25. BICYCLES I HAVE KNOWN (continued)...

I got my last road bike a few years after the demise of the bike purchased with the proceeds of my fairly short lived paper run that itself replaced the one stolen by the vicious roaming street gangs of Sydney’s upper North Shore.

For those not familiar with Sydney I should perhaps make it clear that the vicious roaming street gangs of Sydney’s upper North Shore were neither vicious, roaming or deserving of the descriptor ‘gang’ when compared to almost any other group of youths up to and including a mildly mischievous scout pack.

But they still stole my bike dammit.

In what should possibly be a warning given my current plans, I had intended to strip down the replacement bicycle then repaint and rebuild it, but gave up after 3 attempts to strip the paint failed miserably and I couldn’t figure out how to remove the cranks. I’m sure that will not be a problem this time as my current frame is already beautifully painted, does not require the removal of anything and unlike 1987 I now have the limitless ‘how to’ resource that is YouTube.

It was a grey Miyata that I purchased for I think about $500.00 (a record for me at the time) from a bike shop in Thornleigh. It got quite the work out. For starters, this was a period in my life when I was out of school and lacking a vehicle for at least some of the time so it was pretty much the go to option.

It went with me to Canberra (where I spent a very hectic 12 months failing to be moulded into a leader of men) a town wonderfully suited to travel on a bike given its outstanding flatness and nice wide roads.

Once it became clear to me that I was perhaps not suited at that time in my life to being an officer in the Royal Australian Army (helped along by my Commanding Officer’s blunt assessment that I was deficient in 13 out of 13 Leadership Qualities....and don’t ask me what they were because I cannot remember....maybe one was memory related?) and I resigned, it ended up in the shed for a couple of years while I plied my trade as a motorbike courier.

As brilliant as that job was (and it was pretty good), inevitably, a combination of gentle parental questioning (‘Yes, but it’s not really a career is it?) and the steady mechanical decline of my motorbike, led to the inescapable conclusion that a proper job should at some point be worked towards. For reasons I am still not entirely clear on (but that may have had something to do with girls) that job turned out to be Nursing.

The motorbike made it about 6 months into my first year of Uni before it bought the farm and it was back on the (push) bike for me.

Totally lacking my own motorised transport and a good 20kms from the University, this was my first Golden Age of riding. Even when I took the train for part of it I was getting in 10 or so kilometres a day (or walking it). Up and down the Pacific Highway in really quite serious traffic, I could not be stopped (including quite a few occasions, possibly involving University levels of alcohol when I really should have been).

It was a good bike. The first that I paid for entirely by myself. And it served me well.

I feel kind of guilty therefore that I have absolutely no idea what happened to it.

Next: Round bits. Seaty Bits.

24. GAME ON BABY...

I shall speak glowingly of Stanton Bikes one more time - So the money went through, my highly rated Top Aussie Dollars changed through the magic of the international banking system into English Pounds (though inevitably I didn’t get quite what I thought I should of got – dirty thieving bankers) and mere days later the box containing my new frame was sitting waiting for pick up at the delightful Wollombi General Store all shiny and new. Impressive.

The next time you are looking to purchase an obscure niche bicycle frame from another country as opposed to simply popping into a shop and buying one with all the bits attached you would do a lot worse than give Dan at Stanton Bikes a call....email....whatever.

As an added bonus, my daughter seems to have moved into the box in which the frame arrived, allowing me to rent out her room to a student (who has a car that can cope with our driveway and doesn’t mind driving for 2 hours to the nearest University).

Of course sitting it on my lap and gazing at it for hours on end, while entertaining up to a point, will I suppose, get boring sooner or later. Which means I’ll have to start attaching bits to it in order to increase its usefulness as a form of transport. Wheels might be useful for instance. And handlebars (possibly some brake levers to mount on them). 

But not just yet.

So pretty.....

It's blue. It's white. It's fairly light.

Check it out. In case I crash and sustain a memory crippling concussion in the process, they have written the name of the bike in lovely running writing on the side. Brilliant.

A thing of beauty. Now all I need is a bottom bracket to put in there through which I can place a crankset and some pedals on that and a chain around the chain ring and muahahahahahaha! Sorry. 

