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Thanks, but I ll ride. By Tim WoodyVlocouture. By Patrick BarberMy vehicle. By Dave AndersonBlessed. By Tim JacksonTour de France. By Ralf HtterMeeting Gary. By Charlie KellyWhy I ride. By Alex LeighWheel of misfortune. By Peter MoskosThe lower east ride. By Benjamin T JaroshDawn. By Dominic PerryCaught short. By Anja McDonaldPants. By Richard RisembergThe bicycle rockers. By Haruki Harookz NoguchiBack to basics. By Rowley HaverlyThe Highway Cycle Group. By David EvansHeres mud in your eye. By Michael LeonSteves cellar. By Steve MakinCritical mess. By Mikael Colville-AndersenThe time trial . By Greg LeMondLeverage. By Dean TaylorOne-to-one. By Victoria PendletonThe woman who asked me to choose. By AnonMap star. By Glen JohnsonChasing shadows. By Jac StrachanBespoke. By Marc EdwardsVelo Club dArdbeg. By Brian PalmerBorn again. By Rob WarnerTokyo got f ixed. By Nicola CarignaniTour de telly. By Kevin BraddockRollapaluza. By Paul ChurchillBike kill . By Klaus ThymannThe pioneers. By Roy SinclairTotally f ixated. By Dennis Bean-LarsonSingular vision. By Sam AlisonHerne Hill , SE24. By Trevor Ray HartGoing Dutch. By Da Square WheelmanRecycled. By Grant TaylorWinter of content. By Dan BarhamThe start of stopping. By Jon MeredithNervous energy. By Philip DiproseJapanese alley. By ilovedustPaint job. By Taliah LempertHigh cadence. By Dustin KleinCrystal method. By Ben WilsonTwo wheels good. By Barry ScottThe search. By Debbie BurtonRiding style. By Sir Paul SmithFaded glory. By Roger Stillman, Marc Edwardson and James WilsonPashley passion. By Simon MillsLife is a race. By Mike Kloser

w w w. t h e r i d e j o u r n a l . c o m

T H E R I DE { 07

w w w. t h e r i d e j o u r n a l . c o m

THE START of this journey felt a little like a night ride take something sensible and add a dose of stupidity. Our love of bikes is unquestionable, our track record of producing magazines is somewhat less proven. Despite all of us having experience in journalism and publishing (some far more than I), none of us had actually created something from scratch. Exciting didnt even come close to it.

Over Mexican food and Pacficos, an idea began to crystallise, and soon we were joined by other like-minded people. It felt like a pro-tour peleton everywhere we looked, we saw great talents joining us, each one of them bringing something different.

Ideas that initially seemed disparate and unconnected soon linked together, bonded by the passion of cyclists from across the globe. The concept seemed to connect with a lot of riders. Whatever their love, be it track, free-ride, commuting, road-racing, mountain-biking or BMX, the depth of their enthusiasm was identical. In a world of segmentation and pigeon-holing, it was reassuring to see that we all roll the same.

As with all good rides, we felt exhausted by the time the finish line was in sight. And now that we have crossed it and the first issue is complete, we can only say how proud we are.

Thank you for joining THE RIDE.

Philip Diprose, Editor

Please get in touch with us. Let us know what you think of the issue. theridejournal@hotmail.com

The ride is published by Own It! publishing. All rights reserved. Nothing in whole or part may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher.The Ride is printed by Cambrian Printers on 50% recycled paper with soya-based ink. Cambrian won Print Weeks Environmental Printers of the Year 2007.

EDITOR Philip Diprose

GRAPHICS AND WEB DESIGN Dean Taylor

SuB EDITOR Dominic Perry

ART DIRECTOR Andrew Diprose

PuBLISHER Philip Stringer

SuB EDITOR Jeremy Case

The Ride wouldnt be possible without the hard work of all our contributors. Special thanks for support: Marc and Grant at Condor, Scania at howies, Michael at Knog, Tim at Sideways, Sam at Singular, and Simon at Rapha. Also Mark and ilovedust for the fantastic cover illustration.

The views expressed in this magazine are those of real riders. Riders from all over the world and riders of all sorts of bikes. Listening to someone elses view may make you a better and more worldly person.

ooking out of my office window into the dim, late-afternoon light of an Alaskan winters day, I cannot see through the curtain of snow that obscures the mountains on the edge of town. Street lights are coming on early, and I hear two co-workers murmuring about their

dreaded drive home on a crowded, ice-coated highway. I stifle a smug smile and slice my pre-ride apple. I feel

no trepidation as I look forward to my commute. My snow bike is parked downstairs. I know the bike paths will be quiet, uncrowded and covered with a few inches of dry, velvet-like powder.

A few years ago, on a day like this, a couple of people would have already asked how I planned to get home. Ive lost count of how many times co-workers have offered me rides on rainy and snowy days. That rarely happens anymore because everyone knows Ill decline their invitations. Even my wife has stopped offering to come pick me up, unless she knows Im facing a headwind strong enough to stop a freight train.

It strikes me as sad that people who drive to work every day have a hard time understanding why the rest of us voluntarily subject ourselves to wind, heat, rain, cold and snow you know, the real world instead of climbing into climate-controlled steel bubbles. I blame this on the tendency that people have to describe weather as bad.

One recent morning, the local newspaper carried a headline about bad weather putting cars into tailspins during the previous days rush hour. unless its severe enough to wreck your house or maim your loved ones, there is no bad weather. Theres just weather. Some is more comfortable, and some is less comfortable. Its what you make of it.

A woman who sometimes chats with me briefly by the back door as she walks to her car happened to see me

gearing up to ride in several inches of new snow one night. She laughed and yelled, Youre a madman!

No, Im not.Im not even all that tough, or brave, or any of the

other things that some people call bike commuters (to our faces) when theyre impressed by what we endure. Im just a bike nerd who likes getting exercise and having fun at the same time.

I love to pedal through busy intersections on dark, snowy days, especially when the wind is filling the air with dry, swirling snow. The blizzard-like effect makes the weather look especially nasty to motorists as I plough through the churned-up slush furrowed by all the passing traffic. As I cross in front of their idling cars, I feel the drivers eyes watching me through wet, icy windshields as they wait for the light to turn green.

I know they think Im crazy. Many of them have unhesitatingly told me so. But I also know that Im the sane one. Because as they robotically roll toward the next red light, I drop away from the street and roll down onto a dark, quiet bike path through the woods and begin to ride beside a frozen stream as I skirt the edges of quiet neighbourhoods. I often share my commute with a moose or two, and sometimes a fox, or a beaver that has surfaced through a hole in the creek ice.

Not a single brake light glows on the dark path ahead of me. No horns honk, no sirens wail and no grim news blares from a radio. I listen to my tires roll through fresh powder. Snow swirls in the amber glow of street lights when I pass under roads.

Somewhere, maybe one of my co-workers briefly thinks of me out in the snowstorm, shivers a bit and grips the steering wheel a little tighter.

underneath the black balaclava that covers my face, Im smiling. Crazy? Let them think so. But Im one of the few people enjoying the rush hour.

Tim Woody. Anchorage, Alaska. Tim rides all winter and writes the blog Bicycles & Icicles. www.alaskabikeblog.blogspot.com

thanks, but I ll ride

T H E R I DE { 09

B y Ti m Wo o d y. Pho t o g r a ph Ph i l i p Ts c he r s ic h

T H E R I DE { 03T H E R I DE { 1 1

s a lifelong sceptic, Im reluctant to believe that something I love is being embraced by the population at large. But I am also a lifelong transportational cyclist, and scepticism be damned: transportational cycling appears to be reaching a tipping point in the uSA.

Theres evidence of this trend in some obvious and not-so-obvious places. Lance Armstrong recently opened a bike shop in his hometown of Austin, Texas. As a Tour de France winner, Mr Armstrong could reasonably be expected to focus his retail efforts on racing bikes. But no his shop will cater to the urban commuter.

Meanwhile, I just received the latest mail-out from REI, a uS outdoor-equipment outfitter. REI sells bikes, and has its own line, but this brochure features something I dont recall seeing in its catalogues before: a photograph of a cyclist, on a city street, in traffic, clearly going somewhere other than on a recreational ride.

In a more subtle way, an internet photo group called Vlocouture, which I started last year on the photo-sharing site Flickr, appears to be doing its own bit. I started the Vlocouture group in late 2006 with no thought toward bicycle advocacy or transport. I was thinking more about fashion and style, inspired by the proliferation of street-style and personal-style internet offerings like Wardrobe_Remix (also a group on Flickr), Hel Looks, The Sartorialist, and so on. You see, along with my scepticism and transportational cycling habits, Im also a lifelong clothes horse.

Since the Vlocouture group started, Ive had the pleasure of watching it grow to include a wide variety of answers to that simple question: what do you wear when you travel by bike?

