A possible new bike: the grandad special

So, the Ride to Work scheme is on again at work and the whole company is moving to a new location soon. The commute by public transport is a nightmare for me, but I reckon the cycle would be well under an hour.

Reg, my trusty Sirrus is ready to be put out to pasture. His odometer is showing a hideously high number that's gone above 8,000km (5,000 miles) and a friend's husband who worked as a bike mechanic visibly blanched at the state of him when he checked him over for me.

He will be kept as a second and I have a huge soft spot for him. He and I have done wonderful things together.

The problem with Ride to Work is that, suddenly, all those tasty looking numbers you passed by are available. But what to choose?

My grandad is a proper cyclist. He is now well into his eighties and only gave up two wheels in the past couple of years when he physically wasn't able to cycle any more. Bicycles have bridged the generation gap and it's what we talk about most of the time when we're together. He and 'uncle' Steve toured together often and it was the cycle to work in a rhubarb field where grandad and my grandma first courted.

On my 30th birthday he apologised when he 'only' gave me his bicycle tools. There was no 'only' about it, I was hugely touched and they're something I treasure.

Grandad's bike of choice was his Dawes tourer. He's always loved the brand and it was a bike he loved to ride. It was natural, therefore, that when I decided a tourer would be my next bike, I looked to Dawes.

Unfortunately, the classic Galaxy models are HIDEOUS. They're an insipid and ugly green. They're also very heavy and just not elegant at all. I generally fit men's frames better than women's, but I don't want anything so obviously and chunkily masculine.

But then I saw him, a flash of a vintage-style paint job, carbon forks, leather-look grips and seat. I have a serious bike crush, he's a Dawes Clubman and I'm desperate to try one to see if he's The One.

Of course if he is, the next problem is the name...

Why I love Mr Weenie

Yesterday, Mr Weenie and I went for a walk. We've been attempting to change our usual Sunday routine of pyjamas and toast as I'm now meant to be doing light exercise every day and walking is about my limit.

We went to the shops and were reminded why we get our food shopping delivered. My weird hearing means the ambient noise of other shoppers, freezers etc overwhelms my ears and I turn into a zombified simpleton. I can't hear what Mr Weenie is saying and, as he hates shopping anyway, we always end up miffed and fed up.

On the slow walk home, on which he matched my waddly pace and we ended up walking for what seemed like forever, I saw many cyclists.

The first were laughing over coffee in lycra, four drop-barred bikes chained to the lamppost nearby, clearly having just done a Sunday morning distance run, probably just for fun. I tore my gaze away and we walked on. A couple whizzed by, again on bikes with drops and in long-distance gear, chatting and clearly enjoying the window of non-rain.

I confess, I welled up. I very nearly cried there and then. Forgetting our minor tiff and sweeping me into a cuddle, Mr Weenie asked what on earth was wrong.

I launched into a monologue of love for my two-wheeled companion.

My bike is not just my bike. Reg is the instant mood lifter, the transport that takes me wherever I want to go, when I want to go there, the outlet for my grump when I'm in one and my main source of physical achievement. He's not even in our house at the moment and has been banished to the storage garage as more and more baby things start to accumulate.

I finished, expecting a pat on the head and to be told to stop being ridiculous.

The reply came swiftly: 'Well, let's think about getting you a Brompton then.'

That, my cycling friends, is love.

My converts live on....

Reg is still at my parents' house so I remain bikeless. There is also another problem. Eeenie weenie does NOT like exercise.

He or she has decided to make me so exhausted I can barely walk home from the station, let alone get on two wheels every day. Stairs render me breathless and t's very irritating. I'm most annoyed because I've always thought that the attitude that pregnant women shouldn't cycle is completely wrong and I was hoping to be a good example. Sigh.

However, while I stew in annoyance over my forced exile onto public transport, I have been greatly cheered by news from those I have or am hoping to convert.

TM is a former colleague (pre-work woes). On mentioning he quite fancied giving cycling to work a go I pointed him firmly in the direction of the Ride to Work scheme and he promptly bought a Brompton. He fell in love with it and, as luck would have it, there was a tube strike shortly after his purchase. He used the LCC bike tube to get to an important meeting in town and hasn't looked back. As well as commuting he recently took part in the Brompton World Championships. Wonderful!

