Feeling dangerous?

This morning I had an unfortunate fairy visitation.

A beer bottle had been smashed in the road near home and although I went over the glass yesterday I thought I'd got away with it. Apparently not. I got that squidgy tyre feeling in west Ealing.

I pulled over and commenced work. A middle-aged guy got chatting with me and ended up attempting to overtake the repair. Dunno why this always happens to me but the 'damsel in distress' response seems to be triggered by my presence.

It was all very well-meaning so I let it go. What did rankle though was his insistence on telling me how dangerous cycling is. Over and over and over and over. He just would not let it go.

As I took the tyre off, as I found the hole, as I prepared the site, as I applied the patch, as I squidged the inner tube back into the tyre, as I put the tyre back on, as I pumped it all back up.

I know cycling's not for everyone but it's not like I'm firing myself out of a cannon to work every morning. Sheesh.

Men and women are different, enjoy it

I am female. It's a fact and, unless I have very expensive reassignment surgery against my will, it's something that will never change.

Although I rage against my male cycling counterparts who needlessly push me around or assume they're faster than me because I'm a woman, being female does come with some remarkable benefits:

1. Lycra.
No man will ever look good in lycra, no matter how hard they try. Chris Hoy looks bloody ridiculous in it and he's incredibly toned and quite hot. Women, on the other hand, should revel in lycra. It sucks you in in all the right places and the more you cycle, the hotter you will look in it.

Plus, our genitalia are not generally visible while we're in lycra, todgers on the other hand are highly visible, as are testicles. Hello boys indeed.

2. Asking for help.
Perhaps I live among unusual men, but in my experience men are rubbish at asking for advice and/or help. Yesterday I realised my front V-brake needed adjusting. The crap bike shop that did my last service had rounded off the allen key slot and done it up incredibly tightly. I couldn't get it to budge. Therefore, when I saw the lovely N, a colleague who cycles, I asked for his help. We then met in the car park and he sorted the problem for me.

Don't get me wrong, if I have a problem I can sort myself, I'm happy to do it but I am equally happy to ask for help if I cannot do it alone.

3. The 'damsel in distress' response.
Every time I've had a puncture/mech problem somewhere public, someone has stopped and asked if I needed help. Often, it's been more than one person. When I've mentioned this to male friends they've been incredulous.

'In London?', 'Someone actually stopped?!', 'And you didn't know them?!??!?!?!'.

Yes, it would appear that being female in appearance greatly increases your chances of being offered help. Not only that but, in my experience, men are unwilling to accept mine. I have stopped and offered puncture repair help to many stricken cyclists and have been refused every time. This is despite the fact that a few of them admitted they had no repair stuff with them or didn't know what to do.

So this one's a double whammy. Women get extra help if they want it and men won't take up your time if you offer your assistance to them so you can feel all righteous without actually having to do anything.

4. Extra helpings of admiration.
While women remain in the woeful minority among cyclists it means I get extra admiration and praise for cycling. I am extra brave and a little bit naughty. While I always feign nonchalance at being told this, secretly I love it. 'Well, you know, it's only about 100 miles a week.' Inside I'm preening.

I'm sure I'll think of some more but for now I'll sign off...

If you have to get a puncture, get one at Ealing Common

So off I cycled into the night last night. My colleagues' fears about the snow were completely unfounded and although it was damp on the road the temperature meant the snow melted away to nothing rather than turn into the sheet ice of recent weeks.

I was enjoying the lack of traffic (I worked late) and clear roads when I heard a suspicious sound.

Shh... Shh... Shh... Shh... Shh... Shh... Shh...

It got faster if I sped up and slower if I eased off.

I had a little ponder:
Hmmmmmm, perhaps a leaf stuck on the tyre? Maybe something else? Perhaps the wheel buckled on that last pothole and the rim's hitting the brake? Should I stop? Am only 15-20 minutes from home, I could chance it. No, I'll stop.