But even though I started this group with an eye to fashion, the photographs in Vlocouture are by definition about transportational cycling. Although in most of the world, cycling is primarily for transport, in the united States the majority of cycling is recreational and apes racing style. Bikes are tour replicas and riders dress in garishly-coloured, skintight spandex. In many places in the uS, its seen as genuinely odd to simply wear normal,

everyday clothing while going from A to B on your bike. To be fair, cyclists in the uS have a different built

environment to contend with than cyclists in some other countries. Most uS cyclists have to cover more miles in a day than the average European in order to meet their transport needs. This is because all uS cyclists live in cities or towns which have been designed primarily for the automobile, which results in urban sprawl, impractically large and spread-out street plans, and poorly graded roads. These are not insurmountable challenges, but they are challenges, and it makes dressing sharp on a bicycle a bit different for a uS cyclist than for, say, our Scandinavian counterparts.

In a way, thinking about cycling in street clothes requires that you shift your thinking about why you are on your bike. Instead of being in workout mode, you are in going-somewhere-but-want-to-look-good mode: to work, on a date, to the coffee shop.

The thing I started noticing on Vlocouture was a positive feedback effect. It started inspiring cyclists to look sharp whenever and wherever they went by bike connecting them more strongly to the idea that it is actually possible. Being on a bike isnt always about a hot, sweaty, all-out ride. Its often about a reasonably paced trip to run an errand or appointment.

There are a lot of great photos on the site. My favourites are the ones that feature a smartly dressed cyclist and a good-looking bike. For a long time I felt it was important that the pictured cyclist be wearing strictly normal street clothes no cycling shoes or tights underneath shorts, for instance. But Ive found that some people have managed to integrate cycling clothes into a genuinely fashion-forward ensemble that carries them well on the street, whether they are pedalling or not.

This is about more than photos though, or the internet. The Vlocouture group is evidence an artifact of something that is happening in the world. And when cyclists use bikes for their intended original purpose transport and look like normal people while doing it, they inspire others to do the same.

Patrick Barber. Portland, Oregon, USA. When he is not bicycling someplace, raising chickens, or uploading to Flickr, Patrick runs a graphic-design studio with his partner Holly McGuire.www.mcguirebarber.com

vlocoutureB y P a t r ic k B a r b e r. Pho t o g r a ph E l i nor Z a c h

y bike is a vehicle. It transports me both mentally and physically. It acts as a social lubricant, a reason to go places and meet people. It is the totem of my tribe, the common denominator in the web of relationships and friendships of which I am a part.

My bike allows me to live life in glorious lo-tech 3D: a part of the life around me rather than an observer looking in. When I ride, I feel alive, I become a part of the landscape. I become aware of the weather through touch not sight. Sometimes its a brutal set of sensations: freezing hail biting at exposed flesh, headwinds that make progress painful. I do not need the TV to tell me it is cold outside when my face is numb.

I observe the passage of time from the saddle; note the subtle progression of seasonal change. My companions change as each year passes but the underlying geography and the contact with nature are my constants. I have come to recognise the precursors of each season and welcome the promised change. Lapwing and curlew herald the end of winter and promise dry trails to come. Swallows and swifts feeding high on the moor announce the end of summer. The browning off of Yorkshire fog is the clue I need to head to the woods to revel in leaf-covered singletrack accompanied by the heavy bouquet of decay.

Winter and I have become close friends. I make the most of the quiet trails, riding knowing that the added drag of soft ground will bring benefits to fitness and technique. I soak in the views opened up by clear cold air and leafless trees. I appreciate the fine line between skid and traction. I hope for snowfall, will it to happen even, while around me everyone awaits the ensuing traffic chaos with trepidation.

My bike brings me closer to the earth. It gives me the nearest thing to a religious experience that I, a committed atheist, will ever experience. The much-sought moment of nirvana no wind is one that any cyclist can appreciate. Mind blank, lost beyond thought, simply

pedalling. The moment the boundary between man and machine blurs. Not riding, not training, just being.

My bike has provided a reason to explore distant countries; a modern-day grand tour. Sampling and savouring the subtle differences of a familiar activity on foreign soil. My bike has allowed me to interact with the places I pass through. Not the isolation of the tour group or the flickering snapshot views through a car window. It provides the time to appreciate the countryside I ride in with no need for the quick fix of the snatched photo opportunity. I am instantly accessible and approachable, I see the everyday as well as the tourist fare.

My bike has provided a common language with which to make new friends during my travels. It has become a conduit to new experiences; a reason to take the path less travelled, to visit the back of beyond. It has fed my love of mountains and taken me to the wild places I dream of when back at work. It has helped me to explore my locality until I have the same familiarity of it as I had of my childhood haunts.

I have become a part of something far bigger than my local scene. Being offered ground-level knowledge in foreign languages and repaying that by sharing my advice with visitors, like-minded two-wheeled devotees of a global tribe. I revel in the dispatches from far-flung corners as much as I feverishly explore a new local trail.

I have come to see the hints of green among the grey, my eyes attuned to the spaces where nature hangs on in cities. I can think in maps, and mentally link them together to provide an escape route from the drudgery of city life. A daydream to be realised in snatched moments. The juxtaposition of muddy bike and rider amid everyday life. Freedom in the wild that hides among the conformity, the consumerism and everything that fills me with a sense of despair.

My bike provides me with a means of transport, recreation, relaxation and of escape. My bike has allowed me to see the future. I do not fear the lack of a car. I am happy to travel under my own steam. I am independent and proud. My bike is a vehicle.

Dave Anderson. Oxenhope, UK. Rides bikes.

my veh icleB y D ave A nde r s on . Pho t o g r a ph S i mon B a r ne s

T H E R I DE { 13

T H E R I DE { 03

or a young boy growing up in rural Alabama in the 1980s, cycling wasnt considered a sport, let alone a sport worth dreaming about.

All my friends wanted to be pros in the holy trinity of baseball, basketball or football (use ball as a suffix and they

come flocking, dont they?). But not me, I was different. I dreamt of riding a bike in places I couldnt pronounce; I wanted to ride over cobbles in the pouring rain; I cut out photos of exotic steel frames with names like Colnago, Guerciotti and Masi and plastered them across my bedroom walls. I think somewhere down the line I may have also wanted to be Italian.

I blame the 1979 film Breaking Away and its two main characters Dave Stoller and the Masi Grand Criterium he rode. Although I didnt see the film until 1982, for some reason it struck a chord with me. Cue leg-shaving, dreaming of faraway places and hanging out in bike shops.

My first bike-shop job (if you can call it that) was in 1982 at the local store. The owner hired me primarily to shut me up and put me to good use, since I was sitting in the store any time I wasnt out riding. I sold a few bikes here and there too even though I was only 12 years old, my passion for the sport was obvious.

Fast forward a few years and I was hopping in and out of shops, all the while still riding and racing dreaming of becoming the next LeMond. unfortunately it turned out that I didnt have the lungs or the legs to make that dream a reality. I had my successes, but nothing that drew the attention of people who could help me move to the next level. And, truth be told, I always enjoyed riding more than training, which somehow always negatively impacted my results. As I got older, I left the bike industry a few times hoping to find a career that would interest me. The only problem is that the only thing that really ever makes my soul content is cycling.

In 1996, I made the leap from being a shop rat to working on the inside for a manufacturer in the industry. I had made it I was now moving up the bike-industry food chain! After nearly five years, I moved on again and left the industry for a time, only to fall back in again: I returned to the womb that had nurtured me for so long.

Over the years of working in the industry Ive made many friends and great connections. The bike industry has been called incestuous for many years, and for good reason theres something of a revolving door for those of us who are lifers. Im a lifer, big time. There is no doubt that I love the cycling industry with a passion and have worked hard to stay in it. And now, with the help of friends, Ive managed to find my perfect job.

To cut a long story short, two industry buddies of mine were working at Haro at the time it was looking to recruit a brand manager for the Masi range it was about to launch. Both knew what a total road nerd I am and recommended me for the job.

When I got the call to come in for the interview, I was practically hyperventilating; a chance to work for the brand Id loved since childhood was the Holy Grail for me. The one glitch just three days before the interview, while riding my bike, I was knocked off by a car in a hit-and-run and was less than pretty. In fact, I was still limping, covered in scabs, and had difficulty talking due to my two busted lips. I wasnt the picture of the ideal candidate. But even while the scars were forming, my passion shone through.

The first day of the job was fantastic I had to fly to Las Vegas for the Interbike show. Just three weeks after being hit by a car, I was standing in a booth in Sin City representing the Masi brand in its early phases of rebirth. I was in pain, but in heaven.

For more than three years now, Ive been living the dream. Im blessed and I know it.

Tim Jackson. USA. Tim is brand manager of Masi Bicycles and a lifelong bike nerd with absolutely no hope of ever changing. www.masibikes.com

bles sed

T H E R I DE { 1 5

B y Ti m Ja c k s on .

tour de

franceBy R a l f Htter.

