In Praise of Tailwind

Originally written for Blackmore Cycling Apparel, an independent cycle clothing crew out of Essex. Have a read, go check ‘em out and get yourselves suited and booted… G

https://www.rideblackmore.com

In Praise Of Tailwind

The exhilarating rush of a tailwind, the one that gives you a little push and makes you think that you are stronger than you are; killing miles with a couple pedal strokes. Oblivious to the help, you kid yourself that your fuelling was perfect and that you maximized your sleep, but you know that's not really true. You didn’t really do anything right. The beer and burgers from the night before does count as carbo loading but not in a necessarily helpful way. It’s all smoke and mirrors. You lucked out this morning; coddled in a supportive breeze. That doesn't stop you dreaming of a tailwind on an infinite loop, switching with your every turn, guiding you along. The healing hand through your hungover haze. The trepidation crawling through the back of your mind is the ying to the rider's yang. A great ruffler of feathers, the one we don't like to mention; the evil twin - headwind.

In west Essex you know if you head east, you'll generally have a prevailing wind behind you, but if you have to go back west, then you should probably expect the worst. The headwind is there. Omnipresent. Ready to block your efforts. All those power crushed miles will be ripped right out of you, leaving just a jellified version of what was once your legs and potentially your soul. Not at first though, your muscles will feel tight and strong but an hour in and that little quiver will start; the beginning of the end. Soon, after a few more miles will be the part where your legs become an abstract thought, just a concept and not actually a physical thing.

Some devils are visible. You may see a pothole from a few metres away or the fully laden clouds up above that will soon reign in on your parade, but you will not know when the invisible enemy will strike next. Will it be the change in navigation, the exposed ridgeline at the top of a climb? There are clues, the rustling of leaves, the sway of wheat - a fluttering flag. With fortune your next turn might lean you into a tailwind; but don't be a fool. Take time to appreciate the breeze, but don't take it as your ticket to ride. Pace yourself into the stream because the next turn you take may just lead you right back into the eternal conflict. Duck that head down deep, fingers crossed for some hedgerows, not open fields and always be ready to embrace the suck. 

At least in Essex you have hope (apart from The Dengie. There is no hope there). As you ride further afield, perhaps into the desolate Fens you are destined to be entrenched in long straight avenues. With no cover, it won't be long before you will be actively duking it out with a ferocious and impenetrable gust. Sometimes if you are lucky you might dip below sea level and cruise alongside a high bank for cover. But how do you fight this headwind? What's your battle plan? How are you gonna make it through to the other side? Personally when it gets real bad I turn my headphones up to 11.

You whip your helmet into the wind, working different angles that will cut through this blockade. Shift your hands, duck your shoulders. Channel your inner Dowsett. That twenty clicks of a straight away that you've charted on your route where you've gambled on hitting some higher numbers is gonna go straight down the crap shoot if you don't change your attitude. Don't fight this wind, don't fight the Fens - feel the Fens. If you pit all your might against it you will burn yourself out. Feel it and let it flow around you, turtle down and set an even rhythm. The one of least resistance, the one where you know you are destined to make it there; just not on your own schedule. Now ease up, and count the lines in the middle of the road.

As in life. Pray for tailwinds, expect headwinds.

The InterCity Rider - Chaos Radio

Welcome to Doom City, an apocalyptic place where a world changing event has disrupted the normal way of life. As people pick up the pieces and patch together some form of order, everyone still has to make ends meet. The Inter City Riders help to courier information around the metropolis and Alex is just another grunt rider that is chasing a pay check. It’s now time to join her as she takes on a job that will lead her to an encounter somebody from her past…. enjoy.

CHAOS RADIO

Alex left the city from the west through the Iron gate. Her ICR(Inter City Rider) permit got her out with minimal questions asked. Sometimes they wanted to see her job docket, but they were easy enough to fudge. She made a hardline move westward. Furthering the distance. From there she would head north, then north east, but never on a straight trajectory. All these extra measures were factored into the price. ICR riders didn't have trackers on them. Most vehicles leaving the city would have registered GPS units in place. As couriers that dealt in sensitive material, they were not obligated to have one installed on their bikes. The powers that be probably knew the riders carried a few side hustles on the sly, but blind eyes were tactfully cast as they all had secrets to protect no matter from what political persuasion. 

The last of the watchtowers was behind Alex. She could feel them observing her through their tele-lenses. Her rider number was clearly displayed on her helmet. They would run that through their system. It should come back clear. She braced anyways for a warning shot to zip by, but the only sound was the slight whispering of the air being carved up by her spokes. Other than that, there was nothing but the sweet sound of silence. Swampy was moving further away from the city with each broadcast, at first skimming the borderlands but now he was pushing  way beyond the greenbelts. The rides were going from two hours, to three plus. This one looked like it would be an overnighter. Alex had scanned her maps and decided to change her bike setup for this run. The route was going to be a skull shaker. She put on some Terrabuster Tyres and dropped the pressure right down; these would still roll fast on the road yet maintain a grip for the gravel. Every bolt was tightened and random last-minute additions were tied down with webbing and cable ties. You didn't want to lose a bottle cage or perhaps risk something worse happening. These off-road routes were grinding, technical and there was always the chance of mechanicals. Not to mention bone fractures. Sectors ranged from road to farm tracks; from light gravel to dried up river beds filled with fist sized flint nodules. 

The first objective was to make it to an ancient trackway, a 17km stretch of slabbed ancient cobbles, some broken down with time; grooves made from rain water. Others as smooth as marble. She wondered if they were in fact legendary cobbles or just some kind of geology she didn't understand. Something that by coincidence looked man made. The sun at this point was beating down so hard that the surface of the ancient road shimmered like a puddle, but the only thing that splashed up was the dirt between sequences of the hard stone. With her lips starting to dry out, she knew that hydration was about to be an issue. There were a few vans kitted out as mobile shops mainly selling water and bare necessities along the route. As she knew that resupply would be scarce she had marked them out on her route the night before. Alex downed the rest of her bidon and ear-marked the next mobile shop on the map for a re-up. 