I pulled over outside Ealing Common station and good job too. The sound was the escaping air from a puncture. A chunk of glass was clearly visible in my front tyre even in the relative darkness. Fabulously, Ealing Common has a 'foyer' of sorts, it's warm, dry, well-lit and big enough that a cyclist carrying out repairs is in nobody's way. I set to work. As the source of the problem was so obvious I took the extreme step of deciding not to take the wheel off. I released the brake and took the tyre off.

A well-meaning guy from the kebab shop looking into the station came and looked concerned while giving lots of advice. 'You should carry a spare inner tube!' Yes I always carry one but I actually have two with me. 'You should take the inner tube all the way out to find the hole!' I would normally but, actually, I already knew where the hole was. 'But do you have any patches?!' Ummmm yes.

All very well-meaning I'm sure. He even applauded when I got the tyre back on and pumped up.

A member of the station staff then gave me some tissues to wipe my hands with. Lovely.

Mr Weenie had offered to come and get me when I rang to tell him I'd be late because of my puncture fairy visitation but was audibly relieved when I rang to let him know that he could leave his pyjamas on and get the takeaway ordered.

It took me about 20 minutes all in to get repaired and back on the road. I was in a safe, dry, well-lit place with helpful staff if I'd needed anything.

If you're going to get a puncture it was a good place to get one I reckon.

The wettest ride..... ever

On Friday I set off for Brighton at midnight with nearly 50 coasters. We were in good spirits. Sure there was rain forecast but hey ho let's go.

We made very good time going through London on this ride and the roads were clear of traffic. I thought nothing of it, at no point did I think 'hmmmm I wonder if everyone's staying in in case it wees it down', at no point did I wonder why the streets were eerily clear of the usual rowdy drunkards that give us all a giggle and the occasional thrown missile. They were probably at home battening down the hatches.

The Brighton ride was my first FNRttC back in June/July so I knew a bit of the route although this one had been altered to be weather safe. The enormous hill heading out of London that seems to go on forever was one of my sharpest memories and this time I was ready for it. I shuffled Reg into a comfy low gear and pootled my way up. Last time I didn't realise I'd be on an upward trajectory for so long and grossly misjudged it, but not this time.

We headed out of London and I stayed near the middle of the pack with A2 hanging out nearer the front with some colleagues he'd roped in from work. We were, in fact, doing really well until 2.40am when it began to rain.

Ok so it had started to rain a little at about 12.40am but it had been small, light patches, in short, usual commuter fare. But this was biblical flooding of the lands, build yourself an ark because damnation is on its way rain. Going down a steep hill it felt like someone with a pea shooter full of marbles was aiming for my eyes. At one point I abandoned all hope of looking forward where I was going and just focused on the white lines to stay in the right place.

We were guided into a tunnel for five minutes' rest while punctures were repaired and we were off, sloshing into the darkness. Puddles and mini-rivers formed at our ankles and a highlight was a small fjord-like body of water that I hit without seeing it while cycling pretty much alone. I felt a bit stupid until I heard the combined squeally groan of the group behind me two minutes later.

At this point everyone was wet and cold. There were no longer divisions between those in Assos and Altura and those in Lidl gear, no one was dry. I had bought a weird-looking strip of material to cover my ears and some peanut butter Clif bars on my way home from work and my God was I grateful. I scoffed my way through my bars and praised my ear warmer repeatedly.

We reached the halfway stop and a chaotic scene was there for any bystanders. Haggard-looking bikers sat in puddles of muddy water and dejection. At this point one of the regular leaders offered to take anyone who wanted to head home to the nearest station. We only lost about three riders and I'm sure I wasn't the only person looking at their arms in disbelief as they refused to rise and be counted as someone going home.

When we left the cafe the rain had stopped but the wind and an hour's sit-down meant it was very hard to get going. At one point I was convinced that my hand and feet had been lost somewhere on the journey. We pushed on until a guy in front of me got a puncture.

