For once it wasn’t the other traffic endangering me on today’s morning commute. It was me.

I was absolutely flying this morning, despite the constant whinging from my legs. “What are you doing? That really hurts, I can’t be expected to maintain that sort of pace!” The roads were a bit damp but it’s nothing I can’t deal with. Or so I thought.

I’m approaching a right turn, pedalling like I’m an a sprint on Le Tour (really must fit a bigger gear). I look back, signal, carry on for a bit, then throw the bike over into the corner. It tracks cleanly round the bend and I carry on as usual, pedalling like fury to the next obstacle. Except this time it didn’t quite work like that.

This time I threw the bike into the corner and the front wheel decided it wasn’t going to grip. At all. BAM! My knee hits the floor followed by the rest of me. Traffic comes to a halt and a lady is asking me if I’m OK. I get up, smile at her, tell her I’m alright and the world carries on as normal again.

Perhaps turning in at ludicrous speed wasn’t a great idea in the wet – my tyres were never going to grip the white lines and knackered tarmac all that well were they? The best bit is that I’ve managed to bruise the knee and elbow that didn’t hit the ground. It seems that my bike is made of pretty solid stuff :-/

I hadn’t ridden the 222 for ages. It’d been in the cupboard since Rheola and was in need of a blast. So on Friday night I dragged it out kicking and screaming, made the siezed bottom bracket and freehub spin again and then changed the oil in the forks. That last job is one I’ve been putting off for months, or is it more than a year now? Either way, they had too much oil in them, which meant I was only ever getting about two thirds of the available travel. So I changed the oil, put less in than Marzocchi reccommend, and huzzah! All the travel is available. Winner!

So on Saturday, Anton, Garry and myself dragged our Oranges (two 222’s and a 224) up Leckhampton hill, covered ourselves in body armour and ragged them down the trails all afternoon. I discovered that I had completely forgotten how to ride a bike and had to re-learn the skill over a few hours. Still, I conquered a few more bits of trail, fell down a few others and generally had an ace time. It wasn’t even all that cold. Anton had just fitted his new 888 RC2X forks (you can buy me some if you like) and was getting used to riding a bike without a 25 tonne boat anchor attached to the front.

Avid readers of Weon’s pages (is my jacket really that pink?) will already know that Sunday took me out on my other silver single-pivot full susser. It’s bonkers how bikes have progressed in the last few years. My XC bike isn’t far off having as much suspension travel as the DH bike. Luckily it weighs quite a lot less, or the climb up Cleeve Hill would have been even more painful than it was. We managed to offset the pain with attacks of the giggles – inventing things like Arse Knuckles and the Wheelie-activated Hunting Horn tends to do that to you. Luckily the descents were a lot more fun than the climb, even if the mud made them as slippery as a slippy thing. The trail down to the washpool was ever so slighly sketchy, but the rocky run down to the Rising Sun and then the Devils Steps more than made up for it, even if Owen did nearly run me over on the final stretch down to the road. You haven’t got disc-brakes mate – you need to slow down before I do!

Speaking of which, I nearly went deaf on the ride back into town – my front brake developed a horrendous banshee-like wail that didn’t relent until I put the bike away at home. Must remember to sort that.

I finished the evening off by returning to Weon and Anne’s for dinner. We watched the very good House of Flying Daggers, whilst gorging ourselves (an understatement) on Anne’s fantastic cooking: A chicken-based cottage pie (alas not made of real cottages), then crumble and custard for pudding. Very good pie. Mmmm pie. Thanks Anne :)

I’ve been wanting to redesign this place for ages, but I’ve never really found the time or indeed motivation to do it properly. I needed to change the look with absolute minimum effort for me: I figured a new header image was probably the easiest way to do it, so that’s exactly what I’ve done (it should look like this – you may need to hit reload or clear your cache if you’re not seeing it).

G-Dog gets his five minutes of fame this time. You can tell the pictures are quite old – he’s riding an Orange 222 (You’re my bike now Dave!). They were taken back in July of last year up on Leckhampton Hill , then amalgamated in Photoshop. Yes, I know it all needs a bit of tweaking – especially the navigation. I’ll get around to it at some point.

Oh and a completely unrelated HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAGGUS!

All two of you. Many happy returns to Mr Pollard and Lord Everitt. Hope you’re having a good one.

That is all, please return to whatever you were doing before I rudely interrupted you.

I managed to drag myself up Cleeve Hill today. I rode along the Honeybourne Cycle Path until it’s conclusion, across through Prestbury, then took the climb up Mill Lane. It was absolutely horrible – really hard work to get anywhere (although it’s much nicer having gears for that climb), then when I finally got to the off-road bit, I seemed to have lost any skill and poise I might once have had. Every attempt to ride up a techno-rocky section saw me stall before flailing wildly trying to get a foot out of the SPDs. I’ll conquer that one yet, just you wait.

It was well worth it though. The sun came out just as I reached the top of the climb, making everything seem worthwhile.

I rode to the masts, then followed the road the to moto-cross area, before heading down the rocky descent into Prestbury. I was feeling much more confident this time, riding straight through sections that had me beaten last time. Typical then, that I should meet a Land Rover coming up towards me. I had to stop and scramble up the banking to get out of the way. Fair play though, it went straight up stuff no car has any right to climb.

The rest of the descent seemed to have a river flowing down it, which served to remind me of two things: Firstly, I need to fit a Crud Catcher to the front of that bike (or maybe even my ‘zocchi fender if I’ve still got it) and secondly, I still need to get myself some riding glasses, to stop any cack that a Crud Catcher doesn’t. AARRGGHHH, I’M BLIIINNNNDDD!!!

I’ve bunged the pictures on Flickr if you’re interested.

The best Blonde Joke ever. Fantastic.

This evening I finally saw the first episode of My Name is Earl.

Both Sara and Weon have been raving on about it since it first aired over in the states months ago, but I never found the time to sit down and watch it. They were right: It’s absolutely brilliant. I just hope the rest of the series lives up to this one…

I felt I had to point this one out: Joe Clark’s excellent Failed Redesigns.

When teenagers’ hobbyist blogs (short for “Web logs”) have better code than brand-new Web sites, somebody’s doing something wrong. And that somebody is you, the developer. In a just society you would simply be fired; in an Orwellian society you would be sent to a reëducation camp. Failing either of those, you could at least read a fucking book and upgrade your skills to a point where you are no longer a total laughingstock.

100% of brilliant, and absolutely right. If you’re making money from building websites (i.e. you’re a web professional), bloody well do it properly you lazy sods.