The lovely S trekked out to my new office to say hello on a day off a couple of weeks ago. She's still cycling and is, in fact, encouraging others to do so. In a recent email she gaily told me that she was buying her husband a bike, as he had been inspired by her enthusiasm and fancied giving it a go. Rather than get the bike delivered, she had decided to venture out to an area she'd not been to before to collect said bike and cycle it home. Hurrah!

Moomin has ordered her new bike after the theft of her old one but, not being able to wait, has been using Roger and Reg while they've been stored at her house. My sister, who had an unfortunate accident as a child while on a bike, has also decided to give cycling a go and I have decided to give Roger to her to cycle to vet school and back. Marvellous!

I'm aiming to cycle to music school with my sister on Saturday if Eenie is amenable but even if I can't it makes me glow to know there are cyclists in London enjoying bikes and that I, in a small way, encouraged or helped them to do it. Sigh.

Roger was back!

And has now gone again....

My younger sister has decided she fancies giving cycling a go, so Roger was brought home briefly and then cycled over the my parents' house for her to experiment on.

Reg went too as we're having a new sofa delivered today and his presence in the stairway would have restricted the deliverers' ability to get it up to the living room.

I've not used Reg for a while and it was nice to pedal him even a short distance. Moomin was cycling Roger and manfully refused to let me put the seat down. As she's a good four inches shorter than me it led to a lot of giggling along the way. Her legs were at full tilt at the bottom of the pedal rotation and she looked a bit like she was riding a clown bike.

Hopefully Reg, Roger, and younger sis will all be cycling to music school on Saturday. Fingers crossed!

Reg and Weenie reunited!

On Saturday CC got married. My faithful stoker and good friend is now the wife of a thoroughly nice young man who recognises that while he will be her husband, I will always be her captain. The tandem to Brighton, here, here, here and here got a mention in the speeches and it was wonderful. The day was just beautiful and suffused with love.

The next day, high on the loveness, I decided to cycle to Twickenham to see my sister on her birthday. Reg's tyres were flat from lack of use and I realised an ex-colleague still had my minipump and bits from borrowing them on a ride but I have spares so I packed them up and set off.

It was very weird to be on Reg again. His tyres seemed unnaturally skinny and hard after the fat eclair types of the Boris Bikes and the position was very different. Having a single pannier felt distinctly odd. My wrist felt fine though so we set off. I definitely took it easier than I would have done pre-wrist break and I walked the busiest roundabout on the way as I wasn't sure which lane I needed, the headwind was horrendous, but the experience was FAB.

The wind streamed through my helmet, the wheels spun at the merest push and I seemed to fly down to the river. I laughed and smiled the whole way because it felt so good to be back on my bike. After seeing my sisters and exchanging pressies (hurray for pressies) I set off home. Without the horrible headwind I was quicker getting home despite the familiar, right in the bum ache that comes with cycling distance after a long break.

Bliss.

Bored now

So, here I am, all casted up. And I am booooored.

The pain in my fingers means typing with my right hand is out and I'm doing this post over several days using my pointing finger on my left hand. On top of this, it really hurts. God bless Tramadol but it so isn't stopping all of the pain. I'm knackered too and am napping with Mr Handsome every afternoon. This combination means I'm off work, at least until Mr Orthopaedic surgeon man decides on whether I need it pinned. I'll also be getting my new cast then, I'm desperately hoping they'll have pink ones.

Having no right hand use is pants. Who knew that even going for a wee could be an adventure in balance and co-ordination? I was asked to sign for my prescription earlier and just looked at the pharmacist blankly. I'm starting to get the hang of left-handed Sudoku, but it takes a squillion years.

On the plus side I'm not able to do housework either, nor can I cook. Turns out Mr Weenie is a fabulous nurse. He's been downloading recipes to take over the kitchen I've run for seven years(amazing chilli mmmm), ensuring I don't have to go out braless (intrepid teenage boys who learn the one-handed bra undo I salute you), attempting to tie back my hair and telling me my new hair cut looks lovely (hurrah for Louis, hair saviour for ladies who have one hand with which to sort their bonce), and just generally being fab.