Two clicks further down the road, Alex pulled over to the side of the road to where a van with a water drop symbol painted on the back of it was parked. A led display above the symbol kept bleeping out in an insistent manner ' water available, water available,,,,85% filtered from agricultural run-offs....' A service hatch had been cut into the side of it. She bought three bidons worth of water. Chugging one down straight away, she put the remaining water into her bottles and slid them into their cages. She blasted past the last few mobile structures where a handful of people were hovering around for some kind of meat roll that was being served up. The smell smacked her senses, lips moistened by the sensation. She spat out the bitter sweet taste of that indulgence and kept on riding. 

The large cobbled surface gradually reduced to a medium grained gravel. This marked the end point of an arduous segment and a transition to something altogether finer. Beyond some tall hedgerows she could just make out the sawtooth edges of a pine forest filling the horizon. A hard right later and she was into a clearing. Here she saw the sky filtering down from a cloudless blue into a resinous green before darkening into foreboding shades of black. The route was now a meadow of scrubland with only sandy channels to navigate. She tried to follow a clean line and not deviate lest she wipe out. Nearing the forest the sand mixed with tree roots and the ground started to harden. Soon the trees sheltered her from the blazing sun.

Alex remembered the last time she was here, when the winter still had a grip and not even the earliest of buds had sprung from the branches. Now the thin stemmed ferns reached upwards, nearly waist height and starting to unfurl. In the dappled light she could see foxgloves popping up in the sandy banks that edged the forest. Where life in the city seemed to be on the steady decline, here in the woods the opposite was happening. Travelling fast along the fire roads, she quick routed and made her way beyond where the loggers had reached. The trees stood uniform and at attention in the managed forest. The roads through here ran straight and in grids. Different types of pine grew depending on the section. Here small redwoods were crowded in by the blossoming rhododendrons appearing as blurry purple splatters as Alex cruised by. 

There were illegal campsites setup in the proxy forest with temporary checkpoints; these were purely perfunctory and more just to let people know that they were there and to move along to another spot. When the loggers reached the camps, the squatters would just retreat further into their sylvan keep. No shots were fired as the squatters and the forestry commission lived in a balanced system where both wanted to protect the forest at all costs; one for money and the other for shelter. The same could not be said if any feds or militant factions made their way down to the woods at night. Maybe Swampy knew this and was using them as a barrier from the government forces that he alluded to, the ones that wanted to silence him permanently. 

Using the grid like system of the managed woods she easily rerouted past checkpoints 1-4, but there was no way of getting through checkpoint five. The path she needed to access was located firmly within the campsite's perimeter. Ahead of her were tall angular forms disrupting her field of vision, shapes that looked oddly out of place from the constant repeat of trees. As she pedalled nearer, she could make out that they were rusty old cars that had been planted vertically and turned into watchtowers. The number five was daubed in black paint on the yellow hood of the first car. Inside these metal shells, low res optics mounted on post-war rifles were cradled in the arms of a volunteer militia looking out over the entry points into the campsite.

"Rider slow, your roll!" blared the watchman. Alex pulled to a gravel crunching stop. She was ready for this. A bright beam of light flashed her in the face. As she went to show him the note the beam followed her hand as she reached inside her jersey. Snatching the note from her hand he gave her the once over with his flashlight. He then brushed a scanner over her bike, checking for trackers, explosives, weapons perhaps. When she had accepted the gig, one of Swampy's minions had left Alex with a note to present to the sentry. She hadn't had a chance to look at it and hoped for the best. He took a brief look and waved her along. It seems she was expected.

As she rolled the through the campsite, dusk was settling in and the light from the sinking sun filtered hazy pink beams through the pine forest. There was a bustle amongst the forest dwellers; hunters returned from the deeper parts of the woods with rabbits swinging from their belts. Parents called out for their children to come back to the tent. Fires hissed and crackled, pots crammed full of foraged mushrooms and tubers started to simmer. Bucolic scenes of a simple life in the woods flittered for just an instance before her, then fluttered away as the gentle crunch of the gravel below reminded her that dreams are just a fools errand.

The pursuit of happiness in reality will be crushed under an ever rolling wheel of destruction constantly being dealt out by the authoritarian regime of Doom City. Something that Swampy has been waffling on about ad nauseam in his latest tirades that he broadcasts from the forest. These ideas were infiltrating Alex's' thoughts and turning her into a real downer. 

As the tents petered out, the forest returned the main causeway to a narrow path that darkened with every pedal stroke. The canopy was closing in on Alex, so she switched on her single focus IR light, painting the trail in front with a harsh red beam. The path looked to be taken over by thistles and thorns, but just as it reached a finite point the computer indicated a slight left adjustment. Apparently this section wasn't created by a human, it looked to be an animal track replete with some droppings and hoof prints. Up ahead there was a waist height chicken wire fence, the area looked ringed of, like some kind of lo-fi perimeter. All of a sudden, a crackle came over her earpiece, it had picked up Swampy's channel. If you listened closely there was a constant pulse he played at low volume on this frequency; the nearer you were the faster the pulse. Alex guessed that she was at least three hundred yards out. On the computer unit this was marked as the end of the route. Looking through the fence, she could just make out what looked like the outline of an angular shaped structure. She decided to follow along the fence's perimeter. There must be an opening at some point she thought. Not long after, once she had pushed through a particularly frustrating set of thorny bushes, she noticed an end to the fence with a makeshift gate post suggesting an entrance. Beyond was a clearing and the front of a large canvas military tent. 