Gr aph ic Joh a n n Z a mbr y sk i . Photog r aph A SO

T H E R I DE { 1 7

{Lenfer du Nord: Paris RoubaixLa Cote dAzur et Saint Tropez

Les Alpes et les PyrenneesDerniere etape Champs-Elysees

Galibier et TourmaletEn danseuse jusquau sommet

Pedaler en grand braquetSprint final a larrivee

Crevaison sur les pavesLe velo vite repare

Le peloton est regroupeCamarades et amitie

#

The hell of the north: Paris RoubaixThe Cote dAzur and Saint Tropez

The Alps and the PyrenneesLast stage Champs-Elysees

Galibier and Tourmalet Dancing even on the top

Bicycling at high gearFinal sprint at the finish

Flat tire on the paving stonesThe bicycle is repaired quickly

The peloton is regroupedComrades and friendship

{

Artwork and lyrics donated by Ralf Htter. Germany. Ralf is a founding member of Kraftwerk and an avid fan of the bicycle.

www.kraftwerk.com

T H E R I DE { 1 9

t may well have been inevitable that Gary Fisher and I would run into each other. There just werent that many hippie bike freaks attached to rock bands, and Marin County is not that big a place. Whether or not the history of cycling hinged on that

meeting, my personal story certainly did. I went out briefly with a DeadHead girl named Rose.

We werent really made for each other, but before we parted company, she mentioned a kid she knew who hung out with the Grateful Dead. She knew him as Spider and said he was so much like me a long-haired bike fanatic that we were sure to be friends if we ever met.

One spring day in 1971, I was riding along and saw two guys. One was all arms and legs, with hair down to here and riding a nice bike. His companion was a little guy with equally long hair and an even nicer all-Campy bike. One had to be Spider. So I rode up and asked if he was. The answer was complicated, but what came out of it was that his name was actually Gary.

Gary introduced his friend as Marmaduke but said that his real name was John Dawson. He told me that Marmaduke had just recorded an album with Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, and they were on their way to the Grateful Dead office to look at potential cover art.

Fifteen minutes after the chance meeting, Gary and I were seated at a table in the Grateful Dead office, looking at photos and drawings along with two members of Marmadukes band, the New Riders of the Purple Sage. The unreleased record was on the turntable, and it sounded pretty good. In fact, it turned out to be a minor hit. The two band members asked Gary and I for our thoughts on the artwork in front of us, as though our

opinions mattered to them. When the album was released a month or so later, we saw that the cover art was chosen from the pile we had looked at, and that the images we had selected as our favourites were actually used. I hesitate to say that the two hippie bike riders, strangers to each other and unconnected to the band, had chosen the cover art, but it sure looked that way.

The New Riders of the Purple Sage went on the road, and Marmaduke let Gary watch his house, which was right on the main bike route. I got into the habit of stopping by when I passed, to round up Gary for rides.

A couple of months after meeting Gary, I bought some furniture at a flea market for my rental cottage. I was looking for a way to get it home, and I ran into Gary, who had a truck. We loaded my goods and he promised to bring them by, but I didnt see him for a week. Just when I figured he had ripped me off, he finally showed up.

As he helped me bring in my stuff, he looked around and asked who shared the place. His timing was good, because my roommate had just left, and Gary moved right in, bringing his bike collection with him, which included a pile of old ballooner frames.

At first, the idea was that we were going to make a couple of one-speed, balloon-tyre town bikes, so we wouldnt have to run errands on Italian racing bikes. Then we took our town bikes on a local trail, and things got out of hand.

Seven years later, Gary and I opened a little shop in a rented garage a block from that cottage. In that shop we assembled our new kind of bike, which didnt have a name yet, so people started using our business name to describe them, and the name stuck.

We called our little shop MountainBikes.

Charlie Kelly. Marin County, USA. Charlie organised the Repack Downhills, starting in 1976. It has been downhill for him ever since.www.sonic.net/~ckelly/Seekay

meeti ng gary

T H E R I DE { 2 1

B y C h a rl ie Ke l l y. Pho t o g r a ph G a r y F i s he r

y wife and I have an agreement; she doesnt lament my continuing absence from all aspects of child-rearing and I dont wince when the credit-card statements drop heavily onto the mat.

In essence, I ride and she shops. And for each of us, our chosen passion is the

antithesis of the other for me, major root-canal surgery edges it when offered up against, say, five minutes in a shoe shop. And thats without anaesthetic.

So, one day, to be posed with the question: Whats the best part of the ride then? rather threw me. Its akin to me asking the difference between court shoes and moon boots while actually caring about the answer. Stunned into silence, I blew my chance to justify why riding round in a circle on ludicrously expensive bits of metal is such a fantastic way to spend my time.

But it got me thinking, and Ive realised its a little more complex than it may first appear. Of course we all love the adrenaline rush, that goes without saying, but there are other more complex reasons as well.

ANTICIPATION: A real candidate this, especially if marinated in alcohol the previous evening. Tomorrows potential experience will play like a slide show in your mind: the weather, the bravery, the poise, the balance and the technique all coming together to deliver the perfect ride. Empirical and historical evidence never gets a look-in of course; just because you have been rubbish for the last year has absolutely no bearing on how fantastic you will be tomorrow.

PREPARATION: Related to the above, the oft-forgotten pleasure of a mechanical once-over on your favoured steed, while not strictly necessary, offers a placebo for your head and reassures you that everything will be OK.

CLIMBING: This, like calculus, is something only to be enjoyed by those seriously starved of entertainment. And yet, there is something secretly pleasurable about going up straining every sinew for power and testing every technique for traction and maybe, maybe, this time,

cleaning that section that until today has seen you lose face or, more likely, land on your face.

FREEDOM: Or more accurately, freedom from responsibility. Or more accurately still its probably nothing more than like-minded riders abandoning restrictive social convention and that feeling that youve found a sport that keeps you fit, makes you laugh, scares you silly sometimes, and has nothing whatsoever to do with golf clubs.

CRASHING: Parting company with the bike and plunging head first into the flora is like being beaten up in the park after school. Except you are cheered like a conquering hero whether you escape unscathed or eat your next six meals through a straw.

WARMING DOWN: By which I dont mean a quick spin on the turbo trainer I mean sitting in the pub spinning yarns. Food tastes better, the grass is greener and the sun shines brighter as you park yourself, knackered but worthy, regarding those less fortunate than you with their beer guts, miserable-looking spouses and fractious kids. Even their dogs look unhappy. Not for you the absurd, middle-class, suburban world they inhabit oh no, youre a mountain biker (until you have to go home to the miserable spouse, fractious kids, etc).

CLEANSING AND TONING: Even cleaning the bike has a certain satisfaction, apparently. I derive very little pleasure from this aspect of it, but there are friends of mine who truly believe the path of the righteous man is littered with sponges, polish and some bizarrely shaped brushes, the use of which will remain a mystery to me. And then there are the rest of us who see this for what it really is the rantings of delusional madmen. Although Ill grudgingly admit that a clean bike is a happy bike.

Of course the reality is that theres no definitive list that describes what biking means to me. It is, as the old adverts used to say, more than the sum of its parts. Short of naked female mud-wrestling, Im struggling to think of any outdoor experience getting close.

Alex Leigh. Chiltern Hills, UK. Rides lots, talks more.

T H E R I DE { 23

why I rideB y A le x L e i gh . Pho t o g r a ph S t e w a r t P r a t t

y bike died yesterday. Or maybe not.

A few days ago I noticed a creaking sound when I pedalled, but it wasnt coming from the pedals. It seemed to be caused by some motion when I was on the saddle, so I assumed the seat post had become dry and crusty

that makes bikes creak. So when I got home, I relubed the post. I also took apart and reassembled the bottom bracket cartridge, just for good measure.

But riding to work yesterday, the creaking sound was still there, perhaps even worse. At Lex and 60th, I stopped at a red light and examined the frame. There, like a chasm in front of me, I saw a crack. The ragged line girdled the bottom lug of the downtube on my beloved Bianchi Alfana.

I carried on to work but decided it would be stupid to ride home. I caught the N Train at 57th and 7th and took the subway back to Astoria. I went to the last car because its normally the emptiest. In the back, I stared at my frame, feeling melancholy. Here I was, with my beloved bike, knowing I may never ride it again.

I had half an hour to ponder. Id never had a bike die of use and old age before. I was sad, but not angry. What if the bike had been stolen one day earlier? Then Id have been pissed off. But really, whats the difference? Either way, the bike had been taken from me.

Maybe it can be fixed after all, its only steel. Tomorrow Ill take it to my man at the Bicycle Repairman Corp and see what he says.

With boats, they say the only defining characteristic is the line: from profile, the curve on the top of the hull. Everything else can be fixed, welded, repaired and replaced. But you can never change the line.

The frame is the line of the bike. Everything else can be replaced, mended, modified or changed. The frame is the bike. This frame has been with me for 12 years, through bumps and speed and curbs, plus a few spills.

Im a heavy guy who rides a skinny-tired road bike to

commute to work in New York City. Maybe the bike is just the victim of my return commute on 58th Street, one of the worst in Manhattan. Its one I often take because, well, its not 57th or 59th Streets. Or maybe the crack started back in 2005 when I wiped out on the Triborough Bridge.

The frame crack is natural in a way. Organic. A fatal flaw, but also just a wrinkle of old age. Its hard to be angry, the bike has been good to me, probably better than Ive been to it. Thats the beauty of bikes: a bike is there for you no matter what, like a loyal dog. But Im allergic to dogs; all Ive got is bikes.