The love I've received from various quarters has been most marvellous. Not only have friends and loved ones been voicing concern and offering help but when you're a damsel in cast even teenage boys on the bus rush to your aid when you drop your phone for the third time.

When I pass Reg in the corridor, however, it pains me. Taking the bus and train has been crap and when I see cyclists whizzing past I wish it was me...

Anyhoo, enough ranting, I need someone to remove the wrapper from my ice lolly. Mr Weeeeeeeeeeeeeenie...

A weekend in the country

This weekend I toddled off to the Chilterns for a weekend of patter songs and drunkenness. The venue is not too far from High Wycombe and, as I knew I'd probably be late and was taking the train, I was reluctant to call for a lift. So Reg came along too.

The weather has been glorious and when I left High Wycombe station it was balmy and beautiful (if one looked away from the passed out drunk guy who'd thrown up on himself). The station is on an incredibly nasty hill so I was anxious not to go the wrong way and exhaust myself. I, of course, then went the wrong way. Once I'd walked Reg back up the hill we embarked on the right course and headed into the country.

I had my bright reflective seatbelt on and had my lights just in case because it's all tiny country lanes (with remarkably smooth tarmac) and cars come haring round the bends. It was mainly uphill but the inclines weren't too steep.

Around 20 minutes of wonderful cycling later I hit THE HILL. The venue for the weekend is up an enormous hill. It's near vertical in places and no one even walks up it. Well I did. I decided it attempting to cycle it wasn't worth the pain and, with my lights on in case of cars coming up, I set off.

A few cars passed me (I moved over for all of them as I had my ears on high alert). What I thought was very sweet was that a cab driver, having dropped off his charges and turned round, pulled over with his window down saying 'Keep going, you're nearly at the top and you're doing really well!' before giving me a cheery wave and disappearing down the hill.

I arrived late for the first rehearsal and ran in in lycra. Moomin had collected my music and attempted to hide her worry and assumption that I'd had a disaster. Reg was duly propped against some fencing for his first experience of being outdoors overnight and Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore was wrestled into submission.

I had a fab weekend seeing people, singing and admiring beautiful small children and, in a flash, my time there was over. Moomin drove a lot of my stuff home to keep down the weight and I headed off into the early afternoon with the sun bright above me and so much suncream on I glistened.

It was mainly downhill to the station and it was gorgeous. One rude station staff member and a missed train later (I couldn't see the bike carriage) I was speeding towards London with a fellow singer who I haven't seen for years.

As we approached Wembley I suddenly realised it would probably be easier to cycle from there than to train to Marylebone, cycle to Paddington and take another train. I whipped out the incredibly useful mapping system on my phone to get my bearings and was soon on the road to Hanwell.

When I arrived I drank a pint of water and had a very cold shower. Blissful.

'I was going to say hello...

But you were going too fast.'

I've heard this three or four time recently as I'm often spotted by people I know when I'm out and about on Reg. Have I turned into Speedy Gonweenie? Hmmm I think not.

I have a nasty suspicion my lycra means people are frightened to approach. It's like armour.

Whoa! You f*cking idiot!

I'm sorry silver car, but if you change lanes without looking or indicating and nearly hit me, I shout.

Granted I was already cross but still.

Last night Reg's back tyre felt very squidgy but, seeing no puncture, I decided to pump it a bit. The valve broke. It's a presta valve and the middle bit snapped clean off. I decided to chance it and cycled home on it.

However, after getting home and receiving anniversary pressies I forgot all about it. (Thanks Mr Weenie, I woke up to the dulcet tones of Chris Moyles after getting the clock radio I wanted.) Mr Weenie received chamois cream and padded undershorts. He laughed at both but couldn't resist trying on the latter. He then strode round the house saying 'It actually feels like I've pooed myself!'

This morning, as I awoke, I remembered the inner tube. I duly got up and decided to work in the front room rather than go outside in the cold. With Reg tipped up, Mr Handsome decided to 'help'. As I wiped the oil from his nose I couldn't help but giggle.

