All good

Beautiful weather in London today, cold but bright -- the perfect antidote to too much time spent hunched working over a computer or stuck in an overcrowded tube train.  Only managed a quick one but it was enough to restore my faith -- en route I had a quick chat with an amiable old codger on a Pinarello, one of those familiar cyclists' conversations that begins with no introduction, continues with complete mutual understanding on subjects of no interest to non-cyclists and ends when one person (in this case the codger), decides to pedal on at a different pace.   And a blonde in a BMW Z3 smiled at me. Back to work in a much better frame of mind.

The right tool

The fixed experiment is going well, although hampered today by filthy wet weather.  Finally freed the lockring off my track wheel, with the help of the latest addition to my tool collection -- a rather fine one-eighth inch Shimano combined lockring remover and chainwhip.  Difficult to find (I got mine from Parkers) but worth it.  

The shoes that taste forgot

I was converted to clipless pedals the moment I saw Big Bernard wearing them in the mid-eighties.  I loved the secure-sounding click of the early Look system, though I was less fond of the peculiar Penguin-walk and continual plastic cleat replacement which went with it.

For a while, I converted to metal-SPD's and double-sided pedals for commuting and Look for racing and weekend riding, until the annoyance of two systems became too much and I binned the Look's for good.

Imagine my annoyance, then, when I discovered that Shimano had decided to replace the trusty old SPD with a new Look-style affair (I know this happened a while ago, but I wasn't paying attention, and I think I missed the memo), rebranding the originals as for mountain bike use only.  Which meant that I couldn't buy new road shoes with SPD fittings.  It's hard  enough buying decent shoes for my (size 13 US) feet, but this was an added blow.

Which is why, after a prolonged hunt on e-Bay, I have taken delivery of the most extraordinary pieces of footwear I have ever seen.  Brand new Sidi racing shoes, complete with all original fittings and packaging, for a ridiculously bargain price.

They date from, I would guess, the early nineties and their colour scheme is beyond description.   The attached photo does not do justice to its true fluorescent and pastel horrors.

But I don't care, and when the weather improves I shall wear them with pride.  My fashion sources (teenage daughters) tell me that the whole nineties' fluoro thing is big this year (see Assos's limited edition jerseys) and I will be briefly at the cutting edge of bike couture.

I think I may take up golf...

I love working on bikes, I really do. Most of the time. 

I do all my own maintenance and have built almost all my road bikes for the past 20 years.  Visitors to our house are astonished by my workshop, which displays a neatness and order absent from the rest of my life.

My passion for collecting rare vinyl is probably matched in expense and obsessiveness only by my desire to own every tool Campagnolo have ever made. 

I love the satisfaction of diagnosing a problem, even better foreseeing one,  and fixing it; the satisfaction and confidence of knowing that my bike is working well and that, if for any reason it were to go wrong, I could probably sort it out.

So last night should have been simple.  I needed to change the 48T chainring on the Condor for a 46T, and, while I was at it, put on a new KMC chain and a new 19 tooth sprocket (the last not strictly necessary, but it's a lovely CNC-machined one and it looked so right on the shelf at Condor).

Even with a  break for a cup of tea, it shouldn't have been more than an hour's work -- cleared up and washed just in time to check whether the new female lead in Hustle is as hot as Jaime Murray.

Two hours later, I am still staring angrily at a seized chainring bolt.  Its four colleagues are happily on the shelf, waiting to be refitted, but this one is refusing to co-operate.  I have tried every combination of allen key, screwdriver and that little Campag tool with two prongs that looks like a fondue fork.  Nothing.  I have bathed it in release fluid and WD40 and that has only made things worse. 

After briefly considering applying a blowtorch to warm it up (rejected as unlikely to be beneficial to the alloy chainring or the frame which, technically, doesn't even belong to me): I reach for the drill.  Not something I regularly use in bike maintenance, but the only thing I can think of that might work.  Twenty minutes later (the bloody thing was just revolving in its own bath of lubricant), I manage to remove the now mangled bolt and throw it in the bin. 

New ring goes on fine, although all my spare bolts are annoyingly just the wrong size, so I have to bodge a replacement.

 Just a matter now of whipping off the old cog and sticking the new one on.  Could I shift the lockring?  I suspect you know the answer to that.   Seized solid and no amount of pressure from a lockring spanner or a mallet/screwdriver combination would budge it an inch.  I tried tightening the cog fractionally, in the hope of freeing up the lockring (they have opposing threads) but that resulted in a broken Park Tool chainwhip (I thought they were indestructible) and skinned knuckles. 

Gone midnight now (teenage son's verdict on the new Hustle star incidentally, "er....she's OK"), and I'm beginning to lose hope.  Desperate times, desperate decisions - so I decide to abandon the old wheels and leave whichever over-strong ape at Condor put the lockring on to take it off again, and put the new cog on my spare track racing wheels.

Given that I'm unlikely to be taking to the track again in the near future, it's probably time that these (36 spoke Mavic Open Pro) were given a workout.  Lockring and cog come off straight away, new one goes on a treat, road tyres swopped for track tyres with relatively little difficulty.