23. EVER SO SLIGHTLY MORE ASS.....

The play is over. And now I am sad. Fairly surprising, considering the idea of partaking in amateur theatre up to this point in my life was, well...not. Our last performance was Saturday night and I’d have to say it went really well. Sunday....and as it turned out Monday...and a bit of Tuesday I suspect, was pull the whole thing apart day(s) (‘bump out’ in theatre speak - because you wouldn’t want to just say ‘pack up’ or people might know what the hell you were talking about) and as I say – the whole thing was quite melancholy. Over a two week amateur production.

Ridiculous. 

Except that this illustrates something I have felt for some time really quite nicely. See, it used to confuse me that I could get so very wrapped up in something like a 5^th Grade Suburban Rugby game (let alone semis and Grand Finals). To the point where I would quite happily put my level of nervous excitement immediately prior to running on for a Grand Final on a par with any top level athlete prior to whatever big game he or she is suiting up for. This is ludicrous, barmy and mental.

But of course it’s not.

Because, be it the 5^th Grade Grand Final or the local amateur production of a locally written and produced play about lying goats and gold crapping donkeys, I am fully invested in either. It’s really nice if you guys give a hoot about them also, and it’s entirely choice when the punters turn up to cheer, but it’s certainly not a pre-requisite as far as I’m concerned. 

This is why hobbies work and why, thank Christ, quite a lot of people still strap on the boots themselves on a Saturday or Sunday morning instead of letting out an exasperated ‘screw this’ and plonking themselves in front of the TV to watch the professionals run around while they load up on beer and fried carbs (mmmm fried carbs). Because if I can only be bothered doing something at the highest level then I’m frankly not going to be doing much of anything at all. And neither would anyone else.

Moving this discussion back to cycling (finally). I am fully aware that I will not be performing any back flips in the near or distant future (barring the development of some age rewinding treatment we have as yet not been made privy to), and as fast I can grind up the hill towards Finchley Trig (think of a hill, multiply that hill by another hill then add a hill) there are 5 or 6 people I run across on a daily basis who would make me look like I was standing still on it. But that’s fine. Because as long as I’m being honest with myself and pushing myself forward I can feel entirely comfortable with the whole thing.

So good on you Cadel Evans with your outrageous hill climbing ability and 0% body fat, I will continue to grind my own way up my own, slighter less high than the Alps, hills, and do so unapologetically.

NEXT: It's here.

22. GOLDEN ASS – FULL (KIND OF) REVIEW.....

I say full review, but of course I did not see a good half of the play on account of being hidden in the dark waiting to go one for my own bits -‘waiting in the dark waiting to go on for my own bits’ I should mention, is now quite high on my official list of ‘things that make me feel warm and cozy’.

I heard all of it though, even from back stage, which means at the very least every one was speaking clearly enough, which in itself is something you wouldn’t have got very good odds on early in the piece. In fact, you wouldn’t have got very good odds on very much at all if you’d passed the hat around after the 1^st or 2^nd (or possibly even the 10^th) rehearsal.

Which makes it even more awesome that it turned out so.....awesome.

There is going to be some bias from this point on. There will also be no names – which is unfair to a lot of people who do in fact have names and certainly deserve to have them associated with all the nice things I am about to say – but I still have not forgotten that this Blog is on that internet thingy and that anyone and his dog can read what is on the aforementioned internet (assuming the dog is several orders of magnitude smarter than my own dog who is even as I type barking furiously at some wallaby she cannot see and very possibly does not even exist) which means a modicum of circumspection is warranted.

I was going to change the names but it would just confuse Mary (name changed) when I changed her name to Amy (name never existed) or Amethyst (name from Nimbin)....so I didn’t.

In no particular order then.

WRITING AND DIRECTION: It’s easy to underplay the importance of this kind of thing I suspect, but without both being firmly in place I suspect you can put Meryl Streep on the stage and it’s still going to end up pants. In this case the script was particularly well suited to providing parts suitable for everything from the kid who walked on and off without saying anything, to quite long and involved speeches for the more heavily invested. It also played equally well to the adults and kids who turned up to watch it (according to the people I spoke to) which is no mean feat.

THE SET: The construction of sets is one of the things I always liked most about going to the theatre and this one was a doosy. In one quite small area they managed to build a house, a pub, a hill (including a path down from the hill) and locations for 3 different tradesmen to school the three daughters after they had been framed by the goat and unfairly kicked out of home. There were hinges and swinging bits and lifting bits and turn this bit into a different bit by moving this bit...bits. It was brilliant.

