This, that and the other

Getting old(er) can be a real bitch. Hair gets grey and falls out, joints creak and aren't as flexible as they once were, and youthful good looks wane and the ladies don't swoon around as they did before the creases took over your skin. Okay, so the last one isn't completely true, I'm still magnificent and chicks dig me! What's this got to do with riding? I'll just fight back the impending senility, and, oh yeah... one thing that really bugs me about the onset of seniority is the inability to bounce back from cycling-related accident injuries. As told in my last post, I took a bit of a trip over the bars last weekend on Makara's Trickle Falls, seemingly innocuous at the time, but rendering my knee a stiff, swollen, useless joint for a couple of days. No problem, I've had plenty worse than this before, and I presumed a few days rest would see me right to race the Makara Peak Rally on Sunday. But, the advancing years saw to it that I would still be feeling pain in the knee on even the flattest, easiest-spinning road rides. A late fitness test on Sunday morning forced me to let Josh take my spot in the Solo Open category, meaning it would be he who would suffer up, down and around the Peak, covering every sweet singletrack (and only the slightest smattering of fire-road and asphalt) in the park. The weather was perfect, about 22 but with that NZ bite to the sun which makes it feel a lot warmer, but doesn't fry your brain. I hung out and caught up with a few people, then went for a walk to get some pics and video (which I have no idea how to upload, but I'm working on it). God and Josh (that's him leading up Lazy Fern, above) finished second and third respectively, but Ratas didn't even offer an excuse for his own no-show, only to tell us later he was going carol singing with Claire... the end is nigh for that man. There's one in every crowd... Rich (Joe) didn't learn from his near-death-Santa-suit-experience from last year, and had a near-death-Capt. America-suit-experience this year. Proof that postmen are 20cents short of a stamp.

Meanwhile, another happening event that I've been unable to attend is the return of the Underground Super D series. Paul, Jim and Tryfan are up to their old tricks, getting the rabble together at undisclosed spots around Welly for some racing and drinking, not necessarily in that order. And in a move that may jeopardise the legitimacy of it's 'underground' status, DB Breweries have been enlisted to supply their Export 33 beer for all the rounds (good enough reason for me to get to the next round, bung knee or otherwise). Pics by Caleb, who dropped me off a sixer of said brew to review for the next issue of SPOKE. Chur!

Mini-Me Mike took on Taupo a couple of weeks ago on his Langster, and kicked its sorry ass! We had feared the worst for the little fella, after the 'tapering' phase of his 'training' had lasted the better part of three months. At least he was well rested, and the lack of gears and a freewheel didn't stop him posting a time of around 5 hours and change for the 160km. Karen, who had done a lot more training and who we secretly believed (and maybe just wished a little bit) might show Mike how it's done, rode a sub-6 hour circumnavigation. Well done those people! Read their reports on the big day out here.

I saw one of the best movies I've had the pleasure of viewing in a long time (well, a week, after one of the worst) on Sunday at the lovely old Penthouse Cinema in Brooklyn. In Bruges is one of those films that you want to see again right after walking out of the theatre. I'm not a Colin Farrell fan, but he plays a great character in this film, and the plot is tasty enough to keep you interested beyond the dark comedy which dominates. It's got sex, love, death, violence, and midgets, everything you need for an entertaining night out. It really is a 'must-see'.

Worth the weight

I'm somewhat well-known for my stoic stance on a lot of things cycling related; "the rules" of bar tape matched with saddle colour, sunglass arms over helmet straps, only wearing Pro team kit if you're actually sponsored etc etc. But, as Josh is always eager to point out, some of my strongest beliefs have been turned on their head lately. Such as white bar tape.

Many months back, the angry vegetarian (not me, the shorter one) fitted a Gravity Dropper seatpost to his bike. I wasn't convinced that it was a worthy piece of equipment for our trails. After all, I'd been chided by Rad Ross that only wimps dropped their seats on descents, and as he'd been schooling me on every downhill on the island, I was inclined to believe him. So I poo-pooed the whole drop-the-post idea. A quick release is all you need, I would protest loudly, while stopping at the top of Deliverance as Josh rode off into the distance. When I'd finally join him at the bottom, and get off the bike, put the seat up, and maintain that light weight was more important than some fancy bloody telescoping contraption, he'd be getting the hell out of earshot and hitting the next climb. With the Makara Peak Rally (Tour de Peak option, ride all tracks in the park) coming up next weekend, I thought that maybe one of these useless contraptions may come in handy for the steep, technical trails like Vertigo and Trickle Falls. Before you could say "what are you doing", the angry vegetarian (not me, the faster one) had a Crank Brothers Joplin charged to my account and installed on the Stumpy. But I was still sceptical.

Then I rode with it.

How did I ever get by without one of these useful contraptions? Before I'd even got to any kind of serious drops, I was converted. It adds a whole new aspect to your riding. Just railing around a tight switchback can be made so much easier. Nudge the lever, weight the seat, and drop it a liitle or a lot. I found myself nudging that little lever almost as much as I was shifting gears. While it made all of the harder trails in the park a lot easier, it won't stop you from launching over the bars on rutted corners, unfortunately. (I think Rob might have to try one, after taking three or four spills, with the last on Trickle Falls being one of the biggest crashes I've ever had the horror/concern/eventual pleasure of witnessing). Or being gapped up the climbs. But it will bring you a new outlook on the ride, and allow you to ride faster, more efficiently and makes angry vegetarians a lot less angry.

Lost DJs must die

There's a scourge on the streets. Well, there's many a scourge on the streets, but this one has particularly piqued my interest and stirred the pot of hate that wells inside me, brought bubbling to the surface of cynicism, congealing like a skin on a glass of milk curdling in the sun.

