GrumpyGregry
Here for rides.
Making the mash
The Thursday dawned bright, and with the day off work to prepare, I went down to the bike shed to retrieve the green ‘un my slightly unconventional tourer. Knowing I’d serviced her before putting her away for the winter meant some air in the tyres, a dab of Proofhide on the saddle, and she was ready to receive bar bag, actually a Carradice zipped roll for visitations, a Carradice Barley aka the workshop on spares and repairs duty, and two Ortlieb Back Roller Classic panniers.
Now these last two are a bit of a pain because I usually use them on the black ‘un. The black ‘un has a different rear triangle and rack and as a result the bags need to be set up differently to fit on the green ‘un without heel strike. Stuffed fully with a couple of coats each to fill them out they were cajoled into position, and, spd shoes afoot, off I went on a shakedown ride.
Setup is perfect. Right first time for once. Couple of laps of the town centre and nothing is flapping about, my heels and knees aren’t hitting anything. Jobs a good ‘un. Sorted. Homewards. Ping! Something makes that horrid, horrid, sound as I’m changing into the big ring and the front shifter goes all sloppy. Only a short way from home I get there and inspect the bike. The front mech is swinging freely in the breeze. Close inspection reveals the spring has sprung. Closer inspection reveals that the little metal tab against which the spring used to exert pressure on the mech has snapped off. Borls.
First LBC I visit the guy simply raises eyebrows at my request for a road triple, and a couple of phone calls reveals none at his local distributor either. Second LBS hasn’t one in stock, third has a direct replacement, Shimano Sora, but only in direct mount not clamp on. I’m now faced with a 20 mile round trip to the next town where Evans have their distribution centre. An idea forms. “Let me have a look at that direct mount mech please” and I compare it with the clamp on one I’ve removed from the green ‘un. Apart from the mounting they look identical. “Can I borrow an allen key please?” I ask, explaining I’m going to dismantle the old busted mech to see if it contains any Jesus springs and, if not, I’m going to buy the new one and build a Frankenmech out of my perfectly good mount and the brand-new derailler. Two allen bots removed and not Jesus springs go AWOL on the shop floor. £15 changes hands and 15 minutes later, after the application of some leverage and a spot of tongue-out-of-the-mouth-style concentration whilst sat cross-legged on the shop floor the Frankenmech is, indeed, born. Sorasteins monster is on the bike 5 minutes later and a quick fettle of the cable tension and the green ‘un is restored to full health.
I finish packing, conscious of my role as tech and road captain as one third of the group making the trip. One is meeting me to travel to London, and then on to Scotland, by train and the other is meeting us in Pitlochry first thing in the morning. The former has limited experience of either touring, or fixing bikes, or even punctures, at the roadside and the latter is a pretty inexperienced cyclist. So I’m aware if something goes wrong they will be looking at me to fix it.
Fully loaded. The bike is stupidly heavy but I rationalise this as good training for my London to John O’Groats ride in three weeks’ time. So what if I have to tow a pile of surplus weight up hills and over mountains, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Right? I then recall I’ve agreed to meet a mate to hand over a redundant pair of bullhorns which I duly strap to my panniers. He'd better turn up, I don’t want to lug them all over the Highlands.
We rendezvous at the local station at tea time. Thank goodness for the newly installed lifts to get the bikes to the platforms. An hour later we are at Victoria. At least we will be riding to Euston in daylight unlike last year when my companion did his first every cycle ride in London at night loaded with panniers. Off we go. Flip. The Mall is shut. Something to do with a jubly bird or something. We head down to Parliament Square and hit Whitehall. He had kittens in Traf Square last year so we dismount and cross as peds to gain The Strand. Down to Aldwych up Kingsway past Holborn marvelling at the tragic hipsters, utter cockwombles and suicidal Boris bikers who race past us and through every red light. Rule number one is called to mind “This ride will be governed by the Highway and Countryside Codes”
Euston is gained. We encounter a couple on lovely Roberts tourers who marvel at my ingenuity of mounting my panniers on a pair of bullhorns. Much laugher ensues when I explain the actualité. User arrives on foot, looking extremely dapper, and seems delighted with the bars which I hope by know are gracing his bike. Talk turns to itineraries. User went to Inverness, our final destination, on his honeymoon! The Roberts are getting the same train as us, but in the front portion, as it divides twice en-route and are heading for Bridge of Orchy and a tour of the west coast.
