Freewheelin'

I first became aware of fixed gear bikes when I met some friends for a picnic on Hampstead Heath. I was on my Raleigh 3-speed, and they were on fixies. We decided to go to a pub, and my suggestion of The Flask was declined with the explanation that they couldn't go there because it was up a steep hill that they couldn't ascend on their single speed bikes. 

My first experience of fixies, then, was a negative one - of bikes that are restrictive in their use. Like moccasins worn without socks or dreadlocks in fair, straight hair,  the effort and discomfort required to project the aesthetic overwhelms the aesthetic itself, and suggests affectation. I would regularly get stuck behind a fixie going down Dartmouth Park Hill on my ride to work. I love to freewheel down a hill. It's often reward for a hard uphill climb; I even love the rattling whirr of a freewheel mechanism as a bike coasts down a hill. But the fixie-rider must pedal like billy-o to descend a hill, his limited speed forcing me to keep my hand clamped around my brakes, unable to enjoy a glorious coast down a long steep hill.

Before mechanised gears, racing bicycles had different ratio gears on either side of their rear wheel, and racing cyclists would dismount to remove their wheels and change gearing for different sections of a course. There is no optimal single-speed gearing for variable conditions; if you ride a bike with a single speed, you will transfer less of your energy into motion. Why make life difficult for yourself?

The answer to this is that fixed gear cycling is said to increase feedback on tyre grip and of the road in general, and create an "almost mystical connection between a fixed-gear cyclist and bicycle." This has led to fixie riders replacing their saddles with dildos to promote a deeper experience of the city streets beneath them (this is not intended to be a factual statement).


I guess it's obvious by now that I don't wish to offer a fair and balanced account of fixies. On a logical level I appreciate that anyone on a bike, fixed or not, is doing something positive for themselves and their cities. But I find it enjoyable to foster a dislike for an erstwhile harmless phenomenon (one day I'm going to get around to writing about extreme razor scooters).

Here is a typical fixie-rider in Sydney. Fucking cool, right? He demonstrates 4 stupid things about fixies:

1. No helmet. Helmets are mandatory in Australia, but it's common to see fixie riders without them. They often wear those little peaked bike caps instead. Perhaps this person rides so infrequently that he is prepared to risk police fines rather than shell out for a helmet. Or perhaps he would rather take a fine than wear a dorky helmet over his dreads. I've heard theories that it is more dangerous to wear a helmet, as cars tend to give less room to cyclists they perceive as less vulnerable, but it seems preferable to wear a helmet rather than get a fine and a bollocking from a cyclist-hating cop.

2. Cards in spokes. Riding a fixed gear bike with some cards in the spokes qualifies you for membership of an urban subculture called Bicycle Culture. What is awesome about Bicycle Culture is that you don't need to be skilled in any way other than an ability to ride a bike - it's not like skateboarding where you need to spend a few years actually learning an ability - you can bypass this entirely and jump straight into some urban cool by acquiring a fixie and putting some cards in your spokes. You might also want to replace the front wheel of your fixie with a mag wheel. There are some magazines that you can buy that will help you be a member of Bicycle Culture.

3. Riding on the pavement (rather than the road). If you ride a fixie, you are going to get peeled out on by cyclists with geared bikes, because you are less able to transfer your energy into speed and so will be slower. But you can avoid this if you ride on the pavement and ignore road rules. I am perhaps naive in thinking that if cyclists want to be safe and taken seriously on the street, they need to observe the same rules as road traffic. Speak to any non-cyclist and they will list anecdotes about cyclists behaving hazardously. They see one cyclist breaking a rule, and infer that all cyclists break the rules. This is like saying that all drivers are drunken, fly-tipping perpetrators of murderous hit and runs - it's wrong to infer generality from a few noticeable occurences. But one cyclist breaking a rule does harm to us all. Because fixies take more effort to get up to speed from a standing start at traffic lights and junctions, it encourages riders to blast through those junctions, and perpetuate this antagonism between cyclists, pedestrians and other road users.

4. No bar tape. This must be awful when it's cold. Combine bare drop bars with woolen gloves for a mouthful of headset. Looks great, though.




DISCLAIMER: None of the above applies to any of my friends, or to John Cardiel. I just realised that a photo I had posted here was of a bike that belongs to a friend. I have removed the photo, and I hope I didn't hurt his feelings.

Angus in London

In my last post I wrote about taking up cycling as part of a plan to escape penury. It worked. I got out of the financial hole I was in, and took my bike when I moved back to London to work at the BBC in White City. I moved into a beautiful house in Crouch End, which is now my favourite part of the city.

Angus, a 3-speed bicycle

Home - Glasslyn Rd

I like cycling in London. It has a tangle of smaller streets around the main arteries, and many of these are closed by bollards at one end to prevent larger vehicles passing through, which leaves them quiet and safe for cyclists. If you need further assistance navigating safe routes throughout the city, the Mayor's office distribute maps which show quiet streets suggested by other cyclists.

What really recommends cycling in any city are the things you see and hear around the streets, particularly on a bike with an upright riding position. Early one Sunday morning I was riding through a residential street in Highgate, and I stopped at a junction near three shabby middle-aged drinkers. Their staggering gait and rumpled appearance strongly suggested that they were valiantly extending their Saturday night celebrations, but two of them - a man and a woman - were clearly losing motivation and lagging behind a more enthusiastic leader who was dressed in a manner strongly reminiscent of Compo from Last of The Summer Wine.  I wait at a junction as these three walked on a nearby pavement, and one of the laggers shouts ahead, "are you sure this is the way?"

Compo

Compo replies in an Irish accent. "Ah yes, this is definitely the way." He looks around and notices me. "He told me we'll see a man on a bicycle at the end of the street and it's just up ahead after that."