Above the entrance a radio broadcast light was glowing green. Through a clear plastic window, she could see a figure motioning her in. Alex parked up her bike outside and passed through the tent flaps. This was not a recording studio as you'd know it. No sound proofing, no glass between the sound desk and the mic. In fact, there were no walls. It was a canvas army surplus tent in the woods. A mosquito net was the barrier. The sounds of the wildlife settling down at dusk will be all over this recording, Alex thought. She flopped down in one of the camping chairs that had been folded up in the corner of the room, pulling out one of her bidons, she took a slug of electrolyte infused water.Swampy was sat at a desk in the middle of the makeshift radio studio, surrounded by broadcasting equipment and crumpled up pieces of paper. Looking even more maniacal than she had remembered. His stare absorbed the light around him like a dying star. His eyes focused on nothing and everything at the same time. He flicked a switch and the light outside went red. There was no intro, not a good evening listeners or a jingle, just him delivering his sermon like a back country preacher spitting venom with a forked tongue, where love and hate merged and became one. 

"The decrepit radio frequency was lost on charm, lost in translation. The point of having a signal is to be able to relay information of importance and with ease. Done so with efficiency and speed. This signal was of a more distorted variety. If you have ever heard of a game called Telephone, it was similar to that. What you sent down the line would no doubt become abstracted. You could call it chaos radio; random order that still seemed relevant to the information that you needed. An alternate version of what you wanted to hear. But then who wants to hear what they really want to hear? Why not follow this other channel? Why not follow this differing message? Your path is clear, the message you expect is there and you follow procedure, follow the expected outcome. But fuck it, this other plot point has come into place. Your dodgy HAM radio has told you an alternate truth, an alternate message."

"He's pushing the alternate truth thing again" Alex thought. Why did she help him out? This crazy kook. It certainly wasn't for the money....

"This alternative message was there for destabilisation. But what do we know of the balance of life? How do we judge a solid system state of being, where one action leads to a reaction? The stable thoughts that we would like to hear through that simple message over the radio static are not there, it has been hijacked, jammed and replaced with a different setup. Following the chaos theory or habit that this radio broadcasts, we could potentially pass on to a devolved state. A new way of being. Existing in this fractal-based continuum would establish a replicating system that would far surpass the cyclical process of life through basic procreation. This type of radio transmission is trying to accomplish the destruction of your life and put it back together again, albeit contorted."

"I'm sending out a warning to double check messages coming through on the HAM radio setups." His finger now sternly pointing at the mic, hammering home his message.
"Signals have been overpowered and corrupted. Check sources, double check the sender. I think they are trying to strangle our communications network. All I'm saying is, be careful what you are listening to. The old adage is, if it sounds to good, then it's definitely bad. Swamp Rat out." With that he flicked a switch, the bulb went back to green.

Passing through the netting, he unfolded another chair and crashed wearily into it opposite Alex. Planting a cigarette between his lips, he exhaled the words "So, Alex, you made it." He tossed the dat file over to her. 

"Yes Swampy I've dragged my way through thorny bushes and everything else just so I can pass your mighty words on to the good people of Doom City."

"Well the good people of Doom City salute you." Swampy replied. Brushing off Alex's' salty comment in a similar fashion to the way you would wipe cigarette ash from your shirt; it happened, but is of no great concern.

"By the way, are you paying junkies to pass on job details now?" She said with a sarcastic lilt.

"He wasn't a junkie, just one of my operatives". Swampy's reply was devoid of any emotional retort.

"You have operatives? My god the snowball has really gathered speed." Alex was laying it on thick now.

"Yes the messages are spreading, people are ready to hear the truth" Swampy responded in a more animated manner this time, his radio voice turned back on.

"And, are the checkpoints filled with your people?"

"Some are sprinkled among them."

"You know the more people you trust, the more chance there is of being discovered." Alex meant this with real concern. Swampy had reached a cult level status and was losing some of his special forces battle readiness to his ego.

"I'll move on soon enough and speaking of moving along." Swampy got up a little stiffly and handed an envelope to Alex and said, "half now, half later when you drop the tape."

Alex pocketed the envelope in her rear jersey. There wasn't really anything more to get out of Swampy. Not that she was looking for something. It's just that after years of serving together in the LRRP's(long-range reconnaissance petrol), you'd expect just a glint of that former life and that camaraderie. Perhaps that's why she kept coming back. 

"See yah Swampy." She said as she got out of her chair and exited the tent. Looking back as she pushed her bike down the trail, she could see his silhouette at the entrance to the tent. The glow from his cigarette illuminated his face for a brief moment before sinking back into the darkness. A man that had now entered the shadow world, far detached from the crumbling metropolis that they had both fought so hard for. The distance was growing between them and as Alex scrambled through the bushes, careful to duck under low hanging branches she thought hard about her existence that balanced precariously on the razors edge. Was she ok with the status quo or did she want disrupt it? Suddenly her GPS flared up, kicking her out of her introspective state. She had just hit the boundary of camp five. Travelling into Doom City before the morning rush was likely to raise suspicion, so she decided to find a secluded corner of the camp to grab some shut-eye before heading out in the AM. 

She had just settled into her sleeping system when what sounded like rain started smashing into her bivy. In fact, it was a swarm of midges trying to infiltrate through the lining of the sack. Attracted to her breath, it was only a matter of time before they made their way in. If so, she would have to move location; perhaps find a place with a breeze to keep them from hovering. How long could she bare this for? Stay out the forest they said, lest the bugs will get you. Alex wasn't going to listen to anybody's advice. She lay there resilient, but checking her hands for the tiny interlopers every fifteen minutes. After three rounds of sentry duty, she remained bug free and drifted off into the night. 