Do I want a new bike? No. But I still cant help but think maybe things could be better. I mean, my shifters dont really work well any more in temperatures under 40F; the chain ring is no longer perfectly true; 650B wheels would let me put full fenders on the wheels... But these are bad thoughts I dont want to think it feels somehow unfaithful.

Along with the real loss, what is so horrible is the anticipation of dealing with the life afterwards. Shock replaced with feelings of loneliness, soldiering on, the future, and replacement.

Guilt is a factor when one contemplates loss that hasnt even happened. After any great loss, life will almost assuredly be filled with joy eventually. Thinking of that too early seems to trivialise things.

A couple of years ago I had to deal with the idea that my wife might die. The thought crossed my mind. To cut a long story very short, she didnt. My wife, hell, any person is more important than a bike. I dont like personifying machines. You cant buy love. But I can buy a new bike because I live a rich life in a rich country.

Yet the feelings I have for the loss of my beloved bicycle remind me of the sadness of human loss. It doesnt even come close in terms of magnitude or degree, of course, but in spirit, in the nature of loss, sadness cares not for the source.

My bike is dead. I love my bike. I am sad.

Peter Moskos. NYC, USA. Peter rides a bike in New York because its fun, really. www.astoriabike.com / www.marklazenby.co.uk

wh e e l of mi sfortune

T H E R I DE { 2 5

B y Pe t e r Mo s ko s . I l l u s t r a t ion b y M a rk L a z e nb y.

Photog r aphy by Benja m i n T Ja roshTHE Lower east ride

My bicycle showed me another way to express myself.

Husani, NYC, 2008

T H E R I DE { 29

My brothers got me into it. I really didnt want to ride at first but my oldest brother passed away and riding got my mind off things at the time. My other two brothers pushed me into riding more and it became an everyday thing so I stuck with it. Now things are good, riding is a big part of my life and I wouldnt give it up for anything.

John, NYC, 2008

We stayed up late into the night building ramps before the Animal Jam. Muffin Man and a few others slept on benches so they could be the first ones to hit them in the morning.

Benjamin T Jarosch, NYC, 2007

T H E R I DE { 03

I dont exactly live in the best neighbourhood. Most of the people who stay in this environment end up becoming drug dealers or dead. My parents love me, but they dont approve of me riding a kids bike, because Im constantly coming home covered in blood. Every single person who comes up to me, from the girls who say, Wow, thats cool, to the ghetto kids who say, Wow, do that again before I jack your shit, inspires me. If it werent for my friends, most likely I would not be doing what I do. Its simple, really, I just love to ride.

Alexandros, NYC, 2008

Benjamin Jarosch. Queens, NY, USA. Portrait and reportage photographer. Bjarosch@nyu.edu

0 4 { T H E R I DE

allowing in a drowsy slumber, Im suddenly shocked from sleep by a plaintive cry from the next room.

Jerked awake, heart racing, I peer blearily at my watch: 5.58am. Two minutes before the alarm was due.

I drag myself away from the magnetic pull of the duvet and hurry into Felixs room to do the dutiful father routine. With bottle plugged securely into child I sit in the cosy darkness of his room and wait for him to drift back into milk-filled sleep. I stay like this for a while before depositing him back in his cot.

After the slow, careful movements of moments before suddenly its action stations as I fight my way into my kit and out of the house. Im out the door and into the garage, dragging the singlespeed out. I head off into the first hints of dawn light, crunching through the frosty grass of the green, just as the church chimes seven.

I go up the Rookery climb, my legs feeling pretty ropey thanks to a hard ride home last night and the fact that Im not warmed up yet. A momentary lapse of concentration near one of the top steps means I fail to clear the climb never a good start. Nonetheless I carry on along Wolverns Lane, lungs and legs trailing some way behind.

As I sweep through the carpet of leaves, rabbits burst into the bushes on helter-skelter courses as I pass, and deer, the first of the morning, spring in white-rumped bounds though the trees.

The frost is deeper here the mud is frozen into corrugations that my tyre scrunches over and the puddles have a coating of crackly ice.

At the top of the trail, I pause and silence descends. As I stand there, my breath curling away into the morning like golden smoke, I realise silence is such a misleading word to use in this landscape: every bush rustles with foraging birds, squirrels scramble up and down tree trunks and from the distance comes the mournful sound of a train horn. I punctuate this with two spring-loaded clacks as I clip back into the pedals and groan my way up the last of the trail. Bushes whip painfully at my legs and arms, and more agonisingly, my cold ears. Its been like this all morning I think

nature might be picking on me because of my invasion. Soon Im climbing a wide, rocky track up to the

cricket pitch and here I stop again, this time to use the camera wooden fingers fumbling with the buttons as I attempt to photograph some frost-whitened roots that, to me, resemble ribs sticking out of the ground. Im not sure the pictures capture what I see, but theyll do and I feel better for having tried theres nothing more frustrating than going for a ride with an SLR in your pack only to ignore everything because you feel that it would ruin the flow.

This attitude pays dividends 30 seconds later as I come into the open and the Sussex Weald is spread before me illuminated by the rising sun, just emerging above a cloud. Its breathtakingly lovely mist hides in the hollows across the flat vastness in front of me, strangely purple in the morning light. I happily snap away for ten minutes before glancing at my watch and realising that time is pressing and Ive not done any riding yet.

From here I belt up the final bit of the climb to the tower and manage to clean it, much to my surprise. Another photo stop, this time hampered by a bone-chilling wind that reduces my hands to immobile stumps, and Im off again, down a host of favourite trails that I havent ridden for months. I even do the cheekiest of cheeky trails and its still great flicks, roots, corners that beg to be carved and a covering of russet autumn leaves. Perfect.

Approaching the end of Waggle Dance, still an ace trail that I dont do enough, I get an extra morning treat as a tawny owl swoops through the trees in front of me, perches itself on a nearby branch just long enough for me to contemplate getting the camera out, before it glides off silently again, out of the way of prying eyes.

More photo stops, more sleep-fuddled incompetence and more deer are the themes on the final leg back to the house: I just have the fleeting, flat-out pleasure that is Dog Shit Woods before Im back in the village.

I creep through the door to be greeted by a still silent house. I put the monitor to my ear and listen for a few moments to my son snuffling through his dreams. Then I sit down on the sofa, cup of tea in hand, and wait for the rest of the house to wake up.

Frankly, theyre missing the best part of the day.

DAW NB y Dom i n ic Pe r r y

T H E R I DE { 3 3

Dominic Perry. Surrey, UK. Juggles bikes, family and work, and tries not to drop any of them.

hen I came to the UK I only brought three pairs of shorts with me: one fairly worn pair, bordering on transparent, from my local shop back home, and two pairs of New Zealand team shorts black, with the silver fern down the left leg and the name of my

country down the right. Theyve certainly proved to be a conversation starter out on the trails and have probably contributed to the loss of my anonymity within Scottish mountain biking circles. When I wear those shorts, I cant pretend Im averse to racing.

Its true; I came to the other side of the world to get a taste of cross-country competition at international level. Ive had my eyes opened to the life of a top athlete and all that goes with it the obsessive attention to detail, commitment and determination. So, I was quite taken aback the other week when, after finishing a local race and chatting with one of the organisers, he made a passing comment regarding my presence at the event. Its not every day we have a world-class athlete turn up at our race, he said.

I had to think to myself at what point did I become world-class? Unfortunately it was the shorts doing my talking for me without my realising it, theyd propelled me to the level of Gunn Rita Dahle and Julian Absalon.

I suddenly, albeit momentarily, felt distinctly conspicuous in my otherwise stealthy black shorts. Why was I feeling like a fraud all of a sudden?

My travels have taken me to some amazing places to ride. But most memorably, Ive been lucky enough to ride with some fantastic people. People who always have some kind of story to tell, who have had an unfathomably long love affair with mountain biking, people who have managed to mould their entire lives around bikes or

biking in one form or another. These people are rare, but all of us will know of at least one such person. And the thing is, you can recognise them without the aid of a pair of shorts to point them out.

In my book, these are the people that are world- class just by being around them you can feel their deep and abiding love for life on two wheels. Ive spent some time lately with a few of these people and Ive actually had an epiphany with regards to what I want to do and where I want to go with racing and riding bikes in general.

Since I left New Zealand, Ive begun to question my monogamous relationship with 27 gears and lightweight groupsets. Ive witnessed the simplicity of one-geared bikes, the cult of the fixie, over-sized or odd-sized wheels, road bikes for riding off-road, titanium, scandium, steel, vintage and custom-made. My horizons have been extended in all directions by these peoples enthusiasm and willingness to dole out their passion for bikes in unending quantities.

I guess what has happened is that although Ive had a taste of the sharp end of elite cross-country racing, and taken it all relatively seriously, I still dont feel like I fall into that world-class bracket. Im just another keen cyclist one who picks a full complement of gears and feathery light bits over heftier builds and fewer speeds. But, all the same, I share the love as much as the next person.

So, Ive decided that the next thing Im going to purchase will be a pair of sensible plain shorts; something a little more anonymous that will let my status world-class or otherwise slip back into ambiguity. But it will mean, without my nationality emblazoned down one leg, that Ill once again be back to answering that same old, inevitable question: So, whereabouts in Australia are you from?

