didn't push too much power through. Needless to say this meant kissing goodbye to the group that was duking it out for the win. All this occurred about 200m from the finish. It was demoralising. I managed to put one last dig in to pip last year's B grade winner, Glenn Hughes, at the finish to claim 7th.

I was disappointed, really. I had a whole lot of what-ifs circling my mind and I knew I was capable of a better result. In retrospect though, after the mental dust cleared, I realised it was a most excellent race. I had been a contender, which was a wicked experience. It was really good to feel a part of the race rather than just hanging on, and there were some pretty exciting moments throughout the day. Besides, a top-10 is really nothing to complain about.

The organisers had put on a lunch back at the race start and we moseyed back for prizegiving and a munch. It was a good spread and a nice touch to the race. I certainly felt like my entry fee was money well spent, so kudos to PNP on that one! I was also glad to hear that no serious injuries came from the incident with the cones early on in the race.

As always, I am indebted to Mike Anderson for his help and generosity in getting me to the race. Churs go, also, to Angry and Cam for the company on the way out and my lovely Jovi for her support.

The highlight was definitely that descent off Kourarau, though. That was tits.

PNP Finale 2011

2011-11-29T08:59:00.004+13:00

The final round of the PNP series was one to look forward to. It was one to look forward to because the unique one-lap adventure style course ensured that numbers were bigger than usual, especially within the A-grade contingent. Our lap started and finished in South Karori - taking in Wrights, Hawkins, Red Rocks, Tip Track, Barking Emu, Carparts, Extn and Deliverance. An awesome course!

Only the A-graders were set to hit Deliverance, which goaded a few would be age-group burglars into having a shy at the more competitive end. This was all good stuff, as it fleshed out the numbers enough to allow a punter like me to actually get a pretty good race out of it.
I didn’t really have any ‘plan’ as such. It was a fairly long race – reputedly about 35km – and one that didn’t sound too appetising on a single speed; nonetheless I knew I could manage a lot of the terrain. The most excellent trail network of Polhill / Turbine / Carparts / Hawkins / Red Rocks is fairly handy to the eastern suburbs and can be adapted into a nice ride home from work. I often take advantage of this route when the weather smiles upon Wellington and I’ve got a bit of time up my sleeve.

When the gun went the group didn’t exactly take off with a hiss and a roar like most XC races; instead it was a mildly self-seeding ascent of the steep Woodhouse Ave road climb. I suppose everyone was mindful of the distance ahead and the abundance of passing opportunities out on the course. When we rolled into Salvation near the top I was with my friend Andy King (with whom I’ve enjoyed some good to-and-fro in events past) and Nick K. As we cranked round the fenceline I tried to find a good rhythm, whilst marking the two guys.

To keep up with geared riders on the SS you really have to play to your strengths. There are going to be stretches where you’ll need to bury yourself to stay in touch, and then you’ve just got to focus on recovering well and eking out advantages where (and if) you can. As we approached the fenceline descent off Wrights I took an opportunity. I had been sitting in a good rhythm and knew that if I could control the pace down the loose, gravel descent then I’d be nice and fresh to hammer the climb up to Hawkins. Just before we tipped downwards I nipped around Andy to follow Nick K.

Jumping the stile at the bottom I set about dealing to the road up Hawkins Hill. I found a good threshold and focussed on sitting on that as best I could; Nick K was still half asleep so I pulled away a little on this section. As we turned down the Tip Track and toward the Red Rocks descent I tried to relax a little. This section is crazy fast and you want to be on your game, lest you end up a red smear on the loose gravel tracks. My tyres were a little too hard, and the few extra psi I’d put in my forks that morning weren’t instilling me with confidence. Still, I was conscious about weighting the bike nicely and enjoyed some mean skidz over the ridge tops. Nick had woken up by now and came inside me with a ferocity that I’d not seen since Dave Aldred had absconded to Van Diemen’s Land.

Tearing down a fast and loose section my venerable Trek batcage decided it’d had enough of my bottle and sent it flying into the gravel. Stopping and backtracking in a race is never ideal, but there was no way I was hitting the Tip Track without water!

On to the lower Red Rocks singletrack: a tight, loose switchback fest. As I was monging my way down here I heard a mighty racket coming from a few corners back. About 10secs later that mighty racket was right on my wheel, in the form of Jonty Ritchie. I expected him to want to come past but he didn’t say anything so we finished out the singletrack and crossed the river together. We tore off around the coast, me following his wheel very closely and spinning like a madman to keep up. It was shameless drafting, but I’m okay with that – I figured he’d lose me pretty quick on the Tip Track anyway.

Exiting on to the road I smashed a gel back and chased it with about ½ a bottle of water. It was pretty hard to get down but I knew it was necessary. I offered Jonty some, but he didn’t look in any mood for it. Turning on to the Tip Track I settled in for a bad time. Riding this piece of godforsaken track without the luxury of variable ratios involves riding as much as possible, right up to the point where you feel your back wheel is about to break traction and send your knee flying into your stem, and then dismounting and running until the gradient is vaguely manageable again. The riding is considerably taxing on your arms too, which is a phenomenon that I'm not sure geared riders experience. The upshot, I guess, is that the running is about the same speed as I would be riding anyway and gives the riding muscles a short respite so that when I do remount I can give it a few extra beans. Maybe 1/3 of the way up Ian Paintin came past me at quite a rate of knots; that man sure can move when he needs to!

The second ½ of the Tip Track is much friendlier, with only one steep section that I really balked at. I had stayed with Jonty most the way up here and opted not to nip round at the top as I figured he’d demolish me down the Barking Emu descent anyway. As we were going along the rolling top section it soon became apparent that he’d gone off the boil in a big way, so he pulled over to let me have at it. This is where the fun really started. The descent along here is pretty fast, it has great flow and there are many traps for young players. It is one of my favourite pieces of track in Wellington and one that I’d ridden a few times in recent weeks, so I freed myself up a bit and got into the groove. My legs had found a new spirit at the top of the Tippy and I was feeling back in the game! It was a huge confidence boost to be railing corners and feeling on top of it all at a relatively late stage of the race. I had a few scratchy moments where my front wheel slipped on the loose corners but I seemed to be tilting the bike well enough to recover from these with little more than a 'whoa'. Pretty soon I had developed a healthy grin.

Carparts Extn was a mess. It’s damp at the best of times and it appeared the C-graders had had an absolute field day dragging their brakes through the corners. It required some concentration, but was offering many lulz in the form of tight, slippery corners. After plastering my face and chest with muck I lined up Carparts which too was offering maximum fun times; it's a great descent when you're on the money. The corners lend themselves to staying off the brakes and rolling the bike beneath you, picking simple lines. This is the sort of riding I've noticed the Singular shines in; you pick your line, aim and she goes right where you want her to. It's pretty choice to have the confidence to lean a bike into a greasy corner and know you'll come out the other side even faster. I felt like I had descended well down here and emerged at the fenceline with a renewed vigour.

The fenceline section back around to Wrights was about as you’d imagine. My legs were tightening up quite a bit at this stage so I tried to stay fluid and ride as much as possible. It's a curious thing to try and coach yourself through pain, and it's a skill I definitely think comes with time. The off-camber descent back toward Wrights was mucho awesome, and a few puckering moments added a bit of spice. I tried to give it assholes up the final climb back onto Wrights but my legs were beginning to tire, managing a good tempo but with a definite lack of zing.

Heading toward Deliverance I was feeling pretty keen to be done with it all, really. Challenging trails and tiredness are not a great combo, so I tried to be super attentive and relaxed. I passed Ian Paintin who was having a little snooze next to one of the various slippery tricks that Deliverance throws up. Ian offered some words of encouragement, even though I had just passed him - I was thankful for this; the spirit of camaraderie is a neat old thing! I had almost made it an incident-free descent, after nailing the chute where Jovana could be observed (or heard, rather) yelling encouragement to all from high in the trees. About three or four corners from the exit (and one corner from the photographer) I slammed into a tree, which pitched me off down a bank. My foot stayed in the pedal a moment too long and gave my ankle a nasty tweak as I tumbled down and into a tree. I hastily hopped up and grabbed my bike, my ankle feeling immediately less mobile. I remounted and rounded the corner to have my photo snapped wearing an expression that I can only assume bespoke how I felt. The road section back along to the school was shithouse. I was basically pedalling one-footed and grimacing. Still, I didn’t have far to go so dealt with it as best I could and rolled in over the line to finish.

Apart from the little off on Deliverance, I was absolutely rapt with how it went. It had been hard yakka but I felt like I had ridden strongly. I’m grateful to Mike out at The Bike Hutt for taking care of my bikes and giving me sound advice, not only on riding but also on having a good attitude toward racing. Mike is a proponent of the privateer lifestyle, and I’ve very much enjoyed the manifest agreement in disposition we share. I'm also grateful to PNP for putting on a fine race and to the Butchlove clan for the beer & cake debrief. Cheers to all.

'Til next time, peeps.

Cheers to Kevin for the pic

Blast from the Past 2011 Results

2011-11-20T15:54:00.004+13:00

The Serbian witchcraft I had employed meant that the day provided windy yet warm and dry conditions. The intimate but highly stacked starting grid made quick work of the course, and it was interesting to have Simon there with his 1992 Mountain Biking Journal to compare times.

Results:

1 - Matt Sterbator - 42:47

2 - T-Rex - 43:25

3 - Alex Revell - 44:04

4 - Andy King - 49:59

5 - Simon Kennett - 55:04

6 - Geoffrey Notman (SS) - 57:29

I had prepared 6 pavlovas for prizes and on account of there only being 1/2 dozen true hardy souls prepared to front up, everyone got a treat!

Mint day. Cheers to Amy, Bernie, Heather, Jovana and Tracy for their volunteer efforts.

Blast from the Past 2011.

2011-11-02T11:15:00.008+13:00

This is a race for those hardy of soul, looking for a hark back to the days of old. This race used to be run. It was run back when men scarcely put a razor to their face, let alone their legs. Back when a cassette ranging to 36t would be laughable. Back when 80mm of suspension was considered mollycoddling.

You may not have been around in those days, and you may have gone to seed since, but if you attend the Blast from the Past 2011 you can at least pretend. You can labour up the Tip Track, sweat blinding you, and tear off down the magnificent Red Rocks descent at radical speeds. You can throw down some sick skidz through the gravel corners. You can drill your mates into the ground and enjoy immense bragging rights. You can redeem your soft ways!

Come along. It'll cost you about as much as that large trim flat white, you limp codpiece!

Smooches,

Lynskey.

COURSE: Up the Tip Track / Down Red Rocks Descent

Sunday 20 November 2011

Start/Finish: The Quarry on the South Coast, Registration from 8am – Gun goes at 10am

CATEGORIES: Open Men – Open Women – Vintage (35+) - Single Speed – Sprockets (U19)

$5 Entry Fee

Rainy Trails.

2011-10-26T21:45:00.000+13:00

Hooning along single track in the muck. Pick yourself an adjective:

Wet;

Slippery;

Cold;

Squinty;

Heavy;

Sketchy;

Miserable;

Liberating;

Cloudy;

Therapeutic;

Hard;

Muddy;

Squidgy;

Fun.

Don't let the rain deter you. Get out on your bike. Crash through the forest and hit the puddles like they don't exist. Stop and wipe the mud from your eyes occasionally. Do some big skids. Do some wheelies through the WET PATCHES. Get some 2 wheel drifts going. See how far you can lean it into a corner; if you're lucky you'll slide out and bloody up your leg. Go home. Get straight in the shower fully clothed.

Pour yourself a beer and smile now.

9 Peaks (en palabras)

2011-10-22T12:00:00.000+13:00

Alright, so the pictures below are pretty telling. But – since I’m sure you're curious what this ride was actually like - I will elaborate on my experience of the day.

Bike choice:

2009 Lynskey PRO29 w/ Rockshox Reba
33:20 singlespeed ratio
Maxxis tyres mounted tubeless – 2.1 Ignitor (F) / 2.1 Crossmark (R)

I was hesitant about running this event SS. I had heard the distance would be in the vicinity of 70km with about 2,500m of the uphill yays; a fairly big day out. Nonetheless I had planned to race the Whaka 100 (before the untimely demise of my frame), so this served as ideal preparation.

The day started like any good day should: With like-minded individuals mincing around a boutique bicycle shop and sipping ristrettos turned out by the doyen of Wellington's old-school hardtail demographic. The day's route was inevitably going to involve some decent road stretches - in particular the drag out to Mt Crawford and back - so I had sort of resigned to the fact I would surrender huge amounts of time to my geared compatriots. This made the whole feel of the event really relaxed, which was a great start. I really enjoyed chatting to the other riders about the relative merits of their steeds and route choices for the day, it was a far cry from the pre-race environment of the Road scene where people wander around giving each other the hairy eyeball and hefting bikes.

When the gun went we moseyed on out to Tinakori Hill at a positively friendly pace; I guess the fronters were waiting for the off-road to really get swinging. As I creaked up that bothersome stretch of road to the summit I passed one Rosara Joseph who checked out my drivetrain (and my fearsome legs, no doubt) and said "Man, I respect you!" – I had to laugh; I thought the irony of that statement was fantastic!

As we took off down the ridgeline, having conquered 1/10 potential peaks, I settled in behind Rosara and admired her fluid descending style - girl's got skills! We made a nice wee pact on the road stretch out to Kaukau, whereby I was allowed to draft her on the flats in exchange for showing her the route up the hill. Just when I began to wonder if I actually knew a route up the hill, Miles Davies and Ian Paintin came through and collected us up. Ian knew a shortcut, apparently. We got up to the Skyline without incident, however buffeted by cross-winds - and apparently had made okay time as I arrived at the same time as Andy who no doubt had a good advantage coming off Tinakori.

I smashed a gel at the top of Kaukau and we blasted off along Skyline. I was not really enjoying the cross-winds, and was sad to later hear that they had forced Rosara off the track and over the bars behind me. I was looking forward to the point where it turned to face Makara as I knew this would result in a stonking tailwind! I was happy with the singlespeed along here, managing to climb up the tricky little pinches and grateful for the lack of noise when hitting the cow ruts at speed. I was going a little too fast for comfort so all I could really do was let go of the brakes, relax my arms and hope for the best; it was some of the best fun I've had in a long time. Somewhere between Kaukau and Johnston Hill I had eked out a little advantage over the others, which was a bit of a surprise. A quick snap at the top of Johnston and I was off toward Makara!

I used to live in Karori West so knew this piece of track really well. I knew you could hop a fence and rejoin by the playground, skipping out a small but slow piece of singletrack. I wasn't really interested in this though as I was having fun and figured I was working too hard for my elevation to throw it away on road sections and gravel descents. After the great piece of track between Karori West and the Makara Road Hill Summit I knew I was in for a bit of hard work. Varleys is not the most fun I've ever had on an SS but I knew giving it a bit of extra beans up here would result in a handy advantage by the top of Makara Peak. Listen to that race talk creeping into my head! I arrived at the top feeling suitably used, having ridden all but the final pinch up to the summit.

I had already made the decision pre-race to hit the singletrack on the way down so I took off for Northface et al to maximise the singletrack lulz. As I popped out in Karori I realised I didn't know any sneaky ways up Wrights, so took off for Wrights Hill Road. This is where a bit of pre-race knowledge would've come in handy as I found out almost everyone but me had taken the much shorter Landsdowne Tce route. Nonetheless I eventually checked off Wrights and took off along the fenceline for Hawkins.

I have been making a more concerted effort recently to sort out my nutrition for events, drawing on the collective knowledge of friends to try and arrange some sort of plan; a lot of long races I have done have seen me bonk through poor nutrition so I was keen to ameliorate this. I had been quite disciplined up until this point and knew that the drag up to Hawkins would be particularly taxing. As I was grinding up the road section I felt that familiar feeling of the stomach voicing its disapproval. I eased the effort off a bit and feared the worst, that soon my vision would become blurry, my arms heavy and my enthusiasm absent - then it would be bonk time and a certainly miserable trip home. I forced a little muesli bar and drink down and focussed on the summit. I knew that once I got up there I could rest a while and get some proper food down, to let it digest on the tip track descent. As I was panting and stuffing my face of Baked Oaty Slice I saw Ian and Miles approaching up the road, it seems Landsdowne Tce and my singletrack descent of Makara had successfully curtailed my advantage. I waited for them, using the opportunity to stock pile my stomach before we tore off down the Tip Track.

The descent was fairly average. It was fast, for sure, but also quite sketchy. I let Miles and Ian ride away from me a bit, figuring it safer not to risk smearing my face on the Tip Track for the sake of an extra 30secs. At the bottom my arms felt like they had been put through a washing machine. I banged left and up Happy Valley Rd and saw that Miles and Ian were only about 50m ahead of me, mint one. I seemed to be climbing pretty well so knew I would have them again by the top of Tawatawa. This little climb was great, I found the gradient... inoffensive on the SS. The only problem I was having, and it's the first I've ever experienced of this, is that my arms were cramping hard at the elbow whenever I tried to bend them; no doubt from ripping down the Tip Track like I had. This made climbing a bit of an ordeal, but I bet it was funny to watch.

At the top of here I figured if I wanted to beat these guys I would have to bugger off fairly quickly and take the singletrack option I knew down. This didn't really sit right with me though, especially when they said they didn't know how to get down, so I decided to just chill out a bit and show them the way down. It wasn't really in the spirit of the event to 'attack' at this stage of the day and race, I don't think. We tore down the tight track and negotiated the steep sections alongside the stairs, whooping and hollering away like idiots, before making our way toward Mt Albert. The gradient up here, save for the last pavement section, was fairly sedate and my legs were feeling good. I enjoyed spinning away up it and before I even knew it we were passing the 4X track and heading up the loose dirt road to the summit. From here we faced a bit of a dilemma, as none of us really knew a way down. We opted for the ridgeline track and figured we'd peel off down into Kilbirnie at an obvious point. This... sort of worked. We popped out on a roadway and had to ask a local the best way down.

As we cruised through the Kilbirnie township I knew I was about to say goodbye to these guys, and sure enough they clicked down a couple of gears and glided away from me along the flat waterfront stretch. This left me spinning away and sizing up my options for the final checkpoint, Mt Vic. I still had Crawford to get before then, of course, but the route for that was very simple. As I turned off toward Miramar I saw that Miles and Ian weren't that far ahead at all - excellent! I made the slow crank up the road, where all I could do was put my head down and spin away - trying not to focus on how much of the hill I had left to climb. By the prison I was feeling quite second-hand, so Miles gave me some lollies and Ian gave me some chocolate. This is exactly the kind of spirit and camaraderie that typified the event - and it was truly awesome. I managed a sort of sicko grin and snapped a quick pic. I informed the others I was going to get a headstart as they'd pull me in pretty quick anyway and took off down the hill at full speed. The descent was good fun, then it was along the waterfront again where they rode away from me and I was left to contemplate my route up Mt Vic.

In the end I chose to bang up Hinau Rd, onto the steep gravel road, and then up the spine to the summit. At the top I saw none other than the same two cheeky sods I'd been with since Hawkins Hill! We exchanged laughs at me relentlessly chasing them and they blasted off down the hill. I knew I wanted to take the off-road route down, being that I knew I wasn't going to win and wanted to have one last awesome descent before the grovel back up to Revolution. Exiting onto Majoribanks I began deliberating the best way home, up what might almost be called ‘the eleventh peak’. I decided to go up the guts of Dixon St and past Vic Uni. Heading up this short, sharp piece of road my hamstrings started to let me know what they thought of the thrashing I'd been giving them. I tried to stay seated which is no mean feat on that piece of road. From here, all the way past the Uni, through Kelburn and up to Northland I was fighting off cramp - smashing the last of my water in a vain attempt to alleviate the spasms. Cruising through Kelburn was awesome – I had a rough idea of the time it had taken me to get to this point and it had smashed my expectations. I had that weird resurgence of enthusiasm that is unique to the very end of an epic ride, where your legs find that extra pizzazz and you suddenly grow much better at blocking out the pain. Heck, it’s even enjoyable in a sick way! The end was near and as I hauled up toward the shop from the roundabout I passed T-Rex who yelled out some words of encouragement.

I arrived at Revolution 4hrs and 19minutes after I had left - good enough to nab 8th place and not as far behind Alex, in a winning time of 3hrs 36minutes, as I thought I would be. I had initially planned for < 5hrs, but adjusted that to < 4:30 at about Mt Albert so to knock it out in that time and manage a top-10 was just awesome. I was also super stoked for John Randal, a good friend of mine, who had managed to sneak into 3rd place, just 4minutes behind T-Rex; an outstanding effort from a guy who surely deserves a result like that.

