Revolutions – Calshot Velodrome

A low rumble, felt rather than heard, the roar of air in the ears, a shaking woodgrain blur across the vision punctuated by the dominance of a trembling red line which must be stuck to and followed. The rhythmic push and suck of breath, an insistent whirr of chain on cog, pressure on the right of the bar, the bike at a seemingly impossible angle, and speed, always speed. I had entered into a trancelike state, feeling like I could ride like this forever, until the voice of our instructor Ben called me to slow it down gently and come into the centre of the track where the others waited.

We were at Calshot velodrome near Southampton for an evening session on the track arranged by Andrew Denham of the Black Canon Collective, and Cobble Wobble organiser. Andrew is the kind of person who makes things happen, (more on his latest cycling venture in another post, it’s very exciting) he had promised us a trip to the track, and this had been booked in for several months. So various members of the Fancy Collective including Matt Wellsted, designer of the Cobble Wobble artwork, Jade Berry, the  design talent behind Black Ink Comms, Jennie Wood, the dynamite PR Avalanche Media, Fay Goodridge, editor of The List, had piled into Matt’s car and followed Andrew and the Black Canon Collective down the A36.

On arrival at the drome Andrew rushed in ahead in order to see our faces as we emerged from the entrance tunnel to the centre of the wooden track. At first glance it’s a daunting prospect, the angle on the berms is 45 degrees at Calshot, there was no one else there inside the massive warehouse-like structure and it’s all very stark. Two wooden benches in front of a series of racks holding the stripped down black track bikes. No brakes, fixed wheel, clipless pedals. My Lemond Etape has a classic elegance to it, despite being alluminium and carbon fibre. These bikes looked lean and hungry. they had one purpose only, to be ridden at speed around a circular track and to hold the line.

We were booked into a beginner session as most of us had never even ridden fixed before or used clipless pedals. Ben, our instructor gave us a pep talk, before quickly getting us onto the bikes and riding round on the inner, flat track. The bikes were easier to handle than I thought they would be.

Next we went onto the slight camber of the inner track, and finally he allowed us up onto the berms – it was incredible. It’s easy to see why track riding is addictive. The speed and concentration are intense, and a strange feeling of calm and well-being came over me as I circled and circled.

For all of us, I think it felt like something we want to do again.

All photographs by Andrew Denham – and big thanks to him for organising this

Published in: on March 19, 2011 at 9:45 pm  Comments (4)  
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2009 Rode Gentlemen’s Butcombe Bike Ride

Calling all riders local to me (Warminster, Frome, Trowbridge, Rode, Norton St Philip, Bradford on Avon etc), if you are in need of a local cycle ride before The Warminster Wobble takes place in June (and more on that over the weekend) there’s something going on here on Saturday 16th. If you are a gentleman (and I mean that in the loosest possible sense), and you like ale, mayhap you will enjoy tomorrow’s 2009 Rode Gentlemen’s Butcombe Bike Ride. Departing at 5pm Saturday 16th May from the High Street Bus Stop in Rode, and going to various local pubs, finishing up with a sausage nosh up at The Tucker’s Grave Inn near Faulkland.

Donations will be gratefully received towards Rode Village Festival

You would be well advised to wear a helmet, and certainly sort out some lights as there may be lingering at pubs and the night will draw in.

I won’t be going this time as it’s Mrs Highwaycyclinggroup’s birthday, but I hope some of the local readers will slip along and join in the fun and the riding.

butcombe bike ride

Published in: on May 15, 2009 at 5:06 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Prince’s Rainforest Project

Well I haven’t been riding too much recently, I’ve been working with The Prince’s Rainforests Project helping put their website together www.rainforestSOS.org I’m going to expand on why this is important now and I’m not going to talk about cycling in this post, but bear with me, just this once.

