Bad habits

I've been letting myself go a bit lately.  Well, not strictly myself.  Although I've sold all my Rapha gear on eBay, for reasons which I may well bore you with in a future post, I think I still cut a dash in my chosen mixture of ten-year old Assos and the best bits of the Prendas bargain bin.

It's my bike maintenance that's slacking.  When I commuted every day, my "work" bike would be cleaned and checked for wear, tear and potential problems at least once a week.  My "racing" bike -- which actually meant my "ride at the weekend if the sun's shining" bike would be washed down and checked after every outing. 

But pressures of self-employment and a new house mean they're lucky if they get a bucket of soapy water chucked over them now and then.  There's even less excuse now, because our new house features -- for the first time in my life -- a purpose designed bike workshop in the basement; it's only big enough for two bikes (plus my track frame on the wall), a stand, my tools, a kettle and a radio -- but it's a big improvement on the hallway or the garden. 

And the bikes are taking their revenge.  First, the frame cracked on my Tempo -- now the faults are lining up and nagging for attention.

I'd noticed a creaking from the Casati for a couple of weeks. 

In my experience, creaks should not be ignored.  A strange noise that appears to be coming from the front wheel usually means the cranks are about to fall off.  A clicking from around the bottom bracket is a sure sign that the headset is loose.  And, on one memorable occasion, what sounded like creaky handlebars on my Geoff Butler track frame was actually the seat-tube slowly detaching itself from the top-tube due to 30 years of accumulated internal rust.

Fifteen miles from home last week, I thought I'd give the Casati a once-over just to check where the creak was coming from.  I was disturbed to discover that half the spokes on the back wheel were the consistency of cooked spaghetti and it was rapidly turning oval.  Shamefaced, I re-trued it as best I could and limped home like a circus clown on a square-wheeled comedy bike.

So much for the bomb-proof old school 32-holers, although the fact that I've never once tuned them up may be partly to blame.

Stripping them down for a proper rebuild, I decided to swap the Vittoria Paves on to my winter fixed to replace the threadbare Conti Gatorskins.  Only then did I notice that the rear hub on my fixed was turning with all the smooth precision of a rusty gate post.  Five minutes with a pair of cone spanners got it spinning OK, but at the expense of a fractional amount of play -- sure sign of knackered bearings.  Again, a bit disappointing since it's only about 18-months old and hasn't had that hard a life.  

I've got a pair of ultra-strong 36-hole Mavic Open Pro track wheels which -- realistically -- are unlikely to be used in anger again; I should probably transfer them to my winter fixed but it seems an insult to them, and a final acceptance that my racing days -- such as they were -- are definitely over. 

 

Bring on the dark

It happens every year, but it's always a lovely surprise.  After the clocks go back, Richmond Park -- the London roadies' favourite sanctuary -- closes its gates at 4 o'clock every day.  So there's a glorious period when, for a couple of hours each day, the park is light enough to ride round but deserted.  Just me, a couple of other bikes, a few runners and thousands of wild animals.  And you can watch the lights go on all over the city.  It's a small vision of what the world could be like.

I know something similar happens on Summer evenings, but somehow the Autumn afternoons feel more special.

If you're anywhere near, join us.  But watch out for the deer -- the little devils get frisky when the sun goes down and they're hard to spot in the gloom.

Not waving, drowning

Has anyone else noticed a fundamental flaw with the route of the Giro in 2009?  It's starting in Venice.  Apparently, Basso's confirmed to ride, so it's a good job Bjarne taught him how to swim. 

Timely reminder

Woe! Twice woe! My lovely Condor Tempo is no more.

I was washing it last week and trying to work out if I could go a bit longer without adjusting the chain tension and changing the back tyre when I noticed a tiny crack in the paint around the seat-tube cluster.   Alarmingly, there was another - even smaller - one on the other side.

Hoping it was just a paint blemish, I took it into Condor this afternoon -- only to have the sad news confirmed.  Mine appears to be one of a small batch of steel frames with a manufacturing fault which leads to cracked seat tubes.  

To their credit, Condor seem to be handling it well.  There are no Tempo frames of the right size in stock at the moment, so they'll rebuild my parts onto a Pista frame (more track oriented, no mudguard clearance) and I can ride that until the next shipment arrives sometime in December.  Then I get a new bike.

The new Tempos are dark blue, apparently, instead of the tasteful Saronni-red that mine came in -- but I think I can live with that.

I'll miss it though -- it was a great all-round, all-weather bike which was increasingly becoming my bike of choice for all kinds of riding, not just urban commuting.

And a reminder of how important it is to wash and check your bike frequently.  It's the second time I've discovered a cracked frame like that -- far better than finding it on a downhill.