I lent tyre levers and was one of three who stood by offering light. Disaster struck when an integral bit of wheel bounced off into the night, I was sent to bear the news to the front of the ride. I'd never done a 'back to front' before and it was HARD.

I passed several wayfinders and eventually got to the front only to find out they'd since found the part and were heading in. We then headed off again while I continued wheezing from the lack of stop.

As the light at the end of the tunnel got closer we all became impatient to finish. We were freezing at this point and the continued puncture stoppages were starting to niggle. The last couple of miles seemed to take forever and I wasn't the only one to spontaneously cheer when the signs for Brighton started to crop up with increasing regularity.

With the cafe in sight I was near tears of relief and I and several others insisted on sitting outside to eat breakfast as we'd fought so damn hard to get there. Never mind that two minutes in the wind rendered our tea and breakfast stone cold, I needed to believe I'd actually made it.

Not a soul cycled back as far as I'm aware and so the trains were packed with very tired cyclists. I helped four ladies from Hull negotiate the tricky Victoria one-way system and got them pointed in the right direction before heading for home, bath and bed.

I don't remember much of the journey from Paddington, the next clear memory is lying in a very hot bath enjoying the smug sensation washing over me and watching the cat sniff my shoes with a look of utter disdain.

I have, in the past, been a quitter when things got tough and, believe me, I was sorely tempted by the turn back option at the cafe but I had made it.

This morning Mr Weenie offered me a lift as it was raining... 'Ha!' I cried, 'Compared to Friday this is practically tropical, bring it on!'

Reg's new shoes (and other shiny stuff)

Yesterday two big Wiggle boxes arrived and I skipped merrily down to the post room to collect them.

Reg's new Schwalbe marathon shoes were in there along with some new inner tubes and some very posh bike cleaning gear. Work was horrendous and at lunchtime I decided that since I shouldn't access my work I'd put the new shoes on. Tomorrow's the Whitstable night ride and I wanted them on for it.

I headed down to the car park and had soon flipped Reg over and had the first wheel off. The new shoes are surprisingly easy to get on and have a beautiful reflective strip running all the way round on both sides. I had both the new shoes on and Reg cleaned up a bit with some of the posh new wipes within 40 minutes and he looked gorgeous.

In the course of the tyre change I also caught what was about to be a puncture and repaired it.

I had even managed to ignore the smug 'The joy of cycling to work eh? Puncture?' from more than one person coming in from lunch.

I came back upstairs to meet mayhem. There was much panic in the air because of an issue with computery stuff and stress levels were high. We pulled together and I headed out around an hour past home time. I got outside into the dark and cold evening exhausted and feeling rubbish. But there were the new shoes, winking at me.

My ride home was tangibly comfier and I could feel the extra grip without it slowing me down. Reg and I soared through the night and I arrived home still exhausted but happy. God only knows what mood I'd have been in if I'd been stuck on the bus for an hour!

Worst morning ever.

Last night I got a puncture just seconds from home so I fixed it in the living room and headed off this morning full of the joys with cycle vouchers in my pocket from my fabulous sister.

A few hundred yards in something was wrong. Yes, the front wheel was on backwards. Oops. Put it back on and continued.

Got to Evans only to discover that they only had the tights I wanted in 'small' and 'medium'. In women's cycle clothing this means 'stick insect' and fat 'stick insect'. Outraged, I demanded that bigger ones be ordered in. The guy across the counter started to ask for payment with a refund of they didn't fit but an icy glare meant the sentence was abandoned long before it concluded.