Anja McDonald. Glasgow, UK. Anja loves to ride with world-class friends and happens to race for her country too.

T H E R I DE { 3 5

B y A nj a Mc D on a ld . I l l u s t r a t ion D e a n Ta ylor

Caught s hort

he universe is a perverse entity, with a wicked sense of humour. Otherwise I dont see how a fellow like me, with a distaste for marketing and not much interest in buying stuff for himself, should have found himself in possession of several hundred pairs of wool

pants, or trousers or breeches as you Brits call them, which I am proceeding to sell to innocent cyclists worldwide.

There are but two saving graces to the situation: I designed the pants myself, and also had them made; and they are intended to facilitate bicycle commuting for folks who havent the inclination to wear skintight Lycra or faded jeans, but would just like to look nice when theyre out on the bike, and not get their trousers caught in the chain.

Well, of course, theres more to it than that.Ive been a cycle commuter on and off, but mostly on,

for more than 40 years. I rode an awful old three-speed my father had picked up at Sears until my high-school years, then proceeded to obtain a series of Peugeot road bikes. I didnt particularly want to buy a series of them, but they were popular enough that they kept getting nicked; after the third one vanished, I gave up for a while and took the bus.

Over the following years I dallied with motorbikes, until the final one broke down once too often; I bought another cheap 10-speed, until that was stolen from work; I briefly toyed with driving a car and only riding to places where I knew I could safely leave my valuable bike.

Years later, when bike security had improved sufficiently, I began riding for transportation again. The more I rode, the more I liked it, and the less I could tolerate cars. Also, in the intervening period I had lived in Paris for a while, and come to learn the joys of a pedestrian-friendly city. With that came an understanding that car addiction was turning Americas cities and towns into monuments of banality, frustration and inefficiency. I began to think about and study the urban form, and to understand the part the bicycle could play in reversing that trend.

This slowly drew me into the world of pressure groups and then into publishing in the loosest possible sense a bike advocacy magazine. With the advent of the internet this morphed into a website and I began handling articles from other people. Slowly this changed from just being about cycling to encompass the whole subject of urban regeneration.

All this time I was working in the camera retail business, first as a counter monkey, then as webmaster and general online marketeer. But I began to despair over the obstructions that store owners generally put in the way of me helping photo-equipment buyers. Even though I was generally the top salesman in any store where I worked, it was not good enough if I didnt screw the clientele. I began to look for a way I could make an honest living on my own.

As well as the publishing, I was becoming irritated with the apparent necessity of wearing special and rather peculiar clothes simply to ride to work or to the local grocery store.

So, after a considerable amount of prodding from my wife, Gina, I decided to try my hand at designing clothes that bicycle commuters could use for journeys in the bigger world, where parading around with your genitals outlined in skintight plastic might cause a bit of discomfort, if not for yourself, then perhaps for the rest of the general population.

I ride my bike every day, and I ride everywhere I go, so each of our products gets a good road test from me and my dear Bottecchia fixed-wheel commuter. And, small though our operation is, we are making just enough profit that I have been able to devote myself full-time to the business, and to improving and expanding the editorial content of my online publications Bicycle Fixation and The New Colonist all the while providing well-made, elegant clothing that makes it easier for people to ride their bikes for transport in the everyday world.

We need not wait for the powers-that-be to change our cities for the better; we can initiate change ourselves or at least change our trousers.

Richard Risemberg. Los Angeles, USA. Has been commuting by bicycle for more than 40 years, and has a special place in his heart for fixed-gear commuter bikes. www.bicyclefixation.com

T H E R I DE { 37

B y R ic h a rd R i s e mb e r g. Pho t o g r a ph Ro ge r S t i l l m a n

PANTS

Photog r aphy by Ha r u k i Ha rook z Nog uch i

the bicycle roc kers

Steve Romaniuk, hip table, Oregon Coast, USA.

This is one of the gnarliest street lines Ive ever seen

attempted. T-Sage was the first rider ever to tee it up. After

his crash, three top-level BMXers gave it a go, but also failed.

Taylor Sage, California, USA.

T H E R I DE { 03

Ben Boyko, Corkscrew line: curved wall to table drop,

Vancouver, BC, Canada.

Opposite: Kyle Strait, ditch hip tuck,

California, USA.

Haruki Harookz Noguchi. Vancouver, BC, Canada.

Photographer, rider, surfer, boarder. www.harookz.com

ometimes you need your prejudices ground into the dirt in order to open your eyes to what youve been missing.

I only realised this recently when a new face joined us on our ride last weekend and my initial feeling was one of disappointment.

It wasnt from the change in ride dynamic, or a fear of the unknown, but the root of it was my prejudices speaking loud and clear: my dismay was caused by his bike and kit. Surely he couldnt be any good on a 15-year-old Ridgeback and a weird combination of ski and gym wear?

Inevitably, it turned out I was wrong; the guy could ride. Oddly, it was the most enjoyable outing Ive had for a long time.

A few days later I re-watched Billy Savages homage to the birth of mountain biking, Klunkerz, and it confirmed to me what I have suspected for some time about my relationship with this chosen hobby of mine.

The pioneers in the film talk of a golden era where riding out with your friends in the hills on a bike only just up for the job, supping a couple of cold ones and shooting the breeze were all the ingredients needed for a perfect day out. Those sentiments rang true with me as well thats how I remember my fledgling days off-road.

My dad originally planted the seed back in 1989. Have you read about those guys who rode across the Alps on a couple of bikes? he asked one day. My reply was dismissive, my thinking being that they were just big BMX bikes with gears and therefore just a short- lived fad (already that prejudice was kicking in). Dad wasnt convinced by my argument and soon a new Marin Pine Mountain arrived. I had to admit, particularly stacked up against my dowdy Peugeot racer, it looked the very essence of cool.

One night I borrowed it: veering off the road to ride on the grass verges at speed in the light of the moon was a thrilling revelation. I had to have one of my own.

Luckily, my 21st was looming and I was fortunate enough

to receive a Marin of my own. It was instant love. It was perfect: from the Teflon paint on its frame, to its neon lime forks and bars, to the tiny Stars and Stripes sticker on the top tube, I loved every inch. The fact that it came from a company based in mountain bikings heartland sealed the deal for me.

My bike and I became inseparable and I rode at every opportunity. Such was my enthusiasm that I managed to convince friends to take the leap of faith and buy bikes of their own. Every chance we got, we were out playing it was like a second childhood, but one where we could drink beer and stay out as late as we liked. Our main area of exploration was the New Forest. This was before the restrictions on access had any effect on where we went, so we were free to dart off down any vague path we fancied, crossing streams, jumping ditches where one dared to go, the others would blindly follow.

During this whole period we were poorly equipped; Converse trainers and cut-off jeans were de rigueur in the summer and Dr Martens boots and bandanas tied over our heads and ears were the required clothing when it got cold enough for water to freeze in our bidons. To us, it didnt matter what we wore or what we looked like we were out doing what we loved. We felt as if we were trailblazers, like the guys a decade earlier on the other side of the Pond.

So how and why did it all change? Why, when we were so happy making do, did we become so kit-obsessed? I now have a garage full of bikes that, if I was honest, I cant afford to own, and clothing for every conceivable weather condition, but have a lifestyle that gives me less time to use any of it. But having the latest piece of kit isnt going to make the world a better place. Now I think back to those days when we went out with bikes that didnt quite work and clothes that were not so much functional as makeshift, and wonder if we havent lost something along the way.

I need to strip it all back to basics and recapture the glorious days of innocence when being outside doing what I loved was all that mattered.

Sometimes less is more.

R o wle y Ha ve r l y . So u t h a m p t on , UK . Two whe e l s g o o d .

T H E R I DE { 45

B y Rowle y H ave rl y. Pho t o g r a ph M a r ie H ave rl y

Bac k to Basic s

he Highway Cycle Group pedalled gently into existence almost as soon as my mother, post-separation, had given my fathers decrepit 1960s sit-up-and-beg roadster to a passimg rag-and-bone man. Many of his other possessions had met a similar fate over the

years, garnering no reaction from my father, but the death of the useless roadster was the excuse he needed to get himself a new bike. In the mid-1980s, it was drop handlebars or nothing and the brilliant-white, 10-speed tourer he bought rapidly became his pride and joy.

My own steed was a black, heavy, five-speed racer bought from a secondhand shop in Devizes after my father had bamboozled the assistant into parting with it for a third of the asking price. I cannot recall the makers name, but the word Elite was displayed optimistically on the frame. With its nylon panniers, nasty red-rubber bar tape, kickstand and white plastic pump, it lacked the grace of my fathers ride, but I loved it greatly.

Soon we started striking out on regular rides with family and friends from his house in the tiny North Wiltshire hamlet of Highway: down the long straight track of Highway Common, over the junction at the Bushton Road, perhaps picking up more riders from nearby Hilmarton or Spirthill, so that a ride might start with two people, and end with seven or eight. If there was no pub stop there would be sandwiches in the panniers, or a stocking up at the Spar in Broad Hinton. Sometimes we would ride only three miles, sometimes 30 or more.