"Well what is it, Brett?" I hear you ask. "What could this travesty be?"

Let me tell ya. People walking around the streets wearing headphones. "Is that it?" Yep, that's it. Not just those little white iPod buds. No, even though they are still high on the wank-factor scale. It's the clowns who wear the full-size, made-for-djs or listening-at-home type headphones who really make me wonder if there is any hope for the future of the human race.

Good DJ

Why the f#@k do you need to be listening to music on your ten minute bus jouney, or the walk from the car to the office, or while going to buy your Starbucks 'coffee' and reading the latest issue of FHM? Because you're a wanker. You want others to look at you and think "wow, you look so cool, and I bet you're rockin some awesome tunes on those oversize cans... I want to be you". The only people thinking that are other wankers, probably sporting the miniature earbuds and suffering a chronic case of headphone envy.

Bad 'DJ'

Lost DJs. Walking the streets looking for their decks, wondering where the gig is. You're not a DJ. You're the downfall of modern society. Listen to your Nickelback, your Katy Perry, your f#@king Panic At The Disco while you step into the path of a bus. You won't be missed.

Ratas: King of the Old Guys

Karl "Ratas" Ratahi. The man, the myth, the Maori mountain bike maven. Taking advantage of the lack of me in the PNP XC series, and despite the fact he was riding a bike a size too small, with a stuffed hub, a saddle made of iron, and a fork with more stiction than a toffee-apple dipped in honey, he still managed to take out the series for the over 40's (or Masters, if you don't want to be cruel to us old guys). "Check out my choice bling, eh bro!" Three seconds and a first in the four races, they call him Mr. Consistency. Nice work mate.
Ratas smashes it up the road at the start of Sunday's final race at Makara, watched closely by Matt, who tried his darndest to bury the big fella up Koru and Salley Alley, but was dished out a dose of Ratahi hurt up Aratihi.
God (Carl), Josh and Bryce form a Singletrack Colorado train, before God absconded and left the rest in his celestial wake, prompting questions of possible performance-enhancing drug usage.

12 hour image dump

The Defense

Twelve hours. A day at work is only eight. Why would you want to be doing something for twelve hours? Because you have to? No. Because it's fun? Maybe. I enjoy work, because it involves bikes. I like riding more, so twelve hours at a race should be fun... after all, I didn't have to ride the whole thing myself. I had three mates to share the pain and fun with me. And that's what my second Wild Wellington 12 hour race was; pain and fun. Last year I was on the winning 'Legends' team (a nice way of saying 'old codgers' I think) with Ian, one of the fastest and fittest fellas around these parts (these parts being the whole country), and Matt and Ant on the Searltech team. This year Ian and myself were riding for my employers team On Yer Bike, and with Steve and Rob (the LPG or Little Pommy Git) we had a pretty formidable line-up to go against our former teammates. Wellington turned on a perfect day weather-wise, with not a cloud in the sky, a light southerly to cool the air, which became a little chilly once the sun went down and the lights came out. The Hataitai velodrome was the epicentre of the course which wound its way up, down and around Mt Victoria. To have such a venue right in the middle of the city is amazing. Singletrack on your doorstep, and no long drive home after. In fact, nutters like Josh and God Carl rode to the race (but bummed a lift home after a BBQ and beer at the Ratahi camp). We sent Ian out as the starting rider, and after a mid -pack start he had worked his way to the front of our class by the end of the first lap. God was charging and led the entire field into the velodrome and set out on a second. Of course he was riding a totally inappropriate bike, this time a Trek Remedy, 30 lbs and 6 inches of travel, but at least it was the right size and he had it wound up. Rob headed out on his S-Works Stumpy for our second stint and kept us ahead of the Searletech guys by a couple of minutes. I was just kicking back and enjoying the sun in Camp On Yer Bike, as Steve readied himself for his laps. By the time he'd done his double, we were just behind as Matt and Ant had put in fast laps to double-team Steve as he faded a little on his second lap. I went out and tried to keep myself under control as the were still ten hours to go, but I caught Stephen halfway round, then held off Don on my second. Ian decided we needed a buffer, and opened up a four minute gap on his next set. We steadily built on our lead over the next couple of hours while socialising with the tight-knit Welly MTB community in between laps. Karl Rata's team was sitting in third, with Karl putting in his usual fast laps, but they just couldn't catch the second placed lads. Carl and Josh, meanwhile, were sitting in second overall and riding well, despite Josh complaining about a runny nose or something. Didn't stop him catching me on one lap and dropping me over the summit of the course though. We were up to third outright for a long time, battling with the R&R mixed team containing several National Junior guns (like Samara Shepperd, who I have to say I unmercifully dropped on the climb! A small victory but I'll take it...) Ian took it upon himself to bust out three back-to-back laps, with an 18.10, 18.12 and 18.11 in a row... awesome. Our win was virtually sealed after that, all we had to do was lap consistently and could even take it easy. Yeah right, Ian doesn't know how to back off, and kept smashing himself for the rest of the race, while we all kept our times in the 19-20 minute area. Ten O'clock couldn't come quick enough, and after many calculations we decided that we didn't need to get in a last lap, but would anyway to make it a lap back to second. Rob, who never rides at night, was the unlucky rider who was designate, after I'd offered but then retracted said offer when I got the unexpected acceptance of said offer. Sorry Rob, but you were the man for the job.The lap had to be completed by 10pm for it to be counted, and we waited at the finish as riders streamed through as the minutes ticked off. With about three minutes to spare, Rob charged in to the velodrome, pulling out a very quick night lap to seal the win. It was finally time for a beer, and Ratas fired up the barbie and the stories of the day were recounted under the stars of a clear, cool night at the end of a very coool day.

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'.