Tootling on to Hammersmith I reached a road that, while unmarked, you're supposed to go to the right or left depending on which way you're going at the T-junction. I headed for the middle as I was turning right and if you hug the right-hand curb you get squished. I was thwarted by a nobber who was crawling up the middle in everyone's way. I decided to overtake him on his right only to have a blacked-out pimp-mobile roar up my right-hand side. A cloud of suspicious smoke rolled out of the window as it was opened. 'WHAT THE F*** YOU DOING YOU C***?! STOP CYCLING LIKE A F****** IDIOT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD!' Was spat out of the window by the passenger.

Normally I would have retorted with similar wording but men in hoodies in blacked out cars and who own gold teeth are, in my experience, to be avoided. 'I'm turning right and the guy in front of me won't move, what do you want me to do?' Was all I could say. I was shaking with rage and near tears with frustration a the injustice of it all.

I decided a Starbucks would cheer me up. I came out with a coffee and realised my front tyre was flat. Again.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Let me help you

I often see people cycling with nearly flat tyres. It depresses me as a lot of the time it's just poor maintenance or a lack of knowledge.

This morning I leant forward at a junction and addressed the latest flattie. 'I'm terribly sorry but you're back tyre is completely flat' (I'm quite posh and middle class about these things in that I apologise frequently). The lady in question turned round and looked panicked.... and embarrassed. 'Ummmmm, oh yes I see .... ummmm I'm sure it'll be fine ummmm until I get to work'.

Ladies and gentlemen, it was NOT fine, this was a tyre like a pancake and when she pedalled off one could actually see the rim hitting the road. But I knew this was a battle I wasn't going to win. In the face of such blatant denial one must walk away and offer help only when the flattie is willing to accept it.

She was wearing naught but a small handbag in the way of luggage and clearly did not have any kit with her and her abject terror betrayed the fact that she had absolutely no idea what to do.

I offer help to people (mainly damsels) in flattie distress perhaps four times a week. Some don't need it but most won't accept it only because they're in denial about it.

A p******* is not your fault, it could happen to all of us. I have the tools to help you, but only if you'll let me.

Yaaaaawn!

Apologies for the late post but I am KNACKERED. Poor Mr Weenie had a bizarre night as he was so gripped by a nightmare that he woke me up by attempting to push me off the bed, gripping my arm when I asked what he was doing, attempting to leave the room via the wardrobe, then near running out of the bedroom door, coming to his senses only when he reached the bathroom and wondered what on earth he was doing in there.

As a consequence I'm bushed.

It doesn't help that I was out with my sisters last night too. Reg came with me to the pub though and it took me about 10 minutes to get home, bliss.

S and I met up at the usual time after last week's drama. We were understandably apprehensive. The bike shop couldn't find any problems despite her frequent inner tube splits so had concluded that my theory was correct and had retaped the inside of the wheel to protect the inner tubes from the spokes. After a test ride on Sunday had been successful we decided to go into work.

I had reasoned that the drama had lessened S's confidence a little so when we hit the road after the Chiswick Roundabout I carefully monitored my speed and let her take the lead. Oops. I was so busy checking my speedometer that I hadn't noticed she'd nipped off into the distance. I pedalled quickly to catch up only for her to nip off again. She was steaming ahead. She took lanes, overtook a Pashley, saw off an aggressive 4x4 and, as a result we got to Hammersmith Broadway at 8.45am. We were locking up our bikes by 8.55am.

When we first came all the way in we were locking up at 9.15am, that's a hell of a difference and means S has managed to achieve her goal of beating public transport for commuting time. We're already planning some longer routes home when she's built her confidence and strength back up. I was starting to wonder if we'd ever get over the bike problems and I'm pleased the bike shop saw sense, they even agreed to do the repairs for free.

At least for me, the nightmares are over.

The bounce has gone from my bungee

Anyone seen my bounce?

It probably doesn't help that I was late home last night. At long last we've discovered why S has had four flats in two rides. Unfortunately I had already repaired one split and was halfway through pumping the tyre back up when PSSSSSST!