More random velo-memories

• Jason Kenny brought down in a crash with his Australian opponent just yards from the line, crossing it at speed on his backside and still having the presence of mind to fling his arms up in victory celebration.  That's class.
• Kenny and Perkins sustained some nasty-looking cuts and bruises in that crash -- which would have kept me off the bike for a couple of weeks.  The pair of them were back at it the next day, riding just as hard and just as close.
• The music reaching newly absurd heights.  German victory in the Madison brought a rare outing for Nena's Cold War anthem "99 Luftballons" and any mention of the JKA Keirin was an excuse to dust off the Vapors' masturbation hymn "Turning Japanese".  The one occasion they got it gloriously right?  The GB men's pursuit team cruised round on their victory lap to the strains of "The Boys are Back in Town".  Not a dry eye in the house.
• There's an old fella with a shaggy perm whose sole job appears to be to wipe down the Belgian women's team with a damp flannel after each race.  You never see jobs like that advertised, do you?
• The sheer physical effort -- as well as the danger -- of the racing.  One of the German women was on her back by the finish line for a good ten minutes before she was able to get up and walk unsteadily back to her pit area; worse, a young Hong Kong 500m time-trial competitor who took even longer to stagger back, like some late night drunk, collapsing to her knees every couple of yards.
• Dave Brailsford, GB Cycling supremo, stood next to us as young Matt Crampton stormed to victory in a Keirin heat -- apparently utterly unemotional even as the crowd went hysterical. Another day in the office, with his team doing what they're expected to do. 
• Typical. Just when I think I've got a clear shot of the British Cycling stand -- three grinning idiots come along and spoil it.

Same Old Song

Cycling and bad music go together like Gin and Tonic.  Or, to put it in an appropriately Manchester context, chips and gravy. 

The caravan which precedes the Tour de France peloton is accompanied by fromage-dripping accordion musak, and the continental Six-Days are ridden against a background of high-octane commercial techno.  

But the music selection at today's Track World Cup hit new heights of audio weirdness and whoever was behind it is either a genius or seriously disturbed.

I'd grown used to the, frankly barmy,  idea of playing "Zorba's Theme" for primes and the hackneyed "We Will Rock You" to hype crowd tension before match sprints but today we entered the Twilight Zone.

The merest hint of an Italian rider was greeted with blasts of the outrageously stereotypical Mambo Italiano (sample lyrics "Hey Mambo, don't want a tarantella, Hey Mambo, no more mozarella"). 

And any rider from Holland was serenaded with a bizarre oompah tune of mysterious origin. Despite having quite a lot of family in the Netherlands, my Dutch is non-existent, so the song may well be a stirring patriotic call to arms. Or it may translate as "Hey, fatty in the orange suit, you know you're very slow, pull up the banking now (oompah, oompah)", in which case I applaud a subtle piece of multi-lingual sledging. 

In the course of a single men's sprint match we were treated to extracts of a Strauss waltz, Joey Ramone's cover of "What a Wonderful World", SL2's "On a Ragga Tip" and Blur's "Parklife" -- a playlist of such a determinedly eclectic nature that it wouldn't have disgraced the late John Peel.

The other repetitive tune of the day, of course, was God Save the Queen (not the Sex Pistols' version) which was played at every single one of the victory ceremonies.  How long is it going to be before the other cycling nations do the two-wheeled equivalent of "taking their ball back" and refuse to play with us any more?

I tried again to get a picture of the British Cycling stand, but a Paul Weller look-alike contest was taking place.  As you can see, the winner was quite convincing.

 

Random Thoughts from the velodrome

• Among the many things I never thought I'd see in my lifetime? Ticket touts outside a track cycling event.  I've been to some track races (alright, I've ridden some of them) where the number of people circling the banking on bikes outnumbered the number of people watching. But yesterday afternoon, as we made our way to the Velodrome, there were a couple of scallies in smart casuals offering tickets at inflated prices.  
• Another? Two immaculate Colnagos, leaning unlocked outside a Manchester McDonalds. Their owners, riders from Hong Kong's track team, were missing no opportunity to stock up on carbs and essential fats. 
• Clearly, some of the crowd here are newcomers -- struggling with many of the arcane intricacies of track racing.  To be fair, halfway through the men's scratch race I gave up trying to work out which riders were a lap up, who was two laps up and who was off the back and resorted to shouting "Come on, Bradley", with everyone else.
• Although it's a partisan crowd, cheering all British riders to the rafters, it's also a knowledgeable one which recognises quality riding above everything else.  The cheers for Francois Pervis when the Cofidis rider edged Jason Kenny by less than a tyre's width in an exciting keirin final were genuine and generous.
• Victoria Pendleton is awesome.  Just awesome.  Without taking anything away from her at all, you can see her opponents visibly giving up the minute she starts turning on the power.   
• I wanted to get a picture of the nice new British Cycling stand by the South Curve, but some fat bloke was being interviewed in front of it.