The plight of the rainforest has been publically known for the last forty years, and sad to say, actual ground level stopping of rainforest destruction has been hard work, or almost ineffective. This needs global action! Thankfully some real progress is finally being made in working to make the rainforests worth more alive than dead. The Prince’s Rainforests Project was established by His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales, to raise awareness of the connection between rainforest destruction & climate change and the need for urgent action to tackle the problem of deforestation. The Project works with governments, business, and NGOs to find a way of ensuring Rainforest Nations and crucially, the people who live in rainforests, get more money by looking after rainforest and leaving the trees standing, rather than by the unsustainable action (but in the short term currently very profitable) of chopping them down. In order for policy on preservation of standing rainforest to change, world leader and policy-makers must be made aware that there is public understanding that deforestation is costing us the earth. Previous rainforest charities have focussed on preservation on grounds of biodiversity and land rights. Both are admirable and right reasons for preservation, but it would not be immediately apparent to us here in the West why that would matter. there has been the feeling that, it would be ‘a shame’ if the rainforests died off. However, it’s somewhat more serious than that:

  1. The destruction of tropical rainforests releases more carbon annually into the atmosphere than the entire global transport system. That’s more stored carbon released every year than the combined carbon released by all the cars, busses, ships and planes in the world over the same period!
  2. But rainforests are important for another reason. Mature tropical rainforests continue to sequester carbon at a rate of a few tonnes of CO2 per hectare each year. One study estimates that old-growth tropical forests absorb up to 15% of annual manmade GHG emissions.  So, in addition to the 17% of global GHG emissions resulting directly from tropical forest loss, tropical deforestation produces an ‘amplification effect’, because the stock of natural forests remaining to absorb carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere is reduced.
  3. In addition, the cloud cover over tropical rainforests provides an insulating belt around the planet, reflecting sunlight and evaporating moisture: this can reduce the ground temperature by as much as five degrees Celsius. This insulating effect is lost after forests are cleared.
  4. Recent scientific research indicates that deforestation in the Amazon region could also lead to droughts, which would trigger the release of carbon dioxide from vegetation and perhaps lead to a massive die-off in the world’s largest rainforest. These positive feedback effects could greatly accelerate global warming.
  5. That’s just the top-level stuff. Rainforests also regulate rainfall, maintain soil quality and are home to almost uncountable of species of plants and animals. For further information read up here.

If you have no time to do anything else, but you want to show your support for the rainforests, then please just fill in your details on the widget-thingy below. It’s free, no one is asking for money, just your voice.

If you want to do more then please add the widget to your own social media by clicking on ‘Grab this’ and choosing where you want to put it.

If you want to do even more then fill your details in on this page here to be alerted when the frog video application goes online, and make your own frog video. Be one of the first to use this exciting new application.

That’s all, back on your  bikes, go go go!

As I rode out one Sunday morn.

Daffodils line the lane into Buckland Dinham

Daffodils line the lane into Buckland Dinham

Sunday was bright and clean, perhaps the first proper day of Spring weather round here, there was no hint of frosted breath nor chill breeze. The warmth had penetrated even into the shadows, and there was an air of expectation in the countryside surrounding the village, as if the sun had woken the soil from a long hibernation. Birdsong danced about the trees and hedgerows, sweet sounds flickering back and forth in call and response as the business of territory and feeding rights were settled. The few people that I saw as I pointed the bike towards the back lanes looked as if they could scarcely believe they were experiencing bright, pure sun and the gentle warmth of spring.

I had spent an hour or so before the ride cleaning the muck off the Lemond Etape and replacing the rear tube. I had both wheels off and a diverse range of rags which took in a whole spectrum of status, from clean to absolutely filthy. Slowly and carefully I had removed the grime, washed, dried and re-lubed the machine. I noticed a few new chips and scratches on the paintwork that had appeared since last I had cleaned it, they didn’t worry me. There is a difference between a bike that shows signs of wear through use, and one that shows the tell-tale signs of neglect, but that is perhaps the subject of a different post.

Now the bike was performing beautifully as I skimmed the A36 and turned for Laverton. This time I took a left before the turning to Norton and headed down towards the village of Buckland Dinham. The roads here are convoluted, every now and then I recognised a crossroad or junction that I had passed on some other ride to another place. One of the lovely things about living in this part of the world is this network of roads; junctions within junctions, lanes that are barely more than farm tracks, half forgotten B roads, ancient rights of way, drovers lanes and spirit paths. I can cycle less than ten miles from home and still end up happily lost when I come out in this direction. I shot past other turnings and junctions, the promises of new routes and rides, and followed signs to Buckland. Cresting a hill I emerged from the cover of a copse that sheltered the road, to see the lane lined with daffodils. The road dipped away out of sight into the gentle valley, then emerged zig-ziagging up the hill on the other side. The shape of Buckland Dinham church stood silhouted two miles away on the hill. I paused to take a drink from the water bottle and capture the moment with a photograph (at the start of this post) before mounting up and heading down the hill.