A second split had occurred exactly one spokes width further up the tube.The spokes are poking up through the rim tape and piercing the inner tube. As a consequence we had to walk all the way to Chiswick to tell Evans and get them to solve the problem. We should hear later today whether they agree with the theory but the guy last night agreed it was the most plausible explanation.

I got home at 8pm and tidied, our flat's still a bombsite after the move. My darling moomin brought us delicious lasagne 'I was just making some and thought you might like some', confirming that she is the top moomin of all time, then I collapsed into bed, waking at 4am with backache and then sleeping upright on the sofa with an excited Mr Handsome purring happily on my lap.

The result of all this is that I'm knackered and when an older gentleman on an ancient tourer whizzed past me this morning I barely noticed. To paraphrase the great Wallace of Gromit fame, the bounce has most definitely gone from this bungee.

The fairy can f off

I got ANOTHER puncture this morning.

I'd barely wheeled Reg out of the door when I realised. I always give my tyres a quick pinch before I set off and the back on was decidedly squidgy. Yes the back one, AGAIN. The one that's trickier to get off, trickier to put back and that always seems to end up rubbing the brakes so I have to get off again a mile later to realign it.

I nearly just pedalled off hoping it was a slow one but decided I had to check it. Thank goodness I did as the hole was quite large. No sign of the culprit even though I checked the tyre thoroughly. I found the corresponding hole but no object.

Although I was very annoyed about it all and it made me really late it was gratifying that I worked as I grumbled and had the confidence this time to just get on with it.

An elderly man passed me on the pavement and gave me a good stare before giving a cheerful nod and a hat-lift. Two young women posting leaflets beamed at me and talked in an eastern European language about what I was doing (I can't speak it but they were pointing). And a teenager on her way to school smiled shyly.

All of them were very interested in what I was actually doing and I think it's because so few people know how to do it. I was performing magic obviously.

The repair seems to have held into work and I reckon it'll be fine.

That fairy can bugger off though. Friendly smiles just don't make up for it I'm afraid.

A visit from the fairy for S

On cycling forums, the word puncture is treated like a swear word. Often spelt with asterisks it's something every cyclist dreads and it's often referred to as the p******* fairy. Superstitiously, it's thought that mentioning it can hasten it's arrival.

Well S and I hadn't mentioned the fairy this morning but she still got a visit. As she's riding home alone tonight I was following from a distance and allowing her free rein. She was doing marvellously, even overtaking a bus and dealing a with a nasty driver by taking the moral high ground and pulling over.

Then, she signalled left, when our route was clearly straight on. She pulled onto the pavement and it was clear something was wrong, or rather, flat.

The back tire was pancake-like and I pulled out the tools to repair it. It was a split with a tiny hole so we patched it up and I let her know that, in my opinion, it looked like a fault with the tube and to tell the bike shop. We then carried on and arrived at work on time but with no shower time so, technically, a bit late.

It was only disappointing because S had being flying along at speed and had been textbook in her looking, signalling and maneuvering. Now her seat's wobbly as well so that'll be something to look at at lunchtime.

What I was most impressed by was her completely unflapping response to the fairy. She signalled and got off the road and, once the hole was repaired, confidently pedalled off to complete the journey. Lovely.

*Update: Thank you mystery man at work with a magical multitool. Having seen me pondering the seat problem he agreed with me that the main bolt was loose and had it tightened in a matter of moments. Well done that man.

What a diva

For the third time since April I think Reg has a puncture.

And again I yearn for the plodding Roger, his fuss-free approach, his accepting nature (you want to go on that bumpy towpath? Let's go!), and most of all his tyres.

Reg's road slicks may be fast but they eat glass. I picked four pieces out of his back tyre this morning as I was checking whether the pressure had gone down. I don't think they'd gone all the way through but God only knows. I'll be doing a full inspection at lunch time. I wouldn't mind if it was just that, but his shudders when we go over bumpy surfaces, his abject refusal to do anything as crude as a towpath, his grumpy slides over wet manhole covers. He's just such a diva.