THE CREW (INCLUDING KID WRANGLERS): There were a lot of kids involved in the play....a lot. Some of them had the attention span of....well....kids. Despite this, the Team of adults (and I specifically include the two lads, still at school, who were on the crew and performed brilliantly throughout) tasked with getting them on and off, at the right time, into the right bit of light, with enough food in them to stave off hypoglycaemic collapse, in the right clothes AND then off again in reverse order, did it all without incident and without flinging any of the children off the set’s many quite high bits (though I suspect some were at times tempted).

Add to that all the usual bits and pieces that have to be done to make something like this work (catering, tickets, PR, set up, clean up, bar and on and on and on). The term ‘amateur’ starts to seem more than a little inaccurate.

My particular apologies to the 'Costume Genius' for the unprovoked head whacking she got on the last night (though to be fair she totally stepped into it Your Honour...)

THE KIDS: I have a suspicion that kids fall into one of two camps when it comes to involvement in drama. They either will not touch it with a ten foot barge pole or they are totally into it – like our lot. So while there were many issues involved with the management of so much underage talent, nerves did not seem to be one of them.....even when it sometimes should have been. They were fearless, enthusiastic and talented and if you ever get a chance to tap into some of that you would be an idiot not to take it.

THE (SLIGHTLY YOUNGER) ADULTS: There were a couple of the....youth participants, who would no doubt hit me repeatedly over the head with a stick if they thought I was describing them as kids. So I won’t. I say to (insert name), (insert name) and let’s not forget (insert name) – you guys were tops.

THE (SLIGHTLY OLDER) KIDS: There were only 3 adults in the play. Both the other two had a lot more experience at this than I have and made it a lot easier for me to say yes when I was asked if I wanted to be in it. The old warning goes – ‘Do not work with children or animals (or children dressed as animals)’ – we laugh at the fear and scoff openly at the risk.

MY WIFE AND CHILD: Not only let me do it, but did so with enthusiasm (barring some impatience from my 7 year old on the subject of stupid accents). And it took up a lot of time. Sorry about that.

As I say – amateur doesn’t really cut it.

NEXT: Something slightly less self indulgent?

21. IN WHICH I RIDE AN ASS...NO WAIT...THAT SOUNDS BAD.

Everyone can relax. It appears the Slovakian Mafia will have to finance its nefarious activities without my assistance. (Confused? Shame on you for not reading my previous post). Dan has emailed me back to tell me he got my cash and the bike is in the mail. The frame of the bike anyway....and he has claimed that he has sent me a 13” Pink Girls Bike...which I assumed was a joke on account of the smiley face but have you ever noticed how sinister those things start to look after you stare at them for a few minutes. Less of a ‘smiley face’ and more of a ‘maniacally cackling face’. See. I’m nervous again now.

Anyway...

In totally un-bike related matters – I have been in a play called ‘The Golden Ass’. The first play I have been in since 1985 in fact. Yes, I am aware this Blog is called ‘In Which I Ride A Bike’ not 'In Which I Massively Inflate My Own Ego In A Play' but hell, it’s my Blog and I can write what I want in it. I could attempt to make some kind of tenuous link between getting in a play after 28 years and getting back into riding but that would be, as I have already noted, tenuous...so I won’t.

Short synopsis – Lying goat gets innocent children kicked out of home by abusive goat obsessed Father. Children make good through application, hard work and the Fairyland TAFE system. Magical severance packages are distributed. Intelligent talking Goat gets whacked and eaten in an act of bloody revenge.

So it’s a kid’s play.

And it’s been a hoot. Almost like playing a Grand Final every night but I know I’m not going to need an x-ray afterwards and barring a fuck up of truly awesome proportions it’s impossible to lose.

There are, granted, some plot issues – The magical gifts granted to the three daughters seem quite powerful given they are crafted by otherwise unremarkable tradesmen (unremarkable except for the fact that they are played by me) and the Golden Ass’s ability to both vomit AND defecate gold seems like it might be an issue from an inflationary point of view.

Likewise, the idea that 3 young females might be able to successfully get and complete apprenticeships in Medieval Europe in a trade other than that of dutiful wife or concubine seems to fly in the face of most contemporary depictions of that era vis a vis the plight of women in what was an oppressive patriarchal system....

Also, the Goat can talk. And none of the characters remark on this AT ALL.

Thanks very much to Craig and Robyn for talking me into it.

NEXT: Is it here yet? Is it here yet?

20. DOLLARS AWAAAAAAY...

Woot. So I finally collapsed and sent off the cash for the frame I have had sitting in Stanton Bikes warehouse (in my head it’s a warehouse like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark – more likely it’s been taking up space in their tea room in such a way as to cause all the employees to curse my name as they try to make a cup of tea around it) for the last couple of months.

