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.

Back on the bike

So...

I dropped Reg at the shop on Friday and was quoted £30. If it was more than that they'd give me a ring before work started on it I was told, it'll be fine I was told. Imagine my dismay when I rang them only to be told the price was coming in at around £75 and the work had been done.

I was livid.

I charged in there ready for a fight. I sighed, I was silently unimpressed and resentful and my voice got subtly louder when another customer came in. I got £15 knocked ff the bill. Result. Especially since they had to change the rear braking mechanism and had done the gears etc.

I didn't bike to music school as the weather was abysmal and looked forward to a foray on a tandem on Monday when disaster struck. CC, my tandem partner, caught the bug that's going round. I was forced to Christmas shop instead.

Nowhere near as fun. Sigh.

Was back on Reg this morning with VERY heavy panniers full of music for a rehearsal tonight. We tootled in and even with the extra weight and me being knackered from my idiot neighbours messing around all night we sped past several fellow cyclists.

Perhaps it's a way of a higher power telling me the only twosome I should be involved with is Reg and me.

Pootling and the best cat

Firstly I must announce that Mr Weenie is the best cat.*

I came home last night to not one but two pairs of new shoes, some uber funky trainers and some gorgeous ballet flats, both of which I'd been looking at and decided I shouldn't buy as Reg needs work doing. Sigh. What a man.

Anyhoo, back to pootling. Part of Reg's issue at the moment is that he's a bit confused about which gear he's on. He's one gear out in either direction depending on his mood. The result of all this is a feeling of complete liberation.

Normally I gauge my fitness and leg strength by my commuting gear but not that that option is out I just go with what feels comfy at the time. Shockingly this has, in fact, reduced my commuting time some mornings and improved my mood immeasurably.

Sometimes I pootle along feeling like a slow coach only to realise I'm hitting 20mph but because I'm not conscious of the fact it's all the easier. Sometimes I am in fact going very slowly but I don't care. Added to the gear issue is the drop in the number of cyclists. With no one to race against and precious few of the 'all the gear, no idea' crew willing to brave the icy winds I have no one to race against and no one to teach a speed lesson to when they've annoyed me.

What shocks me about cycling is how often my own views on things change and evolve. In a year and a half I've gone through timid, aggressive, law-bending to strict law adherence until I've found a style that suits.

Life change through cycling, how zen.


*The best cat means the best thing ever. The term evolved from inter-family rivalry about who had the best feline friend as three of us own cats but is now used for all things fabulous.

An enforced sightseeing tour

Reg and I were in Bermondsey last night and Reg had his first trip in a lift. We were off to see the lovely M. In between catching up on literally years of gossip I showed her the rudimentary basics of puncture repair and brakes. The fact is that when you first get a puncture it's horrible but if you at least know what it all looks like it's not so bad.

We headed home just before 9pm and, as in London you can see where you are if you're near the river, I decided London Bridge was our best bet. Once there I turned left and negotiated the various roads behind Waterloo. One of my greatest loves about cycling in London is that when you get a bit lost you can pull over, get off and get your bearings. I did that a couple of times.

Some nasty roadworks meant I ended up heading across Westminster Bridge towards Parliament. It was lit up and gorgeous. The one way system then meant that we went down Whitehall, passing Number 10 and watching as they started preparations for Remembrance Sunday. Before you could blink we were at Trafalger, fountains plumed in the dark and tourists' flashbulbs gave the impression of strobe lighting.

Left again and Buckingham Palace loomed ahead, a majestic and beautiful chocolate box, with handsome and watchful military guards standing outside.

Then I went up through Hyde Park corner, across the ugly but deliciously smooth new tarmac put there, presumably, for bikers. Into the park, shaking may head at the sheer selfishness of the ninjas who, without lights, appear in the inky gloom inches from your handlebars scaring the crap out of you. The new Marble Arch fountains were in full technicolor brilliance splashing audibly.

The romance ended there as I made my way through the back streets to Paddington to catch the train with Reg.

The roadworks could have been a pain and they did delay me somewhat but instead of grumpy I was thrilled, how much would tourists pay to see all that in one night?

Fleecy trousers and bike envy

I wore my winter cruisers for the first time this morning and although I was a little on the warm side my legs were flying. I was zipping around and my knee doesn't hurt so I think I may well wear them again.

I'm popping to see a friend tonight. In return for dinner I'm giving a puncture repair tutorial and catching up with all the gossip. The fleecy leggings will come in useful on the ride home methinks.

I bumped into new boy J on my way in. We've worked together for ages but he's just started commuter cycling on a rather sexy-looking Trek. It's a proper roadie and is all drop handlebars and aerodynamic tubing. Reg looked almost scruffy in comparison.

I found myself drawn to the various clumps of crud that he's accumulated, overly conscious that he hadn't had a good clean in a while. The fact that one of his pedals clicks for some unknown reason at the moment, the fact that his acutely flat handlebars are filthy, all these and more were made all the more obvious by the presence of his new shiny rival.

Of course I compensated by speeding off into the morn leaving J with a string of red lights and the spectacle of me and my scruffy bike pedalling over the horizon.... hehehehhehehe

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!

Do we need men?

I did it, I replaced Reg's rear brakes and tightened the front ones. I am woman, hear me roar.

It took me an hour and was incredibly fiddly because my rack obscured the relevant allen key bit but I did it. Mr Weenie brought me Ribena and encouragement at regular intervals with tentative enquiries of 'Need any help?' but I was determined to go it alone. I was covered in oil off the floor when I'd finished but I felt hugely smug. Reg's braking is vastly improved and I did it all by myself. I even realigned the rear wheel to make the braking more even while I was at it.

I, Ms Weenie, had eliminated the need for men.

I announced this to Mr Weenie as I strode in victorious. He gave a wry smile and asked how to fix a derailleur. Oh well, one step at a time....

I feel 'empowered' by it all. I hate that word, it's just so twee and rubbish but nothing else really sums it up frankly. I feel so much safer on the roads knowing that I can do minor maintenance and repairs, I feel less of an imposter as well. Who knew two wheels and some metal tubing could change your life.