Back at the shop it was time to tuck into beer and pizza and for everyone to share their tales of go and woe. It was a magical outing, and a format that I would only too readily sign up for again. Asher and his band of merry men had put on a nice wee spread for the exhausted riders to enjoy, and it was a damn fine way to cap off an epic ride!

9 Peaks

2011-10-11T12:00:00.001+13:00

► Revolution Bicycles

→ Tinakori Hill

→ Mt Kaukau

→ Johnston Hill

→ Makara Peak

→ Wrights Hill

→ Hawkins Hill

→ Tawatawa Ridge

→ Mt Albert

→ Mt Crawford

(Miles had just given me some lollies)

→ Mt Vic

→ Revolution Bicycles ■

Stuck Between a Rock and a Fast Place.

2011-10-05T08:00:00.013+13:00

Sunday 18 Sept saw the Mt Vic round of the local series; a round that I had been looking forward to and a round that, incidentally, was to spell my last hoorah in the fine Senior Men category.

The lap was excellent. Mt Vic is right on my back doorstep and so is usually the first port of call for any off-road riding I decide to do. The varied terrain keeps things interesting and an intimate knowledge of all the pinches and the trails' traps means I can bomb around there with mucho aplomb. The climbs are also nice and short and there is very little flat land so the course is well suited to the one-cog machines.

The bulk of the course's climbing was in the first 1/2 of the lap so I knew that, come race time, the positions would be sorted fairly quickly. I made it into the single track in 2nd place after a very spinny velodrome lap and had to immediately cool my jets while the congested group ascended the zig-zag. Once the course opened up into the wide gravel path to the summit I gave it a good stab to try and establish a gap. I managed to get an advantage and set myself up well for the single track down the hill, which was an absolute hoot. I exited muddy and grinning and hit the steep drag back up toward the top, steep enough to be uncomfortable but punctuated by flat sections that provided a little respite. Toward the end of the lap the course doubled back, allowing for a view of some 2mins behind - when I'd gone clear by this stage I focussed on holding a steady effort that would be sustainable over 2 more laps. It was nice being out the front of a race, and not having that carrot to chase meant that I was relaxed and really relished all the technical sections.

In the end I had established a fairly convincing lead and spent the remaining 2 laps sliding round and falling down wee banks, maintaining the pole position. Throughout the race I had venerable old-hats Waggers and Hiskey keeping me honest, so was able to enjoy a good battle with them - Waggers in particular was chomping big ol' chunks of time out of me on the slick descents. Ultimately, however, I came away with the feeling that I had perhaps outgrown my Senior Men shoes. This left me with somewhat of a dilemma, as the only step up from here is into the Open Men contingent, an undersized and fairly rapid outfit. This category suffers from a lack of numbers; whether it's the goading nature of age group medals or the exceedingly reverent title of 'Pro/Elite' (one that I refuse to endorse), something keeps the people out of it. It would be nice to have more bums to flesh out this group, even just enough to make a top-10 actually mean something. The move up required some rumination on my part. I like to be competitive and didn't really imagine much fun would come about from bidding the leaders farewell on the first climb and then solo'ing for 2.5 hrs. In the end I looked to why I race in the first place: I enjoy it because it is challenging and because it gives me a measure of my improvement as a rider. I enjoy the atmosphere, the camaraderie and the sicko satisfaction of pushing oneself into the red for ~2hrs. On balance, the step up was a no brainer. Even though I may get put through the ringer to begin with, I have no doubt that it holds valuable lessons for me. Plus the extra distance, really, is just more bang for buck.

Bring on Round 3 at Makara, I say.

Cheers to Trent Bellingham for the fine snaps.

Pause For Reflection.

2011-09-17T10:00:00.000+12:00

Riding represents a freedom, an escape. The job I’m in at the moment is quite interesting, yet mostly frustrating due to staff shortage and a high turnover rate. The reprieve, I guess, is that it is temporary – I know I have some great adventures planned for next year. But this fucking office; with its shitty little radio recycling the same 3hr playlist of god awful music – as if the DJs get to the end of the list, panic and hurriedly hit the reset button with a sigh of relief... every day. At least I don’t have their job; I’d probably shoot myself if I was responsible for that. The office, it does get me down at times.

This is 40hrs a week for me at the moment; I guess we all have to do undesirable things on the path to where we want to be, if only for a short period. I find it difficult to fit decent rides in around this situation even in the best weather, but winter has been unusually obliging this year. I am grateful to the bike as it gives me a chance to empty my head of all the stresses, loose ends, tired repetitions and tasks of the day. Getting out and hammering away for a little while loosens up the soul.

I wonder how people can do this day-in, day-out for most of their lives, as I’m sure I’m not alone in experiencing this sort of working climate. The fluorescent lighting, the forced social interaction, the manifest lack of agreement in philosophy and of course the damn people in the office who would rather email you than walk over and have a conversation... But heck, maybe you fit right in? Maybe you love the intra-office banter, the stodgy morning teas and the awkward blurring of social boundaries. It's not for me, I’m afraid.

And so I get on my bike and ride. Away from these walls and away from that fucking ‘urgent’ stamp. Away from the tasks, the meetings and the post-it notes. Away from stress and away from repetition... into bliss. If I didn’t have such a magical outlet for the pent up rigors of the working day I think I would get sucked into some sort of horrific vacuum. I would start laughing at the atrocious, trite jokes that get thrown about and start adding all my co-workers on facebook so that I could engage in work related banter outside of office hours. This would metastasise into regular Friday night drinks, rosy cheeks and lurid comments touted with a flick of the wrist and a yellow grin.

Perhaps I’m being cynical.

Either way, the point I’m driving at is that it’s an unreal world out there on the bici. Getting out and amongst the landscape, blood pumping and sweat pouring - my mind focuses on the stretch ahead and I let myself get carried away. Dip and dive around the trails; labour away up a long, steep hill; tumble down a bank; throw a skid in there for good measure and forget that any other place exists.

Aces.

A Good Ribbing.

2011-08-25T19:46:00.000+12:00

After a week of irregular snowfall in Wellington it was about bloody time some sun presented itself. This weekend turned out to be a cracker and a couple of neat events on Sat/Sun saw me keen to give my legs a bit of a shakedown in what has been a relatively low-key winter.

Saturday

Today saw another installment of the popular Balfour Pennington handicap series, ably co-ordinated by Tristan and his White n Red cronies. Lately I've grown quite a distaste for the handicap road racing ethos; more often than not it seems a good opportunity for old hacks to sandbag themselves down a grade or two and then tack on to the faster bunches as they blow past, resulting in an unsurprising points win. The Wheelworks guys have turned out a good format, however, and enforce grade shifts for those who are blatantly in the wrong group - nice to see.

What I like to do is put myself in an ambitious grade and see how long I can hang on for, she's a damn good workout. This saw me placed in Cat 1 Break which, on a hilly circuit, may not be an outrageous category. Today's course was dead pan flat until the very end where it finished up by the Mt. Crawford prison. The plan? Hang on for grim death until the end and hope I had some legs left for the hill.

Our bunch was vaguely organised. There were the usual colour co-ordinated goons barking demands and yelling weird quasi-erotic phrases at the rest of us.. what the hell is a 'pull-through' anyway? I tried my best to block them out and focus on not letting wee gaps open up on the wheels in front of me. The thing about road riding is that once you let a wee gap open up you're pretty much gone, it is definitely a better idea to bury yourself to hold the wheel than to wait till you've got to bridge 10m or so into the wind.

Surprisingly, I actually managed to put my nose out in that wind! They may have been limp and inconsequential turns on the front but I figured it was better than hiding my ass in the bunch and then perking up at the finish; there's no honour in that sort of behaviour. I find flat courses fairly hard work for one reason or another so when we hit the turnaround and I was feeling less-than-dead I was pretty stoked.

We got caught by Scratch probably a km out from the base of the hill, which served to make things interesting. In the madness of great big bunches swamping a thin road a couple of guys ran into the cones directing us around the corner. This resulted in me hitting the anchors and scrubbing off any usable speed before the climb, great...

Crawford was a shithouse gradient. I was feeling pretty flat at the beginning and it took me a good while to get the fire stoked. Having a big field spread out in front helped though and I was able to pick my way through the hordes spanning the road. I couldn't tell where I ended up but I'd definitely given the old shanks a good thrashing, which is always a win. Apparently there was a photographer halfway up, I certainly didn't notice him...

Sunday

Sunday was yet another beautiful morning with yet another fun event pencilled in. Round 6/8 of the Crosstafarian's Cyclocross Series was sure to be a good old time. I had done Round 5 on my Yeti and found that I lacked the gonads to give it a true thrashing, something about Ultegra and repair bills had plagued my mind I suspect. This time I was given the opportunity to try my friend Owen's SS CX bike. I'm what you might describe as a single speed advocate and was keen as a bean to give it a good hoon, plus it only owed him $500 so I had no qualms about putting it through its paces...

The course was, as usual, quite horrific; I thought the placement of hurdles right before the banks was particularly objectionable. We had some sort of oddball start involving press-ups and sit-ups; I took this opportunity to blatantly cheat and secured myself a handy 30m lead which I surrendered shortly after the first corner. Not particularly keen to blow a valve in the opening stages of the race I focussed on getting into a good rhythm and let the race leaders move away (a 'good rhythm' in cyclocross involves tapping into that vomit-inducing threshold, dialling it back just a little and trying to hold it there).

Essentially these races are everything I'm not so good at: flat power, rapid dismounts & bike-handling skills - therefore they must be good for me. I had a great time looping around the course and driving the pace into the corners a little more each time. I think a couple of flat out laps before the race would be quite advantageous as I didn't really get cooking until a good while in. What also helps is having loads of people in front of you to pick off, it means you never get a chance to relax and can keep your finger just there on the puke button. Lovely.

The race was largely a haze of pain and trying to catch the people that were so tantalisingly close. I learnt a couple of things about cross during this race - 1) It's fucking hard to close gaps and; 2) You can haemorrhage time if you bumble even the smallest sections: I had just worked exceedingly hard to bridge a gap to a dude on a MTB when we hit the difficult off-camber switchback, which commanded more skillz than I had to offer, a small slip n unclip and bang - 20m had opened up, the same gap I'd just spent 10mins trying to close. When I knew there were only 3 laps to go (there had to be, surely) I dug deeper than I knew I could to storm past him. I got him a couple of sections before the line and managed to pull away to the finish.

I hadn't won the race, but I was still chuffed with the effort. Overall, it was a pretty choice weekend. I was glad to have backed up two pretty decent efforts and I felt like I had earned my delicious chicken burger on the way home. My lady had also enjoyed watching the cross race and is keen to give one a run herself which is pretty neat. I'd also introduced my friend Rebecca to her first taste of it which was, at least retrospectively, a good time according to her. I think if you get a chance to have a hoon at a cyclocross event you should definitely take it up. Mike's series has just 2 races left, they're relaxed, well organised and always a fun course. If the past two events are anything to go by he'll certainly have something up his sleeve for the grand finale. Be there!

How To Get Good At Single Speeding.

2011-07-25T00:00:00.001+12:00

Mountain biking can be a confusing and difficult time in one's life. There are a multitude of options out there for the discerning consumer and even more armchair opinions on the relative merits of each system. Since single speeding seems to be gathering momentum in the mtb sphere these days I thought I would impart some of my vast wisdom for those looking to take up the discipline.

Lesson 1 - Wide bars. Unless you've got slight, girly shoulders you'll need a good set of wide bars. They should be flat. I could chew your ear off about leverage and control and all that guff but the real reason you need them is that a set of 700mm + flat bars up the front of a hardtail just looks tough. Single speeding is all about looking tough.

Lesson 2 - The beers. Drinking them.

Lesson 3 - Core strength. You will need some. If you've ever seen someone at the end of a hard race and they're looking pretty buggered you'll notice they also exhibit symptoms of 'stem hump syndrome'. Unless you want to look like you're trying to violate your lush, wide bars each time you get on the rig you might wanna go ahead and nip this one in the bud. Which brings us to...

Lesson 4 - The babes; single speeders pretty much single handedly deplete the stocks of fine looking women at races. This is due to regular XC riders having the kind of physique that elicits disappointment in the throes of passion, and also due to single speeders generally having buff, lusty torsos (see above).

Lesson 5 - You love hills. You LOVE them. Whenever you get on your bike you head straight for them. You revel in them. They sear your lungs, they make you cough, they strain your neck and make you teeter like some sort of idiot but you just can't fucking get enough of them. The bigger the better. Find a nice steep one that cripples your cadence. Grind up that sucker until you can feel the sweat drip down your lush torso onto your wide bars. Just you wait until the next race, them honeys be all over you!

Lesson 6 - No course is unsuitable. It is your goal to hunt down geared riders. You'll get smashed in on the flats but when you're launching up that climb, grinding the cranks past old mate who's just clicked into his 36, you'll smoke past making him feel like the limp-wristed sucker he truly is. A babe will catch a look at your ham steaks glistening in the sun and all but pounce on you as you glide by. Old mate can only watch in dismay as you carve the shit out of the trail in front of him, running away with the glory and the carnal spoils of the after-match function. You're a beast!

Lesson 7 - Get used to life on the fringe; most people won't understand you. For them it's like watching an eagle soar through the skies, it looks so free and powerful yet so unattainable. All you can do is regale them with comments like 'oh yeah, wasn't too bad on the SS today' while they stand there, mouth-agape, wondering just how you got that smoking hot babe to hang off your arm like that. All you can do is relish the fringe lifestyle. The more outrageous and off-kilter you can be, the better. It'll reinforce the fact that you're not just another mug with a chamois hidden beneath your 'casual' mtb pants.

Lesson 8 - Forget about results. Look, there's going to be a ton of goobers on the finish line who didn't win. Most of them will have turned up and paid too much money to race on trails that they would've been riding that weekend anyway, so there's more than enough bums to pad out the 'meh' contingent. Don't be one of those guys. Use the opportunity to see how many geared riders you can swallow up. Ride your ass off and whether you roll in in 1st or 16th you'll have made something out of the circumstances. Besides, you'll always have the classic excuse of 'yeah, but you had gears' to throw at any naysayer.

Lesson 9 - Enjoy it.

Single speeding will make your life better. You'll save oodles of dinero on the drivetrains you don't have to replace, leaving you with more funds to wine and dine those foxy mamas you've just picked up at prizegiving. See if you can expand single speeding into other realms. It doesn't work so good in road racing, generally local road races avoid climbs like the plague so it's all about seeing how good you are at sitting on someone's wheel for 2hrs. Not to mention, since you're of the mtb persuasion, you will largely be met with derision and contempt because you don't have the latest PowerGate Wireless Tachycardic Sphincter-Regulated Performance Cycling Unit, and because your lycra doesn't match your bar tape. Road racing, these days, is a discipline best avoided. Cyclocross, on the other hand, is pretty much built for you. If you so much as utter the words 'single speed cyclocross bike' at a mtb event you'll send shivers down the spines of the nubile young spectator laydeez.

Say it with me now... 'single speed'.... shit yeah.

Lynskey Does Roadworks.

2011-06-12T19:03:00.000+12:00

Well I thought it prudent to turn the wheels of this blog a little as it has fallen by the wayside of recent. To keep it fresh I thought I'd do it in the styling of my good friend Oli's blog, whose fresh and (as is the biggest challenge) regular blog entries are some of the finest cycling related reading I've stumbled across. Call this one the blogger's encomium, if you will...

With the onset of these frigid months I needed a little something to alleviate the sharp southerly on my rides - thankfully my friend's mother is on a bit of a knitting spree at the moment and was kind enough to knock me up these woollen Yeti-themed arm warmers. Made of a baby cashmerino blend they are super comfortable and toasty indeed...

I also swung by my friend Jonty's shop Revolution Bicycles, whose logo features above, for a short black and a bit of a chinwag. He happened to have a customer who'd donated him a fantastic pair of purple road shoes that just happened to be a size 47 so Jonty kindly donated them to accompany my always snazzy cycling wardrobe...

I also recently acquired and restored a fine Healing Loline. I got it into a nice, rideable state but it really was just too small for me so I have since moved it on. It's not often that you wish you were shorter, but it would make a sweet commuter...

With a bit of time up my belt one weekend, as I so often do when given the chance, I stole out the door for a sifty lap of The Bays in the ambivalent autumn weather...

The noble steed catches her breath against an opportune post. Note the Bluebridge lurching lazily through Wellington harbour's icy expanse in the aft.

The venerable bici atop a fine wooden bench, admiring the view journeyward. Mother Nature's temperament is nowhere more palpable than in Wellington on a late autumn's day, a stale blue sky sits loftily above a set of rolling, moody clouds.

I like to climb to new vantage points. Due to the onset of my Terrible Tonsillitis (TT) my effort was truncated to the point where this shot was taken. This looks out toward the hallowed Somes Island, where many a pesky ne'er-do-well has been quietly withdrawn from the city's shores and 'diplomatically dispatched' in the name of the institution. A practice all but halted since The Great Reform...

A lovely couple pause briefly while their dog heaves a great shit onto the sands of Lyall Bay. Shortly after this shot was taken a runner would plow a brand new trainer straight through the beast's feculence causing heightened bloods and aggravated mouth tones. If you cast your vision beyond the breaking waves you can just make out a pod of 'long seals' waiting for the tide to roll them toward the shore. Even further on the horizon you can glimpse the wonderful danse of daylight and sunset beginning their first embrace.

Some 10,000kms away a volcano spews ash into the sky, raining pumice stones on those who flee from its wrath, leaving their lives and pets behind. Because this is too far removed from out trim flat whites and individual sushi serves we stroll down to the beach to catch a view of the 'awesome sunset' - we marvel at its beauty and then cast our minds back to our daily micro-concerns.

On my first attempt I captured this excellent self-shot of me tearing through the township of Island Bay. The shirt was once worn by Akmal Mohammed in the 1992 Tour de Iraq before he was captured and beheaded for presenting feminine dress colours in public. I seamlessly fuse the MTB styling of the peaked helmet with roadie styling of blatantly gay attire. Smooth.

Since I was of a jovial disposition I thought I would treat you all to a crotch-shot as well. This masterful display of dynamic photography is perhaps only eclipsed by my beastly quads threatening to delaminate the fine 1982-84 Dura Ace cranks I'm rolling. Just off to the right you can spy the church that I retired behind with a young lass for my very first 'smelly finger date'. The astute observer will note i'm committing the grave faux pas of unshaven legs - I will no doubt be ostracized and suitably debased by my carbon-wielding peers for this on the next Sunday bunch ride.

To be truthful, I haven't really been out on the bike much recently. A surgical consult resulted in the recommendation of a tonsillectomy - a relatively uncommon procedure these days; I think nowadays they prefer them to fester to the point of scarring before they take much action. As I have had somewhat of a 'chronic' tonsillitis since March my mood had worn well thin - so with the agreement of Mr. Knifey-hands, they were set to come out. This procedure is a breeze, surgically, but the recovery was a pretty unpleasant 10 days. Being on the mend, I'm looking forward to getting out on the bike when I can and I'm certainly looking forward to being able to give it a bit of juice or, heaven allow, enter a race without falling sick afterward.

So, to better days! And as always thanks for reading!

Hot Date @ Pencarrow.

2011-05-28T20:36:00.000+12:00

Well the weather today in Welly town was absolutely stunning. Stunning enough to get my girl out on her bike, even. After speculating on what would make a nice jaunt on this crisp Wintry day I suggested Pencarrow. After finding out she'd never actually been to Pencarrow I first exclaimed my incredulity, then made her feel suitably guilty, before finally admitting that I'd never actually ridden it either. So...we saddled up her mint rigid SS 29er and my "long-time-happy-fun-yay-adventure-steed" and drove round to Days Bay to go for a wee tootle in the sunshine...

Pencarrow is a great destination for those less 'shredtastic' riders - it's pretty much a 10km trip that looks like this but it offers a beautiful perspective on Wellington's south coast & its surrounding skylines. I was quite taken by the rocks.

There's also a lighthouse out there. It's okay.

Romance was abounding.

As were shenanigans.

Jovi lights up the tarmac.

And I try my hand at an Oli-esque gratuitous self-riding shot.

It was lovely, actually. It's nice to get out on a bike and cruise around in the sun with that special someone. Afterwards we smashed some food then it was off home for a nice home made espresso. I then all but guaranteed myself a leg over with this smooth display of coffee art wheedling...

Mint one.

Cuttin' Laps.

2011-05-25T20:37:00.001+12:00

Underestimate a 6hr race at your peril!

Actually, now that I put that in writing it looks a tad obvious...

Hmmm.

I digress.