In the hollow of the valley was a farm right on the road and I rode briefly through a cloud of bovine whiff and sleepy flies before the momentum from the drop launched me up the other side. The lane switched back and up, crawling round a sharp bend and the first houses of Buckland Dinham. I crossed over a main road, the car that flashed past before I hit the junction was the first vehicle I had seen for six miles. At the next junction along, a beautiful evergreen stood on a triangle of grass and I followed the signs for National Cycle Route 24 and Frome, which tipped me down a narrow lane lined with rough stone walls. At the bottom I stopped at an idyllic pool spanned by an old stone bridge. Some Chopinesque piano work drifted through the birdsong from a large house on the waterside. I sat on the bridge to drink in the scene and watched three mallards drift laconically under the bridge.

Your author on the bridge at Buckland Dinham, taking in the birdsong and piano music

Your author on the bridge at Buckland Dinham, taking in the birdsong and piano music

A bright yellow butterfly wafted past me, taking an interest in the decals on the bike before making its way over the surface of the water. When it went out of sight by a nearby boathouse, I put the helmet on and pointed the bike uphill. Here the lanes were very narrow and steep, I crawled up slowly, dropping into lower and lower gears. In my exertions I missed the point at which I entered Frome and I was suddenly in traffic. Slightly dazed by the ensuing noise, I allowed the bike to coast to a halt at the top of one of Frome’s short but steep hills while I got my bearings. Soon I was being hailed by two fellow cyclists, clearly they were of a much more healthy build than I. Matt and Ho, two happy and amicable chaps, had cycled to Frome from Bristol, and they would be cycling back again, aiming to put in 100 miles!

Matt and Ho, clearly keen cyclists and super-fit with it, aiming to complete a century in one day

Matt and Ho, clearly keen cyclists and super-fit with it, aiming to complete a century in one day

They seemed in fine form, with no hint of road-weariness or aching. This was especially impressive since Ho had only recently recovered from a debilitating illness. After a chat and some replenishment of waterbottles, they mounted up and with cheery waves entered again into the flow of traffic. I admired the state of mind and the physical ability that would lead two riders and friends to say to one another: “Today let us ride a hundred miles”. I salute their epic century attempt and hope they made it.

I walked down St Catherine’s hill and remounted at the bottom. A mere five miles to home meant I only completed fourteen miles on the ride, but what a beautiful and life-affirming ride it was. It will be a sad day for me when I have ridden every hidden turning, every crumbling lane and derelict track in this small area of Somerset and I will have to hunt further afield to enjoy getting lost in the lanes again.

Published in: on March 16, 2009 at 5:50 pm  Comments (2)  

End of the Year

My stats have crashed since I’ve not been blogging regularly. Having built up my readership to hundreds a day, I’ve watched my readership dwindle to forty to sixty readers a day in the space of three months. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve not been riding on a regular basis at all, the last major ride I completed was to Bristol in October. Since then I’ve only pootled to the garage and shops, with one ride out to a local hotel and bistro for an evening of eating and drinking with some chums from the village. That particular evening ended with everyone else having to walk back through wind and rain while I rode home, with reasonable stability, in my new orange poncho. The pressures of work combined with the short days have made it all too easy for me to let the rides slip. Now the season has turned, the days are getting longer, there are no excuses now.

Here are some photographs from the end of the year. And a promise that I will ride more in the New Year.

Bike tyre skidmarks in Calne, Wiltshire

Bike tyre skidmarks in Calne, Wiltshire

Not sure if you can see this, this lady had a great bike and front and rear wicker baskets

Not sure if you can see this, this lady had a great bike and front and rear wicker baskets

Shopper outside WHSmiths

Hercules Shopper outside W.H. Smiths

Some beautiful panniers that I spotted in London

Some beautiful panniers that I spotted in London

Zoe has customised her Trikidoo - here with a basket

Zoe has customised her Trikidoo - here with a basket

...and here is her coffee cup holder

...and here is her coffee cup holder

I will do one last ride before the end of the year.