My hands are sore after a hard weekend's riding and each time I thought I'd got the tyre back on I heard the defined 'SchmoCK!' sound of it popping back out further round the rim. I got it back on eventually and all was complete. I washed my hands and set off.

Only for you, Mr Silver Car, to nearly hit me then wave with a sly grin as I shouted. Grrrrrrr

The scenic route

I started this morning in a foul mood. On my way to pick up S a motorist pulled over, rolled down her window and let rip about me 'cycling in the middle of the road'. I was going 18mph, was turning right at the upcoming T-junction and, frankly, have the legal right to cycle where I damn well please.

I was so angry I was shaking. There was just no need to be so abusive and I'm embarrassed to say I swore. When I've made a genuine error I'm mentally prepared for a tirade of abuse, but not when I'm just getting on with my day.

Anyhoo. I picked up S, still very angry, and I tried to let it go. Luckily, fate intervened. The traffic was HORRENDOUS. It was too tight even to filter past. Other cyclists were hopping onto the pavement or attempting silly things but I made an executive decision and we took the 'scenic route'. On a bike, this means getting off the main road, pointing Reg in vaguely the right direction and weaving through backstreets until you know where you are.

We ended up back on the main drag a couple of times and got off again but I'm still certain it was quicker than attempting to negotiate the gridlock. Not only that but as I arrived at work I realised my mood had lifted and I no longer cared about little miss middle class, whose husband probably doesn't love her anymore and whose children are probably spoilt brats.

I hope she got to work on time and sorted out whatever was bothering her. As S pointed out, she'll probably look up the Highway Code, realise I was right and feel really silly.

When potholes go bad

'Come out, come out wherever you are!'

This is the call being made to my lady bits this morning. They have retreated after I hit the mother of all potholes last night.
I don't know if it was the angle or depth but I had turned to check on the cars behind me, turned back and SMACK!

The car driver behind apologised profusely after hearing my gentle words floating on the breeze....

MOTHERF***ER!

I tried to indicate that the fault was not his but was in no state to gesticulate accurately. Reg seems ok and I managed to get home but as soon as I could I got into the living room and lay down on the floor. Mr Weenie was very supportive... once he'd stopped laughing anyway. I may never let him near me again AND I was wearing padded leggings. I can't bear the thought of the damage had I been wearing unpadded.

Free and effective contraception thanks to the road authorities. Lovely.

A polite 'excuse me' would not have gone amiss

Grrrrrrr

This morning I was sailing in having finally recovered from whatever hideous bug I managed to catch last week. I heard the unmistakable sound of sirens at high speed somewhere behind me.

I was near a junction but stationary cars were quite close in on the cycle lane leading to the advance stop line and I decided to quickly stop and check the emergency vehicle wasn't in my lane. If so I reckoned the cars ahead would want to pull into the cycle lane to get out of the way. I stopped and looked.

It was a police car at high speed but wasn't in my lane. There were a couple of cyclists behind me and, as I resaddled to pull away one of them pushed past me. The car next to us was on the line demarcating the cycle lane and I have panniers so had to lean really far over. I was so shocked by his rudeness that I just gaped in horror.

He pulled into a side road about 100 yards later so I didn't have time to vocalise my anger. As it was all I would have done is point out that a polite 'excuse me' was all that was required.

I was about to move off anyway but would have let him through.

I know it sounds ridiculous but I'm still angry now. The lack of common courtesy on the road really gets my goat. I mean really. Harumph!

Taking the train and a fantastic pothole idea!

It was an eventful weekend cycle-wise.

On Saturday, my lovely sister and I decided to see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition. It was cold but sunny and clear so I went a roundabout route via Kew and Putney on Reg. It was lovely except for the lecture on class structure that I was given by some poncy git who I had asked directions from. What a nob.

Anyhoo, I floated through the city, went along the Thames and just loved it.

I saw some beautiful photographs and had delicious coffee and lots of giggles with said sister before pedalling home via a more direct route. I was cold but triumphant when I got home.