The Weekend of the 22 May saw the second edition of the Wainuiomata Winter Weekender, a sweet 6hr race amongst the ever-developing Wainui trail network. I was lined up in the solo single speed category so I had guaranteed myself a decent amount of hard work for the day but the sun was shining, spirits were high and I was looking forward to shaking the Wainui monkey off my back.

The Winter Weekender was my sort of race. Put on by riders, for riders, it promised a good cheap day of lulz. There were some fairly rapid guys on the start line but none were taking themselves too seriously. The entry fee worked out at about $5.80/hr - about par with a Burger King employee's wage in 2003, as it happens - so if nothing else we were sure to get our money's worth. Wainui is, for the most part, a fairly uninspiring suburb. It seems an odd place for a trail network but that's sort of the beauty of it. The trails are tirelessly maintained by the locals and when you point your front wheel down the dirt you quickly get the feeling that these guys love building. The tracks are outstanding - and I think it's a true credit to all the hard work of the WTP. Chapeau, gents!

Going on from that point, with a wealth of good singletrack around I thought they designed a pretty neat course too. My personal experience of the course was that the main climb was long enough, I was quite happy it didn't take in Labyrinth as well by Hour 4, the small climb out the back was a nasty sort of a gradient which kept you honest and there was just enough technical stuff to keep it interesting without threatening to maim you once you began to tire. To tie all these elements off there was a good dose of the smooth flowy stuff - just magic. So, with a brief outlay of my thoughts on the event/course I'll give you a quick blow-by-blow of my 6hr experience.

Hours 1-2: Orientation. The first hour for me was learning the lines. It was about 2 laps worth so the mistakes I made first time round were able to be sussed out the next lap. Looking down the barrel of 12 or so laps I thought I might get quite bored out on the track but trying new lines and working on railing the tech stuff helps to keep it fresh.

Photo Cred - Jono Baddiley

Hours 2-3: Ramping up the pace. I'd gotten into a nice groove after the first hour so was trying to keep a decent pace up. At this stage I was generally enjoying the atmosphere and trying to maximize the grin-factor on each of the descents. At one stage I was chasing Davo and I didn't notice him hit the step-up in the event village, mainly because I didn't know it was there, so next thing I knew I was in mid-air. Luckily it was all over before I had time to panic and just like that I'd hit a jump - perhaps not the most orthodox way to learn how to huck but there ya go.

Hours 3-4: Rhythm time. This hour for me was all about consistency. I tried to keep the pace nice and even. I'm actually pretty bloody inexperienced at long races so I'm not sure about the efforts I can hold but I was pretty sure that I could manage the last 2-3hrs at the rate I was going. It was just after the 3hr mark that I saw Dick Fitzwell storming up behind me - "Jesus, I'm getting lapped already?!" - He cruised past and exchanged some pleasantries, he looked like he was out for a Sunday cruise to be frank. So, having been utterly outclassed, I figured I might as well just focus on the good times.

Photo Cred - Helen Brumby

Hours 4-5: The cracks began to show. In this zone I was beginning to get pretty worn out. I don't think my pace was beyond my limit but I think something must have gone wrong with my nutrition. Granted I haven't really experimented with it much and certainly don't do much riding of this distance to work out what's really good. Either way I was starting to make some small errors that almost had big consequences. It's strange when you get tired like this as you feel it in your whole body - descending becomes a decidedly bigger task and you start to realize how much effort you put in even when going downhill. The fun times were becoming a bit thin on the ground by this stage but I knew the end wasn't too far away.

Hours 5-6: Awful. I'd become quite sick to the stomach by now and it was all I could do to keep the vomit down. Uphills were shit. Downhills rattled my guts so they were shit too. I was perched on top of my bike like some dogged old vagrant, grimacing and labouring on the pedals. I think the time differential between one of these laps and my quickest was about 8mins, an astronomical margin in the scheme of sub-30min laps. The last lap especially was quite horrible, I don't believe I've ever been so close to getting off a bike and just laying down. At one point a thick surge of spew presented itself at the back of my throat and as I choked it back down I wondered "what the fuck am I doing out here?" I got there in the end and stumbled off my bike, walking in circles and holding my stomach. It took a good dose of being horizontal before I felt better and, to be honest, I couldn't have been more thankful to not be riding any longer.

Photo Cred - Jono Baddiley

My overall thoughts are positive. Though it turned to shit a bit by the end I know that this was my own doing, so I can't really feel sorry for myself. My bike performed almost flawlessly; the only gripe I had was that the screech of the metallic pads became a bit tiresome, but that ain't much of a complaint.

I took a lot of lessons away from the race and I certainly got an idea of the calibre of riders that I was lined up against - there ain't nothing like 6hrs in the saddle to put that one in perspective for you. The strength of riders really shines through in races like this, you simply can't bluff your way through them. Though it caters to a different rider than a shorter XC race you certainly have to be strong to do well. The lap is the same each time round but it becomes a strange sort of device; it's heavily influenced by the shifting contexts of the race - how you feel, who you're racing, how far from the finish you are and your relative strengths as a rider. Some sections you're attacking, some you're surviving, and I think it's fascinating in that sense. Big props to the solo riders who hammered out consistent lap times, I think that's a big achievement in itself - let alone them being fast laps too. It was also impressive to watch the teams riders duke it out - some of the riders absolutely flew past me. If nothing else, the spectacle of Alex Revell ripping past me muttering "Yeaaaah give it assholes mate" was a welcome laugh in a pretty dark time.

I think, in the end, I'd certainly do another 6hr solo, but probably not if it was next weekend. Does that sum it up?

I hope so.

Photo Cred - Pete Marshall

Race Bookface Page

Push Out The Jive, Bring In The Love.

2011-05-16T14:10:00.000+12:00

2 years. Not a bad run for a cheap bicycle I reckon.

I bought my first 'real mountain bike' in February 2009 - a spanking new 2009 GT Peace SS. Man I was chuffed with it. In hindsight it was one of the less refined options I could have opted for but at the time that mattered little; I was enthusiastic, passionate and it was a step in the right direction.

Over the ensuing 2 years we had some damn fine times. It saw me enter a whole host of races - some being downright unsuitable for a single speed, some being quite well matched. What it provided me with was a building block. Not once in the time owning it have I lamented a lack of gears, or lusted after a full-suspension. I can't say if the choice of bicycle shaped my outlook on riding or the other way around but I've had the privilege of riding some different options out there and none yet have convinced me to stray.

It's a relationship, owning a bicycle. There're attachment issues, arguments, frustrations, dizzying highs and terrible lows. At times I despised my bike, and at other times I couldn't have wished for anything more - sometimes within the same ride. They say that the 2 year mark is the make-or-break in relationships proper, I'm sure plenty out there can attest to hitting that magic time and getting a wee itch - I'm going to suggest it's the same for bikes. The difference, however, is that it's seldom that somebody could come along at the start of a relationship and say with certainty that it wasn't going to work out. Me and my bike, we were one of those rare occasions.

You see, the man in the shop, so eager to push a shiny new bike out the door and plump up his daily profits, sold me a bicycle that was fundamentally too small for me. I didn't know at the time, and I wouldn't know for some time more, but it was in the post from that day forth. Over the next year I personalized the bike, and with each small adjustment the geometry became just a little more strained. By the end the seatpost was sky-high, the seat as far back as it would go, the stem flipped upside down, the travel set too long and I was considering moving to a >100mm stem. I was trying to make the frame do things it just shouldn't have been doing.

It wasn't until I swung a pin over my friend's GT Peace, in large size, that I realized something was afoot. And from that day forth the seed was sown. In addition to the frame being destined for redundancy, I had also trashed almost all the stock components. The only original parts on the bike come 2011 were the frame and the stem (which was a recall that I hadn't got round to sending back). I decided to give the bike one last hoorah in the form of the Karapoti Classic - so at the end of it all at least we went out with a bang.

Shortly thereafter a striking opportunity found its way into my crosshairs - a chance to own a beautiful titanium 29er frame built by none other than my namesake Lynskey Performance in the USA. I toiled over the decision and in the end, as we all do, propped up enough flimsy justification for the purchase to withdraw the dollars. Boom. Done.

How does it compare? Simply put, it doesn't. It's not fair to compare the GT to the Lynskey as they are, at heart, different bikes. But what I can tell you is that the new bike is a hell of a ride. The first ride I took on it was on unfamiliar terrain so I couldn't really push it but I did note that I was already cornering with a bit more certainty and was able to really drive the speed up into the slippery stuff. After some further 'testing' on home soil I can safely say that the bike is fucking frantic. On the rare occasions that my muppetry hasn't overly inhibited the potential of the bike I have found myself just hooning along, travelling at marvelous speeds, irresponsible speeds! The bike feels lush; I sit within the cockpit as opposed to perched on top and when I lean it into a corner I don't pucker my shvunkenshtook - instead I plaster on a grin. On fast descents it's silky smooth and when I point it uphill and give it a bit of the old 'Dave Aldred' it flies up the climbs.

So the outlook is choice. I've got something like 8 months left in the country which should be plenty to get to know the bike better. Taking a step back from it I've realised that it's actually a pretty bling ride. My piecemeal approach of replacing broken parts with something reliable and quality has paid off. One thing's for sure, there're good times ahead...

Spec List:

2009 Lynskey PRO29 Ti frame & Reba Race fork

Thomson Elite stem & post

Truvativ Stylo SS bars (700mm)

Raceface Deus headset

XT brakeset

Charge Spoon saddle

SLX cranks & XTR pedals

33/20 Surly rings & SRAM 8 spd chain

Oli-built 29er hoops (ZTR Flow, DT swiss, Pro II)

Ignitor front/modified Crossmark rear (tubeless)

Trek batcage

23.5lbs before breakfast

Photo credit: Alan Ofsoski

SS Champs '11

2011-04-27T20:24:00.000+12:00

Easter weekend:

Friday afternoon was a relaxed start to what was sure to be a fun weekend away. I found myself in the back of a van barrelling up the Wairarapa and admiring the beautiful rolling countryside stretching out beyond the windows. For company I had Private Waggers, XC old-hat and arch-nemesis of Davo ‘snakes alive’ Aldred; and former childhood-model Tony Keith, now more famous for getting drunk at BBQs and slurring people’s ears off about how he used to be ‘the rice bubbles kid’.

The trip up was largely uneventful save for bending over in Dannevirke so that the bakery owners could administer a sturdy reaming in the form of an $8.30 sandwich and punnet of shit chips. A few hours and a couple of photo ops later we arrived at the Speights Ale House for a race (read: lager) debrief. Myself and Waggers partook in a fine Pilsner and bowl of wedges whilst Tony abstained from any of the old ‘drinky drinky’ - his limp excuse of having made a promise to himself to not drink alcohol for a month was about as watertight as gnbuys’ chivalry statz. After a suitable amount of smack-talking we retired to the campground to shoot the breeze with other holiday goers and speculate about the weekend ahead. Sleeping arrangements were somewhat makeshift – myself and Tony cuddled up in the back of the van on some dubious old mattresses and Waggers pitched a tent in the grass.

--------

Saturday morning saw us wake to the unmistakable smell of two men in a confined space. When we escaped the van and went to rouse Waggers we found but an empty tent, the man had vanished. We figured that we had a bit of time before the event kicked off so, being within about 1km of the forest, headed off to check out a bit of the race course. Lo and behold, when we got to the stream before the forest we found a sheepish Jonny Waghorn making has way back across – turns out the sly old dog had tried to sneak in a quick reccy lap before we woke up! We have a bit of an ongoing bet, Private Waggers and I, that spurred from a drunken night at Keith mansion where I bet him a lemon cake that I’d show him how it was done at the Grand Loop Challenge the following day – needless to say my riding didn’t quite keep up with my mouth. SS champs was to be the best of 3 decider, me having done one over on him at Karapoti in March, and the shame of donning an apron and whipping up a moist one was clearly too much to keep Waggers from scoping out the course. Me and Tigs had a hoot swooping around the Eskdale trails. Last time I had been out here I was in sneakers with flat plastic pedals so being able to hit the trails a bit harder was a welcome experience. [For Wellington riders, several peeps I know have compared the forest to Mt Vic but a bit less severe gradient-wise, it really is a great trail network and worth checking out.]

After breakfast we headed to the race start and went about our preparations. When we gathered for the race briefing we had just been told that to gain access to our bikes, and to begin racing, we first had to find an easter egg in the long grass and scoff it, handing the marshall the empty wrapper. We were standing around wondering what to make of that when she called out ‘Alright...go!’ – I think there were probably few people who weren’t surprised by this and I have to say I thought it was a great way to start the race. Countdowns are shit.

I managed to smash my easter egg in great time but made a complete hash of the next bit. I noticed that they had scattered a few bikes around and I couldn’t spot mine where I’d left it so went about looking for it – I must’ve wasted a couple of minutes before realising that they hadn’t touched mine at all. I came out near the back and spent almost the whole first lap trying to make my way past people. Settling into the second lap I started to feel a bit better so squeezed the throttle. My granny knickers, however, had slipped down my legs and were bungey-ing me back into the saddle whenever I tried to stand. Stopping to remove these lost me another few places that took a good long while to make back. The beer shortcut was a no-brainer on this course as it cut out a substantial section of track and, being Hawke’s Bay, they had a lovely selection of wines for the discerning racer. Coming into the bottom section of the second lap I noticed someone tailing me quite closely, I snuck a look back to see bloody Waghorn had caught me! He settled in behind me and I tried to keep the pace reasonable so that he couldn’t come inside me.

During the third lap I managed to get a small gap on him in the uphills but he ate that back up any time the trail pointed downward. On the trip up he had told us about how he was the course sweeper at a Downhill race out at Mount Climie back in the early 30’s and had posted a time, whilst sweeping, that netted him 3^rd place overall! This was quite apparent as I blundered my way through the downhills and surrendered all the advantage I had roped out in the preceding climbs. We hit the 4^th lap very close together and I thought ‘right, bugger it, I have to get rid of him properly’ – I gave it a bit of ‘the beans’ and managed to start pulling away from him. On the main 4WD road out the back I focussed on keeping the tempo up and capitalizing on whatever gap I had produced, after all there was a substantial descending section coming up and to a more skilled rider this could work out as easy time.

Toward the end of the lap I couldn’t see the old boy behind me and, dreaming of lemon cake, decided to crank it up for the last 300 or so metres. I was throwing the bike side-to-side and managed to bounce the chain off. Figuring it would be quicker I dismounted and ran across the finish line to clock 2:07, good enough for 14^th overall. I’m not sure what my expectations were going into the race but at that point it meant little – I was happy enough with the placing and had had a great time out on the course. The crew had laid out an excellent course; there was nothing too butt-clenchingly technical but there were definitely sections where you needed to keep your wits about you. Whilst there were no massive climbs, there was also bugger all flat which made for hard work come the 3rd & 4th laps, I found. By the end of the race I had sussed out some good lines and learnt to stay off the brakes a bit more which made for some grin-inducing descents. Post-finish it was time to debrief at Worlds Tatberg’s car over a few cold brews. They went down a treat, cheers G!

Once we had cleaned ourselves up the hunger pangs had well and truly taken hold and we made the executive decision to venture Napier-ward for a killer kebab. We met up with old mate Holden McGroin and his wife and talked about the day’s events. After this we made our way back to the Speights Ale House for the prize-giving and the feature event of the weekend, the afterparty. It was awesome to take in the stories of the day and spend a night cutting a bit loose with some good pals. I was very proud of my mates’ results – I think that between them they had well and truly done the Wellington contingent proud. After mincing around the nightclubs, dancing poorly, succumbing to the dark temptations of McDonald’s and hooning round the streets on our bicycles it was about time to find another place to park up for the night.

--------

We woke in the morning and prepared for the journey home. For all concerned the priority was hydration and the small bottle of water we found rolling around in the back of the van was like a godsend. After yet another trip to McDonald’s for something greasy to wash away the night’s sins we were ready to hit the road. A brief stop in Palmy for some Serbian burgers and a petrol stop for more caffeine was about all we needed to get us back safe n sound.

When I retired that evening I reflected on the weekend that had been. It was an awesome time. There’s something just downright fun about trekking round with mates and I think the event was merely an excuse to get out and get amongst it. There is something to be said about a van full of men getting excited and road-tripping and I think it’s pretty damn cool that we partake in a sport that gives us regular opportunities to do this. It has capped off a big season of biking and my first proper ‘race season’ I guess. As such, from here on out and over Winter I am definitely going to chill out a bit on the event front and get my hibernation on – hopefully when Spring rolls round I’ll be well ready to get that goofy grin going again and plan another epic trip away.

Good times.

Photo Credit: Candice Coetzee

This one needs no words...

2011-04-04T12:40:00.001+12:00

How To Entice Females.

2011-04-02T10:33:00.000+13:00

One of the best aspects of being part of a wider mountain biking community I’ve found has been getting people involved and excited about the sport. Throughout my short years participating I’ve been lucky enough to introduce a few pals and my significant other to the wonders of swooping and flowing singletrack. Getting [male] mates into the sport is easy - all you need is a spare bike and an afternoon to take them out for a bit of a hoon on a beginner/intermediate loop at Makara or similar. Getting a significant other excited about heading out on the bike? That’s a bit more difficult.

At this point I must proceed with caution. When a man ventures into the dark realms of differentiating male and female responses to situations he walks a knife-edge. Nevertheless, what I have observed is that women and men take very different approaches to learning a sport such as mountain biking. While I have observed males to be mostly keen to dive on in and have a red hot go at riding challenging sections of trail, I have generally found women to be a tad more hesitant. It seems to me that women like to take a sort of a ‘building-block’ approach; being that they like to establish their skillset and tackle a new section knowing that most of it is achievable. While this is no doubt a better approach in self-preservation terms it does tend to lend itself to misunderstanding when we implore our darling partners to “just give it a go”. Of course if your lady is happy to have a steam at most anything, you should simply go ahead and pad her up and send her down some hairy track. But if you’re in the same boat as me and you too have found yourself standing at the head of a bit of ‘the gnar’ while your lady is giving you yet another exasperated look, you might benefit from a few lessons I’ve learned.

Firstly, you would do well to forget almost everything that you recall about learning to tackle the harder trails. Even if you can impart your experiences to her, chances are the way she views her situation and how she should progress will make it a bit of a pointless exercise. The way that I achieved a turnaround in the harmony of these little outings is by taking onboard my lady’s concerns and trying to adapt to what she thought would help her progress. For me this meant finding a nice grass slope with a gradient that got steeper the further you travelled along it, i.e. riding down the LHS was quite shallow, riding down the RHS was steeper. This meant she could start at one end and slowly work her way down as she gained confidence.

Following on from this, try and break the challenges of a trail up. It’s often hard to put ourselves back into beginner’s shoes and properly comprehend how daunting even intermediate trails can be. On a track like Sally Alley at Makara Peak you’ve got roots & rocks to bump you off line; cliff-edges to fall off; trees & shrubs to snag your bars; ruts to fall into; switchbacks, bridges & pinches to make a hash of; not to mention slippery descents, blind corners & tight track! Now imagine if you found each one of these individually challenging, the battle truly is mostly won by getting out on the trail at all! So one of the best things you can do is find small sections of track that represent one or two of these challenges and let your lovely lady practise them until she feels comfortable. What I found is that once we did this she found a confidence that was lacking before as a result of being simply overcome by the trail’s various challenges - and with confidence comes enthusiasm.

One of the things I found most difficult was keeping my opinions suppressed. To be honest, they’re not helpful. The whole reason that you’re introducing them to the sport is so they can enjoy it, right? Therefore it needs to be their own journey. In keeping with this it doesn’t really help to keep reminding them that it will get easier, and that soon they will be really enjoying that gnarly descent they just bloodied their knee on because, truth be told, they may not. I think it is important to keep your idea of what should make mountain biking fun as your own and let them find out for themselves what they enjoy. If this means 4x hot laps of Koru/Lazy Fern followed by an equal amount of time sitting in a cafe, so be it.

If you really want to help, take her to Rotorua. The Redwoods are a gem for learner riders (especially those from Wellington). If your woman is finding the gradient of Wellington and ruthless rock surfaces particularly off-putting, it’s not hard to imagine that the velvety pine floor of the Whakarewarewa forest might hold a bit more sway. You’ll be amazed at the levels their riding can progress within a weekend, simply because they’d rather pitch themselves into pine nettles than off a cliff should it all go wrong.

It is also important to make sure you assuage their concerns about impressing you. More than likely you can ride some pretty advanced trails, and the fact that you’re trying to include her in your sport is a touching gesture but it also adds pressure. Your lady can get bogged down in trying to become a better rider simply to make you happy, when all you really want is for them to have fun. So make sure you reinforce how well she is doing and how proud you are. Remind her that the costs of your ability to steam Extreme trails have been blood, concussions & broken bones and that you think it’s awesome she’s giving it a go at all.