It was not quite dawn when Alex woke up. The forest was quiet, her night had been interjected with guttural cries from what she hoped had been woodland creatures. Things had gotten a little spicy since her last special ops ride and she was getting a bit spooked by night rides. The daylight dispersed those shapes and shadows that haunted her. They may have just been brambles and bushes but when you've been through some shit anything can set you off. She laid there in a state of awkward comfort; the sleeping bag made more homely by the knowledge that you have a survived another night on the road. It was that point in the waking hour when you didn't want to get out of your sack as the warmth that you'd accumulated overnight would be gone as soon as you unzipped. Alex rubbed her eyes and geared herself up for the day ahead. She followed her usual morning ritual on the road; a cup coffee, a bowl of oats, then saddle up and roll out. 

As she cleared the forest, she could see that troopers had been here recently. There were MPV tracks imprinted into the slightly damp ground just before the road turned from farm tracks back tarmac. After scanning the surrounding area with her binoculars for any signs of them, she was satisfied that the coast was clear. Nearing Doom City she filtered into the morning traffic, lost amongst the tankers and the city transits. She made her way to the West Gate. Producing a government stamped travel pass got Alex through the control point. All that was left to do was to meet with one of Swampy's' cultists and hand them over the dat file. From there they would broadcast his message from a series of blockchain transmission devices set up over the city. Placed on trees, buildings and lamp-posts to provide a continuous broadcast. If one link was severed, it would just be replaced by another.

Alex waited down one of the many thousands of dingy alleyways that connect the city. The crunch of glass underfoot, in the distance amongst a shroud of steaming sewer vapour appears the cultist or be it junky skulking towards her. A swap of items, a dat file given an envelope received. Some cash and a hand written note, taking her somewhere unknown. Dangerous in a city where she knows nearly everywhere......

B-Movie Buffet: Intruder

Spawned from an earlier outing to see Hobo with a Shotgun and enlivened by an intense bowl of noodles afterwards, I thought it was time to create my own dishes to go with a few hit flicks that stoked the bubbling cauldron of movies condemned to the mainstream masses shit-list. Dishes have been paired with the energy of the film; a taste of the action, a slurp of the sensational and a bite of the best B-movies out there(or at least in my archive). Now there is great debate as to what makes a film a B-movie. In my eyes it has to be a cult classic, something that was never a huge cinema hit, or in general was not highly regarded by the contemporary cinema going audience. Mainly a mixed bag of thrillers, sci-fi and horror, they are prized by a select awesome few. As the articles roll out you’ll get the idea.

Tonights Movie is Intruder (1989)
Directed by Scott Spiegel

A killer is on the loose in the supermarket. You hate the job with a passion, the other people working there range from being a couple of dicks to a pair of beautiful teases. Now to make things worse some whack job is slashing people up and down the cereal aisle. Waiting for death, you might as well have a final meal. A Frito Pie is a quick fixer upper, a real king of convenience. With a nervy supermarket dash, you can easily pick up all the ingredients: a pack of Fritos, a can of chilli(pull tab, you got no time for a can opener), some shredded cheese and if you know where they are pick up some pre-diced onions. Now hot foot it to the staff kitchen. Come on run faster, he is definitely on your ass by now. Don't look back, go, go, go. You made it, lock the door.

Put the chips in a bowl, then the chilli, sprinkle with cheese and throw in the microwave. Did the door handle just move? Fuck man, if the cheese has melted, pull out your last meal from the microwave and liberally chuck those onions on there. Get a fork, he's hacking at the door with his knife. Ok get under a table, close your eyes, take a bite. I know it's hot, but enjoy – this is it my friend……

And…. if you're not being chased by a killer, then you have a lot more time on your hands. The thing with a frito pie is that you can go as nuts as you like with it. Adding wildness where you see fit, garnish it out the ying-yang. I chose to keep the extra-features to a minimum and push all the flavour devotion to the chilli. In this case we are going south of the border for inspiration, so I must re-pronounce it chile. The canned stuff you get in stores all over the world has Mexican roots and I would surmise that the Mole de Coloradito I used as a base here, stomps anything canned and flogged in your local supermarket. Not as intense as your more full on ingredient heavy moles. This sauce is like mole-light.

Made from ancho chiles, garlic, toasted bread, roasted tomatoes, onion, oregano, cloves, cinnamon and peppercorns. This is about half the usual amount of things you would put in a more robust mole. With the sauce being milder, I can get away with using minced turkey. Easily injected with flavour from the sauce, while not being susceptible to the gnarlier fry that minced beef takes on. The turkey stays moist and tender, which reflects well when you bite through the crunchy corn Fritos. Add a squeeze of lime and this thing will zing. Diced onions are the norm here, but even without the fear of death, I have put enough onion in the mole and the turkey that I opted out of using it in the final garnish.

For the cheese I went all mellow and melancholy with Keen's cheddar; a chalky burst of shredded cheese pleasure. It has what I would consider a neutral ph balance; an understatedly bold flavour. The heat from the chile should start to melt the cheese, but not completely. I like the contrast of cold cheese and hot chile. Mixing it up above a bed of the crunchy corn snacks. It's all action just like this fright fest of a flick. Eat a Frito Pie before it's too late.

The Christmas Ornament

A few words to enjoy over the festive season - GN

The Christmas Ornament

The ornament hangs from every tree in every house in the country.
It lets me know if you are naughty or nice by a subtle glow.
Green for good and red for downright nasty. Amber and you are cutting a fine line.
If your kid is rude, I'll give your chimney a miss because I ain't got time for your little dude.

I've got evil elf issues and I've had to sit them on the shelf.
The reindeers are giving me stick, they've broken into the barley wine and
if they don't take off tonight I'm gonna do them a crime.

I've laid off half my staff. Online ordering has stolen my soul.
Order from them and the ornament will let me know straight up to the North pole.
Mess me about too much and my cousin Krampus will come knocking on your front door.
He is the king of chaos and will settle the score.