Boarding is announced and the usual faffage of finding out where the baggage van is, getting it unlocked, and then finding our berth, usually at the opposite ‘end’ of our section of the train, ensures. Bikes eventually get loaded, panniers removed, the train manager checks out our tickets and takes our early morning tea and coffee orders and tells us he will knock for us at 05:30 unless the train is running late.
Following our established practice we decant, sans bags, immediately for the lounge car. Since our trip to Glasgow last year we have learned that standard class passengers on Scotrail’s Caledonian Sleepers are expected to only use the take away services and the lounge car is ‘prioritised’ for the use of first class passengers. But since no one has ever checked our tickets and they’ve always been pleased to take our order we decide to brazen it out. During our meal a couple of numpties rock up in the lounge complete with rucksacks and bags and get the bums rush from the train manager. Who is nearly seven feet tall so who is going to argue with him? We keep our heads down. The steward apologies for the delay in serving our food, he has had to send to the other end of the train for a can opener to open the haggis! A couple of wets later and a rather good, if expensive meal, is consumed.
Time for bed. I can’t say time for sleep as I find on a sleeper I don’t. I merely doze. Half awake I drift fitfully off only to awake with a start on every brake application, or points crossing, or station stop. My fellow traveller, having bagged the bottom bunk which suits me fine by the way, I hate bottom bunks, snores gently below me and the temperature in the, as always spotlessly clean and for its size, very comfortable, cabin, which is, rises and falls rather alarmingly as the night draws on. I merely observe this rather than complain. I’d rather doze all night in a coffin-like berth than spend umpteen hours in a car or coach or, worse still, fly.
More later....
The Thursday dawned bright, and with the day off work to prepare, I went down to the bike shed to retrieve the green ‘un my slightly unconventional tourer. Knowing I’d serviced her before putting her away for the winter meant some air in the tyres, a dab of Proofhide on the saddle, and she was ready to receive bar bag, actually a Carradice zipped roll for visitations, a Carradice Barley aka the workshop on spares and repairs duty, and two Ortlieb Back Roller Classic panniers.
Now these last two are a bit of a pain because I usually use them on the black ‘un. The black ‘un has a different rear triangle and rack and as a result the bags need to be set up differently to fit on the green ‘un without heel strike. Stuffed fully with a couple of coats each to fill them out they were cajoled into position, and, spd shoes afoot, off I went on a shakedown ride.
Setup is perfect. Right first time for once. Couple of laps of the town centre and nothing is flapping about, my heels and knees aren’t hitting anything. Jobs a good ‘un. Sorted. Homewards. Ping! Something makes that horrid, horrid, sound as I’m changing into the big ring and the front shifter goes all sloppy. Only a short way from home I get there and inspect the bike. The front mech is swinging freely in the breeze. Close inspection reveals the spring has sprung. Closer inspection reveals that the little metal tab against which the spring used to exert pressure on the mech has snapped off. Borls.
First LBC I visit the guy simply raises eyebrows at my request for a road triple, and a couple of phone calls reveals none at his local distributor either. Second LBS hasn’t one in stock, third has a direct replacement, Shimano Sora, but only in direct mount not clamp on. I’m now faced with a 20 mile round trip to the next town where Evans have their distribution centre. An idea forms. “Let me have a look at that direct mount mech please” and I compare it with the clamp on one I’ve removed from the green ‘un. Apart from the mounting they look identical. “Can I borrow an allen key please?” I ask, explaining I’m going to dismantle the old busted mech to see if it contains any Jesus springs and, if not, I’m going to buy the new one and build a Frankenmech out of my perfectly good mount and the brand-new derailler. Two allen bots removed and not Jesus springs go AWOL on the shop floor. £15 changes hands and 15 minutes later, after the application of some leverage and a spot of tongue-out-of-the-mouth-style concentration whilst sat cross-legged on the shop floor the Frankenmech is, indeed, born. Sorasteins monster is on the bike 5 minutes later and a quick fettle of the cable tension and the green ‘un is restored to full health.