Finally and perhaps most unfortunately, she really doesn’t care about the bits. Trust me, I understand that you’ve dug through your spare parts and knocked up a pimpin’ SS hardtail for her with old school street cred, and I sympathise that you spent hours with the degreaser and the rag, and your mates will no doubt pat you on the back for the classy combination of BB7 calipers & XT brake levers, but she really won’t care. Not yet, anyway. As far as most of the ladies are concerned it’s just a bike. Suspension is nice; clipless pedals are scary; single-speeds are harder; what on earth is carbon? Etc etc. Embrace it! They see the bike as a tool so focus your attention more on the experience, just like they’re doing. You’ll get to brag to your mates about the bike anyway.

That's about all I have to offer on the matter. Within the ramblings I hope there is a snatch of something useful that you can take away to help smooth the path for achieving singletrack bliss with your partner. If your situation is anything like mine, I may have just saved you a few tears and a bit of frustration from both parties! Above all just try and remember that you're both out there to have fun and you shouldn't go too wrong.

Hard Work at Karapoti

2011-03-06T16:24:00.000+13:00

Karapoti is just one of those races. On the face of it it's a terrible time: 50km of gravel road suffering, no singletrack, no really nice views, unfeasibly steep climbs and, as was the case on Saturday, pretty miserable weather. So lump on top of all of that the fact that I was lining up on my venerable old singlespeed and you're actually looking down the barrel of a pretty shit outing. Why then was I so excited standing in a cold river, with a heavy ass bike on my shoulders, waiting for an ensuing 3hrs of pain? Because of the spectacle of course! Karapoti isn't really a race, it's only a race for about 10 people. For most I think it's definitely an event.

The day began as most of my race days do; in a flurry of disorganisation and dashes back to the house to collect that 'one last thing'. Eventually though, we were motorway-bound with QOTSA blazing through the one remaining functional Nissan speaker in Hayward's sexual Sentra. The rack on the back was loaded up with my GT Peace and Hayward's hot new Niner RIP 9, and we mused about the relative benefits of each rig on such a terrible day (I would maybe have traded in all the security of the SS that day just for the chance to bomb the Rock Garden on his beast). I couldn't help but notice how much I enjoy these moments. Two pals on their way out to a first crack at the iconic Karapoti Classic, my ever present and loyal girlfriend in tow, laden with our amenities, and a palpable air of excitement. Is there really much better than sharing these experiences with the ones you love? I don't think so.

We arrived at the event village just in time to completely miss race briefing; perfect. We loped around 'warming up' and chatting to a few usual suspects and I watched a guy attempt a wheelie on the slick road, fall hard on his ass (almost taking out Alex Revell in the process), look like a complete knob and then get back on the bike and try it again! The mind boggles... Before long though, it was time for the waves to start... I could feel the excitement growing.

Our wave had a fair bit of traffic to move through, something like 200 people were to be released ahead of us. I would later find out that Garth had been counting them as he passed them and had gotten to about 72 before he came a cropper. But anyway, traffic wasn't as big of a concern to me as staying upright in the foul conditions. We were given the nod to stand in the start positions, that is knee deep in the river, and before long we were counting down from 10. Garth, the gentleman racer that he is, waited until 0 before sprinting, yes sprinting, across the wet rocks. Being at least a little apprehensive about busting an ankle on the start line I decided not to sprint and so the reigning SSWC exited the water with a small lead from the word go. We quickly formed a 'chase group' on the road. Now the reason I put that term in quotation marks is because slapping any form of race lingo onto a bunch of singlespeeders is always going to be a bit of a misnomer. I imagine that watching a 'chase group' pursuing a lead rider would be much like watching the tactics of a 400m 3-legged race. As we made our way up the road we all indulged in a collective roadie pisstake by rotating turns up the front. We would cruise behind each other and then spin madly at the front until we topped out, so the rider drafting you could come round and repeat. We were only doing about 20km/h...

That aside, we hit the gorge with Garth already out of sight. The group quickly splintered into me and Mr Notman chasing Garth, with a couple hanging onto the back. Tactically, I had geared my bike up a bit in favour of the gorge so pushing a big gear and spinning like an idiot suitably dislodged the rest of the SS group. Eventually I couldn't see anyone around me so just focussed on chasing Mr Notman. We had had some good battles in the previous year, Geoffrey and I, and I think in the end the fact I was on a hardtail and he was on a full rigid meant I could usually gap him, but not today. He was riding really well and I was working hard to stay in touch.

Warm up climb was shithouse. It was damn steep and Geoffrey is a decent runner so I was hurting trying to chase him up here. I eventually worked out that I could ride a touch more of the climb than he seemed willing to so I would get close to him, then dismount and try to keep close while we both ran. The descent down to the bottom of Deadwood was better for me, having the Rebas up front meant I could definitely push it a bit more and pull him back in a bit. Deadwood wasn't particularly fun either, it involved running the steeper pinches and then trying to remount and max yourself out on the bits that were vaguely rideable. All the climbs seemed to blur into one and I really had no clue where I was on the course. I had only pre-ridden it once I guess. Nevertheless I figured I was up in the top-3 and might as well stretch myself to stay there until I started to go backwards, she was an ambitious strategy. After the Cloustonville turn-off I checked my watch, it was under 1hr which meant we were fair hauling, maybe a bit too hot in retrospect. This section was an absolute hoot. I was having a good time on the technical slippery sections and maxing myself out to stay on top of the gear through the rollers which as a result meant I was blowing past geared riders as they clicked down and mashed up their cassettes.

I was grinning like an idiot as I rounded a corner and caught a flash of something familiar on the track side. It was a carbon Air 9 - 'surely that can't be Garth'. I was fairly sure I'd seen his token Bike Vegas kit so figured he must have suffered some sort of mechanical/puncture. It was much to my displeasure to find out later that he'd come down pretty hard and driven his chest into a boulder. I feel bad now for not stopping to check if he was alright, but I guess you can't turn back the clock. I made my way down toward the Rock Garden turnoff, having a wonderful time slipping and sliding about on the wet clay and battling to keep the green beast upright. As I came into the Rock Garden I passed Geoffrey who had stopped to adjust his pads, 'holy shit, I'm out the front!'. Geoffrey, being the good sport that he is yelled out "Go boy!" as I came past him. I had ridden all of the Rock Garden in practice and had already made the decision that in the race I'd dial it back and just try to ride it smoothly, trying to go fast down there could end very, very poorly. Yet another section that had me grinning like a fool. I caught the lead woman, Elina Ussher, and was following her down when she pulled over to let me past. I came out the bottom of the Rock Garden and rode out the streams.

Next up was Devil's Staircase... I clambered my way up and found it considerably taxing, having done no bike carry training or anything, and I was sure I was going to be pulled back in up here. As I was going down the small descent in the middle at a good clip my front wheel disappeared from under me and I hit the deck pretty hard. Adrenalin surged and I got straight back on the bike and kept pedalling, albeit slightly winded and dazed. I noticed my brake lever was bent and my handlebars were out of line so I quickly stopped, threw the front wheel between my knees and wrenched the bars back into place, right as rain!

Big Ring Boulevard was pretty crap. I had a great time in the practice run but they had graded it for the race and the rain had just turned it to mush. What was normally a flat-out, fun descent was just a sketchy, frustrating time. Because of the state of it I had to power out of the corners and so didn't recover quite as much as I would have liked, but I was enjoying being out in front and riding hard. I flew past Jonty from Revolution Bicycles who was on the track side fixing a puncture, I was in a bit of a state so only managed a grin - which would've looked pretty strange. Coming across the stream before Dopers I started to feel a bit 2nd hand. I had been really pushing it to stay out of sight and had been passing Elite riders, not a usual habit of mine. I hit Dopers and all of a sudden basically went backwards. My arms felt like they were full of cement, my legs felt like they couldn't push a door open and my eyelids were drooping. My breathing had become laboured and I could feel the small amount of bumper bar I'd been able to force down start to make its way back up. Yep, I'd blown to pieces. Geoffrey came past me and I half-heartedly chased him around a couple of corners but inevitably, all I could do was watch him disappear up the hill. That bloody hill was miserable. By the end I was basically using the bike to hold myself up and the continual false summits were soul destroying. I finally hit the aid station and smashed some juice and jet planes. It was like magic, I instantly felt better!

I was starting to pass riders again coming down off the ridge and when I hit the gorge I was in the mood to ride hard. My thighs were teetering on the edge of cramp and my body felt generally thrashed but I tried to spin the gear as hard as I could and rail the corners. Yes, I was having fun once more! Coming into the last part of the gorge I must have burped my rear tyre as I noticed it was bottoming out on everything. I had to decide quickly whether I was going to stop and pump it up or try my luck on the road section. In the end I decided to go for it and it was a decidedly hair raising experience. The tyre sounded like a tractor wheel rolling slowly down the road and every slight corner the bike would reverberate and start shaking left to right. The turn off into the final river crossing was a welcome sight and I dismounted and just ran. I tripped and fell, I got dunked and struggled, I part-swam and I pulled my legs through the water as hard as I could and ran up the slick bank to cross the line. 3:05.

Shortly thereafter Garth came across the line, it was a good call not to stop and pump that tyre up! I was absolutely stoked with pulling off a 2nd in SS, after all I was aiming for a top-10, and I honestly couldn't care less about not breaking 3hrs. I know I rode as hard as I could and the state I got myself into on Dopers is proof of this. Big respect to Geoffrey though who must have pulled away substantially from Dopers onward as he stopped the clock at 2:56, a massive effort. I wandered over and confused the lunch people by babbling and not looking them in the eyes, something about 'mud and a lunch ticket', I think they handed me a bag of food to get rid of me and so I traipsed around forcing the food down and trying to get my faculties in order. About 30mins later I was capable of conversation so wandered down to the river to cleanse myself and begin the post-race debriefing with friends and spectators.

All in all, Karapoti was an epic experience. The race had a big expectation to live up to in my book but it sure did that. The race went well for most of my friends too, Hayward nabbed himself a damn fine 3:13 on a trail bike in his first attempt, Alex Revell asserted his position as a prominent XC racer by notching up a top-10 in the Elites, John Randal's well documented top-10 Expert effort was awesome and the Bushlove clan took home a few vouchers and smiles themselves. I learnt a lot, next time my 'nutrition' will have to be a bit better, and I can only hope that the stars align like they did for me that day to have another crack at a top-3 and maybe one day taking out the SS category. For now though, it was truly a dream result and an awesome reward for some hard work on the bike. I won't be around for next years 'Poti but I know for sure I'll be back again, especially for the curry & lager debrief in Upper Hutt!

Photo credit: Oli "The Poncho'd Perv" Brooke-White.

A Fresh Canvas.

2011-01-08T15:48:00.001+13:00

Happy New Year All!

It's been a good while since one of my ditties and there is very good reason for that. I've been up to fuck all. Well, no, that's not entirely true. I've been doing a bit. Actually I've been hit with a bit of writer's indecision. Recently I've taken a bit of a step back from the ol' blogging to kind of try and work out what exactly it is I want to achieve from it. I think a lot of my entries sort of took on a formulaic approach - as if I was churning them out from a sense of obligation. It dawned on me, anywho, that most people probably don't actually give a shit where I've been riding/racing. That's fine, after all I don't really care where they've been riding now, do I? So then I asked myself - what do I want people to glean from my attempts at penmanship? I think, perspective. If I am able to write a piece that gives someone a new perspective on something, be it competing in a mountain-bike race or losing a beloved pet, then I think I will feel like it has been worthwhile.

My New Year's promise to you, my adoring and vast readership, is that I won't post anything ordinary. Not here will you read tales of "I went round Makara, and then I had a sandwich, and then I had a coffee which kept me going". No, no. You're much more likely to receive something along the lines of... "I had a steam at Ridgeline and cocked up the descent, driving my face into the ground. This made me cry". In advance, I'm sorry if you're the kind of person who enjoys reading people's riding logs - I'm sure there are plenty around to sate your needs, though. The riding log entries have their place, don't get me wrong. I think that they are wonderfully inspirational and in some instances may even provide a bit of a framework for others to follow and build from. The only issue of course is that I don't want to be that guy. You don't want to follow my lead anyway, trust me.

So for 2011 I think I must set some goals! If I am to expect to draw up entries that are worthy of your discerning little eyesies then I'd better find some interesting subject material. I think 2011 will be a good platform to build from for this. I've been enormously happy with my integration into the endurance sport sphere. Whilst I try not to take it too seriously and avoid spending each week's paycheque on new jim-jam componentry, I do enjoy to progress. It seems a whole different life ago that I was the beer-swilling, gut-wielding, long-haired hedonist of yesteryear - but change is good right? Before you roll your eyes too much I am not one of those born-again fitness freaks who uses an active lifestyle as a segway for condescension. At least I hope I'm not. Besides, there are 60yr olds kicking around that are much fitter than me. But I do know that life tends to have a progression, and if I can relate mine to you and you can take something from it, all the better right? Yes.

I will use this entry specifically, and this blog generally, as a sort of a touchstone this year to make sure I'm on the right path. Rather than lament the fact that I haven't been coming up with fascinating new material, I think I must quietly plug away and try to develop some consistency. After all, the whole reason I tend to this online screed is for the sheer challenge of it all - of writing. And throughout the year I will endeavour to bring you tales from beneath my wheel to the end of my pen - and hopefully you can take something from them. If not, then that's fine - you can simply ignore them! At least then when I'm a bit down and out I can look back across this entry and others to try find some momentum and pen some words. But for now the future looks bright. I'll have my weekends free this year to get away on some adventures which I can hopefully record and arrange in such a way that it inspires you to get out and have a crack yourself. At the very least I hope I can arrange something that you'll enjoy to read. After all, that is the challenge.

So, on that note, a word of encouragement: get out and enjoy the sunshine hours while we've got them - before too long it will be winter, that wind-trainer will be gathering dust and your midsection will be padding up for the solstice. And also a word of caution: watch out for dappled light conditions.

Happy trails collective peeps!

Another series down.

2010-12-01T09:00:00.000+13:00

With the PNP Mountain Bike series all wrapped up I thought I might touch upon a couple of things that still stick in my mind. I was racing in the senior men division and the top step of the podium had become hotly contested by the end of the series.

When I last wrote about it I had overcome a bout of man-flu at Mount Vic to pull a 2nd place finish out of somewhere. This left my results tally for the 3 races as 3rd, 4th, 2nd... naturally there was just one missing. So going into Belmont I backed myself to take the top step. I had been progressing well throughout the series as at the beginning of the season I was reasonably slow from a winter of relative inactivity. Knowing that at Mt Vic I had been pretty close to the eventual winner, Phil, I pushed thoughts of "just give it a go" out of my head and instead adopted an attitude of "go off the front".

Round 4 - Belmont

The thing about Belmont is it's a rather shit course for single-speeding. Whereas I normally campaign the SS as a fine race machine and not much of a disadvantage at all if you're prepared to ride hard, at Belmont I feel things are a little different. There is a considerable amount of slightly downhill farmland that leaves you spinning out to hold the wheel of geared compatriots. The course out the back however was hella steep, so I felt that I would have an advantage there. The plan then was to just go from the gun and try to eke out as much of a gap as I could on the climbs so that any penalty on the faster sections was buffered against. This worked pretty well for the first lap, I was up with the leader and while he rode away from me on the fast descent I quickly pulled him back in on the steep climbs and moved into 1st place.

On the second lap, however, the old legs started to get a little objectionable. The thing about my race plan is that whilst I was putting in hard efforts on the climbs, I wasn't really recovering at any point as on the flat/downhills I was spinning out trying to maintain the gap I had opened up. On the descent beginning the 2nd lap of the Kilmister block both Phil and Andy came past me and started to pull away. I watched them ride away down the gradual descent and entertained notions of sitting up and resigning to 3rd place. A few corners later I was still in sight of them and so pulled the old Voigt technique and told my legs to shut up. I put in a couple of hard efforts over the steep climbs and noticed I was pulling the front 2 back in. As we were nearing the last few pinches I had caught them and promptly moved past and back into 1st. There was still a bit of climbing left so I dropped the hammer (as much as I could) and tried to get a good gap going.

When I turned onto the main drag up Hill rd (a fairly shallow climb) I put my head down and started to wind up the singlespeed. It was a pretty nasty gradient, to hold any decent pace I was turning the pedals over damn fast, it was at this point I wished for a taller gear but in retrospect I don't think I could've pushed a bigger gear out the back of the course and been as fast. As I was making my way up Hill Rd Andy appeared from out of nowhere and came round the side of me. This was the defining moment of the race. As he came past me I jumped on his wheel and tried to sit there but I had nothing in the legs and was boxed in trying to hold the pace. It was with that heavy resignation that I watched his wheel slowly pull away from me and while I tried a couple of quick bursts to bridge the gap I think I had decided I couldn't follow.

In the end of it all he opened up a 1min gap on me which is a good chunk of time, I can safely say then that I was genuinely outclassed on the final climb of the race. I rolled in for 2nd and Phil came through about 10min back to grab 3rd. All in all I was a little disappointed to not have been able to capitalize on the lead I opened up in the steep climbs but felt alright about how the race went, it was a well deserved win for Andy and I shouldn't want to take anything away from that.

The Finale - Makara Peak

The final round of this grand series returned to the Wellington hub of mountain biking - Makara Peak. After Belmont I had exactly 2 weeks to get my act together and clear the bad vibes of yet another bridesmaid finish before the finale. I had proven to myself at Belmont that I had the legs to put the previously dominant front-runners of the fierce and expansive Senior Men field in the box, and this was a good confidence booster. In the couple of weeks approaching the race I found myself going over it in my mind more and more. Why was I thinking about this damn race so much? I eventually figured out that I really wanted to win it. After 2 years of participating in the PNP serieseseses I had garnered a whole host of near-1st place finishes but not a single win.

It was with this realisation that I figured 'what the hell, I'll give this one a good crack'. I openly stated my intention to win the round from the outset, shying away from the usual reticence that is expected of one. The round was also to determine the overall winner of the series (of which I was too many points back to be a contender) so I knew a win wouldn't come easy. I had a good couple of weeks riding leading up to it and I didn't even go out and get pissed the night before the race, I was taking this seriously! My "form" was pretty good, relative to the rest of the season, and I knew that the course we would be racing had a good whack of climbing in it. Since I was taking this new sandbagging-less approach I backed myself to be able to get away on the climbs so figured the only thing for it was to go hard from the gun, try get into the singletrack in a good spot and put the hurt on up the climbs.

On the start line I was discussing with a fellow rider the pain that was about to ensue and remarked it 'should be a good, tough one' - he said something to the effect of 'yeah, but still, it's only club racing'. At the time I agreed with him but I came to view it differently later. The way I see it, in all the previous races this year that I had come 2nd, or 3rd, or 20-something'th, club racing or not I was riding hard. I was trying to win a lot of them, to be sure, and so those who did win beat me fair n' square. It seems to me that saying it's 'just club racing' isn't really valid. If you're all riding as hard as you can then what's the difference? Unless you're not riding hard because you think it's 'just a club race' - in which case I'm not sure why you'd be "racing" at all. Anyway, I digress...

When the gun went I went for it. I wound that gear up as hard as I could and took off up the road. Andy later remarked to me that when he saw this happen, and saw Phil chase me, he thought something along the lines of "ah shit, they're going for it from the start". That made me laugh as it is a very true statement of the thoughts that sometimes enter your mind in a race. Someone drives the pace up and all those romanticisations you've been conjuring of you smashing it off the front and destroying the field evaporate. The acid sets into your legs, it dawns on you that you're about to begin a very painful experience and you simply think "ahh shit, here we go".

At any rate we were heading up the tarmac at a good clip when Phil came round me, I followed his wheel and managed to keep him well within reach. I was impressed by the way in which he'd responded and a sicko little part of me thought "ooh yes, we're in for a good one today". I entered the singletrack just behind him and focussed on following him. The trails were not good for passing and I thought 'steady on, there's still 3 ascents to go, best save something for later'. I minced up a couple of the slightly more technical corners and even unclipped somehow, smashing my chest on the stem. In frantic situations it seems, uncoordination may prevail.