But, I digress I'm sure you've all been acting like the sweetest of angels.
Lost in wrapping paper and ribbons - candy canes and the act of giving.
You've no doubt already snuck a kiss under the mistletoe,
probably let carol singers fill you with Christmas cheer,
and even gobbled a scalding mince pie straight from the oven.

These are the wonderful gestures that keep me going.
That and on my return a longing snuggle with Mrs. Klaus
and even the purr of our ruddy flea-ridden kitten.

Now, before I already lament the pine-scented passing of Christmas let's get back to business.
The ornament now pulses with a strong glow. It is time to check on the reindeers and go.

From the Land's End to the End of the Land

In October I rode from Land’s End to John o’ Groats in aid of a charity called the Ministry of Stories. It took five days and was on the rather grueling side of things. Here is a cobbled together journal of the ride.
Enjoy, Greg

Day 1

You were chatting on the radio, chasing down leads, writing blog posts, donning monster masks, and posting videos, but now you are on the starting block on a clear Monday morning. You look west out to sea and observe a world smothering cloud moving in. Better hop to it and start this ride.

The first glitch. The computer hasn't uploaded my new route for the day. Murphy's law dictates this is a perfect time for this to happen. Thirty minutes of endless faffing about and the computer is synched. Just in time, as the first drop of rain dings against my helmet.

And I'm off. All the planning behind me, the ride is real. Even though the rain has set in there is a calmness in the air. Perhaps a perceived one but a good time to focus and settle in for the day.

Dawn is magical, a bold statement indeed. The term magical, loose, and vague but fitting if used for emotive purposes. Those few hours before the sun rises, when there is nothing but a tiny patch of road lit up by your bike lights. Everything is broken down into simplicity. Just you, the bike, and the journey ahead. Later, the roads get busier and the landscape reveals its dirty little secrets; like big hills in the distance, urban sprawls where glass and road debris litter the streets, and traffic lights set you back.

But back to Cornwall. By the time the sun had risen, I was through Penzance and riding into Marazion. St. Michaels Mount sat brooding off in the distance. In wet weather, this historic feature did not really dazzle but rather dampened the spirits, as if the ride’s outcome was already written in the sand. That of a dreary doom and damp ladened adventure.

But the thing with riding is that you not only go through all the seasons in one day but all the emotions as well. Like going up a hill you can be up and you can be down. This was a down moment but you learn from experience that you will be up again soon enough. This came in the form of Dartmoor. Moments earlier, in the town of Tavistock, the rain proceeded to reign havoc on the cycle computer. It went haywire, changing pages, pausing then unpausing, starting new laps. And this just before a big climb.

I looked at my phone, got the route, and headed out of town. Slowly I climbed into Dartmoor National park. At a quick pitstop, I watched a farmer’s psychedelically painted collection of sheep have a gnaw on the grass amongst the heather. My first words of the day were to another species and it felt fitting as my detachment from the rest of humanity was now ever-growing. I had firmly broken off from the humdrum of society’s daily shuffles. A few miles down the road and the cloud layer splintered. The sun revealed itself. The mood shifted, the tors magnificent; the black band of tarmac snaked up and around this beautiful park. Wild horses ran down the road, others spooked, headed off into the distance coursing through irregular rock formations…

I was out the other side and guess what? The rain caught up with me. By the time I had gotten to Exeter, I was navigating by phone as my CPU had flipped out. Coming up to 6 pm and this was not the time for getting lost in a city. Foul moods had once again arisen. Still trying to bust a move out of the city and the first day's ride was about to fade into darkness. Exiting the sprawl, I could now focus on getting through a series of small villages. I'd check them off as I went and then made a note of the next place to head for. The computer at this point was not navigating, but at least showed me where I was on the map. The rain kicked up and my surroundings became forested, remote -- or at least I felt cut-off from everything and everybody.

The rain lashed against my face as the wind kicked up a notch, and then the computer went dead...
The light that had felt like a little beacon of hope had now gone out. I had been erased from the map. Phone service was intermittent. I'd ride for a bit then look at my phone. Realize I'd gone the wrong way and set back in another direction; check the signal, check the map, zip the phone back up and head out. The lights of Taunton now appeared as a glimmer of civilization. At this point, I was talking out loud like a haunted spirit. Somewhere to the northeast was my destination. Looking back into the darkness and the relentless rain I headed on until the village of Drayton revealed itself to me.

A soggy mess of squelching shoes and a defeated spirit..........

Day 2

In for the fight and hoping for an easier day of it

I shrugged off the day before, the only reminder being my entrenched shoes and socks. The computer was now working, albeit I didn't dare pause it at any time lest it starts freaking out again. The sighting of the day was Glastonbury Tor. Not really on my route but I saw it off in the distance. Like most of the sights on this ride, it was just out of reach. A constant reminder that this wasn't a sightseeing adventure. A glorious single-track farm road sat basking in the sunlight, giving me good vibes for the low-key morning ride into Bristol.

Bristol was the usual big-city chaos. The wind was now starting to kick as I followed the river Avon. Above, the Clifton suspension bridge hung over the gorge. For some reason, I thought I was going over it, but no I headed into an industrial estate and was now firmly ensconced in roundabouts filled with huge lorries heading over the Severn Bridge to Chepstow. The roads were ground up by heavy load traffic and the slight ascent up a rough surface gave my 25mm's something to grumble about.

After this industrial interlude, I was now ducking and diving along the border with Wales as I followed the river Wye. The river so serene I was hypnotized. Its tranquil nature tried to bamboozle me into sitting by the sun-dappled shore, whiling away the hours. Snap out of it! No time for that as I bombed past Tintern Abbey. In Monmouth I stopped to degrease the chain and put on some fresh wet-lube as the fancy stuff I applied in Cornwall couldn't handle the rain.