Published in: on December 26, 2008 at 11:29 pm  Comments (2)  
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Crepuscular Riding

John turned up bang on six thirty as he said he would. I was, however, not ready. Astute and regular readers may remember that I flatted the rear tyre of my Lemond Etape at the end of my last ride. I did not remember so I was still waiting for the glue on a patch on the tube to set when John arrived. First thing he did was admonish me over the state of my bike. It’s true that it had not been cleaned for a long time, not only that but instead of maintaining the chain properly, I had simply been adding more oil. Mud caked the stays and saddle, the protective sticker on the rear stay had been smothered under a film of oil and the whole machine looked dull and sad. John was eager to get on, so he gave me a spare tube, then showed me an incredible way of putting the tyre and tube back on that I have never read in any book, or seen anywhere else. It was so easy! I will film him giving a demonstration in the near future and post it here.

With the bike roadworthy again we were soon riding at an insistent, but by no means taxing pace towards the main road. I elected to take us down the lanes I had got lost and chased by dogs along a few weeks back. The evening was yet young, but we knew we would be returning under cover of darkness. This time I took a map, and as we ambled along it afforded an occasional stop to get our bearings, with John hardly breaking his narrative stride while he filled me in with the details of his still new job at Moulton Cycles. There was a hint of cloud though the air was reasonably warm considering this was mid-September (yes I am that far behind in my blogging), and we hardly noticed the dusk slipping quietly around us as we made our way through Faulkland. As we headed towards Stony Littleton we put our lights on, John’s was on his helmet and incredibly bright, throwing my shadow to the grey blur of the road as I rode in front. The ground dropped away and shot us down a steep hill – this was the same valley I had been sucked into when I cycled road-shocked into Wellow, on this pleasant early Autumn evening it seemed less threatening. Certainly the omission of slavering farm dogs snapping at the pedals made for a much more pleasant ride. At the bottom of the hill John exclaimed ‘We’ve got to get up this slope somehow in order to get home!’. I ignored him, too busy trying to control the bike as it skittered over water-damaged tarmac – an impromptu and recent ford, not mentioned on my map. The slope bore us up again, past recently harvested fields of stubble and the road surface became ghostly smooth in comparison to the tarmac we had just ridden down. Now I was eager to see the long-barrow at Stony, so I coaxed John onto a rutted farm track. Now it was really getting dark, and as I dragged John grumbling over a field, we could see the ancient burial mound hugging the horizon.

John checks the map - Long-barrow on the skyline

John checks the map - Long-barrow on the skyline

The map was no longer any help, and we found our way to a wooden footbridge and crossed the small but fast flowing river. Having been dragged over a sodden field, John was in no mood to continue looking for a way up to the monument, he was already going to be later home than he said he would be. So I snapped a picture of this alarming sign here and we powered up the hill.

We were soon in Wellow, a picturesque village, seemingly deserted as we saw not a single soul. Out of the village underneath a viaduct that John tells me carries a cycle path to Limply Stoke, then, o Lord, up that hellish hill. One of those gradients that seems to go on forever. Where every horizon reveals a further horizon, unfolding like some fiendish trap or puzzle, first the lungs and then the legs (though for others I know it’s the other way round, jelly-legs then gasping for breath). John’s fitness has improved much in the last year that we have been riding, and he was able to pull way ahead, I’m pretty sure he was pushing bigger gears too. At the top we headed for Hinton Charterhouse and then on to Norton St Philip. The darkness had well and truly settled in now, the witching hour was over and we were in evening and heading for night time. On the main road, I hit a bump and lost my back light, which shattered as it hit the ground with a horrible plastic skittering sound. I spent a few minutes gathering all the pieces up and shoving them tinkling into my pockets. Luckily we were mere minutes away from my home, so by riding in front of John I kept up the illusion of law-abiding safety. Thank goodness for my hi-viz vest, which I imagine is visible from space when illuminated by headlights. A cheery farewell to John, who still had a five or six mile ride home to go and I was back at the house. We didn’t put in a huge amount of miles, but we did get a good workout on the hills. Crucially though, I had exorcised the shattering ride along the same lanes of a week or so before.

A couple of days later, I took the Lemond apart and carefully washed the whole bike, tyres and all, and vowed never again to let it get into such a poor and muddy state.