As we were ascending the main climb I was feeling very comfortable, surely a good sign. We got over the top and settled into the big descent where Phil opened up a good gap on me. He got out of sight but I kept working hard to try hold a decent pace, knowing he couldn't be too far ahead. As we came out of Nikau Valley I noticed Andy creeping up towards me and thought to myself 'that simply won't do' so picked up the pace a little to try and drop him. A few corners later I had a sufficient gap and I started to think about where Phil was. He surely couldn't be too far, I hoped. I told myself 'he must be around the next corner, and if he's not you should bloody well ride like he is anyway'. It was with this that I gave it beans up Missing Link and as I exited onto the 4wd track I just about ran into his rear wheel.

This was good, this was a lowpoint of the course and a prime spot for passing. I launched round the side of him and gave it a good effort to get away as we made our way up the steep 4wd track. He didn't look likely to follow so I really gave it a good go, remembering how I wished I'd done so at Belmont. As I settled into the 2nd lap of the course and the main climb again I was in pole position and feeling good so I focussed on climbing hard. There weren't too many points to see if there was anyone nearing me and at any rate I told myself I should be riding hard regardless. I got over the top just behind the illustrious Mr Waghorn and watched him very promptly ride away from me down Aratihi. I really started to enjoy the trails, not worrying too much about positions and efforts and whatnot - it was great fun caning it down the singletrack. When I hit the 3rd climb I was beginning to feel it. My lovely lady was at the junction and by the way she was cheering me on I knew she could tell I was out front.

I was happy to only be hurting on the final ascent as I could tell myself to harden up, it's just one more climb and then all downhill. It didn't help that Mr Lindup came past me and tried to have a casual conversation - not something you're typically in the mood for when you're boxed in. As I came up and over the summit I knew I was well clear of the rest of the field so decided to take it easy on the descent. I was sure I had more than a couple of minutes gap so was happy to give one of them away rather than risk a big stack. I had a ton of fun on Ridgeline and all the way out as I was focussing more on riding smoothly than fast. I think consequently I might've even been quicker and I know I enjoyed it a lot more. As I came out onto the road I had lingering concerns about being caught spinning out - as Andy was rolling an Ironhorse, a very capable descending machine. I figured my lead wasn't that safe. It was with some tire that I wound it up and sat on the limit back to the race finish - South Karori Rd has never seemed so damn long.

I rolled through the finishing chute and found Jovi - informing her that I'd finally pulled off a win. She was just as happy as I was and it was awesome to share that moment with her. In the end due to a timing mishap 1st place was awarded to a rider who hadn't ridden the full 3 laps and consequently I missed out on the top step glory - which I'm not ashamed to admit left me a little deflated. Though it's not the main reason I wanted to win the race, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to the 'podium feeling'. Still, at the end of the day I know myself that I did win, and the revised results reflect this - which is fine by me. In retrospect it was a hell of a series - I particularly enjoyed the competition between myself, Phil and Andy and it was nice to finally back myself, going into a race stating my intentions and pull off a win, even if it was 'just a club race'. Big props then to the organizers and to my fellow Senior Men cohorts.

Until next season, happy trails.

SS Worlds.

2010-11-01T20:01:00.000+13:00

Thursday

So there I am, sitting in my car on the roadside. I might have looked like any other guy just sitting in his car on the roadside, but for the ridiculous hat perched on top of my head. I was also sporting a rather unmovable cheese-ball grin. I'm sitting here, you see, revelling in my excitement. The Singlespeed World Champs are this weekend and heck... it's got me about as wound up as a little boy on the 24th. So i'm in my car, with this ridiculous hat, and this silly grin and I think to myself; "How utterly cool is this shit?!" - I haven't been this excited in yonks, and it's such a peculiar state. I wondered if reasonable adults got this excited about anything. Where does that youthful enthusiasm get to? I suppose it might get bogged down by other considerations, maybe because you have to take care of all the peripheral aspects of a holiday you lose sight of the thrilling bits? Who knows. In any instance I hadn't lost sight of anything, hence the stupid grin.

I headed over to my lovely lady's work to pick her up at around 4:30p.m - not the ideal time to start a drive to Rotovegas from Wellington but alas, it couldn't be avoided. The drive was fairly uneventful - it was nice to have some proper time to talk to Jovi, we're both pretty hectic during the weeks and don't often get to just sit and chat. We did bide the time a little by playing the classic Tractor Spy game (15 points for red/blue tractors, 50pts for any other colour, 100pts for pink/white - points deducted for any tractor claimed that was "in a yard" i.e. for sale).

On the way up we stopped in Waiouru to visit old mate Patterson (who receives mention in some of my earlier entries). We met him for dinner at the Cafe Express on the main drag there, and it was hella cool. The staff there were ultra laid-back and very friendly. I was discussing the relative merits of the menu with the young counter girl when she said that the pizzas were pretty good. The options were medium and large so I asked her how big a medium was, to which she replied that "she could manage one if she was hungry". I figured this meant it was a fairly average sized pizza but when it came out it was enormous! We were told that it was sweet to drink beers in there too so we popped next door and picked up a 6'er. It was really nice to catch up with an old friend and enjoy dinner together, a welcome pause in the marathon drive northward.

We hit the road again to finish off the drive and were met with a flurry of snow to contend with. It was quite a magical scene driving through the snow, listening to some sweet tunes and knowing that at the other end, the SS worlds were waiting. We arrived at the Rotorua Thermal Holiday Park and unloaded the car, hitting the hay pretty swiftly.

Friday

The thing you may or may not know about starting work at 7am 6 days/week is that when you get a chance to sleep-in, you get very set on the idea. So when at 7:30 a.m myself and Jovana were woken by the screeches emanating from of a throng of pre-pubescent schoolboys being packed up in the rooms adjacent to ours, I was not thrilled. On my best days I find young kids difficult to tolerate, but when they'd just snatched my precious sleep-in from me I quickly became agitated. The racket ensued for the next 2 hours. Eventually when they buggered off I thankfully managed to doze off again - and snoozed until after midday... luxurious.

Friday didn't hold much in store for us except for the race registration and race briefing later at night so we managed to sneak off into the Whakarewarewa Forest for a bit of a tootle around to introduce Jovi to the delights of the Redwoods. I remember my first ride in Rotorua very fondly, I had no idea that such delectably crafted singletrack existed! The network is a true asset to the region and I was confident that it would provide Jovana with the bones to flesh out her enthusiasm for the sport. After a fairly lopy 2hrs she had the unmistakable grin of a converted soul, mountain biking was indeed for her! The trails gave her the opportunity to try new obstacles and overcome the confidence issues that had plagued her in Wellington - I was absolutely chuffed. Not only is it cool to get people in to the sport, but to share something you're passionate about with someone you love? Now that's something. Elated, refreshed and happy we headed on back to the Holiday Park to tee up a hot spring spa.

At the Race Briefing that night I had a chat to the usual suspects and some friendly new faces. We'd snuck in some beers so enjoyed them whilst we took in the general atmosphere of so many like-minded folk getting together for such a neat event. After the brief we decided a trip back to the Holiday Park for more beer was in order - as I got in to drive off I casually offered Thomas a tow down the road (i.e. him holding onto the pillar of my car on his bike). We'd not gotten 50m and scarcely cracked 20 km/h before the fuzz put the kibosh on that plan. I was instructed to pull over and a great, throbbing, belligerent penis of a man in a blue uniform came barreling towards me, jowels aquiver and veins pulsating. He informed me that both myself and Thomas were under arrest, myself for dangerous driving and Thomas for... well, some other charge. It was with great futility that I tried to calm the gentleman and ask if it was necessary for it to amount to such a charge. I really do wonder about some of the people that make the ranks of police sometimes, as both myself and Thomas were speaking to him very calmly and reasonably yet he felt the need to yell at us and berate us with insults the entire time. His woman partner was wearing an expression of thinly veiled exasperation (she was no doubt well acquainted with the man's furor) so I decided to make my pleas to her instead. It soon became clear that he was, for god knows what reason, the senior officer so we simply had to get in the back of the car and head off down to the cop shop. I was given the obligatory breath test and then pointed toward an interview room while the young female officer went off to talk to the Sergeant - I figured I was in for a bit of a long haul so laid down for a bit of a nap. I was woken by her some time later and she said that she was chatting to the Sergeant about whether they'd taken the appropriate course of action.

Eventually it came about that no, they had not taken the appropriate course of action and yes, perhaps dangerous driving was a bit heavy-handed. I was thankful to hear that it had been reduced to an infringement and I was allowed to go on my way. Far from wallowing in the despair of a fine that will be paid off at the princely sum of $10/week, I came to the conclusion that a casual arrest was the mark of a good trip away - an optimistic approach if you will. So back to the Holiday Park for more beers it was! We tried to meet up with old mates Andy & Co. but it turned out that they were more interested in the "in-bed-at-10:30-beauty sleep-hangoverless" option, pack of pikers! So we wound out the night chatting and laughing amongst ourselves, and regaling each other with impersonations of Throb-cop McPenis.

We eventually retired to our respective boudoirs, for yet another night of interrupted sleep through the paper-thin walls of the Holiday Park Lodging. Ah yes, holiday indeed.

Saturday

Race day! I woke to my alarm in a rush of excitement, the day I had been looking forward to literally all year had finally come! I was amp'd. Keen as a green bean to slay some Rotovegas singletrack on my trusty singlespeed. Me and Jovi jumped in my car and went for a mission into town to locate some java to perk us up a bit. I eventually found a restaurant-type place that offered Neapolitan style espresso - whatever the hell that was. I ordered a flat white and jumped in the car to head back to base camp. Upon the first sip of the coffee I was deeply and profoundly disappointed. It tasted like several-day old plunger dregs, filtered through a dirty sock. My heart sank and with great dejection I choked down the foul brew.

Back at the camp and having recovered from my traumatic Neapolitan experience I got done up in my race duds, a rather questionable girl's 1-piece swimsuit in a fetching shade of fluoro pink. With some concealing threads over top I at least entertained the notion of decency. I spruced up my weapon of choice (read: only mountain bike) and we were ready to go.

The rig for the race was my trusty GT Peace SS 29er. We've been through some tough times, me and the old girl, and one glance at her reveals this to be the case. The only remaining stock components are the frame and the stem. A quick run down of the specs...

Frame: '09 GT Peace SS

Fork: Rockshox Reba Team

Brakeset: Shimano M775 XT (180f / 160r)

Bar: Truvativ Stylo World Cup SS

Stem: Easton EA30

Seatpost: Thomson Elite

Saddle: Charge Spoon

Headset: FSA Orbit

Crankset: Shimano SLX

Rear Cog: Surly

Wheelset: A beautiful set of custom built Roadworks wheels - Stans Flows & Hope Pro II's laced with DT Swiss Comps. Running Maxxis Aspen 2.1's. The perfect wheelset for my application.

A very capable machine for the race!

Pre-race I met up with old mates Thomas and McHayward for some rum and ranfurly to prep the stomach for the beer shortcuts throughout the race. We chatted amongst the competitors and quickly found ourselves to be a little bit pissed in the hot sun. Loads of photos were being taken, Thomas' outrageousness and my shock value warranted a whole host of snaps from the visiting competitors - mine were for some reason largely taken from low-angles... perhaps for a few sickos' private collections?

I also located an espresso cart there and told the girl that I was in no mood to be given a bad coffee and could she pretty please save me from the woes of my earlier experience. She kindly obliged and the smooth, rich coffee I enjoyed not only freshened me up a bit but also pushed the sad memories of the earlier coffee out of my mind. Success.

The race course, in short, was epic. We were sent off in a bizarro Nascar meets yachting style start and then immediately directed up an enormous climb that served to shatter the field. Picking my way around the people walking was a bit of an ask but I just focussed on turning the gear and let the big hoops soak up the ruts and dips in the climb. I got up top and settled in to the fast descent that followed. Without noting all aspects of the course (if you really wanted to know you would've been there racing it) I will say that the highlights for me were; following Thomas' line through A-Trail (being an ex local he knew how to butter the bread), steaming Rockdrop, the beer shortcuts, smashing the climbs, engaging in mini-battles with the other competitors, pulling mean skidz, the river crossing at the end of Rosebank and in general, smashing it on the fast, flowy Rotorua singletrack. Heaven, it was! I was pretty stoked to finish both laps without having to dismount at all, and also happy to note that we'd beaten the lead woman home - despite not busting our asses to post a quick time.

When all was said and done we milled around talking to everybody about the race. I had a chat with the winner of the day Mr Weinberg - I kept it brief as I'm sure he was sick of telling people how hard the race was, nevertheless I could tell that he was elated with the win. Big ups to him for an epic achievement on home turf, doing us kiwis proud. The party atmosphere was pretty awesome. For those of us not quite as prolific as Mr Weinberg there was no real reason to bust a gut, so it was great to have some laughs before, during and after the race. The array of costumes was astounding - I was a little disappointed that the organizers didn't have a best-costume award but alas, what can you do? I wouldn't have won of course but it would've been cool to give some credit to those who did put in a lot of effort.

We then settled into another onslaught of beers. We had a little while before prizegiving so decided to hit up Valentines for some all-you-can-eat action. If you take just one thing away from this post, please ensure that it is that you never got to Valentines in Rotorua. It was awful. Not only did it sting us of $31 hard earned dollars each but the food was second-rate at best. Perhaps the only good thing we took away from it is that we made home-made lemonade (and simultaneously a ridiculous mess) and forced Thomas to drink so much coffee that he spewed.

The prizegiving, I must say, was a little lackluster. The host of spot prizes was neat and it was great that they gave away a Surly frame to a randomly selected volunteer but, to be honest, they campaigned the event as a party and it didn't really deliver. The race was awesome, and well put on, but once the prizegiving was said and done the generic DJ serving up pop hits and bad rock music really didn't exactly inspire us to stay and "boogie on down". We once again retired to the comforts of the Holiday Park for, you guessed it, more booze. Another casual wind down with pals and some good natter meant that a fantastic day of racing was rounded off with another night of the good times.

Sunday

"And on Sunday morning, as I drive into town to find coffee and breakfast, I get the feeling that everything is slowly returning to normal. I don't find myself looking upon people going about their daily routine as incongruous with my state, I see them now as merely others going about life. The excitement has washed away and left that curious nostalgia that also has a habit of creeping to the corners of your mouth. As I return to 'normal life' I can smile and know that I am not the only one to be enjoying this brief snatch of frivolity - for over 1000 people coming together for a singular purpose is quite a thing indeed".

I penned these words on the roadside on my way into town and decided to let them sit for a while and see if they still held relevance. I'm quite taken by the difference in mindset that I can observe in the little notes I made throughout the weekend - and no, I'm not just referring to the booze. It seems like a memory, the surreal state that I found myself in at the event. I knew at the time that I was partaking in one of the coolest experiences of my life. How bizarre.

The quest for coffee was a bit of a mixed success. I learned that we are utterly spoilt for a good brew in Welly - but Zippy's next to Kiwibikes does offer a fine coffee, I must say. Some time later me and my pals hit the Redwoods yet again for a bit of a recovery spin to loosen the legs up. While Thomas whisked Jovana away into the forest to give her some guidance on general bike handling skillz (I'm not qualified as I am forced to go easy on her), me and the redoubtable Hayward tore up (in a meanderly, tired sense) the various Grade 3 & 4 trails that we could locate. I may be prattling on about it but man, those trails, crazy good! If you mountain bike and don't get up there at least once a year - well, shit, you're silly.

Sunday evening came upon us and we were all ravenous - once again the all-you-can-eat bug had bitten. This time we vowed to give Valentines a wide berth and instead head for Genjy's (as Jovi had worked at one in Palmy North and assured us it was a better time). The food was excellent, the weekday special price (Sun-Thurs) was spot on and the cheesy music made for some lulz as well. We ate ourselves into relative food sickness and were forced to retire to the Holiday Park to assume horizontal positions. Sunday was a pretty low key affair, we had after all had a pretty big weekend, but I was nevertheless thankful for the chance to spend more good times relaxing with pals. It's what these gigs are about, I feel.

Monday

We packed up and took off early enough to shoot the 10am checkout time in the Park and after a brief pit stop we were convoying our way southward (by convoy I naturally mean a couple of creeps following each other). A bit of a detour in Taupo at the Craters of the Moon signage saw us (much to the dismay of my hoodwinked lady - that sign really is great for that) in the carpark gearing up to hit the Taupo trails for a bit of a lark. I was well impressed with how my Aspen tyres held up in Rotorua and also here, the trails were fast and flowy and aside from one instance of washout on a fast left hander in Taupo they hooked up consistently all weekend.

Thomas vaguely knew his way around so we did a bit of a bastardized loop of around 90mins - I was well impressed with the trails up those ways and will certainly be detouring in again in the future to check out more.

So we once again packed up the cars and prepared to journey southward. My thoughts on the weekend are overwhelmingly positive. It was a truly fantastic time with good people, a great event and loads of laughs. Throughout the daily grind we always look ahead to the next great thing we're going to get up to. For most cyclists this may be a race, for others I daresay it's probably something completely different. I was thrilled to have the presence of mind to recognize this weekend for what it represented, and as such I made sure that the moments didn't go wasted and that the memories were shelved somewhere important. The camaraderie and atmosphere of the trip away are what life's about for me, being able to explore the things you are passionate about with the people you love, I've said it before and I'll say it again... it's quite a thing.

Photo: Lester Perry

The Welly SS Crew

2010-10-17T16:10:00.000+13:00

Race Info

I'll keep this one short & sweet - if you own a singlespeed and didn't compete in the race today you missed out. The race epitomised what mountain biking represents for me, there was a sense of solidarity, a lot of laughs, some good hard riding and loads of mud...

The brainchildren of this mad dash were Messrs Andy & Owen of Bike Barn fame and they put on a hell of a race. The course was a short one, but due to my skin full of booze it was a heck of a lot more difficult than it might otherwise have been. If anything, I would've entered and raced simply to be given the opportunity to race up Ridgeline - what a hoot!

So, in less than desirable conditions and armed to the teeth with singularly driven contraptions - a swag of good stout local lads and ladettes took to Makara Peak. Without prattling on too much, here's a nice neat top-5 highlights of the day for me, in no particular order...

1/ The Volunteers - these poor bastards stood around braving the conditions so that we might have some fun out on the trails. They were rough conditions for racing, which means they must've been real shit for those without the race-warmth to insulate their bones. Cheers to those hardy souls!

2/ Getting smashed by Davo - I was surprised to find that i'd snuck 2nd place, mainly thanks to Waggers puncturing, but I was less surprised to find that in getting 2nd, I'd really gotten 2nd. In a race of around 50min, Davo was clear of the rest of us by over 6mins! Good lad.

3/ Mud - railing the sweet Makara singletrack in the slick stuff is always a good time - once you've gotten used to being wet - and today was no exception.

4/ The Atmosphere - I have to say that SS'ing attracts my sort of people, the sort of people who have a sly stubbornness I guess. We know full well that it's less efficient to SS it, but I think there's a collective feeling that it adds an extra element to it all. Not in a self-loving, "look at me I only have one gear" sort of a way, but more of a take-the-piss, go out and ride hard to have a good time sort of a way. I dig that.

5/ Of course - riding up Ridgeline. What a classic race feature! It was ridiculous! I ran most of it, and when I did get to a point I could ride I literally got blown off the bike by a huge northerly gust. When I got to the top Robbie was standing there with his unshakable cheeriness to greet me, unfortunately all I could offer in return was a dirty cuss at the spectacle of trying to get up that track as fast as possible but I appreciated his presence all the same.

All in all, a great time.

Ridin' the Carefree Highway... (Pt 2)

2010-10-17T10:26:00.000+13:00

When I last left you I had noted that the Jeffson had some problems. I have since found a suitable frame/fork for the build and it will gather momentum very shortly, but perhaps a bit of perspective on what inspired me to undertake this task is in order...

My friendship with Patterson began at high school. I guess I was one of the small avenues through which he enjoyed a little deviance. At lunchtimes we used to head to the racecourse in his old Toyota Corolla and do handbrakies on the jockeys' warm-up field. At our most daring we probably never exceeded 30kph and that was always with a grass buffer of about 50m to the nearest fence/obstacle. It was a fairly innocuous activity but it never failed to plaster a goofy grin on our faces. Careening sideways on those hot lunchtimes, windows rolled down and glass clippings flying in through the windows, they were genuine good times.

The real depth in our relationship came to be in 2008 when we found ourselves as flatmates. Between those nostalgic days of handbrake glory and this time we'd kind of dropped through the fields of peripheral friendship and into the realm of acquaintance. To be sure while he pursued sporting and academic challenges, I was much more interested in cars, booze and girls - none of which I had astoundingly good fortune with. You won't be surprised then when I tell you that our divergent lifestyles lead to us falling somewhat out of touch. When we moved in together I was on the cusp of my raucous and beer-fuelled days. A year of excess, hangovers, ill-health and the realisation that I was some 20kg overweight led to me reassessing my values and finding myself in a zone-in-transition. So it was from this intersection that Patterson lead me down the road well known to him, namely the endurance-sport road.