On to Herefordshire and into Shropshire, these went by in a blur. A slight headwind buffed the sharp edges and made the riding rougher. It had gotten cold and I hid in a neglected bus shelter to put on another layer. The sun was now setting and the last downhill section put the chill right into my bones. A petrol station stop to warm up and have a coffee. Then on to Shrewsbury and the thankfully fairly flat ride into Marpas.

Day 3

Get that first cup of coffee down your neck as fast as possible.

The last two days had done me in and I looked to see if it was possible to do some active recovery on this day's ride. So, instead of heading deep into the Lake District, I re-routed to enter the gateway town of Kendal. Then up over Shap Fell and into Penrith. This would save me a few thousand feet of climbing, but still starting and ending in the original places. Man, that was a great decision.

The computer was on a wobbler this morning. After nearly an hour of messing about with it and changing out my brake pads, I set off late. With my navigation system not working I had my phone at the ready for directions. I left under duress.

A few miles down the road from the hotel, I was chased by what can only be described as a trio of guard turkeys. I'm not calling some security personnel turkeys just to be condescending, no I was actually chased down the road by bonafide turkeys of the Christmas dinner variety. Before they could gobble me up. I clicked up a gear and left with a chuckle. Once up the road, the CPU kicked back in and my maps were back online. Things were on the up and up.

Most of the morning's ride was ambling through the built-up areas of Merseyside. It was a relief to hit Lancashire which reminded me more of the rolling hills and farmlands of Essex. Then it was into Cumbria and the town of Kendal. Had I really gotten away with not too much climbing in the Lake District? No, because around the corner was Shap fell!! You might not think it by this point but the climb was a wonderful slow grind. One where you can settle in and plod along. To the left lied the inner sanctum of the Lake District, up ahead the summit and a rapid descent down to Penrith. From there on to Carlisle and then the border.

Gretna Green couldn't come soon enough after many miles on a road that ran next to the motorway. The fast-moving traffic up above my only company. Miles in the dark seems longer when there is nothing to look at. Just your breathing and your pedal strokes, each breath, each rotation of the crank taken into account on what felt like a constant loop. Eternal playback of the same stretch of road. After crossing the border, a barely in-focus selfie by the Welcome to Scotland sign was taken, followed by a two mile shuffle to the service station hotel for the night. Emotions were running on empty.

Day 4

Chasing light and running into darkness

Yeehah, the weather report is for light rain in the morning. The computer is working, life is great! The road from Gretna Green to Glasgow pretty much follows the motorway, weaving from one side of it to the other. Nothing spectacular, just a case of putting in the miles. Daylight took forever to break and when it did a layer of gray was the best you were going to get. In the true spirit of the ride, the clouds showed their appreciation and poured encouragement down on me. Shivering, a much-needed stop was made for a coffee, some layering, and a curry pie! Yes, a classic pitstop combination.

Back into the grey misery which tagged along all the way to Glasgow. With time an issue, I didn't want the last big city navigation to be a game of snakes and ladders; which is generally what happens with council-run bike routes. But Glasgow was smooth sailing and gave me a real insight into the psychogeography of the place. As if emotions were connected to weather patterns, my good mood was blessed by sunshine.

Following what seemed like a disused railway line out of the city, then along a canal for ages, I was lost in a bucolic moment of suburban fly fisherman and a winding river interjected with council housing and new builds. This river led all the way to the bottom of Loch Lomond.

The mist sat over the lake and the sky above was not a dire reflection of the water below but an all-out dismal forecast for the next segment’s ride. Having a quick snack before heading along the shores of the Loch, I dreamed longingly of having something warm to drink in a venue that sat pretty and lit up by the lake, beckoning me to enter. The last outpost, the last temptation. I brutally disconnected myself from that fantasy and headed out…

And guess what happened? Skirting the lake on a route that dipped down to the water's edge, then back up to the road and then down again in a frustrating game of do I don't I. The drops started, first light drizzle then the rain was just shoveled into my face and down the back of my neck. The computer craped out. It went through its usual freak-outs, but this time it was the final death knell. My CPU had kicked the bucket.

By this point, the route was an array of over-saturated verdant foliage and water that gushed from the side of the hills, bursting out across the road. I laughed in the face of such chaos and pounded the peddles harder in a moment of madness. The Trossachs had taken my sanity.

And then it was up into a mountainous pass, where the three sisters: Aonach Dubh, Beinn Fhada, and Gearr Aonach resided. and on to Fort William - passing at the foot of Ben Nevis, before riding through the inky mire to Inverganny- all shrouded in darkness. Another confirmation that this ride wasn't just for kicks, but regardless these shadows out of time were sorely missed.

Day 5

CPU down, CPU down...

It was decision time. With my cycle computer completely not working by this point, orientation would be down to looking at my phone every now and again. Luckily there are not too many roads to choose from when you are this far north. My original route for today initially took me up the eastern side of Loch Ness and into hillier terrain. By the looks of it, the road was very small or possibly a trail. Another stint of being lost in the dark made me shudder and the thought of my phone losing signal while up there made me choose a hard fast route instead.

The A82 into Inverness during the day would have been way too intense, but at 5 am it gave me about three hours to hightail it the forty plus miles in relative peace and quiet. It was for the most part a chilled early morning ride, where houses sat tucked away in the tree-line and the road slumbered along the side of a steep incline. It hooked around Urquhart bay before climbing out of Nessie HQ aka Drumnadrochit and back to the west bank of the Loch. With only sixteen miles left to go a silver sliver of Loch Ness exposed itself to the rising sun and the clouds of early dawn reflected back up into the sky. The traffic had picked up, but luckily I was already at the outskirts of Inverness.