I finish packing, conscious of my role as tech and road captain as one third of the group making the trip. One is meeting me to travel to London, and then on to Scotland, by train and the other is meeting us in Pitlochry first thing in the morning. The former has limited experience of either touring, or fixing bikes, or even punctures, at the roadside and the latter is a pretty inexperienced cyclist. So I’m aware if something goes wrong they will be looking at me to fix it.
Fully loaded. The bike is stupidly heavy but I rationalise this as good training for my London to John O’Groats ride in three weeks’ time. So what if I have to tow a pile of surplus weight up hills and over mountains, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Right? I then recall I’ve agreed to meet a mate to hand over a redundant pair of bullhorns which I duly strap to my panniers. He'd better turn up, I don’t want to lug them all over the Highlands.
We rendezvous at the local station at tea time. Thank goodness for the newly installed lifts to get the bikes to the platforms. An hour later we are at Victoria. At least we will be riding to Euston in daylight unlike last year when my companion did his first every cycle ride in London at night loaded with panniers. Off we go. Flip. The Mall is shut. Something to do with a jubly bird or something. We head down to Parliament Square and hit Whitehall. He had kittens in Traf Square last year so we dismount and cross as peds to gain The Strand. Down to Aldwych up Kingsway past Holborn marvelling at the tragic hipsters, utter cockwombles and suicidal Boris bikers who race past us and through every red light. Rule number one is called to mind “This ride will be governed by the Highway and Countryside Codes”
Euston is gained. We encounter a couple on lovely Roberts tourers who marvel at my ingenuity of mounting my panniers on a pair of bullhorns. Much laugher ensues when I explain the actualité. User arrives on foot, looking extremely dapper, and seems delighted with the bars which I hope by know are gracing his bike. Talk turns to itineraries. User went to Inverness, our final destination, on his honeymoon! The Roberts are getting the same train as us, but in the front portion, as it divides twice en-route and are heading for Bridge of Orchy and a tour of the west coast.
Boarding is announced and the usual faffage of finding out where the baggage van is, getting it unlocked, and then finding our berth, usually at the opposite ‘end’ of our section of the train, ensures. Bikes eventually get loaded, panniers removed, the train manager checks out our tickets and takes our early morning tea and coffee orders and tells us he will knock for us at 05:30 unless the train is running late.
Following our established practice we decant, sans bags, immediately for the lounge car. Since our trip to Glasgow last year we have learned that standard class passengers on Scotrail’s Caledonian Sleepers are expected to only use the take away services and the lounge car is ‘prioritised’ for the use of first class passengers. But since no one has ever checked our tickets and they’ve always been pleased to take our order we decide to brazen it out. During our meal a couple of numpties rock up in the lounge complete with rucksacks and bags and get the bums rush from the train manager. Who is nearly seven feet tall so who is going to argue with him? We keep our heads down. The steward apologies for the delay in serving our food, he has had to send to the other end of the train for a can opener to open the haggis! A couple of wets later and a rather good, if expensive meal, is consumed.
Time for bed. I can’t say time for sleep as I find on a sleeper I don’t. I merely doze. Half awake I drift fitfully off only to awake with a start on every brake application, or points crossing, or station stop. My fellow traveller, having bagged the bottom bunk which suits me fine by the way, I hate bottom bunks, snores gently below me and the temperature in the, as always spotlessly clean and for its size, very comfortable, cabin, which is, rises and falls rather alarmingly as the night draws on. I merely observe this rather than complain. I’d rather doze all night in a coffin-like berth than spend umpteen hours in a car or coach or, worse still, fly.
More later....