Our friendship blossomed that year, and it was a heck of a lot more than just exercising together. We became positively inseparable in that dingy flat at the top of Cuba St. Whereas our lives had been divergent before we now enjoyed a wonderful agreement of philosophy, humour and desire for the good times. Countless adventures were sprouted from our flat that saw an unlikely array of objects dotted around the lounge/bedrooms. We always seemed to have some variety of animal part in the house (usually for elaborate though - at least retrospectively - somewhat marginal pranks), strange garments were plentiful, the walls were scored from sessions of knife-throwing, we had a homeless dog stay for a spell and we even began to seriously mobilize the beginnings of a quail farm before our rubber-ducky wielding flatmate with a fragile constitution put the kibosh on it. We had a lot of fun.

Patterson has - and I know he'll cringe at me describing him this way - for the better part of his adult life been an 'elite athlete' and I've been sorry enough to observe the effects that this title carries. Being an enormously talented young swimmer his athletic 'career' has always been marked by pressures, scrutiny and expectations. It's interesting, though regrettable, to observe the effects that these weights have on a man and I've been very sad to see them mar what should have been enjoyable events for the guy. While for my first attempt at the 1/2 Ironman we had made plans for him to race alongside me - you know, to lend moral support - once his name appeared on the entry list some of the old faces from his racing days reappeared, hailing it as his 'big return' to the discipline. So, in a very swift appropriation of pressure, it was transformed from two friends enjoying a good race together into something decidedly more serious. Such was the effect that Patterson quietly withdrew his entry and forewent the event. Granted I'm not well-seasoned in the elite social circles but I reckon that's a bit of a shit situation.

My friend was always at least a little introverted, but through the folds of our adventures I was lucky enough to see the true man behind the reticent exterior. What I saw was a beautiful man, and a true friend. A man so generous, compassionate and well-meaning that I counted our friendship as the highlight of that year. We stole away from class and headed for the hills to bag ourselves goat for tea, we slipped out the door for a run, a ride or a swim. We dressed in wonderful costumes and creeped into parties to introduce a little marginality into the social sphere and a bottle of Jack was as good a reason as any to cut a bit loose. If there was no outside calling? A schloob-doobster and a good album would fill our boots nicely. But while I can sit here and scribble these ideas down, and while I might be able to create a loose picture, colour it with some emotive language and impart what you at least perceive to be the gist of the situation, it simply will not do it justice. The truth is that you weren't there and I can't explain to you how damn genuine the laughs we had were. Indeed this is necessarily so, as it needs to be this way so that they can be our good times. And indeed this is necessarily so of any friendship. It wouldn't be special if everyone was in on your jokes, cut loose on your adventures and swapped knowing nods at appropriate times. The thing that makes a friendship beautiful is that it brings with it a sense of the unique, a sense of something genuine. A good friendship is a damn good thing to strive for. In any case you don't need to understand all of this, all you must understand is that he is a tremendous friend of mine.

It will come as no surprise then that when I was given this opportunity to do him a kindness, I grabbed it with both hands.

The Local Scene.

2010-10-12T14:39:00.000+13:00

You might have to bear with me a bit on this one, I have been trying to reintroduce a bit of writing but it's been a little difficult. I'm not sure why but I've lacked enthusiasm for laying down the words, so I figure the best cure might be to just try and pound something out - see if I can fall back into the groove somehow. As such, I'll give you a bit of a run-down on rounds 2 & 3 of the PNP MTB series and how I found them...

Round 2 - Wainuiomata.

Wainui is always a destination that I seem to encounter with a little trepidation. I can't quite pinpoint what it is about the place but at times it really gives me the shits. I think if I had to guess it would be because of my experience in the PNP series out there last year - where a very sick, very hungover Tom battled his way to mid-pack in the Enduro class on a hot ass day, constantly fighting down little vomits. I think the combination of the hangover, and the fact that I had to ride Beeline for the very first time (whilst almost completely lacking the necessary mad skillz to do so) made for a rather nerve-rattling experience.

This time round was a bit better I feel. I was riding much better, both technically and in fitness terms, and I didn't have the wretched remains of 2 bottles of wine sloshing around in my belly. It might've helped that my course didn't take in Beeline either, but I'm not sure on that one. We all lined up at the start line and the gun went for us along the road. I won't bore you with the course - if you're really interested you can find it here under the Snr Men description. Since we were released with several categories it was hard to keep tabs on who was where - especially with 2x national champ Clive Bennett smashing it off the front from the word go, so I just tried to ride my own race and not let too many people pass me. I ended up dropping off from a few peeps pretty early on, namely Bike Barn's superstar AJK, as I didn't quite have the legs to get on top of my gear up the firebreak. From then on I just fell into a rhythm and partook in the small battles that ensued along the way.

The highlights of the race for me I think were, in competing order, 1/ Marco's sicko shortcut - a rather hairy little "optional shortcut" that one could take at the end of Snails. I had a hoot of a time trying to clean this, especially with my 710mm wide bars. 2/ The Link Track - this little piece of track came at the end of Spoonhill and was diabolical toward the end of the race. It took a huge amount of work to keep the bike upright and that's some of my favourite riding. One of my fondest riding memories is trying to pilot my rig with worn Nevegals front and rear down Karori Park's pine ridden trails in the wet. And of course 3/ The atmosphere of the event - I really rate the PNP series for how utterly accessible it is and how it caters to all abilities. Post-race all the endorphins are flowing, people are swapping war stories and reveling in the good times, it's such a sweet buzz to be a part of.

Round 3 - Mt Victoria

The third round saw us take on the extensive, if a little confusing, trail network at Mt Victoria. It was interesting to hear how apprehensive people were about Mt Vic before the race. I guess in terms of a race course it's either up or down, so it can be fairly taxing. The course, I thought, was epic - I couldn't have picked a better race track on the mountain, a full credit to the organizers then. To be quite honest I love Mt Vic, I'm not sure why but I've always found a bit of luck on that hill when I've been racing there - something about it just seems to gel with me. In the lead-up to the race I was struck with a rather severe case of the man-flu, which almost escalated into flu proper. As a result I canned a lot of the planned rides I had for the week and spent a lot of time tucked up under the blankets feeling sorry for myself. I considered pulling out but the niggling voice in my head said "Ahh yes but Tom, you've already paid for it haven't you?"... of course I'd pre-entered. So I turned up with the plan of seeing how I went, if I felt like a bag of shit then I'd just sit up and cruise it. No worries then.

On the start line the race nerves kicked in and my plan was cast to the wayside. I figured that with no deathly firebreak in this round that I wasn't going to get dropped, it was go hard or blow a lung out trying - and I nearly did. This time I got on the wheel of the Bike Barn superstar AJK and invoked a little of my Mt Vic juju to get me through. A swift wrong-turn on my part saw old mate ride away from me and forced me to spend the remainder of lap 1 working to pull him back in. I managed to get back in touch with him at the beginning of the second lap and continued to hold his wheel - generally enjoying the camaraderie/competition. A few mind games ensued up the main climb but I hung around like a bad smell. On a small descent he got pushed off his line and I managed to sneak around the side, where I promptly dropped the hammer to try and put a bit of distance between us. In the end I snuck out of view and just put my head down and gave it assholes to get away - the only way to get things done. Once I had a bit of a buffer going I started focussing on the riders up ahead to try and pull some of them in - this was at the beginning of the 3rd and final lap and whilst I was certainly starting to feel it, I dug deep and opened the taps a little more. The entire 3rd lap is a bit of a haze of pain to me but it sure was a good time, I was rocking a 2.1 Maxxis Aspen on the rear and it made for some sweet drift action on the slick Mt Vic descents. In the end I rolled in at around 1hr 53min - just ahead of a very fast approaching Alex Revell who was finishing his 4th lap to take 2nd in the Elite field, those boys sure are speedy!

It was everything that I remember about Mt Vic, brutal climbs (when you're working hard), fun technical singletrack, and a generally well-organised event. And like this time last year where I rode out my skin to nab 2nd in the Enduro category - I nabbed myself 2nd in the Senior Men category. It sure is cool to see how far I've progressed as a rider, it's a nice little confidence booster. One person I'm particularly impressed with is Mr M. Hayward, who a keen eye will note came in a few minutes behind me to secure 3rd place - as a good friend of mine I have watched his progress in the sport blossom over the past year and while he is a full year behind me in terms of experience, he's certainly a lot closer in terms of performance. Full credit to that man. So the highlights, then, for Mt Vic would be the battle I had with the aforementioned AJK; not having any major misdemeanors down the technical descents; and of course enjoying all the hallmarks of a great mtb race and a morning spent with good friends and my faithful supporter Jovi.

Roll on Belmont I say...

Photo credit: Nige Sanders

Ridin' the Carefree Highway... (Pt 1)

2010-10-12T01:46:00.000+13:00

"Making the simple complicated is commonplace; making the complicated simple, awesomely simple, that's creativity".

Charles Mingus

Now, apart from having a surname that would sound quite at home in The Anatomy of the Unhealthy Vagina: Yeast and You, I think Charles had a point. Simplicity is...well, simple. When I gaze upon a well crafted bike it is not the elaborate gearing mechanisms that catch my eye, nor is it the block-lettered advertising that makes the frame appear as some Giant moving billboard, rather it is always the simple and functional elegance of the ride. The understatedness, if you'll allow me the liberty of such a word.

It was a good friend of mine who put me onto this idea. He has received mention earlier in A splendid day turnin' the cranks and it was no coincidence that I came to own solely a rigid singlespeed for my off-road shenanigans. One of my other literary friends is currently preparing an article on the virtues of such a steed so I won't cut his lunch here. What I will do, however, is outline a little project I am working on.

My friend mentioned above has for some time now parked his tush on a rather fine custom Jeffson hardtail. The bike bears all the hallmarks of a quality build, it has everything a good hardtail should and nothing it shouldn't. He has since flogged the front shocks that came with the build so these have been swapped out for a set of rigid Surly pipes. He also yanked the XT componentry in favour of a rather ghetto singlespeed arrangement, complete with a mixture of spacers and cassette sprockets to set up the rear wheel. The resulting bike, as the owner remarked to me, is 'bombproof'. It has stood the test of time thus far although, as we know, the times - they are a changin'.

Above: Patterson races his Jeffson in its geared, hardtail guise.

The problem seemed to be that when ol' Jeffy was pointed down some of the more technically demanding singletrack that Wellington had to offer, Patterson's enjoyment levels went down a little bit. A quick gaze at him atop his bike quickly reveals that the frame is perhaps a little small for him. I also had a sneaking suspicion that he might be a bit more receptive to the bigger 29" wheels available to the Mountain Biking lad. I'm not going to get into a technical debate about the pros and cons of bigger hoops with taller riders, or indeed suggest that they belong on such wheels, but I found that they felt much more natural to me, and what sort of friend would I be if I didn't let my mate take my bike for a thrash? So at the recent Wainuiomata Winter Weekender I let him take my GT Peace for a bit of a hot lap around the race course. The key differences to note between the Peace and the Jeffson would be the different angles of the two setups, the bars and of course the wheels. The 29er has a much higher front end so it feels like your weight isn't pitched so far forward as on the Jeffson, the wider bars also give a wealth of leverage for heading uphill and increased control when you point it down, and the bigger wheels give better roll-over, more traction and they generally seem to carry their momentum a bit better, albeit taking just a shade longer to get up to speed. After a lap on my bike the grin smeared across his face was unmistakable, he was sold on the concept. According to him it "just felt right". The bug had bitten and a project was born: Get the man a 29er.

Above: A little size perspective: Patterson's "constant source of mixed feelings".

The plan hatched was to find a suitable frame and fork, throw a wheelset in the mix and then chuck all the parts from the Jeffson onto the new bike. We also decided that since it was a ground-up build it might aswell be done right and the frame would be given a new lick of paint. The result? Hopefully a shmick 29'er in an appropriate size that can give him the offroad joy he so deserves. He has long been a very good friend to me and over the course of our adventures together his consistent generosity has not gone unnoticed. As such, I am very keen to make this build something special for him. I want to create a ride that he will look forward to heading out the door on.

The first mission was to get the Jeffson in a bit more of a rideable state. Since Patterson had moved to Christchurch to pursue a career as an Army Medic he had left the Jeffson woefully unattended in New Plymouth. When I went back to visit the family I chucked the Jeffson on the bike rack and brought it back to Wellington. It was then given a bit of the once-over to check all the parts for the impending build, and this is where I discovered the various problems that had arisen from the inactivity. Off the top of my head I can recall that the Deore brake pads are shot (a simple fix) - the bottom bracket is flogged (a slightly more costly fix) - and the Thomson seatpost is seized inside the frame (a considerable headache). C'est la vie, especially when one leaves a bike to sit in a garage. It still had the mud on it from the 2009 NZ Singlespeed Champs! Anywho, with a bit of a clean/grease the bike at least looks a little more functional.

The Jeffson was a faithful steed but as is the way with the tangled bicycling webs we weave, it now has to make way for bigger, better things. The next mission will be to find a frame worthy of bearing the Jeffson's componentry and continuing the good times she brought so far. The frame will not be cast to the wayside however, and it will be reincarnated before too long to hopefully continue the off-road adventure dream. But for now?... The hunt begins.

Beneath the water.

2010-09-10T18:17:00.000+12:00

For John Hilton Mahoney. Our beloved Grandad who has left this place to go out on the big ran-tan in the sky.

06/12/1926 - 09/09/2010.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We were set upon the river all in our boats,

And pushed off down the way.

The water gently lapped the sides,

We sat together, and we swayed.

We cast an eye across the banks,

To try and spy some clue,

To try and see if we could find,

Some thing that we all knew.

As we ambled down the way,

We relaxed, and laughed and joked,

We made our space to sit and wait,

To wait until we woke.

I remember you grinned, you beamed at me,

You fixed me with that eye,

You smiled a knowing smile at me,

You laughed and I knew why.

For in that moment of strange connection,

Our hearts did share a space,

Your mind reached in and touched my own,

Our souls in the same place.

But as we went along,

And as we grew so comfortable,

The river did slowly turn on us,

We didn't notice it begin to roar.

No longer gentle, nor serene at all,

The water had an anger,

Our laughter offered nervousness,

The smiles began to falter.

The river took hold, it grabbed the boat,

And violently rocked it sideways,

I saw your feet lift off the ground,

And dove to take a hold.

Your body fell backward, and hit the water,

A thump and then a splash,

Still I had a hold of your hand,

As the waves began to crash.

They licked up and over your head,

They broke upon your face,

I watched you struggle against the current,

I watched you in this place.

I wanted to keep you, to hold on forever,

To keep you next to me,

I didn't want to let you go,

I couldn't set you free.

I watched you struggle, your pain and strife,

And I wondered how I'd cope,

I saw you fight against the river,

Searching frantically for the rope.

I gripped the rope and felt it scratch,

Inside the palm of my hand,

I readied myself to toss it in,

To pull you back to land.

But just before I dropped it in,

You briefly looked at me,

You shook your head from side to side,

I knew then what was to be.

Your eyes bespoke the fate that was,

To play out in front of me,

A look of quiet resignation,

A beautiful dignity.

You cast to me, such wondrous thoughts,

Such grand old memories,

You reminded me that we both knew,

This was how it was going to be.

And so I allowed to loosen my grip,

And watched you slip away,

But for just a second you didn't go,

You sat and looked at me.

The water was coming up and over,

Your face and round your head,

Your eyes met mine - so sharp, severe,

I knew just what you said.

You said to me, it's all okay,

I'm leaving for a while,

The undertow will carry me,

And for a second, that knowing smile.

And as you slipped beneath the surface,

Just one memory did hang,

It was your face, your beautiful face,

The face of such a man.

Who filled this world with such delight,

That when you left we knew,

You'd gone to a much simpler world,

To sit with your beloved Anne.

And so you're gone, this I know,

And my peace I'll have to make,

But I also know that should I wish,

There are memories I may wake.

I will go to the water, to that cold, silent river,

And look beneath its cover,

To see if I may spot my friend,

And so we might see each other.

And this I know, when I see his face,

He'll smile back at me,

He'll fix me with that knowing eye,

And I will know he's free.

Hello, old friend.

2010-08-30T18:23:00.000+12:00

Yo peeps - it's been a long while since I laid down a blog about a bicycle race. My pardons for diverging from the course proper and getting all introspective on you, I sort of promise that it might not happen again.

Anywho - Sunday saw the 1st round of the PNP MTB series, the one which I so joyfully documented my experiences in last year. For those not in-the-know it's the staple Wellington XC MTB series. The races usually run around 1hr 30 - 2hrs depending on weather, what grade you're in and what quantity of thigh you possess. The series attracts a diverse range of riders - from your serious type shaven XC racers to your weekend warriors - complete with shin pads and exhausted granny gears. A true credit to the organizers, then, that such a breadth of abilities can be catered for. It really is a great series and I was looking forward to kicking it off with a bang.

My "training" leading up to this series has been, well, haphazard... I have been battling with a bit of a mental flat spot on the bike - I think I place my expectations quite high and beat myself up a bit too much when I get out-performed by other riders. The thing about that one is that there is always going to be someone faster than you (well, me) and so there'll always be a reason to beat yourself up. I found that this quickly led to me losing sight of the achievements I had garnered on the bike, the progress I was making, and good times I was having - in lieu of this I found myself focusing on how much faster others were than me, how much I could still improve and, ironically, how the times weren't so good anymore. So lately I have trying to dial back the 'hard on myself-ness' and dial up the 'fun time skidz n' shit' - whilst still employing a little of the masochistic in some handy hints passed down to me by the gallant single speeder; G.Weinberg. This time last year I was in the throes of half ironman training and using the PNP series as a bit of cross training, since I'm not doing any sort of silly long distance triathlon thing anytime soon I guess you'd call this year's PNP series for fun. But, being a competitive soul, having fun and trying to beat people are not irreconcilable pursuits! So when I write that I've been trying to take things less seriously, please don't read that as me surrendering my dignity to the Capital kit clad heroes of Wellington's pave. More so, I think, you might say I've been trying to come back home from a ride with more of a cheerful smile than a weary grimace.

Another little hiccup in my approach to the spring series was the rather large crash I had a few Tuesdays ago, let me give you a brief run down. I had been out for a bit of a long one so the blood was pumping, the spirits high, the endorphins flowing and the mind brave. I was on Highbury Fling, a neat little trail that leads me back to my suburb and normally puts a lovely glaze on a good long ride. I had just hammered down Carparts at a rate a bit quicker than normal so I started to wind it up on HF. The thing about this trail is that it is absolutely perfect for winding up a single speed on - it is slightly rolling and the corners pitch and dive beautifully. When you really get on top of that gear you find yourself tearing through the corners, and this was exactly the position I found myself in. The problem is, though, that the middle section of this trail is pretty boggy. I came flying down toward a slight left-hander and pitched the bike. I have absolutely no idea what happened next but this is what it seems like happened: My bike all of a sudden lost a whole shitload of momentum - I was then carrying on at my previous speed, but looking down at the bike disappearing behind me - I realised I was aerial, and horizontal, and tilted my head up a bit to look ahead - I caught a split second view of a collection of trees before thundering into them - my head hit one, it spun my body and my pelvis hit the second and that turned me so I landed on my back down the bank - time was going so slow that I heard the bike hit the trees after me, so I looked up to see it bounce over me and lodge itself upside down, rather high in the tree I was laying against. I'm not sure how long I lay there for but it must have been a few seconds before I very quickly became upset. I tried to move and my pelvis and right leg wouldn't budge - in that split second I had a terrifying thought process where I realized that it was getting dark, nobody knew I was up there, I would soon be cold and I'd just had a pretty bad stack. I panicked and started yelling pretty much nonsensical crap, my breathing was very rattly and it took me a good few minutes to calm myself down, stand up and pull the bike out of the trees. I began limping off down the trail and was met soon afterward by a kind man on a mountain bike who could tell I was clearly distraught and walked me back to Highbury Road - it's funny how people can be so damned selfish and inconsiderate a lot of the time but then something like this happens that restores your faith in people, or if not people, at least in the possibility. Either way, I was very thankful for his help.