It was a slightly janky route out of Inverness, following alongside the A9 for a bit before jigsawing across a few B-roads. Then settling on an upper valley route, which brought views down to the spreading lowlands and hid the layout of the road ahead.

The landscape was now covered by a huge patchwork of pine and the road that followed lead me into a heavy mist. All my lights were put back on hoping that the cars saw my intermittent red flashes in this pea soup. After a mile or so just like that I dropped out of the mist and into a fast, thrilling descent down to the Firth of Dornoch, the sun setting the scene. A switch flipped and the lakeside charm was turned on.

Time to burn rubber to Lairg full of smaller hills and autumnal trees. Then it was a step up into raw unadulterated beauty. Leaving the main route for a smaller road, that, as always starts off as nondescript but ends up crammed full of fast flowing rivers, open vistas, and mountains spread out across the horizon. A sense of ease passed through to the peddles and I finally took it all in. The ride itself, the rough days before, and was I now ready to fully appreciate the present.

Openly engaged with the landscape I saw some deer amongst the felled trees in the foreground. Soon after I scooted by the famed Crask Inn; a historic stopping point for long-distance riders. Then there was a long winding descent, not a fast and furious technical flurry, but one of a soothing curl around a stream, a continuous coast, and looks of longing as I cruised by the Munro that is Ben Kilbreck. For something so massive, you don't expect a swirling silence, but it is a serenity that you find in these places.

A long lost friend returns. The pitter-patter of rain makes itself known and the floating on a cloud vibe was cancelled. The peddling became furious. No wet gear today as it was already soaked through. The saviour today was my merino base layer. The loser of the day was my pace. The more the rain came down the more intense I rode. I had thrown down the gauntlet, the battle was on. I vowed to beat him, I praised him with profanities and I kept the engine warm. But this came with a caveat of diminishing returns. Blasting out of the single-lane road that cut back into the A386, I cheered at the thought of only thirty miles to Thurso. This was the final town before hooking left to John O' Groats.

Alas, as I saw the waves crashing against the north coast of Scotland, it was with a heavy heart that I realised that these miles we going to be tough. The coast as I found out was not flat but a series of ups and down out of each cove or inlet, please ask my high school geography teacher for the right terminology. Pedaling dropped to a minimum, time grabbed me by the throat. The mind had a chat with the body and decided to act up. No matter how many gels I sucked down now they were not helping.

I had a break in a bus shelter and did a little mind refocus. The finish line was so close now. I couldn't just stop. Back off again, down a hill up a hill, mumble something, laugh at it, and peddle on. The sun was now setting behind me and I was starting to wobble a bit over the road. Another break and a quick phone call to my wife: “Please make me a mortadella sandwich and meet me outside the hotel in one hour”.
The sixteen miles to Thurso were a series of micro deaths and system reboots, all the grueling way into town.

There she was outside the hotel, sandwich in hand, my lucky star. I threw on another layer whilst wolfing down the sandwich. My lovely lady grabbed me an espresso from the hotel bar. That was swigged back and followed by a gel for good measure. A quick route check, a kiss, and then a click of the pedals and I was on the road again.

Energised by sustenance, by the thought of finishing I pushed it hard, nothing could stop me now. In the black of the night on the last twenty miles, I could hear the wind and the waves creating a sonic backdrop, the perfect crescendo welcoming me to the end of the land. Every solitary light in the distance perhaps the end? No, not yet the road just kept on going on. But now a left-hand turn, this was it! And there was the famous sign, beyond was a fishing boat undulating in the harbour, the only sound a cable clacking against a mast. As I leave in the dark, I arrive in the dark.

The ride in totality was around 950 miles between the two signposts. That's thirty less than the original route after I shortened day three. The total raised for the Ministry of Stories was £4100. Super happy about that, so thanks to everybody that supported the ride and has now supported the Ministry of Stories.

Much love to my sweetheart for feeding me, picking me up off the floor, and sourcing the last can of degreaser in Bristol.

If you are interested in volunteering at the writing workshops or working behind the counter at Hoxton Street Monster Supplies.
check out this link: https://ministryofstories.org/volunteer/

Love to All,
-G-

Monster Snax

Harry ‘Peddle Crusher’ Harris

It has recently been brought to my attention that there is a shop in London called Hoxton Street Monster Supplies which caters to every monster’s needs. I thought I'd put them to the test and see if they had anything for an endurance athlete like yours truly. An OG ogre from the barren wastelands. Out here, cycling is a way of life and definitely not for the faint-hearted. The sandstone cobbles have rattled more than a few bones loose from the pro peloton. That’s not to mention the constant danger of terror-hawks plucking a few riders clear off into the sky!

I've picked up a few items and field-tested them on some of my training rides.
Here are my top picks.

“Enjoy , Harry“

Sugar Dusted Bogies

When I'm parched and my mouth tastes like a sack of old leather, the sweet tangy chew of sugar dusted bogies really gets the mouth juices flowing again. Not only this but they also reignite my sore ogre muscles. These little balls of compressed human snot tug at my heartstrings and bring back memories of less stressful times when winning a grand tour wasn’t all that mattered. Gone are the carefree days of sharing fresh snot between chums and racing to the stop sign at the end of the lane.

A refreshing sour/sweet kiss, I’ve always thought that human snot tastes a bit like apples. Plus they are extra large for my big old clumsy hands.
I highly recommend them.

Toasted Bone Chunks

The finest-tasting Englishman I've ever had. Pure protein with a satisfying crunch. They stick to your teeth a little bit like any freshly ground human should do. They feel so soothing on my itchy teeth. What ogre doesn’t like that grating, abrasive sensation as you grind human bone into mush? My gnashers look even more broken up and perfect after a munch on these chunks.

As a professional athlete, I must give my body the ultimate fueling system possible so I can perform at an optimal level. The quality of protein in here is through the roof! And I swear I can even taste a little bit of the bone marrow in there. What a bonus!