Cheesy Riders: In which we meet dogs that hated John, are shadowed by a mystery rider, eat two full english breakfasts and ride a three mile climb out of a gorge

On Sunday the 17th of August I joined John and Andy on a ride to Cheddar. John had the map, Andy had some sort of electronic mapping device/speedometer/cadence/heartrate doo-dad, and I had an enormous flask of tea. In a fit of actually attempting to be a proper cyclist, I had mixed up a ‘sports drink’ and was taking regular sips. Needless to say it was absolutely revolting, but oddly compelling and as I didn’t feel tired on the ride, I guess it must have worked. We paused briefly at Farleigh Castle for a departure photograph.

Rarely has there been a more mismatched group of cyclists

The Cheesy Riders: Rarely has there been a more mismatched group of cyclists

A chap slowly overtook us on his bike as we prepared to set off again, we were to see him again and again throughout the ride seemingly defying all laws of physics and logic as he continuously appeared in front and behind of us, emerging from side junctions or turning off the road we were on.

We settled into a pace of sorts, well below Andy’s expectations for average apeed, he was off the front for a lot of the way waiting for us to catch him up. Every now and again John would stop to get the map out or I would call for a photograph, affording us a nice break. The weather looked moody and unpredictable with the threat of a soaking ever present, a ying yang sky, half black clouds, half deep azure blue. A few miles in and I’m sure we saw the chap on the bike turn off left some way ahead of us on one of the straights.

We rode through Faulkland, past the enigmatic standing stones that were probably once part of a circle. Past the Lavender Farm, but the heavy bovine stench of muck-spreading quickly masked and canceled out the faintly perfumed air before we could get a good lung full. There was plenty of up and down, giving some cause for concern as to how I would get back up the hill after forty or fifty miles of riding.

Some of the ups - John crests a Somerset hill

Some of the ups - John crests a Somerset hill

At a crossroads on the main road we stopped to consider whether we should continue on the main road (very busy) or turn left towards Priddy along a much quieter, but longer route. John took the map out again, some dogs in the garden of a house at the crossroads were going berserk, throwing themselves at the fence, barking furiously. I snapped a pic of the chaps considering the route, and didn’t notice until later that the mysterious rider was in there.

The mystery rider about to hang a left as the chaps look the other way

The mystery rider about to hang a right as the chaps look the other way

John rode a little way back the way we came in order to check that the sign pointed to Priddy, immediately the dogs ceased their cacophony. Andy and I moved forward, they could see us, but just panted and stared. The rabid barking started again, announcing John’s return. Curious.

We turned left towards Priddy along open heath while buzzards called and circled overhead. To the East we could see rain clouds brewing up so we upped the pace a little. At Priddy itself, there was some sort of sheep fair being set up, hazel hurdles were being unloaded from the backs of farm trailers, and sheep dogs skulked panting in the shadows of landrovers. We passed them all and rejoined the main road, but not before we saw the mystery rider appear from a junction ahead of us.

Flood waters, Priddy

Flood waters, Priddy

Now we began the long descent into Cheddar Gorge, it went by so quickly. Everywhere there were cyclists coming up the hill, walkers on the steep sides, buses labouring up, engines straining. We shot into the gorge itself, the steep sides and rocky outcrops were awe-inspiring. John and Andy shot on ahead, with John nearly ending up on the bonnet of an ascending car after he swung out a little wide on one of the switchbacks. Down, down, down we went, and all the way one thought stayed with me… “How the hell will I climb out of this?”. The spectacular scenery gave way to the worst kind of tourist tat as we hit Cheddar itself. garish shop fronts, tacky souvenirs, cheese, ‘authentic olde english’ cafes, the very worst that British tourism could produce, lining the narrow streets as we glided in looking for safe haven.

We parked up outside a wasp-struck tearoom, replete with white plastic garden furniture and laminated menus. Ensconced safely by the congested road, but with the calm of the river to our side, we set about ordering our victuals. Andy elected merely to have a coffee, but John and I decided on the full English breakfast, with extra toast and jam. It was too much for Andy, combined with the enormous flask of tea in my panniers and John’s musings on where to purchase the best souvenir cheese, it overloaded his senses. It was not cycling as he understood it, he could only watch in dismay as two full Englishes arrived and an unholy display of consumption took place.

At this juncture, I must point out that like Andy, my body is a temple. However whereas his temple is tended by enlightened priests of restraint and quiet contemplation that ensures a body at the height of its power is kept in fine fettle, my temple is an atavistic bloodbath where constant animal sacrifice is the norm. Behold the libations!