The only bearing that the crash really had on my PNP experience is that it rattled my confidence something awful - that and it cut out maybe 2 weeks of the training I wasn't really doing anyway. But I firmly believe in getting back on the horse - so I went ahead and signed up for the Snr Men category. Last year I enjoyed some success in the Enduro Men category, and while I still had a bit of a monkey on my back about claiming a 2nd place best - I figured since I was goin' out for a bit of a sift anyway I would try my hand at the longer course. The course was pretty awesome, it took in some of the neater and relatively untouched trails off the beaten path at Makara Peak, such as Upper Leaping Lizard, Nikau Valley, and Rimu. I was hoping for some kind weather as my confidence was still a bit dashed and I didn't fancy my chances of staying upright on a slick Makara course. It was with a great, heaving sigh of annoyance that I peered out the window Sunday morning to see not just one, but lots of drops of rain falling from the sky. A quick favour request to my pal Hayward saw a ride to the event organized and I got together the stuff I needed for the day.

The series is poised to bring a whole lot of the good times this year as a few of my friends are interested in doing it. I didn't know too many people last year so spent a lot of time either hanging round the Bushlove guys making marginal remarks and pinching beers or loitering with my lovely girl - usually around some sort of food purveyance. It's great to have a few mates entered as it keeps the competition high and the isolation low - a double win. The race went well, at any rate, the rain was fairly persistent and the tracks were certainly slippery in places. At the beginning we were released with some of the Masters categories and all the guns went off the front - I waved them off and settled into a rhythm. It seems that I had been slow enough to miss the jump, yet fast enough to jump the bunch - so I was out in a bit of a no-man's-land. I had a nice, big, fat, grippy 2.4 Ardent on the front which was excellent at negotiating the wandering indiscretions of my poor line choices and my fresh brake pads were doing their job just fine, so with the mechanicals sussed all I had to do was try to stay on top of my gear and not go out too hard. I focussed on keeping my momentum up and generally enjoying the course, this was hard though because every few metres my front tyre would fling a huge clump of mud up past my downtube and into my face - occasionally into my eye. After a few ridiculous attempts to wipe the mud from my eye with my muddy glove I realised that dirt was now just a feature of my eyeball and tried to make the most of it. I adopted a sort of strange posture, with my chin high, mouth pursed and eyes squinted to buffer against the attacking mud. In the end I imagine I simply ended up looking like some sort of mud-strewn French Stewart, but it sort of worked. And so I hacked about the course having a good ol' muddy time and keeping a small eye open for other Senior Men looking folk around to make sure I wasn't getting passed or getting close enough to snatch another placing. In the end it was a great time - I was convinced I was going to have some sort of horrible, traumatic crash in Nikau Valley but no such unluck - my slightly bald Nevegal let go in all the places I knew it would so I had a few epic drift sessions on the North Face and Smokin' descents - including one where I almost bought the farm at high speed. There was a fair bit of climbing in the course and I was happy enough with my pacing - I didn't have any epic leg fail blowouts and I rode all of Nikau Valley and all but one section of Zac's, which are trails I've struggled to clear on good days. Descending from the summit to the carpark in race-time was an epic good time - I had a big grin on my face when I turned onto the road to come home.

After the race the collective mood was one of utter discomfort. The bodies were shivering, the shoes were squelching and the expressions grim. My lady bought me a delicious, wonderful, life-saving hot coffee on the finishline and I promptly used the lovely Ashley Bushlove's towel to dab the mud from my luscious pins, so that I might put clean clothes on. The prizegiving was a good bout of natter and jokes - and I was somewhat surprised to be called up to the podium for 3rd place in Senior Men. Granted I was a good 5 min off my pal Andy in 2nd and a further 8 Min off the leader - both pretty large margins - I was pretty thrilled to have got my out-of-form ass up onto the podium. I guess my race approach was pretty solid and because I was relaxed I was able to really focus on my rhythm and pull a bit of performance from somewhere - it doesn't bear to think where... To sum then, the inaugural race of the series left me in a better mood than anticipated. You can certainly expect to see me at the next round, perhaps half-heartedly defending my 3rd place? Who knows these things. For now I don't mind - I'm just enjoying riding my bike.

Tell me about your past experience...

2010-08-18T15:31:00.001+12:00

I reckon job interviews are basically first dates. Honestly, they are. They have the exact same aesthetic. I had a job interview recently - it was my first "proper" job interview, which basically means it was the first time I wore a tie and couldn't spot a deep fryer. Let me tell you how it went down...

I was met by 3 women who already knew my name. This is presumably because we'd pre-arranged the time and, unlike fast food outlet managers, they seemed to have put 2 and 2 together and deduced who I was. I enjoyed that part - perhaps a little too much. Lingering in the back of my mind still was the idea that I would be met by a greasy, and clearly hungover, middle-aged man who would simply give me a blank stare until I said something along the lines of 'we arranged an interview?' But anyway - I was sat down at a grand desk in front of my very own little glass of water. Much like a restaurant, no? The 3 women sat opposite me and proceeded to take turns asking me what seemed like routine questions for them.

Now the interesting part here is the personality I found myself slotting into. I wouldn't say that I was nervous, I was however a little sunburnt which I suppose gave me the appearance of being nervous. In any case, I wasn't being completely forthcoming - and that was the parallel to the first date that I found most striking. Success in first dates, and job interviews, is split about 50/50 between what you let on and what you hold back. Of course it's important to give a good impression, but it is equally important to suppress those little habits of yours. The only reason you get away with farting around your long-term girlfriend is because you've spent too much time with her to avoid doing it. Not so on the first encounter. You have a little window of opportunity to present yourself as best as you can - you won't fart, you won't pick your teeth, you probably won't yawn and you certainly won't tell her that story about how you got absolutely wrecked and went home with the fat chick. So you grab a hold of that personality dial and wind it back a few notches, it is a bizarre state of affairs but I am yet to meet a person who doesn't adhere to it. It's like the first date is not establishing a compatibility - it's establishing a theoretical compatibility, which you can test later. You might as well take a C.V to detail all your marital pertinences, it'd cut out the middle man - you could have a promiscuity history, sexual achievements, various measurements and for the most discerning; even a few referees. No longer would the potential Mrs You have to imagine you naked - you could include a snapshot on the title page! Erectile dysfunction? Good luck keeping that cat in the bag! And what about that crucial question that all women want answered - 'where do you see yourself....sorry, "us" in 5 years time?'

Ah yes, what glorious encounters we could have. But the truth of the matter isn't so far removed from this. My job interview ended up costing me about $70 - much the same price as a nice first date. I got a haircut, bought some new shoes and put $4 in the parking meter. Once inside, I acted much the same as I would on a first date. My jokes were restrained, clean-humoured and (hopefully) tactfully placed throughout the interview. I tried to be pleasing - without being smarmy, I aimed for confidence whilst avoiding arrogance and I wanted to show that I was respectable, without looking like one of those suited gits you see hovering around Law School. You dress up for the occasion, you might wear your nice tie? You shine your shoes, wash your hair and pick your nose. Your appearance really shouldn't have any bearing on your capability to perform the job but you know that it matters, so you play into it. I found myself cleaning up my appearance no less than for a first date - whether this is commonplace or whether it simply means that I don't care much for first dates I'll let you decide. Once I'd established a bit of dynamic between myself and the 3 women I allowed it to inform and feed my responses, this is strikingly like a date. If the girl you're courting isn't laughing at your jokes you adjust your humour, if that doesn't work you shut the hell up and let her talk. One must take extra special care to say enough to form a good response but avoid waffling. I have no idea what most people interview like, having never conducted any myself, but if it's anything like first dates there must be some absolute shockers out there. So I rested on my laurels somewhat and simply tried to give the best impression I could.

I believe it went well - they seemed happy enough with my responses at the time and when I asked them what they were looking for in an ideal candidate they expounded the same virtues that I had just finished assuring them I had. Whether or not I get the position, it was certainly a worthwhile experience. They were very nice women and I am sure that there have been worse times in the history of interviews. Still, it is rather funny to note the interview/dating correlations - it's probably a good thing I didn't dwell on this too much during the interview as when I was seen off in the lobby I might've almost leaned in for a kiss. I wonder if it would've helped my chances?

The Digital Complaint.

2010-07-05T19:40:00.001+12:00

I have recently deactivated my Facebook account. I took some time before making this decision as it necessarily means that I have, in one swift movement, segregated myself from my friends and peers. Nowadays, within my generation at least, it's the staple medium for communication. If you want to contact someone you facebook them. I've always approached social networking sites with some apprehension, but also with some curiosity, they are such a strange world after all. The reasons I can produce for ditching the account are fairly simple - a) I spent more time on the site than I would've liked; b) It facilitated a distancing of myself from my friends and family - simply because of convenience; and c) I believe it was a necessary step in wasting less time. But first, perhaps some points on the strange virtual world of facebook...

Facebook creates for itself an entire separate reality. Each person may construct a series of frozen images and carefully scrutinized statements which they deem suitable to represent them. I find this amazing. It's not like it's a literal representation of us, it is the edited version. A classic example of this is the 'facey' - a photo where the subject(s) face is the sole focus of the photo. The photo itself gives no clue as to the circumstances within which it was taken, the pose is strikingly unnatural, the facial expression is the subject's pre-conceived camera expression or 'facey-pose' (which they deem suitable for publication) and the result? Entire albums of carbon-copy photographs of the subject's face, juxtaposed next to other faces to show that those two faces were in the same face-proximity at the same face-time, to go on their face-book. The girl on the left is caught somewhat unprepared, but the one on the right? Full-on 'facey-mode'...

Though that could be Colin Frissell in disguise...

I was guilty of some of it myself, carefully pondering 'status updates' to discern whether or not they painted the picture of me that I wished. But with this right, comes great responsibility. One must tread very carefully not to violate the collective norms of the facebook world. Indeed there is a whole website devoted to providing pertinent examples of this violation, consider these fine extracts...

Well...I'm not too sure what to say about that one, but it seems that 'A' and 'P' are taking it rather seriously. If they do believe it then that's more than just a little troubling. They are clearly not well acquainted with the plethora of unidimensional and woefully unamusing chuck-norris-quips. These formulaic one-liners can be relied upon to evoke a guffaw from the drunken buff-guy hitting on your girlfriend at the keg party, but will probably be more likely to produce pity from anyone with a half-pie sense of humour. But I feel it is the enormous expansion of our digital world that allows people like A & P to believe such things. Amazing events are relayed to you all over the net and your imagination begins to grow. Our poor facebookers here seemed to let theirs wander a bit too far, perhaps, but I don't think that they are entirely to blame.

Another 'facebook-faux-pas' is to let oneself overindulge in emotive language. This poor soul not only updated his status with the kind of passage one might expect to find within the My Chemical Romance liner notes, but made a very unfortunate spelling error too...

Now I'm not one to criticize a man's boudoir antics, if Brooke really does find himself delighting in the piquant fragrances emerging from his lover's crevasse then more power to him, but why did he find it prudent to post it on such a freely available medium? The emotion is all too tangible in Brooke's verse, he is lamenting his loss, but he's making a classic mistake. If he wants to find another girlfriend anytime in the near future, or even get his gaseous ex-romp back in his arms, the man needs to look strong and independent. Pouring your melodramatic and self-pitying heart out over the folds of internet social networking sites is a piss-poor way to go about it, no matter how genuine you are when you say "I've got no problem with a girl who farts"...

Finally, perhaps my favourite post, is the classic (to borrow from the vocabulary of a 12-year old girl) TMI post...

Again, the logic of expounding one's sexual information all over the interweb escapes me. I particularly like the OP's free admission of committing rape, however, and the subsequent replies are certainly interesting. I get the feeling that if our friend Brooke had of been a friend of this poster we might've seen a reply of 'My Poo Heaven' or 'Gasablanca'.

What also amazes me, is that this virtual facebook world doesn't seem to be bound by the normal rules of social conduct. A classic example of this is the variety of 'friend requests' that one may find themselves presented with. The only explanation that I can come up with for the types of people that have added me as a 'friend' on facebook is that they are all privy to the same knee jerk "hey-I-recognise-that-name-let's-see-what-his-life-is-like" response. I can confirm this somewhat because when I switched my profile from 'public' to 'private' I received no less than 10 friend requests over the subsequent 2 days. I have been added by such colourful characters from my past as a guy who used to try and convince each girl I was courting to creep into a private room with him whilst we were at parties. He also found it necessary to report my car to the local city council for the Rego being overdue by a couple of weeks with the hope it would be towed and stole several items of mine from me over the 3 years we shared mutual (real-life) friends. Now this guy wants to be 'friends' with me? To what? Catch up on the good times? Piss off. Add to this a handful of guys who outwardly disliked me at high school, a piece-of-work ex flatmate who used to bathe with rubber ducks at age 20 and a psychotic ex-girlfriend who I literally hopped a window, ran to the main road and phone my friend to help me escape from and you've got a motley crew of potential cyber-friends. What a curious state of affairs!

As delightful as all these examples are, I've become fed up with the state of affairs that regular facebooking has gotten me into. Reasons A) and C) above are fairly easily reconcilable and indeed quite self-explanatory; spending less time on facebook → wasting less time. This is not a problem, I waste enough time on other sites to make the exclusion of this one a bit of a small improvement. Small improvements, however, can lead to big results. Jim Grisanzio, when he's not being distracted by things while people try to take his photo, will back me up on this, though I find that fringe somewhat untrustworthy. Like I said, A) and C) aren't a problem. What is a problem is reason B) - the distancing of myself from friends and family. The argument can be run that facebook is good because it is a simple means of communication, this means that staying in touch with our loved ones is easier. What it also does is create another excuse to not go to the effort of contacting people through more tangible means. Why would you walk 2-3km to visit a friend, when you can simply leave a digital message on their page imparting the same sentiments? This is precisely the situation where I found myself, and it leads to living your life under the banner of necessity; "what do I need to do?". I certainly don't need to visit my friends, as I can just leave a cheeky message on their page letting them know that I care.

In light of these problems, it may seem pertinent to say "well, why don't you just spend less time on facebook and be more proactive about visiting people?" I reckon that if that were valid, I wouldn't be having this problem in the first place. It's cold turkey for me. In deactivating the old account I am hoping that I will be more willing to initiate more tangible forms of interaction with friends and family. I can certainly predict that I will see a lot less of some friends, which is a shame, but because I don't fit within their virtual parcel of convenience that's the price I pay. It's unfortunate that such a reliance has emerged on social networking sites to stay in touch, we are increasingly losing touch of who we really are and simply blending into the margins of our virtual self-representations. It is a mark of our generation, this enormous shift towards the digital world, but hopefully it doesn't expedite the demise of tangible relations. I guess my deactivation can be thought of as a sort of hiatus. If I can integrate myself into a satisfactory level of legitimate interaction and make a bit more out of my free time, perhaps I'll be back.

I guess in any instance those who turn to the virtual world as their primary medium at least have the likes of Brooke to regale them with their inappropriate declarations. To those souls I say... enjoy, I guess?..

Adonis and the Metropolis.

2010-06-19T23:48:00.000+12:00

A slick looking man stands naked in front of his full length mirror. He curls a flexed arm upward, he pronates, he admires his reflection as the muscle bulges underneath his skin. A smug little smile wipes across his face and he pulls another swift pose to assess his tricep definition. He is Adonis. Satisfied that his hard work has paid dividends he slowly puts his shirt on, admiring how the sheer fabric sits on his carved physique. He is strong. He is fit. He is healthy. He is all that is man.

I've always had a thing against gyms. It seems to breed a certain prototype of male whose bloodflow is perhaps distributed a little more southward than it need be. Gyms pride themselves on providing health and fitness to the masses, a convenient location where one might purchase the right to increase their physical prowess, and of course receive a hot shower afterward. The hordes of self-satisfied jocks that strut about gyms don't overly phase me, indeed it's somewhat comical watching them ruffle their feathers, perch an elbow on the exercise machine mounted by the attractive woman and let the self-importance drip off them and into the mini-towel slung around their neck. These men are never sweaty. If they do exercise their muscles the effort is dramatized. Each 'rep' is followed by a grimace and a hearty "oooooohhh, yeah". They look around to make sure everyone else knows exactly how many bicep curls they've done.

This is all well and good. Far be it from my place to criticize these men, they are free to do what they like. My problem is in the perception that results. It's because we've been bombarded with images of the Calvin Klein model as 'the perfect man'. The yardstick. In his tighty whiteys and with each individual ab elevated, greased, waxed, polished and buffed, he is a very effective reminder that you should perhaps set down that bagel and do some upside down ab crunches. And it comes hand in hand that this man is considered fit. Is he fit? I'm not so sure.

In my navigation of the various avenues endurance sport has to offer I've borne witness to some impressive displays of physical ability. I've seen Kieran Doe smash it off the front of the chase pack in the 90km bike leg at the Tauranga Half, only for 19yr old Michael Poole to eventually shut the gap down and back that effort up with a 1:18 half marathon to win. I've seen runners and cyclists alike pull a blistering pace out of nowhere and consume entire climbs in single bites and I've seen many riders of all disciplines tear past me in the field at improbable speeds. These athletes are fit. Cameron Brown is fit. The guy with the spiked haircut who can lift more slabs of iron through the pulley than the shorter guy with the rat's tail? Not so much. But, to be fair, this is all dependent on the definition of fitness I have chosen to work with. I guess I feel that the gym jock fitness is a bit fake. It's like taking a rusted old classic car and slapping on a new lick of paint, it may look the part but when the flag drops, it ain't gunna perform. And isn't this where it all stemmed from? Muscles presumably displayed to the females of our species that we were fit, capable providers who could be relied upon to sire children and ward off the nasties. It seems that now that we've dominated the landscape, in the same swing it's allowed these veils of fitness to come through and capitalize on tens of thousands of years of natural selection. And good on them, they're just playing the game, nowadays it really doesn't matter if you could fight off a predator, all that really matters is that you look good when the female undresses you.

So you might imagine the scene when I spied the opportunity to win a gym membership at my local fish and chip store. I too adopted my own little smugness and turned away from it toward the board to pick something greasy and deliciously terrible for my waistline. But then a thought came over me..."am I being a bit hard-headed about this?". So I filled out the form and dropped it in the box. Lo and behold a week later I get a phone call from a rep at the gym, informing me that I have won a free 7-day membership. Yippee.

It was with some ambivalence that I hung the phone up. I was at the same time mocking of the opportunity to go to a gym for 7 days, and trying to persuade myself that I shouldn't be so rigid in my judgments. I reminded myself that perhaps they are helpful, if only to provide those with limited time a little bit of a workout that they might not otherwise wish to pursue. Surely this has to be positive? Then I remembered the Slick Rick leaning on the water cooler, running a hand through his hair whilst laughing with "Chad" about the 20-something barmaid he did despicable things with the night before. I cringed.

But alas I have accepted the trial membership, if somewhat hesitantly. I will try the gym experience and see what it has to offer. This way if I am to cast it down in the future I'll at least be making an informed determination.

Watch this space...

To Yeltzen.

2010-06-18T00:43:00.001+12:00

Monday 14th of June, 2010. This is the date that my dear pussycat Yeltzen was laid to rest. To introduce Yeltzen as my cat is to greatly underplay the importance of him in my life. He wasn't just a cat, he wasn't just a pet, he was a beautiful creature and he was my friend.

It still hasn't quite registered with me that the little guy's gone. He was around the age of 12 and lived at my parents home in New Plymouth. I've been in Wellington since 2007 but my heart is still very much up north. It's difficult to do Yeltz justice through this medium, words are inert, if one manages to attach meaning to them it's only fleeting and very subjective. To give you an idea of what he was like I would've simply dropped him into your lap, but alas this I can not do. He was more like a dog than a cat. He would always attend to a whistle and low-reaching hand. He would even respond to his name. Yeltzen was happy when he was with people, it really was as simple as that. If he was up on a lap he'd really get things cooking, a vigorous and incessant purr would begin and his face would fall into a blissful little cat-smile. He would gaze up at you with his bright green eyes and look at you with such an unconditional love that it would reduce the burliest of macho-men to a coo. That was the thing about Yeltzen, love. He had so damn much of it to give. He loved the warmth too, my parents have a rather stately house that is filled with the kind of sun-soaked spots that cats can only dream about. I imagine mangy streetcats sitting out back of an alley shootin the proverbial and cookin up imagery of the kind of posts Yeltz frequented. The good life. But if any cat deserved it, it was certainly my pal. Being at 22 now, this meant we got Yeltzen when I was around 10. These are rather formative years in a young boy's life, I had moments ranging everywhere from melodrama to legitimate depression and to have such a stable companion was a grace indeed.