Good job he's so handsome.

All grown up...

Today I got a puncture in my back tire. I was far from work and my first instinct was to cry. My second was to ring Andy the superhero at work. He's a seasoned and serious cyclist and together we got the wheel off.

Luckily cycling seems to be a sport in which a lot of people will help you out so I've been helped out often in the past by the samaritan, Mr Weenie, and now Andy. A lot of what I need was to be told 'No, you're not going to break it', 'Yes push that bit forward', 'No, you're not being pathetic'.

In the end I had to use my spare inner tube as I couldn't for the life of me find the hole. I did, however, find the glass that caused it and removed it from my tire. Once I'd released Andy I kept hearing everyone's advice in my ears, 'Inflate the inner a bit so you know it's not twisted', 'When getting the tire back on your hands are the best tool you have', 'Don't panic, be methodical' and it was all good stuff.

I nearly forgot to put my back brake back together afterwards and it's still not right but that's what lunchtimes are for right?

It took ages and I struggled a lot but I feel quite pleased that it's finally happened and I coped. I've been dreading a solo puncture repair/wheel removal for ages and now I know I can do it the road's a bit less scary.

*Update: It's so easy to find a hole when you've got a sink full of water! All repaired, hurray!

The good, the bad and the puncture

I had a bit of a rubbish weekend.

Dad had to be taken to hospital because he had a nose bleed. The blood thinners he takes post-stroke meant it wouldn't stop bleeding and in a monumental bottom-covering exercise he had to be taken in. It meant mum and dad missed the play we'd gone to see (at the Globe) while my sisters and I watched our God-brothers.

Then when I cycled to Paddington the Strand was closed and it took me ages to get round. I took the last train home at 11.40pm and, although I managed to bag the cycle storage spot on the train, I hate taking the last train home while sober. I was asked 'Where do I get off?' by one rather wobbly-looking guy. I said I wasn't sure. I got home at 12.40am.

On Saturday I taught the children while exhausted then stayed in with Mr Weenie.

On Sunday Mr Weenie's laptop broke, with all his work on it and the PC shop refused to take responsibility despite it being the second time it had happened in two months and they had replaced it last time. Grrrrrrr.

Then the cat peed on the bed. AGAIN.

I decided to get in some mileage on Reg as Pete was out trying to get his data recovered and I was upset and angry. Cycling off rage is very effective. I planned out a local circuit and en route I saw a new-born foal, the sun was out and I made excellent time. So I decided to do it again. But as I came up the last hill, I realised I could feel the road a little too closely. My front tire was totally flat.

I'd decided to bring my pump and repair kit with me just in case but I realised my pump didn't fit my new tire valves. I unhooked my pannier and prepared to wheel Reg the three miles home. I was practically in tears. As I prepared to head home, an older gentleman on a well-worn but quality touring bike stopped next to me.

'Puncture?' 'Yep, I've got a pump and repair kit but I'm not sure the pump fits my new valves.' At this point he got off his bike, rubbed his hands together and said a magical thing. 'Well lets get that wheel off and check shall we?'

I stood in shock as he showed me how to get the wheel off, got out his tire levers, whipped out the inner tube, reversed my pump so it would fit the valve, helped me patch the hole, found the glass embedded in the tire that had caused the problem, put it all back together again and gave me lots of advice on my trip to Brighton and which tire levers I should buy. Apparently he's helped many a stranded cyclist in his time. He informed me he started cycling when the dead sea was merely ill. But he'll only help those who have taken the time to put a pump and repair kit in their bag as it shows they've thought about it.

I stammered thanks throughout but all he said was that I should help if I saw someone in the same situation. What a star. My faith in humanity was restored and the good feeling lasted me all through the night to this morning as I gaily pedalled to work.

Pity I hit that pothole and got smacked in the love button by my saddle. It took the shine off my good mood somewhat.