The roads were quiet and convoluted, weaving over the chalky landscape five miles as the crow flies could be drawn out to 12 by the meandering lanes and switchback turns. The hills we attempted defined many of the rides: Charlcutt Hill, Snow Hill, walking up the steep monstrosity at Broad Town, the slow winding climb up to Bradenstoke and then the exhilaration of hurtling down to Witcomb Mill, squinting into the rushing air, grabbing handfuls of brake, or even dragging feet along the road when the suicide levers couldnt cope with the descent.

Gradually things became more organised. An official shirt was adopted; blue and white stripes edged with

green, bought in bulk from C&A in Swindon. A set of badges appeared, handmade by my father at a school fte. Ultimately, we started cycling abroad. Glorious holidays riding through France, Holland and Belgium, a baguette always slung across the rear rack of my fathers bike.

There is one ride I remember well, not long before he left Highway; I rode the three miles from Hilmarton to meet him, and we headed out for the Marlborough Downs. The insistent whirr of the chains powering the hubs mingled with the continuous drone from the propellers of the planes flying out of RAF Lyneham. Going up the awful hill at Clyffe Pypard, we were out of the saddle, weaving over the road in an effort not to stall. At the top I felt lightheaded, and my father, riding next to me, handed over his water bottle. The roads were almost empty as we headed up towards The Ridgeway. As we reached the intersection with the Marlborough road, we were at the highest point for miles, and there seemed to be nothing in front but startling blue sky. Wordlessly we turned the cranks, pulling the horizon towards us.

My fathers move to Swindon effectively called a halt to the regular rides. His bike remained in his shed and in 1994 he became very ill with prostate cancer, dying at home in 1995 not long after his 50th birthday. It was more than 10 years before his wife Helen extracted the now rusted, white, 10-speed from the shed and took it sadly on its final journey to the recycling centre.

Now, I find it nearly impossible to remember whole rides with The Highway Cycle Group, but occasionally, when I am out on my bike, a memory will rush forward, triggered by a feeling or a sound: passing alongside train tracks, the chirping of crickets, the ticking freewheel of a bike left on its side on a grass verge or the call of a buzzard circling ahead. A time when I had no concern about clipless pedals, average speeds, sports drinks, Lycra, carbon fibre or fitness. When it was enough just to ride.

I still enjoy group outings, pootling down country lanes in good company, exploring the verge while someone checks the map or fixes a flat. But sometimes, all I want is to ride on my own, with just the cadence, the drone of the chain, and the feeling that there might be someone else riding next to me, matching my pace, ready to hand me his water bottle when I feel lightheaded.

David Evans. Rode, Somerset, UK. Will ride anything from shoppers to choppers. www.highwaycyclinggroup.wordpress.com

the h ighway cycle group

B y D av id E v a n s . Pho t o g r a ph s H M E v a n s a nd D G E v a n s

ts 9am. Standing to my left at the start line is a mum on an old Stumpjumper, dressed in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. Directly in front of me is a 280-pound guy dressed like a bicycle cop. I glance down at my clothes, wondering if I look like an asshole for wearing actual cycling

gear. I console myself by trying to look serious. I had never raced a bicycle before: long, slow road

rides through the Portland hills were the pinnacle of my training for a race thats 45 minutes at maximum heart rate, jumping logs whilst carrying a bike. Racing is not something I would have considered that is until I heard about cyclocross.

The overall race vibe is more like a backyard BBQ than an athletic challenge. Its cool to fixed-gear types, its cool to road jerks, and chicks dig it. So I spent the summer collecting parts on eBay, salvaging miscellaneous stuff at Portland bike shops and utilising whatever bits dropped off my road bike in favour of some new carbon component.

The starting horn sounds... Mum immediately cuts me up and disappears towards the front. Im stuck behind the cop and I can see a steep hill coming up. At this point Ive not yet crossed the start line and I have to dismount and run with my bike up the hill. I watch most of the field disappear into the woods as I jump back on my bike, slip off my pedal and bang my shin. Whatever, Im focused... click... go.

Back on, I dart through a gravel section and make a quick right onto narrow singletrack. This takes me down a hill where the path opens out into a field full of spectators. I can see that Im not doing so well and Im fresh enough to make up the time, so I gun it just as the magic people are watching me burst of adrenaline kicks in and my ears are filled with the sound of cheering wives and cowbells.

These four seconds are the highlight of the race. I hit the grassy field and then experience something I was completely unprepared for extremely jarring

bumps. These are so bad that I can barely hold onto the handlebars. I continue as fast as possible, more concerned with getting past the crowd than the bumps themselves. But unfortunately the crowd is getting bigger as I struggle on, and as my front wheel slips out from under me I understand why mud.

Having never raced cyclocross before, I am rather surprised by my natural reaction, which is to try not to get dirty. But mud is the fun part, right? Well now I have no choice I am on the ground. And once the bar tape that you wrapped the night before gets muddy, you soon stop worrying about the bike. At least it isnt white that wouldve been more even embarrassing than the new kit that Im wearing.

The people are watching me juices kick in again: I jump up, run through and get back on. A green flash blows past me and Im surprised to see another guy in cycling gear. Then it dawns on me Ive just been lapped.

No time to think about how pathetic that is, so I push harder. Here comes the second big hill. A row of people running up it with bikes on their backs tells me I will have to do the same. I clip off, put my bike over my shoulder, start running up the hill, stop and think about throwing up.

I use every bit of focus I have left on my throat muscles to prevent myself from puking. Im not doing well, but that would have been so humiliating that I might have just left my bike there and walked home. So I pick up my machine again, walk up the hill and roll through the forest for the time remaining, managing four laps in all.

Surprisingly, when I give up any hope of doing well, its actually pretty fun. I meet other competitors who, to my amazement, had started the race without any pretence that they would smoke the competition and jump up two classes by next week. They had begun with the same mindset I have inadvertently stumbled into. This is the new perspective I need, and I readily adopt it.

That is until next week, when I plan to learn from my mistakes, show up on my muddy (experienced) bike, and qualify for the C class.

Michael Leon. Portland, Oregon, USA. Wear-testing raincoats.www.nikeskateboarding.com

T H E R I DE { 49

B y M ic h a e l L e on

heres mud in your eYE

Photog r aphy by Steve Ma k i n

steves cellar

DOOR LOCKMy bike cellar is my place, only I go

down there. Its my version of the potting shed, except theres no illicit

sherry stash, just GT85. The granny ring lock is simple and effective and has given

another life to a piece of worn-out kit.

T H E R I DE { 03

SALSA BELL FROM MIKEYWe went to California to ride bikes; we heard bears, we bought bells. Mikey broke mine and replaced it with a Salsa special. When I ring it, that simple stupid noise makes me smile and remember that week.

SINGLESPEEDING Weve all got a huge collection of chainrings and sprockets suitable for every occasion. Riding in Scotland? Youll be needing a 32 x 18 combo. Thetford ? Thatll be a 34 x 16. Come on, we all do it, dont we?

DELAMERE MUDMy favourite bike is broken theres a crack in the weld around the bottom bracket and sooner or later it will fail. Until that happens, though, I decided that I would still use it, but only in a specific place. Delamere was where I first cut my off-road teeth

20 years ago; its flat and muddy, its got some of the twistiest singletrack (once you know where to go) and its just perfect for night rides. The mud you see here is from the final night ride of last year, our annual Sideways Cycles/Shak Xmas ride.

Turbo CHArGEDAdmit it, we all have them, dont we? I mean a turbo trainer that gets used once or twice a year. Whoever would have thought that sitting on a bike sweating your bollocks off going nowhere was a good idea?

CoNFESSIoNThe real truth is that I just like fiddling around with bikes, fixing them, changing components, swapping forks hell, I even like mending tubes. Its what I do and have done ever since my first job in a bike shop when I was 12 years old.

You CAN NEvEr HAvE Too mANY ForkSThats no lie. I regularly swap between them suspension for when the trails are rock hard, rigid for the soft winter ground. Whichever Im riding, Ill think theyre the best, only to switch and be like, oh no these are the future!

A Tool For EvErY oCCASIoNI believe in using the right tool for the right job, unless of course its eight oclock on a Saturday night and all the shops are shut. At that point, I know from bitter experience that I should just use another bike.

Steve Makin. Cheshire, UK. Bike-addicted since birth, he keeps on turning

circles and doesnt expect to stop anytime soon.

y all accounts, we are gently rolling into the new age of urban cycling. bike-sharing initiatives abound across Europe and American cities are slowly but surely investing in infrastructure and urban planning. However, there is still a slight incline and a stiff

headwind before urbanites across the globe can enjoy a lifestyle as good as in those shining examples of bike culture, Copenhagen and Amsterdam, but it is coming.

Its time to get more bums on saddles. So how do we elevate urban cycling from being the preserve of geeks and weirdos as outsiders see us into something that is considered normal? How do we go about winning over hearts and minds?

much has been said and written about Critical mass. Its a brilliant concept: democratic to the core and reminiscent of how most bike clubs in the early 20th century were founded on socialist or communist principles. I fear, however, that Critical mass is, as the saying goes, sooo last century.