But I'm still left with a workshop floor covered in oil spots and discarded tools, and fingers covered in cuts, blood and the sort of ground-in grease that won't come off my hands for days and days, and will raise a few eyebrows when I'm wearing a suit and tie for work next week.

And all so that I can drop my fixed gearing down from 69 to 66.  Can three inches make that much difference?  Please insert your own smutty joke here, I'm too knackered.

 

The fixed experiment starts here...

I've been riding fixed on the road for more than twenty years now; mainly for London commuting, saving my geared bikes for weekend jaunts, sportives and -- in the increasingly dim past -- racing.

And it's always been on 48x19 - otherwise known as 68 inches.  At least, according to my bible in the early years - Richard's Bicycle Book.  Other authorities (e.g the late Sheldon Brown) rate it lower (around 66) once you take account of 700c tyres.  

There was no particular science behind choosing that ratio -- when I built my first fixed, a mechanic clubmate recommended 48x19 as being best for my purposes and I've stuck with it.  He was right.  For a London commute over a relatively flat route, 48x19 ticked all the boxes.  Fast enough to keep up with traffic, but not so high that you needed Chris Hoy's legs to get it rolling away from the lights.   

But I gave up my "proper" job last year and now work from home and from a variety of digital boltholes -- so no need to commute.  

My fixed is now used for training around Richmond Park and the Surrey Hills, and I'm thinking of doing some sportives on it this year.  I even have a hare-brained notion of riding London to Paris in June without the benefit of gears, although I suspect I may come to my senses on that one.

So, after two decades, a lower gear is probably called for.  

On the plus side, a lower ratio should make it easier to get up some of my steeper training hills and encourage a more fluid, spinning pedal style.

On the minus side, my overall speed will probably be even slower and my legs may well unscrew from my hip-joints on long downhills.

Nothing ventured, however -- so I've taken delivery of a 46 tooth chainring and a shiny new KMS chain.  That should give me 66 inches in pre-decimal terms (65.4 to be precise).

I'll try it out later this week and report back.  All advice gratefully received, this is new territory for me.

What happened to global warming?

I know there are parts of the world where the current round of weather we're experiencing in Southern England would be regarded as a mild Spring day. And they still ride bikes.  Richard Lee writes from Vancouver to say that, because of heavy snowfalls, it'll be a while before he gets out on two wheels again.  But I'm a soft Londoner, and I'm getting fed up with dressing like Captain Scott just to go for a spin.

This morning:

Helly Hansen glove liners

Gore winter gauntlets

Falke thermal t-shirt

Patagonia capilene polo neck

Assos 851 Jersey

Pearl Izumi bib longs

Endura tights

Smartwool walking socks

Prendas Meraklon Oversocks

Buff scarf

Rapha Winter Hat

And I still froze.  Not as badly as my next door neighbour, who's recently taken up riding a carbon Bianchi, but hasn't yet got the hang of dressing for Winter.  Breathtaking to watch the sun rise over the white, frozen park, though.

And on our way back, we passed two riders heading out of town -- lightweight jerseys, baggy cotton shorts and no gloves.  The spirit of Captain Oates is clearly not dead.

Brass Monkeys

As far as I'm concerned there are only a few definite rules in cycling.

Don't wear black socks is obviously one -- even if you have won the Tour seven times.

Always check who's behind you before clearing your nose over your shoulder -- that's another.

And don't wear jerseys you're not entitled to.  (A few points here.  The wearing of kit from long-disbanded or willfully obscure pro teams is just about OK.  Especially if the kit was very cheap.  And if you're really, really fat -- then the wearing of a red-and-white polka dot jersey in an ironic way is also OK, as long as you accept that it's the two-wheeled equivalent of wearing a tie designed to look like a piano keyboard and you will never get laid.  Oh, and be careful if you bring this rule to other people's attention. I only narrowly avoided disaster and embarrassment at Herne Hill a few years ago when I spent a pleasant half-hour warming up with an old fella in a rainbow jersey.  I was within a syllable of teasing him about his stylistic faux-pas when another rider joined us and congratulated him on his recent World Championship victory (Masters, on the track, but still.....)  

Anyway. A new rule occurred today.  When all the water in your bidon freezes solid, it's probably time to head home. I ignored it, and only now, hours later, are my toes on speaking terms with the rest of my body.  I've never been a big fan of overshoes, but they suddenly make a lot of sense.

Happy New Year

Alarm goes off at 0630.  Tea, porridge and out the door by 0700.  Still dark, thick ice on car roofs and windscreens.  Fingers and feet start to suffer as soon as I hit the end of the street. 

Just a quick one today, first of the year, spinning the fixed for twenty or so miles with a couple of hills on the way. 

Back in time to grab the paper from the doormat, make another cup of tea and head back to bed before Mrs Flandrian and the rest of the family have even opened their eyes.

Sometimes, riding a bike can seem like a chore, another thing to fit in to a frantic schedule.  And sometimes, like today, it can help you feel like the luckiest person in the world.