A full english breakfast about to be sacrificed to my cavernous maw. Andy can't watch.

A full english breakfast about to be sacrificed to my cavernous maw.

Quite appalling. Andy had to get back to his wife, who it transpired was not well, so with a hearty farewell he eased up the road slipping in behind a tourist double decker bus. There was little doubt in our minds that he would be home before John and I had wheezed our way out of the gorge.

It was a long time and a lot of toast before John and I decided to make a move, wheeling the bikes 500 yds up the hill to a purveyor of cheeses to buy three different types of cheddar (saving the cave aged one for myself), then we wearily turned the bikes up the hill and headed out of the gorge. John led out and I’ll spare you the lung-searing details of the switchbacks, save to say that we miraculously found time for a photo opportunity on the way out:

The author pauses to admire the gorge (catch his breath)

The author pauses to 'admire the gorge' (catch his breath lest he perish)

It was deemed to early in the return trip for a cup of tea (having only gone about a mile of the thirty ahead of us) which meant I had to lug the full flask up the hill. Away from the switchbacks it wasn’t too bad, it was just long, I would say that the main hill was about 3.5 miles, if you take the full gradient it was probably five, but once the switchbacks were out of the way it made everything else feel like a gentle slope. That said, we were dropped on the way up by a woman wearing jeans and crocs and riding a mountain bike. We kept her in sight though, much to the distress of our stomachs, struggling with the full english breakfasts. She turned around at the top and went back down again… local.

At the top of the hill we stayed on the main road, passing a large temporary gypsy camp. Old 4x4s mingled with traditional caravans and groups of horses stood chewing grass, many of them untethered, content to wander the verge.

In the distance, could I see a solitary rider ahead of us, could it be..?

On we rode, up and down the rolling landscape, back the way we came earlier in the day. We paused only briefly to drink the tea and lighten the flask, I am sure John only did this as he felt sorry for me hauling the full flask four fifty miles, before continuing on our way. Strangely the hills didn’t seem as bad as we thought they might on the way back. At Farleigh Hungerford we said goodbye, I rode back through Tellisford, three hills to deal with and then I was home, sharing the cave-aged cheddar with the family.

John later told me that the mystery rider was last seen at the Wingfield crossroads drafting in his slipstream…

Andy’s electronic doo-dad recorded the route, here it is:

The route according to Andy's electronic thingamajig

The route according to Andy

Ride Journal back in stock!

Quick! Quick! The Ride Journal has been reprinted! This wonderful, and beautifully designed publication sold out almost instantly on its first print run of 1000 copies (numbered). The new run is not numbered, but I guarantee that they will still become collectors items. Even if The Highway Cycling Group had not contributed a piece, I would still be urging you to buy a copy. According to the editor, the new print run is being snapped up incredibly quickly. Reserve your copy now for despatch on the 19th August. Seriously! Click here to go to the website and order a copy.

I am very behind in my blogging and need to get it all clear before the weekend. Big ride planned.

There will be a deluge of new posts!

Published in: on August 15, 2008 at 8:41 am  Comments (2)  

First, an apology for not blogging

Hello,

How’s your summer going? It’s all gone a bit rainy here in dear old Blighty, but then we’re getting used to this sort of summer here.

I am conscious that I have not blogged for a while, for which I must apologise. I have been riding, a little, but yet again work has o’ertaken me and left me with such a small amount of time that I have barely found the time to ride, yet alone record my pedal-spinning here. I have of late recieved some very kind comments from people who have discovered this blog, for which I am very grateful indeed. So with that in mind, having finished my work, I find myself in the workshop at 01:00 in the morning, fortified by a big mug of tea, and ready to record my last three meager rides in the next couple of posts.

Published in: on August 7, 2008 at 12:01 am  Leave a Comment  
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Accusations of riding with the bilge on view

Email received today from Very Concerned of Chiswick

“Is that a hint of builders bottom I spot in the shot of you freewheeling lost down country lanes, hand on hip??”

Me on the lanes

Builder's Bottom?

To put matters straight, I have annotated a closer photograph from the same sequence, lest others have viewed the pic and come to a similar, and I must add, mistaken, conclusion.

I have been advised that a light coloured belt is an unwise choice, this has been duly noted.

And there, I think, we should perhaps let the matter rest.

Published in: on July 9, 2008 at 8:23 pm  Leave a Comment  
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