The reason I dont think that Critical mass, and other movements like it, are effective anymore is that they are not out to win hearts and minds. They want to take back the streets for themselves, but not for Joe Everyman.

A confrontational and anarchic approach serves little purpose in convincing motorists potential cyclists that cycling is for everyone and that it is enjoyable. An arrogance that is usually reserved for right-wing fundamentalists is counter-productive. In my eyes, the participants rarely look happy, and its bloody difficult not to look happy on a bike.

There is a more effective way to move steadily towards a culture that can be enjoyed by everyone. Its something I call, somewhat revolutionarily, riding your bike. A normal bike. Wearing normal clothes. Just like the way that hundreds of thousands of people in Europe from Ferrara, Italy in the south to Trondheim, Norway in the north do. Will it work? Indeed it will.

Enter Joe Everyman. An unlikely superhero if ever there was one.

Joe is an average citizen in a car-based society, driving to work each day. like the vast majority of the population, he is not an environmental activist and

he never, ever will be. The only thing that is likely to force him out of his car is the increasing price of fuel.

What does Joe think when he sees a hardcore cyclist on a specialist bike or a fixie speed past his car? He might well think, Hmm, I could ride my bike to work too... Its unlikely, however, hell see himself reflected in the image of the cyclist. What hell probably see is a member of an often militant sub-culture, wearing different clothes to anything he would wear and riding a bike so far removed from any that Joe has ever owned.

Joe will believe that riding his bike would mean infiltrating an elitist subculture, investing a lot of money in specialist gear, streamlined clothes and a fancy bike. Worst of all, Joe would find himself making a statement by riding. Joe Everyman doesnt wish to make a statement. He just wants to live his life, not climb onto a soapbox. If Joes route home is blocked by a bike protest/demonstration/celebration, hell just get pissed off and well lose him.

Now lets imagine Joe Everyman in traffic seeing another chap ride past in a shirt and tie and a briefcase on the back rack. Hes not out to break land-speed records and the only gear on him is trouser clips and, if you like, a helmet. Just taking it easy and practising risk management instead of risk taking. oh, and the mans bike resembles the one in Joes garage.

moments later, a girl passes by on a cool sit-up-and-beg bike with a wicker basket, wearing a skirt and stylish shoes and listening to her iPod. Joe Everyman might think, I could do that. Its only 15 kilometres. That guy looks like me. And that girl makes it look easy...

Joe would see his own reflection in these cyclists. In order to ride to work he would only have to drag his bike out of the garage, pump up the tyres, buy trouser clips and a helmet. In far less time than it takes him to drive to work, he would be ready to ride. He wouldnt have to make a statement. He would just be another cyclist on his way to the office, blending in to the urban landscape and doing something good for the planet and himself with nary a loud hailer in sight.

At the end of the day, it is Joe Everyman and his mates who will end up saving the planet, if only theyre given the chance. And its up to all of us to choose to inspire him instead of alienating him.

Mikael Colville-Andersen. Copenhagen, Denmark. Filmmaker and bike advocate. Has never owned Lycra and never will. www.copenhagengirlsonbikes.blogspot.com / www.jeremydeller.org

critical mEs s

T H E R I DE { 5 7

b y m i k a e l C ol v i l le -A nde r s e n

P ro p o s e d D e s i g n For Po c ke t Tu b e m a p C ove rb y Je re my D e l le r

f youd asked me four or five days before the final stage, Id have said: I dont think I have much of a chance. Then three days before the last time trial, I won the stage, and my legs were fresh again.

A couple of nights before, I started thinking seriously about the time

trial: I was considering using triathlon bars but it was a whim, not part of a grand plan. Id done no studies on them, just picked them up.

I also thought about the time trial I had done against laurent Fignon in the Giro dItalia earlier that year. It was 50-plus kilometres but I took a minute and 21 seconds out of him. It gave me the confidence the day before to start calculating how many seconds per kilometre I could claw back. Thats why, when people asked me then if I could win, I was confident.

I had had a horrible Giro that year; I almost quit cycling completely in that race. I had this yo-yo effect after my hunting accident. I came into it in average shape; first day I lost eight minutes, midway through I lost 17 minutes on a mountain stage and that was my breaking point. but my wife convinced me to give it until the end of the year and told me there was no pressure.

on the Tour I lost a minute-and-a-half on Fignon on Alpe dHuez and then a little more the next day and I ended up three days to go with a 50-second deficit. but that didnt seem unreasonable to me.

For the rest of the peloton on the stage the day before that final contre la montre, the race was over, so it provided me with another day of recovery. Fignon came up and patted me on the shoulder and congratulated me on my second place. Its funny though, because he and I have had the same coach and one of the rules he drummed into us was that the race is never over until the finish line.

I took 10 seconds out of him in the first kilometre.I knew I had to be really wound up, and that from the first 100 metres I had to be at full pace. When I was riding the course that morning, my legs felt like I had just started the Tour.

It was a fast course extremely fast. I came back after the practice run and requested a bigger gear. I remember saying to the mechanic: I want a 55 on, and Im going to win it! He thought I meant the stage, but I meant overall.

I went back to the hotel three or four hours before and had my meal. I tried to take a nap but I was going over in my mind what I had to do, how I was going to warm up, to take off, to ride the turns.

The only time Ive ever asked for splits in a race is when its further than 70 kilometres up to 50, if youre doing it properly, you should be at your maximum from the first kilometre. At 26 kilometres, I think Fignon hurt himself getting splits. Theres a point in a time trial where youve paced yourself to ride at your limit, and he was getting told that he kept losing time. He was out of the saddle usually a bad sign if youre doing that on the flats. He probably pushed himself over the top halfway through it.

I took the turns as fast as I could; I only remember one where I took it too wide. I was feeling so good, there was no pain. The first sense I had that I was doing well was when I came on to the Champs-Elyses. I could hear over the loudspeaker that I was at 40 seconds, 45 seconds. I turned from the Champs-Elyses and sprinted from there to the finish.

It was fun to win the Tour in that great, dynamic way. I think it should always finish with the time trail its much more dramatic. Eight years, maybe nine years later, I had a conversation with Fignon. He told me that, psychologically, that defeat finished his career.

Greg LeMond. Minnesota, USA. Greg won the Tour De France three times and is the founder of LeMond Bicycles and LeMond fitness. www.lemondfitness.com. As told to Andrew Diprose.

the time trial

T H E R I DE { 59

b y Gre g l e mond . I l l u s t r a t ion A nd re w D i pro s e

o, it cant be. Not now. Not when Im doing so well. Why is it only at this moment that I feel that fish-tail shimmy, that sideways slip-grip-spit of a deflating tyre? Why is it now that my inner tube and spirits are deflating in equal measure?

racing isnt a natural pastime for me. I tend to get distracted by the view or want to stop to turn to the next rider after a fun section of singletrack and suggest looping back to ride it again. This is not the route to the podium, but I sell it to myself as a race against the last time I rode here. That and the little duels that arise keep it interesting; on this occasion the guy in red who I can just about catch, then pull away from, in the singletrack before he stomps past on each fireroad climb.

Anyway, the fire in my belly has now been extinguished, as my flat tyre has killed whatever enthusiasm I had and given me the barely needed excuse to take it easy. I jiggle the wheel out and hoik my elastic band-gripped pump, tube and lever from my back pocket. most tyres dont need the lever, but these particular ones are a little more stubborn than most and anyway the lever has become a bit of a totem.

I make a little cairn on the trail of removed valve cap and threaded nut and slide the lever blade (is it a blade? maybe hook describes it better?) under the bead and remember that I really rather like this tyre lever. Its often pulled out of the pocket or bag in an angry rush, but just as frequently used as an excuse to stop and chat and look around at the place we flashed through moments before with nary a glance to the left or right. bright yellow and easy to find, theres a lot to like in what seems such a simple and cheap object: the width exactly that of one finger joint so it fits just-so in the hand; the bas-relief logo giving the right amount of purchase; stiff, but with the tiniest amount of give; and, of course, that perfectly shaped blade.

I havent entirely forgotten that this is supposed to be

a race, so I jam the lever under the bead and strain. unfortunately, I push too hard against the initial resistance, the lever slips and my knuckles rasp against the spokes. Its worked though, and I quickly pop the bead off the rim. In doing this, my hands are now caked in the claggy mud that was adhering messily to the tyre.

The dead tube lies ashamed in the wet gravel as I run fingers slowly around the inside of the tyre; eyes de-focused as I concentrate on finding the offending intruder. If its still here, that is. A short thorn drags across my index finger and is carefully pushed back through the tyre with the flat bottom end of the lever.

I remember to pop the thorn into a pocket for luck the sort of luck that stops it falling back in to where it has just come out, that is. The inside of the tyre is now also full of mud I shake out as much as I can before hastily inserting the fresh tube and wrestling the bead back on, frowning at the irony of the tubeless ready logo printed on the side wall.

A friend who Im normally behind when we race, but whos struggling today, rolls up, You ok? he asks. We chat for a bit, summing up the last few hours fortunes in a couple of staccato sentences, then hes off. Youll catch me in no time, he offers over his shoulder as he spins away.