Sunday was a bit less of a triumph. It was pi**ing it down and Mr Weenie was laid up with rugby injuries. I decided to go for it and cycled to do the shopping.

The cats needed food (they're sensitive and only tolerate about two types) so I had to go to Brentford to Pets at Home. The rain was torrential and I got utterly drenched. The shop was closed so I hit the nearest supermarket for human food before returning to get the cat food. By this time it had, of course, stopped raining.

I got home wet and cold. And grumpy. It took most of the day to get warm again and when I looked out of the window this morning and saw the rain, I made a drastic decision. I took the train.

Sometimes it just aint worth it.

In more exciting news, a big thank you to Abby for the link to pothole gardens! What a marvellous idea. Anyone for composting?

What to wear?

This morning, like many women, I was torn over what to wear.

Hmmmmmm, should I go practical? Perhaps the pink? But those leggings make my bum look big, even if they are warm and snuggly. Sigh, it's all so complicated.

In the end I plumped for my winter fleecy leggings with high waist, my rather slinky black wool base layer with a short-sleeve jersey in pink, black and white, a reflective yellow tabard just in case I took my jacket off part-way, and, over the top, a yellow high-vis jacket with bikers' stripe up the back for that authentic cyclist look.

Feeling good and looking fine I slinked my way out of the door with accessories (Reg and my panniers) in black and red to hint at vampish undertones.

Yes, I've been reading far too many fashion columns.

What was that guy's problem?

I was running late today so there was less traffic than usual.

Mr Weenie and I ended up heading off at the same time and on the same route for a mile or so. If he's reading, laughing and pointing while overtaking me is NOT funny nor very nice. You are mean.

Anyway, as I shot through Ealing Broadway and headed for Ealing Common I heard the unmistakable blaring of someone leaning on their car horn repeatedly. I glanced behind and saw a guy in a small blue car careering past a cyclists far too close, glaring at him and leaning on said horn.

It appeared that the problem was the skip that has been blocking part of the cycle lane for a while in Ealing Broadway. Cyclists are forced to swing out into the main traffic body to go round it and not all motorists are helpful or pleasant about it. The cyclist behind was swinging out round this skip when the horn went, hence why I reckon that was the problem.

As the blue car hared towards me I decided to gutter-hug briefly as this was clearly a driver with issues, plus the bus lane was ahead where I'd be 'safe'. He passed me but then swung left into said bus lane and undertook two cars before swinging right again across two lanes to get into the right-turn filter lane! What a c*ck.

The other cyclists caught up with me at the lights and I asked if he was ok and what on earth that guy's problem was. He was, it has to be said, a rather dishy Frenchman on a rather lovely bike. (There was no birting Mr Weenie, but you would have had only yourself to blame if there had been.)

'Prrrr aps ee eez just one of zose guys? Ee wheel ave to take ze bouse in ze future if ee looses eez lisense no?'

We giggled about it before he headed off ahead of me, but I couldn't help thinking that for all our laughing, that guy's an accident waiting to happen. The fact it wasn't today was just luck.

So not the right time for a fire drill

My new flat has no outdoor space at all really and I have nowhere to clean him. But I have found a solution.

Therefore, those of you who read my regular moans about just how filthy he is can now breath a sigh of relief.

At work we have a car park that's exclusively the company's as we use the whole building (several in fact). This car park is where the bike shelters are and has a couple of drains. It also has an outdoor tap.

I asked facilities the other day if I could have a bucket and explained that, having nowhere else, I'd like to clean my bike in the car park. The next day a blue plastic bucket arrived with a new sponge, a shammy AND some industrial cleaner (I used my Muc off but it was a kind thought).

I decided yesterday would be the day. We were going to press so I would take my lunch late and minimise the number of people witnessing my scrub-fest.

Down I toddled I got to work. It was a bit chilly but there's a section that's sheltered from the wind and catches the sun so Reg was tipped upside down and I scrubbed away. It took some time to dislodge the various disgusting crud that was all over him but just as I was finishing... WawaWawaWawaWawa.

Oh God, it's a fire drill.

