Pure, art

The Koppenberg. A name synonymous with the Spring Classics, and Flanders in particular. Usually the famed cobbled climb is scaled on 23mm rubber at high speed, if you're lucky enough to be at the front of the great monument. If not, a slippery scramble, hard plastic cleats struggling for purchase on stones polished to a hard sheen over hundreds of years. A Belgian winter should be no time to add rain, mud and cyclocross bikes to the mix. Merde! It's exactly the right recipe for the hardest of the hardmen to shine, if they can under those many layers of filth. Bike racing stripped back to its barest bones, revealing the true heart and soul.
It is a good case for black bar tape though, yet being PRO, most still choose to rock the white, at least for a few minutes of the one hour of pain.

First it's black bar tape, then....

this.

Caleb the Destroyer

Well, he can't be called Conan, because we already have a Conan.... a courier who regularly trashes his steed. But SPOKE's main man is no shrinking violet when it comes to treating a bike badly. Today he trundled in with his Nomad in tow, and related a story of doing a track-stand at some traffic lights (he's a real wannabe fixie goon) and nearly getting ejected over the bars as his chain tried to extricate itself from the rings. This is the shocking evidence we found.... please remove any children from in front of the computer now. I've seen blunter teeth on a White Pointer. It's ok, he says, I've got a new crankset. Better remove the bottom bracket cups then...
Mmmm sludge.... there were tadpoles living in the BB shell, I swear.
Time for a new cassette as well. Of course, it was jammed solid on the freehub body. But where there's Hope... there's beer.
Speaking of SPOKE, the new issue will be out next week, the biggest one yet, with reviews, stories and stuff by Josh and myself amongst all the usual great writing and superb photography. Caleb may hate his bike, but he loves his magazine.

Rulez iz meantz to be broken (or Boyz in da Hudz)

With the onset of spring (allegedly, haven't had much solid evidence of it as yet) the legs are bared, gloves lose the fingers, jackets are traded for lightweight vests, and bar tape changes colour. What? But didn't I say that "the rules are black and black only"? Ok, you got me there. But, as one Robert Zimmerman professed, the times they are a-changin. And so is my bar tape. And hoods. Or should I say, Hudz. [**Updated pics... I took out the gel pads under the tape and re-wrapped, resulting in less of a "bandaged" look as another sceptic pointed out..... who said mums don't know about cycling style?]
After the failed chrome tape experiment, it was back to black pretty quickly, with a day of white interspersed (it was my original tape, but had sticky crap on it and looked messy). But white is PRO, right? And the Euros swear by it. It's one of their rules.
18. Handlebar tape is required to be cork as well as being WHITE IN COLOUR. Bar tape will be kept in pristine white condition. This state shall be achieved either through daily cleansing or frequent replacement. These jobs will NEVER be performed by the cyclist as you must maintain your image. So, we'll see how long it lasts. I'm digging it so far, but sceptics say it'll be black within weeks. Said sceptics are also purchasing red Hudz as you read this....but staying with the black tape apparently. Now, if I can only get used to the white socks....
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

It's all about balance

I've forged many a fruitful friendship through cycling, and the benefits of some friendships can be pleasantly serendipitous (is that an oxymoron?). It's not what you know, but who you know sometimes. Magnus (real name Markus) is a German mountain biker and beer drinker who happens to work at the Downstage theatre here. He hooked me up for the amazing Strike show earlier in the year, and on Wednesday he offered me some tickets to the brilliant Adagio-Seriously Sophisticated Circus, and asked me to review it for the theatre's blog. As Mike always says, "it's all about the free stuff [for me]". Not all about it, but it's nice to receive as well as give, so a an hour's work for an hour's entertainment seems ok to me!


Magnus has a crazy accent, and I guess that the ticket office heard my name as this....



Now, I am Fred.

Still making a difference...

The Pixies have always been at the top of my musical appreciation society. Their distinctive style, the forerunner of the soft/loud style, the simplicity of Kim Deal's basslines, the manic chops of Joey Santiago's guitar, and of course the gutteral shrieking and hollering of Black Francis, which still makes the hair on my arms (I'm quite bereft of it anywhere else these days) stand up and where there was once hair on my legs get "chicken skin".

Which is quite apt, after reading the exploits of Mr. Black recently. The man is a legend, and not only because of his huge influence on modern music, but also because he has thrown his weight behind PETA's 'Kentucky Fried Cruelty' campaign. Check out the story, sign the petition and then go listen to Surfer Rosa or Doolittle. You'll feel great on so many levels.

Good bike/bad bike

Travis Brown is a pretty cool guy, from all accounts. He's been around mountain biking for a long time, and has been a driving force behind a lot of Trek's designs. This could be one of his best though, a belt-driven singlespeed 'crosser. Yep.
This, on the other hand, is just a steaming pile....

The beauty of 'cross

Cyclocross would have to be the most photegenic of the cycling disciplines, and there are no better examples of great photography than over at pdxcross.com, a site based in Portland Oregon, concentrating mainly on US races and events. The black and white imagery is stunning, and has even the harshest of critics (i.e. Josh) addicted. Bask in the monochrome majesty. *Disclaimer: this pic is not from pdxcross, as the site doesn't allow photos to be copied, so I touched one up from another site. Don't tell anyone...

Meanwhile, on the other side of the pond (from the US that is), where 'cross was borne from the mud and snow by road pros who were tough enough to ride their skinny-tyred steeds in the worst of a European winter, the World Cup season has kicked off and there was a familar face at the top of the tree, but pushed all the way by the new star of the show.

Meeting my (egg) makers

On our road loop out along the rural roads of Makara through to Johnsonville, I often noticed a sign at an entrance to a property advertising free-range eggs. "I must get some of those" I always thought, but never got around to it. My vegan friend Andrea had told me that the 'free-range' eggs available in supermarkets weren't always so cut and dried free-range, and you couldn't be sure that the chickens were actually leading a good life. I needed to be sure. So a trip was made today to check out the chooks. I met the owner of the property, Viv, who kindly showed me the chickens and how they live. They were some contented birds, letting me pat them and coming up to check me out. And the eggs are big and taste great, and at only $12 for 24, you can't go wrong.

What would you rather, this....

Or this...

Now, back to the bikes...

More Whaka'n photos

Here's a few pics taken by Clare as we suffered our way around the Redwoods last weekend. Carl and Karl recovered well enough to take 1st and 2nd in their respective classes at the PNP race at Mt Vic on Sunday, while I decided bed was a better option.
Me climbing up to the start of the tortuous Direct Road climb. Actually this is not really a 'climb', but anything higher than an ants nest seemed like Ruapehu by this time.

God on the same climb, about 2 minutes ahead according to Clare as I yelled at her (well, puffed at her). Look how comfortable he looks on a bike that's too small and having his first and only ride on it. They don't call him God for nothing.

After the Direct Road climb we got to enjoy the Hot X Buns descent. And by 'enjoy', I mean get beaten to a pulp while hanging on for dear life.

Same corner, different line. Ratas railing it.

Damn, I hate my bike looking untidy. If I'd realised my number plate was crooked, I would've DNFed in shame.

Karl and I look suave and poised, as Carl throws his toys out of the cot and refuses to pose for the photo.... something about not having a cool blue outfit or a decent bike that fits.