Cubed Earwax

These are for when you are bonking(running out of energy) hard. You know that time when the bike is zig-zagging across the road. The mountain is closing claustrophobically in around you and the wall of despair is fast approaching. This delicacy can really save the day. But why settle for any old jug-eared human earwax. These nuggets of wax are harvested from humanoids fed on Tinned Fear. This paralyzing effect basically preserves the nutrient-rich essence that ghoulish athletes can then use to perform heroic feats.
What caffeine is to humans, earwax is to ogres!

Werewolf Biscuits

I didn’t want to hog all the foglight here so my pal in the racing circuit Morti Fang, a famed werewolf in the peloton had these few notes on the biscuits.

This is a treat for when I am home from a ride and need to recover properly. You'd think a lycanthrope couldn't sweat during the full moon but I seriously ooze buckets of the stuff during my favourite night of the month. It’s the time at which I feel the strongest, but it's also when I go the hardest and when I need to take my recovery the most seriously. It does was it says on the tin; increases vitality, well-being and really does help maintain my glossy coat.

When training hard is a bitter pill to swallow the soothing melt in the mouth, butter me up vibe of this biscuit hits all the right places.
You’ll be howling at the moon in no time and leaving your rivals in the spectral dust of the twilight zone.

I hope you have found this informative. To buy these horrifically wonderful products head over to the webshop :
Hoxton Street Monster Supplies
There is also this guy named Greg whose website I’m writing this article on that would like you to check out a ride he is doing for the charity called
Ministry of Stories. They help support the needs of monsters and small humans.
https://ministryofstories.enthuse.com/pf/greg-nay-e0ce6

Cheers again,
Harry

Sloppy Attack: Red Dawn

I thought I might put some of my old food writing on the news feed, just sharing some of the wordage from my defunct Broken Spork blog. Always makes me smile when I read some of the posts. This one is from a series I did called Bmovie Buffet where I concocted a dish to pair with a classic cult movie. In this instance, the movie was Red Dawn and the dish was a veal chipotle sloppy joe. Have a read..

RED DAWN

 Your dream has come true, no more high school. Those crafty Ruskies have brought the cold war right to your front door. They've rolled over your house with a tank, blown up your favourite arcade, and replaced the star-spangled banner with the hammer and sickle. What are you going to do about it Yankee? You are going to get your teenage kicks by fighting back right? Arm yourself, soldier, it's time to become a man. Think about it, you get to go camping, shoot guns and maybe even smoke a few sneaky cigarettes. You're a freedom fighter, a true patriot, so fuck yeah lock and load, it's hunting season.

 But, remember it's all about survival. If you had time to raid the general store before heading to the hills then you probably grabbed a can of Manwich. Well I know it tastes a little of home, but it can't replace the one mom makes, so here's one I made whilst thinking of you all huddled around campfires, listening out for hushed Russian voices and the tell-tale snap of a twig underfoot.

 A Veal Chipotle Sloppy Joe squared up nicely to the original all-beef variety, the lean veal accepting the smoked chile and tomato sauce rather than opposing it. A melt of Red Leicester over the slop gave its nutty annatto charm to the sweet sauced meat. The top half of a toasted brioche bun received a slick of mayonnaise and centered the meal in a bun.  A spare few slices of homemade bread and butter pickles kept your palate refreshed and going back for another bite so that you'll be ready to fight another day.

Go Wolverines -"G.N."

An Etching Introduction

On the latest project entitled the Riverman, Lisa Kane put an insane amount of work into her etchings. I don't think most people realize how much time and effort go into each one, so I thought it would be a good idea for Lisa to break it down for everybody out there. 
-G-

I use copper plates but also zinc and aluminium can be used. Copper is more expensive but the images come out better. Start with a polished copper plate free of any grease by cleaning it with ammonia and chalk powder. This is essential so that in the next stage when the resin is applied, you'll get an even 'bite' when the plate goes into the acid.

There are two drawing techniques used. Hard and soft etching. Hard etching is for a clean fine line and is made by applying a hard etching ball, a resin that is melted onto the heated copper plate then rolled evenly. The same technique is used for soft etching. The difference between the two is that once the resin has dried, the hard etching plate is drawn on directly with a needle-type tool. Soft etching is a more sketchy line that is made by laying a sheet of tracing paper over the plate and drawing the image with a pencil so when the paper is lifted, the image appears in the resin.

Once the image is drawn, the other side of the plate is painted with a varnish to protect it from getting worn away in the acid. The acid...or ferric chloride, is put into a deep tray and the plates are immersed. It takes a good 20 minutes for a hard etched image to develop, shorter times for soft etching. The term 'bite' is used for when it's in the acid. Once they are ready, they are run underwater to stop the bite. The acid bites away any line drawn on the plate that is exposed to acid. The resin stops the acid biting. Take off the resin and you have the image ready to print.

Aquatint is the next stage that gives tone to the plate. Fine dust is spread evenly on the plate. I use a kind of acrylic liquid applied with an airbrush. The plate is cleaned again from grease and any areas of the image I want to be white are painted with a varnish to stop the acid biting. The plate is put back into the acid, timed, usually, the times are much shorter for the acid to bite an aquatint. I usually count to ten then the plate is taken back out and immersed in water. This is repeated until you have varied tones on the plate.

Etching ink is spread onto the finished plates with a piece of card then a piece of scrim is used to push the ink into the bitten lines. To finish, tissue paper takes off the ink on the polished parts of the plate to give the image contrast. The inked-up plate is then put onto an etching press. Special paper is soaked in water, taken out and blotted then placed onto the plate, covered with felt blankets, and rolled through the press. The damp etchings are then placed between drying boards to dry flat.

Lisa Jaggs