Out trooped most of the company, witnessing me scrabbling to get all the cleaning supplies back into the bucket and get Reg upright. I then had to walk him to the meeting area as I didn't have time to lock him up and was unwilling to leave him unlocked in a deserted car park.

I withstood the ribbing from colleagues and, once we returned to the building, finished the job and he's now squeaky clean.

Oh the shame. But he is very pretty.

Seriously filthy ft cats

Reg is now SERIOUSLY filthy.

I have nowhere to clean him and I'm deeply ashamed. Even the muddy MTBs on my commute are cleaner and I feel wretched.

Every time I look at him I'm wracked with guilt but what am I meant to do?

I'm now considering heading down to a petrol station near me armed with my bike stuff. 'A petrol station?!' I hear you cry but yes. Because the one I'm thinking of has a pressure washer. What I need is water with force behind it and I need it now!

In other news I was off on Friday as I felt so unwell so I ended up on the sofa with my darling bebes most of the day.

How wonderful it must be to be one of my cats. Mr Handsome lay sprawled across me most of the day, while The Fat One visited sporadically to rub her head against my hands and mew in a pathetic way while strutting around like she owned the place.

Who am I kidding? She does own the place.

The bing is BACK

Last night I was back with a bell and I was determined to use it.

I cruised through the night daring pedestrians to step out and let me let loose. It took a couple of miles but I got lucky with a ninja pedestrian on her mobile. She started to step out....

Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!

Yeah, that's right baby, I'm coming down the road fast and you're not on a crossing. I'll attempt not to hit you if you do end up stepping out there but this is to let you know that I exist and am painful when met at high speed.

She started a bit, gave me a filthy look and her Ugg boot retreated back to the kerb from whence it came.

I felt victorious. The bing is BACK!

Lost without my binger

Over the weekend an awful thing happened.

I was merrily binging away at some pedestrians as I approached a junction at which I had a green light but they clearly hadn't seen me as they were dashing across when suddenly silence descended.

I know many cyclists who do not use their bells but so vigorous am I in using mine that on Friday night the binger flew off into the night mid-flow. The bell itself remained but is a sad shadow of its former self as it can't make any sound unless tapped sharply, an impossible task when its rider is in fleece gloves.

I have been left bereft. I had no idea just how much I depended on that tiny piece of plastic to make me happy. I have even been forced to shout 'Oi!' as a short-term measure at those who attempt to throw themselves under the wheels of my bike.

On Saturday, therefore, moomin and I popped into the local bike shop to replace my binger.

Having tried all the bells on offer and the squeezy horn (oh so tempting), we decided on one that was not only pink but has a penetrating quality. The shopkeep seemed somewhat amused at our criteria but, frankly, I know what I like in a binger and am not afraid to demand the best.

Now all I have to do is get it on my handlebars and order will be restored..

How bright do lights need to be?

A couple of nights ago I was preparing to swing out past a parked car (in the cycle lane, sigh) so I signalled and glanced behind.

I was met with a light so bright I was momentarily dazzled before black spots began appearing and it took a few minutes to recover. Luckily there wasn't much traffic so my temporarily impaired vision didn't lead to an accident.

I can hear you thinking that surely this must have been a car with its lights on full beam. Nope. It was a cyclist.

In the last couple of months I've seen a real increase in the number of cyclists carrying incredibly bright, and expensive, lights on their handlebars. On one level I'm pleased that some cyclists are taking their lighting seriously, those without the legally required minimum shouldn't be on the road, but on another I find the escalation of it a bit tiresome.

On winding and remote country lanes and in some suburbs I can see why you would need a light capable of exposing every pothole and obstacle and, in narrower stretches, you may well need a light that signals your presence for tens of metres so that cars don't come haring round corners and squish you. But surely, even in these circumstances they should be pointed at the ground, not full ahead where other cyclists and drivers will be blinded by them?

In London, where the roads are lit by street lighting, bike lights are primarily to let drivers know you're there aren't they? Quite frankly enough people cycle comfortably (if not safely) on-road without any lighting whatsoever to prove that they're primary purpose is not to light the way ahead.

Maybe I'm wrong but you won't see me investing in anything above 100 lumens (or whatever they're called) any time soon.