At least I hope I sent off the cash. I never realised just how many different numbers and menu screens are involved in the seemingly simple task of transferring cash from one English speaking country to another English speaking country (England in fact – arguably the most Englishiest speaking of all the English speaking countries).

What the fuck is an IBAN number anyway? You may consider that a rhetorical question. I did know what an IBAN number was at about 0800 this morning when I transferred the money – there was a long, veeeery detailed pop up box that gave me the full story. Very interesting it was. I could not of course tell you right now what an IBAN number is if you held a gun to my head and threatened to pour a box of those really angry red ants down my trousers.

While I am confident in my ability to follow onscreen instructions, I was still dubious enough to email the nice people at Stanton Bikes to let them know I had sent it and could they please be nice enough to email me back when they get it...or if they don’t. Just so I can silence the niggling feeling that I got one of the 875 account numbers wrong and accidently sent my 400 odd pounds to some Slovakian Drug gang (assuming Slovenia does drug gangs).

I also made a polite request for details on their planned means of delivery on account of the difficulties many couriers have finding our house given that our street address - while perfectly legal and clearly on the data bases of all the various Government organisations seeking to levy charges on me for everything from the protection of my (non-existent) livestock from Ecuadorian Sheep Blight to the possible inspection, if we feel like it, but probably not, unless it’s at the most inconvenient time for you, of our septic system – does not seem to appear on any maps held by anyone else.

We have an A4 page of very explicit instructions we send out to anyone who is seeking to locate our house and even then, most of the time I swear the despatch guys use them to wipe their arses on. I can only assume there is some kind of McCoy/Hatfield (look it up) style, multi-generational delivery company feud going on between the drivers and whoever it is we send the instructions to. One of these guys dropped off a pair of shoes I ordered at the local wine bar once and the only reason I got them at all was the staff happened to remember it when I dropped in to get some milk.  

I’m sure it’ll all go perfectly fine.

NEXT: Golden Ass My Arse.....

19. AND CHECK THIS OUT. THE BASTARD EVEN PEDDLES FOR YOU....

Given that at least in part this Blog documents my movement towards buying a new bike largely on the grounds that my current one has been overtaken by technological advances (overtaken and then lapped.....and then lapped again....but this time with attendant rude and belittling jokes) what I am about to say may, I am prepared to admit, come off as slightly hypocritical.

I was reading an article today in one of this country’s leading Mountain Bike magazines, that was discussing some of the technological advances we can expect, or are already seeing applied, to the bikes presented to us for purchase by the Industry. All very appropriate. It is, I would say, the job of such a magazine to keep me appraised of exactly this kind of stuff. But then it started to talk about some things that gave me pause.

Electronic gear shifting. Hydrostatic suspension control. On the fly tyre pressure control. Remote controlled nanotech seat integral buttock massagers.....ok, I’m not certain that last one was in there. All being spoken about as if it was an entirely positive thing. I guess I can kind of understand it from a ‘gee whiz, isn’t that shiny’ kind of thing but seriously, how far do you take it.

Don’t get me wrong. I ski (and would ski a lot more were it even remotely responsible from a budgetary point of view) and the idea of walking up the hill with my skis so I can ski down it again is frankly insane. Chairlifts – top idea. And like I said – I’m totally down for better forks, bars, brakes and the idea of gears that don’t decide to change themselves just as I’m heading up a really big fuck off hill is just peachy.

But assuming you’re not cycling purely as a form of cheap transport - and let’s face it, anyone owning a bike with this kind of stupidly expensive, cutting edge stuff on it, is hardly going to be locking it up outside the train station while they zip off to the office for the day - then isn’t a large part of the ‘thing’ here to take a fairly basic tool then apply your own talent to it to do things you would not otherwise be able to do.

I’m not saying it’s not tricky. But take Downhill bikes as an example. Make them really strong to take the hits. Give them bullet proof suspension to soak up the bumps. Better wear a whole lot of motocross gear for when you hit that bump a little too hard and end up on your arse though. Of course now they’re so heavy you have to stick ‘em in a car or on a chairlift to get up the hill again (don’t laugh – it’s pretty well accepted in the biking community).

Or.

Just get a motorbike. Ride up the hill. Go just as fast down it. Probably won’t cost all that more either.

Just doesn’t feel entirely. Right.

NEXT: Blarrrgh.