I quickly pump the tyre back up, trying to gauge whether Ive put enough air in to prevent snake-biting it immediately or whether Im currently wasting my time by making it ever-harder. A quick pinch twixt thumb and forefinger tells me that itll do.

I gather everything up, including the now gravel- and-mud-stippled tube, and jam it all back into pockets, yanking the bike off the ground and running beside it before leaping on. race-mode successfully re-entered, capn.

I stand tentatively on the pedals, winding through the singletrack trying to figure out if all is well in rear-tyre-land and that there isnt another thorn present, lurking unseen. All seems well, and while Im not likely to catch my friend, its going to be fun trying.

oh, I did pick up that lever, didnt I?

Dean Taylor. Chilterns, UK. He rides to eat and eats to ride.

leverageb y D e a n Ta ylor

T H E R I DE { 61

by vic tor ia Pend leton Photog r aph El i s abet h Hof f

one-on-one

T H E R I DE { 6 5

he sprint event is the hardest discipline in track cycling because it is pure one-to-one combat. The margin for error is minuscule a mistake could be anything as small as blinking, or looking over the wrong shoulder for a split second. Do that and the race will be over.

In my experience, the person who makes the least mistakes wins. You have to watch your opponent so closely and analyse every slight movement, every twitch, as an indicator of when they are going to make their move. And that isnt easy. There is so much pressure, you have to concentrate really hard, and remember you dont do it just once you have to do it as many as 12 times in a day. Its a best of three race at some stages and if you lose a heat you are gone, simple as that.

Do races get physical? Well, they shouldnt, but they do sometimes. There are elbows that can touch, a little bit of leaning over, some people will try anything to get some tiny advantage or to put you off your rhythm.

Its the psychological part that is probably tougher. before a race, everyone walks around in the warm-up area like they know exactly what they are doing. I always think of it like that swan thing, in that up top you have to be completely calm and cool, but underneath you are paddling frantically with nerves and excitement.

Everyone is always staring at each other. Sometimes people will do it on the sly; they check out your legs or how you are breathing, looking for a weakness. others will look at you directly and try to stare you down. Then you get some of the Eastern Europeans, the really butch ones with moustaches, who will actually spit at you to try to wind you up. basically, what I try to do is to walk about with my head up and my shoulders back, telling myself: Yeah, Im the best. look at me I can beat you all.

The good thing for me, though, is that having been triple world champion in 2007 and a double world champion in 2008, everyone looks at me differently. Not only does it give me confidence, but they also know Im the number one Im the girl theyve got to beat. I love that. When you know your opponents are looking at you and thinking: oh shit do I have to ride against her?

before a race, I listen to music to get psyched up. I also have a mental warm-up strategy, where I go through how I am going to do in the race, boxing off the negative thoughts and focusing on the positive elements. I also run through how I am going to race what tactics Im going to use against a specific opponent, and also what options are available if a different scenario unfolds basically a Plan b.

of course, it helps that most of us know each other. We have detailed reports and videos of the other competitors, so I always know how someone will ride, what their strengths and weaknesses are. It really helps to know if your opponent likes to blast off early, or if they prefer to hang back and counter-attack. You only need to look at their splits to know if theyve got a great jump and a crap finish. And then you try to ride them the opposite way.

What makes me laugh is that loads of people watch the sprint on Tv and think: What the hell is going on? They arent sprinting! but that is the initial cat-and-mouse phase. When we really go for it, then they get it. And dont forget the sport has changed in recent years There was a time when two cyclists would ride up the bank and just stop. In those days it felt like they could stall up there for hours! Now you can only stop for 30 seconds and if you dont move, you can get disqualified.

At the end of the day, though, it is one against one, and Im the top dog. Come the beijing olympics, I aim to prove that once and for all.

Victoria Pendleton. Manchester, UK. Victoria is an English world champion track rider. www.victoriapendleton.co.uk. As told to Paul Henderson.

ell she didnt, actually, it was me who chose.

Although, to admit an inconvenient truth, I used bikes as an excuse to choose.

In fact, to admit the whole of an even more inconvenient, frankly deplorable, and confessional truth, I used

bikes as an excuse to choose another woman.Without name-dropping, but at the risk of sounding

distinctly like a hanger-on, most of my friends at the time were either bike journos or something in the industry. People at work were mere acquaintances with whom I had little in common. looking at the lifestyles of my journalist mates, I was disgruntled at the apparent lack of biking I did compared to these people with time to ride the latest models, wear the latest lifestyle accessories, and travel to exotic destinations (all industry-funded junkets, naturally). I mean, one of them even spent a few weeks each year living in the bike nirvana that is moab. It. Just. Wasnt. Fair.

of course, this perfect lifestyle was all in my head. These friends rode less than I thought they had to make the time to ride with me as much as I had to make the time to ride with them. In reality, while I was sat behind a desk at work, they too were sat behind a desk, writing. Admittedly, they were dragged out on fewer trips to the local DIY store than I was, but the truth was that they didnt really ride much more than me although when they did, it tended to be in exotic locations, on better bikes and wearing newer kit (actually, now that I think about it, the bastards had it plenty better).

Not realising that the cracks in our relationship were already there on both sides, I blamed my ex-partner for the lack of time I had to spend racing, touring and just generally messing about on bikes. I resented having to justify spending 20 quid on a pair of tyres while she would happily spend 60 on a mudpack that I was getting for free most weekends. I was fooling myself, though: looking back with the 20/20 vision of hindsight, it is clear that I was riding more than I convinced myself I was.

Even so, the riding I was doing totalled less than the random figure Id generated to represent the ideal amount. but it wasnt her stopping me: she was so sick of

me, shed have gladly got me out of the house more often. rather, it was my own inability to get my sorry arse out of a self-indulgent funk and do something exciting on my bike instead of grinding round the same local loops.

So when I was tempted by another woman, I used bikes as an excuse. I dont get to ride as much as I would like, I said, and blamed it all on her. She knew why I was doing it, and she told me I was wrong, but to fool myself, and to salvage my conscience, I stubbornly stuck to my claim. There. Ive said it. What a bastard, eh?

And I chose the other woman, though I would just like to set the record straight here that there was no overlap.

Then I was hoisted by my own petard.In giving up a long relationship I also had to downsize

considerably, and Im not just talking bikes (I had to give up three of those, but what does that matter in the bigger scheme of things?). The worst thing was the loss of some of those biking friends who disapproved of what Id done, and have rarely spoken to me since, and even then rather awkwardly if we meet at a bike event somewhere. others told me I was a fool, said their piece, realised they werent going to change my mind, and didnt let it get in the way of the friendship. To those people, I am eternally grateful.

So I got together with the new woman. After three weeks we went on a tandem holiday to the New Forest.

I proposed. She accepted.Two months later we went on honeymoon to Scotland.

We took the tandem. Some of you may have heard the tale of the tandem that rode the Fort William World Cup downhill track. Its no myth, and only the flat batteries in the digital camera prevented there being photographic evidence of my new wifes first experience of SPDs.

As time went on, my wife allowed me all the room I wanted to ride bikes and, you know, I no longer feel the need to. I now realise that one of the reasons I wanted to ride my bikes way back then was to get out of the house and a failing relationship. I still need to get out and ride when Im in a funk for any reason.

So seven years on and still happily married, I ride even less than I did all those years ago. bikes are not the be-all and end-all. They make poor wallpaper over the cracks in a relationship, and theyre a piss-poor excuse for ending one. To my ex, wherever you are now. Sorry.

but it worked out best for both of us in the end.

Anon. Somewhere in the North, UK. Too young to die, too old to be happy.

th e woman who asked me to choose

T H E R I DE { 67

b y A non

T H E R I DE { 69

m ap star

b y G le n Joh n s on

When safety advocate group bike Pittsburgh (bike PGH), creative consultancy Deeplocal and I started working on the Pittsburgh bike map, we gathered up examples from all over the country. We figured our best approach would be to see what worked best, and then to improve on it.

The Chicago map was one of our favourites. We liked the architectural-illustration-like drawings demonstrating bike safety. on any project I work on, I try to challenge myself to do something different with the design. I always think that narratives are much more powerful in conveying information, so I decided to turn the disjointed diagrams into something more like a story.

The most logical format to do this was a comic-book structure. one of my favourite comic artists, who also happens to be from Chicago, is Chris Ware. His approach

to drawing seemed to fit best with how we wanted the bike map to communicate.

Creating the narrative was a collaborative effort. Everyone involved was an avid biker and a proud citizen of Pittsburgh, so it was a great bunch of people to work with, because it was a project that we all had fun with and wanted to do our best.

I hope that people like what we have done, and that someone like myself, in another city somewhere in the world, can draw inspiration from it as well. Glen Johnson. Pittsburgh, USA. Illustrator and designer.www.bike-pgh.org

ridingfalls, fatiguefrustrationad

venture

the ride journal

omeone asked me recently why I ride and I was hard-pressed to come up with anything beyond: I just do.

That got me thinking, and I realised that there must be something that has made