But he was cheeky. The sight of his ass hanging out of the kitchen bin was not uncommon and a delicious cut of momentarily unattended meat was as good as gone. His perseverance was quite something too. Dad kept a syringe in the kitchen sink which, sans needle, made for a very accurate water-gun substitute. If Yeltzen was hanging around after food (I say if but really mean when) he got a short, sharp blast from the syringe. He would scatter and bowl outside at quite a rate but it was a pretty safe bet that within 10 minutes he'd be back looking for more again. He had a curious relationship with the other pets, his sister cat has the temperament of a hormonal feminist and the pet Lab has sniffing/licking habits that come on a bit strong with the smaller animals. Nevertheless, Yeltzy would always give the dog an affectionate brush when he walked past. His days were mostly spent cruising the various leisure spots he enjoyed and visiting people, for the most part he was but a whistle away. He spent a lot of time on the couch in the lounge as this was the item of furniture that received the most human-traffic, and therefore provided him with the most cuddles. He also had other, more devoted visiting habits. Since us kids have moved out of the house I think he had largely integrated into Dad's routine. He used to sit outside the shower and paw at the window in the mornings, and on the way downstairs he would always hang back in case you wanted to run your fingers through the slats and taunt him to pounce. He had a pillow set up on Dad's computer desk where he would sit and just keep him company and almost anywhere you were in the house, at any time you might be met with a genial meow and what I swear were the beginnings of a purr at the sheer prospect of a pat.

While I sit here and try to come to terms with the fact that he's gone, I know I can not. I think maybe that I don't want to. I want to believe that when I go back to New Plymouth he will be laying in the sun, and his little head will come up and look at me, and I'll hear that distinctive loving purr. I want to think that I can pat him again, that I can look into his eyes and see nothing but affection staring back. I want to believe that this world is still graced with Yeltzen, as he is a shining example that wonderful things truly do exist. I guess I just want to believe that I still have my friend.

Rest in peace, buddy. I'll miss you.

Season To Taste.

2010-05-29T23:19:00.000+12:00

Ahh Winter. Go ahead and oblige me for a second by clearing out one of those blocked nostrils of yours and giving the world a sniff. The air hangs with the distinct dampness of recent rain. The vegetation is rejoicing, it has long since begun ejecting magnificently rich odours into the world around us. Winter is their time. As a cyclist, your miles tend to get a bit hampered by the colder months, something about the prospect of bone-chilling temperatures, regular showers and puddles for cycling shoes makes another slice of cake and a warm coffee a little too tempting. There are people, of course, who will be out there doing miles and I can pretty confidently say that I can predict the people who will be atop the podium come spring. It will be those fine athletes who quietly head out the door each day and ride into whatever is in store for them. After the race that they have just dominated us mere mortals will sling sarcastic yet thinly veiled envy at their prowess. "Oh, I was gunna chase you down today but I thought I'd let ya win". "I had a good race but nothing like that freak". It's all in good fun, and once again our jibes will be met with the same reticence that they carried through their winter training, the same quiet smile and brief engagements. They've just proven everything they needed to out on the trails. So, what do we do if not pound out tedious and uncomfortable miles? We roll over like house-dogs and succumb magnificently to laze. Cabin fever sets in. We become the bane of our partner's/family's existence. We embrace the madness. Indeed we need it as it reminds us why we need to get out the bloody door and go do some riding. So, while we're here, and why'll we're both having a good time, won't you enjoy a little madness with me?

I used to live in this house that was right in the middle of the street. No, not the middle of the road. As in it was numbered 1-49 and we were number 25. Anywho, this street had some mangy as cats that hung around, real tough guys. Nobody left their house at night except by car with windows rolled up, doors locked, knees firmly together and buttcheeks clenched. These cats were real bullies and they weren't afraid of no car, occasionally they'd hurl themselves in front of the car so you felt obliged to get out and check if they were okay. Well, you had to. The others would at this point leap into your car and wreak absolute havoc. They'd claw up the upholstery, spray wretched mists over the steering wheel and headrests, and lift their legs to aim artful streams of urine into the air vents. While this was going on others still would emerge from the darkness and overpower you, forcing you to the ground. At this point they would fetch all manner of neighbourhood objects and attempt to bury you in them, within minutes you'd find yourself inundated with deflated soccer balls, odd shoes, wrecked bicycles and the uneaten crusts of peanut butter sandwiches, the lost fragments of frivolous childhood days. The stench was overpowering, in addition to living it rough these cats took a particular pleasure in rolling themselves in the foulest of substances that lurked in gutters and compost heaps. They would flank your sides and in unison begin rocking backward and forth on their little kitty-legs working a nasty little kitty-vomit up from their bellies which they would spit onto your body and then rub in with their paws, laughing little kitty-laughs. It really was quite a traumatic experience. When they'd had their fill they'd all meow and turn on their tails and take off into the night, mad cackles cracking through the air. You were left there in a pile of old neighbourhood junk and small quantities of bile with your faculties in tatters.

One day a local old boy by the name of Jasper had had enough. Jasper was a Vet, and not the kind that would be advantageous to a kitty. He'd fought in Orsogna and wasn't about to let a bunch of haggard cats dictate his liberties, no matter how sharp their claws were. As well as being a Vet, Jasper considered himself a bit of a dab hand at erections. He'd long been tinkering with timbers and bolts and knew his way around a ball-peen. So with this he set about sapping a trench at the Northern end of the street. He amassed all number of objects that he knew cats feared the most; stuffed Alf toys, vacuum cleaners, sheets of tin foil and leaves of lettuce. The cats had been sleeping that day but when they began their nightly patrol they were quickly set upon by Jasper, reveling in his madness and advancing on the cats with all his various weapons. The problem was that in his enthusiasm to hark back to those hallowed days in Italy Jasper had completely neglected to mount an effective attack. His Alf toys once flung lay in a limp and frankly not intimidating manner and the vacuum cleaners weren't plugged in so lacked the frightening suction that rattles cats' bones. He also quickly learned that cats aren't very scared of tin foil, they simply won't walk on it and that they merely find lettuce rather unpalatable. His attack had failed miserably. Jasper didn't stand a chance, the cats wanted blood. They subdued him and dragged him off wailing like some great senile baby into the bushes. When they emerged the grey tabby was wearing Jasper's face like some perverse war mask. This was perhaps the turning point in the criminal careers of these cats, before this their acts had not been particularly threatening, just somewhat humiliating, but now they were bona fide murderers. Not like the "bite off a newt's tail and slap it around before eating it" kind but the "drag an old man into the bushes and remove his face" kind. The neighbourhood was terrified.

But one thing that will always remain true is that criminal fraternities, when enjoying success and expansion, will seek larger territories. And so it was true of these cats too. They moved to the city and left a couple of representatives behind to control the home turf. These thug cats were a little dim and not particularly dangerous when compared to their counterparts, I guess the cats felt secure that they'd established their dominance. Down the street there lived a little boy named Travis. Travis was 9 and one of his favourite pastimes was shooting birds with ball bearings from his arm-mounted slingshot. As a result of this Travis had honed his skills and was remarkably accurate, specifically speaking he could behead a sparrow from 10m with a 1/4" ball 8 times out of 10. He was deft, to put it modestly. Travis had sensed an uneasiness in the neighbourhood but enjoyed the relative safety that his parents ensured so it must be said that he didn't truly understand the perils that awaited him when he left the house that night. Donned in black gears and with crude facepaint, Travis snuck into his backyard and over the fence. His post, incidentally, was the treehouse that stood to the side of my own house, number 25, in the middle of the street. I watched from the comfort of my bedroom as Travis snuck into our treehouse. The two cats that patrolled the streets had a very established route and it was one that Travis deduced after about 30mins of careful observation. When the cats moved past my house they were obscured by the astelias and so offered a poor shot to a young slingshotter. Once they had passed my house however they moved through a gap in the bushes at the edge of our property and a dab hand might be able to get a shot off at them, there was a window of about 3 secs from a distance of 15m and with two moving targets, it was not an easy shot. As the two cats moved toward the gap young Travis pulled back firmly on the sling, ball clasped between thumb, forefinger and pouch. The ginger cat's head was the first to come into view and Travis let go of the ball, it flew through the air and connected with it's target with a sickening crack, the cat dropped instantly. He immediately thumbed another ball and pulled back on the sling, the second cat still in his crosshairs, he was about to release when an enormous screech went up in the treehouse behind him and the grey tabby wearing Jasper's face lept at his head. The shot went wayward and shattered a street-light. As the tabby was attacking him Travis hastily grabbed at the slingshot, wrapping the band around the cat's neck. He pulled down hard, fastening it around its neck and cutting off its air supply. As the cat choked and spluttered, Jasper's severed face swinging wildly from its own, Travis gritted his teeth and tightened his grip and twisted the band, finishing the job. The cat slumped to the floor and Travis relaxed.

He heard a scratching coming from below and peered out the trapdoor to find a mob of no less than 50 cats clawing their way up the tree, they wanted him. He began recklessly firing off balls into the throng of pursuing cats, shattering little kitty-faces and wounding vital little kitty-organs. It was a messy scene, cats were falling from the tree left, right and center. Travis was running short of ammo and there were still a lot of cats making their way up the tree. As they began to overwhelm the treehouse Travis threw himself into the corner, firing wildly at the little heads that popped through the trapdoor. Just as Travis flung his last ball bearing right into the left eye of a burly Persian he heard an enormous explosion. Down below Old Lady Maude, Jasper's wife, was swaying slightly with a double-barrel shotgun wavering off her hip, smoke filtering out the end of the barrels. Maude, unlike Jasper, knew where he kept his legitimate weapons and had sensed trouble when she saw the streetlight shatter. Maude kept thumbing the 00 down the barrels and firing indiscriminately at the tree. The cats were retreating slightly now but Maude, mad as a cut snake, was advancing, letting round after round fly at the group of cats. When she'd thinned the group down to around 5 they scarpered. They leapt the astelias and tore off down the street and into the night. When young Travis came down he was met with a scene of unimaginable gore. Little bloody bodies lay everywhere, expressions of horror fixed to their mutilated faces, torn apart by buckshot and 1/4" ball-bearings.

The neighbours slowly filtered out of their houses to witness the aftermath, they had not fought on the frontlines against the mob of cats, instead they had sat in terror in their houses while their fate hinged on a 9yr old boy and an 85yr old woman who wore diapers. They all rejoiced however. No longer where they held captive by the mangy streetcats that plagued their neighbourhood. A party of epic proportions was held that night, the residents gorged themselves on wine, food and rather ambitious stories of their involvement in the great Feline war of '96. It was a time of great happiness, the neighbourhood had been liberated, once and for all, from the oppressive feline powers that had dominated their lives for so many months. They drank to Travis, they drank to Maude, but most importantly they drank to Jasper. A good man lost.

A Caffeinated History.

2010-05-25T12:03:00.000+12:00

Hey, you know that coffee you're drinking? Delicious isn't it? Yes, I bet it is. Coffee has been around since as long as I can remember, probably because I am of the tender age of 22 - which is a veritable blotch on the historical rug of hot beverages. The history of everyday items is something that interests me greatly. These wonderful little conveniences merge themselves so seamlessly into our lives that we could barely recall the first time that we encountered them. Indeed, a coffee in the morning seems about as natural to me as my thumbs being opposable.

Coffee is absolutely wonderful. The sheer smell of a coffee will arrest my attention. The sight of a freshly-poured brew invokes immediate coffee-envy and the taste...oh, the taste. It's the first sip that gets me. It energizes from the word go, it slides across your palate like some wondrous silk and embraces the soul. Everything feels okay when you've taken a sip of a coffee. Suffice to say I'm a fan. The skeptic would look down their little nose and inform me that it's my raging coffee addiction that produces these experiences, they would inform me that it's the dependency gratifying me for continuing to supply it. To this I would say, "that's just fine". If the cost of the above is an addiction then you can go ahead and make sure I'm hooked good and proper.

(What follows is information found across the internet and transcribed into my own words for your reading pleasure. See the appendix for a list of sources)

There doesn't seem to be much authority in the origin of coffee, although there is one story kicking around. Rumour has it that it all began with an Ethiopian shepherd named Kaldi. Kaldi was not in the business of sheep, like most sensible shepherds, but rather he shepherded goats. Anyone who's dealt with goats before would agree that they would be extremely difficult to farm. The first problem is that goats are utterly thick. The second is that they are very agile and fast in hilly terrain and the third (and perhaps most problematic) is that they have a distinct lack of respect for fences. Despite the odds being stacked against him, Kaldi was a hardy soul and persisted. One day he was scouting around trying to find a few of his goats that had (surprise, surprise) evaded his shepherding prowess when he rounded a corner to find the goats to be dancing rather joyously. He observed that these goats were dancing around a particular shrub adorned with bright red berries, mad grins affixed above their wee beards. Kaldi, being perhaps of similar intelligence to the goats, thought the only thing for it was for him to try the berries himself. Now, this could have gone horribly wrong for old Kaldi but, alas, he got lucky. He quickly learned of the stimulating effects of the berries and found himself dancing around the shrub with his goats. A monk at the village observed Kaldi in this state and went off himself to pick some of the magical berries, that night him and his brother found that they were unusually alert during their prayers. The rest, as they say, is history.

The story of Kaldi is placed around 800 A.D. but coffee in its contemporary guise (i.e. roasted beans) is dated back to about 1000 A.D. (What they were supposed to be doing in that 200 year gap is anyone's guess - probably eating berries and dancing with goats) - This roasting was going down in Arabia, and it really took off. The Muslims, who don't do things by halves, were 'drinking coffee religiously' by the 13th Century. Coffee followed Islam around during these times but the beans that were exported were infertile, keeping the production in-house. This scheme worked until about 1600 A.D. when a sneaky little man named Baba Budan did the world a kindness. This good man strapped some fertile beans to his belly and took off out of Mecca to spread the gift of coffee to other lands. His beans sprouted and the seed was sown. The history of coffee from this point onwards gets a little more exciting than one might imagine...

1615 - 1700

In 1615 a Merchant of Venice reported that the Turks had a drink "of black colour" that he planned to bring to the Italians. The problem was that the Italians weren't interested in just having the drink, they wanted to be able to produce the stuff. This sparked the beginning of the race to own coffee production in Europe. One year later, the Dutch successfully produced the first coffee plant in Europe. Some 80 years later the Dutch produced the first 'coffee-estate' under European ownership in a little place named Java and began to spread their wares. They gifted coffee plants to many aristocrats around Europe, this was perhaps not their brightest move.

1714-1720

Louis XIV received his plant around this time, it was intended for his Royal Botanical Garden in Paris. Enter a naval officer by the name of Gabriel Mathieu de Clieu who was visiting Paris on leave from Martinique, a Carribean French Colony. He had visions of the French equivalent of Java in Martinique so went to Louis XIV and asked for clippings from this wonderful tree. Having been denied Gabriel decided, like any good man, that the best thing to do was steal a clipping. Under the cover of darkness he bounded the wall to the Garden and procured a sprout before making a hasty exit. On the way to Martinique, Gabriel fought many setbacks to get the precious seedling home safe. These included jealous passengers aboard the ship, storms, pirates and drought. He even shared his water rations with the little sprout to keep it alive. Once back in Martinique the plant thrived. Over the next 50 years it would produce at least 18 million plants, a coffee empire. The fruits of this endeavour spread to Latin America, where things escalated even further.

1727-1800

At this point, Brazil is keen to get amongst the coffee trend but first they need seeds from one of the coffee empires. As you can imagine, these moguls of java are pretty tight with their stock so Brazil commission a spy. The National Geographic credit Lt. Col. Fransisco de Melo Palheta as "the James Bond of Beans". The Lieutenant is sent on a mission to procure seeds from French Guiana under the pretense of settling a border dispute. In true Bond style the Lieutenant is a smooth operator and targets the Governor's wife as his 'in' for the beans. At the farewell, Palheta is presented with a grand bouquet of flowers that delicately conceal the pilfered seedlings. Sleeping with the enemy indeed. The Lieutenant carries his loot back to Brazil to eventually beget the greatest coffee empire thus seen. By 1800, Brazil has spread its wares to all the people to create an outright coffee establishment that extends to this present day.

It seems that the history that produced that delicious elixir that you so fervently consume is quite colourful after all. I, for one, am eternally grateful to the sly devils mentioned above who had a hand in the expansion of coffee. So, head to the kitchen and put the kettle on, pour yourself a nice hot cup of joe and while you're enjoying the rich, smooth flavours give your cup a gentle tip to the charming Lieutenant above, for if he wasn't such a gallant philanderer you may very well just be drinking tea right now.

Appendix:

- Coffee @ nationalgeographic.com

- Coffee History @ 2basnob.com

- Koffee History @ koffeekorner.com

- Triviae @ cappuccino.net

- Image from lackcolor.com

Set The Dial To "Slide".

2010-05-24T13:31:00.000+12:00

Loose as a goose.

That's perhaps the best way to describe the inaugural Wainuiomata Winter Weekender. It was promoted as a brand new event that aimed to draw "the best and toughest of NZ's endurance riders" to experience the fruits of the Wainuiomata Trail Project's labour. Now I don't know if it accomplished that, I certainly don't count myself among NZ's best and toughest, but it was a bloody good day out. Rather than subject you to a screed on tyre choice, nutrition and endurance tactics, I'll give you a brief overview of my day with some highlights.

Firstly, if you're contemplating this event I would recommend more than 4hrs sleep. It was on a Saturday and myself and a couple of old mates partook in some festivities the night beforehand. I can tell you for a fact that dragging your ass out of bed and trying to organise for a race on such little rest is an absolute nightmare.

Once out there we started setting up our "campsite". This consisted of a stationwagon with the boot open and gear strewn about the backseat. I was in a duo team and we'd decided that 2laps/person was a good bet. Some of the "support crew" (read: larrikins) turned up with some 36 delicious Ranfurly beers. It was beginning to look less and less serious. It was about this point that I broke out the costume, my flatmate's homemade Max outfit of Where The Wild Things Are fame. A few people were in on the gag but some of the less culturally learned spectators accused me of being a cat. (Photo courtesy of Bushlove Racing).

The lap was brutal. Awesomely brutal. Brutally awesome. There were enormous bogs, an honest climb, jumps, berms & tight, twisty sections laid with thick gravel that sounded like static cutting through your ears. There were drop offs, a little section of technical negotiation and an absolute plethora of greasy corners to catch out young players. The 6hr Solo would've been a good hard slog, it would've been absolutely insane as a 12hr/24hr course. The lap was divided into time spent trying to keep the rear wheel within lateral and rotational bounds, it was an excellent time. It wasn't all fun and games however, in one of my laps I stopped to help a rider who'd suffered quite a spill. It seems as he was descending a short section on the "Hard" line his front wheel washed and sent his face straight into the ground from a decent height. He seemed a bit stunned and had a good little pool of blood accumulating in his mouth so myself and one other rider helped him get out and back near the race village.

Apart from the riders who went down, the other victims of the quags consuming the course were definitely drivetrains. It was not a good day for rear derailleurs. Several of the Solo riders had to pull out due to mechanicals. Not to be outdone by these other Solo'ers, Mr Lindup decided that if he was also going to suffer a drivetrain failure it might aswell rip the derailleur hanger in half too. It was certainly a single-speeder's course. Accordingly, it makes sense that a single-speeder came out on top. Mr Dave Aldred, perhaps better known for his talents in consuming entire Camembert wheels in single sittings and hanging around Netball Courts on a Saturday morning, took the 6hr Solo Honours on his faithful rigid steed. Dave has recently been enjoying a foray into the jump park scene and his cohorts at the Bush Love Racing Team have managed to finally talk him out of the loose jeans and hanging out with boys all day, and all the way to a race win. If it weren't for his mates he'd still be somewhere near Tawa getting about 6 inches of the good stuff. Kudos to those men.

Toward the end of the race spirits were high, alcohol had been flowing and racing had gone quite thoroughly out the window so we reverted to some good old fashion hooliganism. The sight of a man wearing just a swandri and waiting for his team-mate to come through and tag him on should've perhaps raised some alarm bells. For the last lap of the day, Team Single-Speed Scrotum Swindlers sent out a nude rider. There is little more liberating than tearing round the trails with your goods flailing in the wind and this rider sought to demonstrate just that. It was largely well-received, with of course the odd parent averting their dear children's gaze. I suspect that the riders I passed weren't too thrilled about it either. Either way, it was a signal of a good time, though I'd hate to think what a crash would've been like.

At the prizegiving some lulz were had an a bit of smack-talk thrown about. The course also seemed to be unanimously enjoyed, I know I had a damn fine time.

So, a big thanks to the following:

* The Wainuiomata Trail Project for all their hard work building the trails.

* Shane Wetzel & Co. for putting together and running such an awesome race.

* All the riders who took part for making it a muddy good time.

* Jovi, Ben, Heather & Tim for the food and beers.

If you get a chance to do this race, definitely take it!