I continued to use my bike as part of my journey to work. In addition to saving a few bob, this releases you from delays imposed by traffic and public transport, so you can be more consistent with the time you arrive for work, and when you get home. The BBC has a free shuttle bus service for its employees that go between the various BBC buildings, so I would ride my bike to Broadcasting House, near Oxford Circus, put my bike in the secure lock-up there, and catch the bus to Media Centre in White City. My route to work was brilliant. Here are some photos from it.

the city from Suicide Bridge, Hornsey Lane

Highgate Cemetery

Chester Road

the entrance to Holly Village

Holly Village

Red brick multi at Malden Crescent

Waiting for traffic lights to change to cross over to Malden Crescent, I notice a couple on a scooter getting frisky

Camden

Oval Road, by Gloucester Crescent, where Alan Bennett lives

Sculptural pediment of Regent's Park terrace

Passing Regent's Park

  Terrace on the Outer Circle

Park Crescent

Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) Building on Portland Place

Falun Gong protesters outside RIBA, opposite Chinese Embassy

All Souls

Broadcasting House - Destination

Bike parked

Angus, Angus, Angus

Dee gave me a copy of David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries, where Byrne describes his pushbike explorations of several of the world's cities. It's very entertaining, and prompts me to write about some of my experiences with bikes.

I was very young when I learned to ride a bike, so cycling feels like a natural physical action. My dad took my brother and I to see E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial at the pictures, and it was about this time that I coveted a BMX and happily received a Raleigh Burner or Christmas. I must have been around 6 years old.

Christmas BMX

We lived on the northern (Westhaven) corner of Carnoustie, with the North Sea to the east, the Angus countryside extending northwards, and the town to our south. We bought some of our groceries from a Willie Low's supermarket, and some from a farm shop. I rode my bike around country and city roads, and also to and from school. At primary school we had cycling proficiency lessons.

At high school I started to use my Dad's racer bike. Carnoustie High School had extensive bike sheds. I guess that around a quarter of pupils cycled. I don't recall anyone being driven or accompanied by their parents on their way to school; including my friends Pammy and Trev, whose mums were teachers. Even in primary school, the only occasion our mum walked with us was on our first day of school. After that we were on our own; or rather, we were with other kids, without adult supervision. 

My Dad's bike was too big for me, and I fell and broke my wrist on the way home from school. I took a corner too fast, hit the kerb and went flying towards a brick wall, stretching out my hand to save smashing my head, and breaking my wrist instead. I recently learned that medics refer to this as a FOOSH - a fall on out-stretched hand. I sat cradling my lumpy, twisted wrist as other boys rode past shouting 'Joey Deacon.' Joey Deacon was a 'spastic' with cerebral palsy who had appeared on a children's TV show, which led to his name becoming a playground insult. I sat in shock until a disabled boy called Cameron ('Spammy Cammy' - I think he may have had a form of cerebral palsy) came along, and, unaware of any irony, he picked up my bike and took me to his house, which was a short walk away, and I called my mum from his phone.

After I left school I forgot about cycling for a while, until 2006, when I was working on a project at George Harrison's former home in Henley-on-Thames. I was living in York Street in Marylebone at the time, and in severe financial difficulties. My wages would instantly be consumed by debts, and I would then accrue bank charges for breaching my overdraft, which was pushing me further into debt. It was grim. I wound up losing over 3 grand on bank charges.

I moved from London to a house-share in Reading to save on city rent costs and train fares from London to Henley. I bought a bike very cheaply on ebay (I think it was 90 pounds) from an old man in Isleworth. The bike was a 1974 Raleigh Tourist, and I decided to give it a name. The name I settled on was Angus:

Angus: a fine bicycle

People complain that they have no option other than to take their cars to work. But if you can't afford a car, you find an alternative. I would cycle from home in Reading to Twyford Railway Station, take a short train journey to Henley, then ride from Henley Station to work at Friar Park.

Angus was so named because cycling reminds me of a childhood friend called Angus Easton, with whom I used to have bike races from Carnoustie to Craigmill Den, and he beat me every time. Angus (the bicycle) had a 3-speed Sturmey Archer hub gear. The enclosed chain and mudguards meant that I could wear the same clothes at work as I wore on my ride, and the 'sit-up-and-beg' riding posture was condusive to observing the South Oxfordshire countryside, which is very pretty and definitely worth observing.

Shoe Review! Emerica "The Situation", Kevin 'Spanky' Long Signature Mid-top

FASHION! Turn to the left! There's Karl Lagerfeld's intern using a shoehorn to poke his neck wrinkles into his shirt collar! And there's Alex Perry superglueing sunglasses to his bald head! Turn to the right! And there's Coco Chanel, Hugo Boss and John Galliano kicking a jew to death! And Dov Charney getting rapey with his employees! Oh, there's Jean-Paul Gaultier, he's really funny and I love that guy. But he's the exception.

Perry - permanently wears sunglasses on head

Lagerfeld - no visible neck wrinkles

Fashion, like skateboarding, is pointless and inhabited by deplorable people. Skateboarding has its trends, and I have followed many of them. During the 'big jeans' years of the early 1990s I would buy 40" jeans and belt them around my 28" waist. Loops of denim would hang from the belt hoops, and the cut-off cuffs would engulf my shoes and trail on the ground, using science's capillary action to suck up dirty, salty water from the Scottish streets. Once I made the mistake of wearing such attire on the sticky wall ride at the funfair. While I was stuck to the wall I slipped down within my voluminous clothing, so that my skinny legs protruded as far as my knees, and my waistband was around my armpits. Centrifugal forces pushed tears into my earholes as I wept with shame. But I love skateboard shoes. I always covet the next pair. Here follows a review of my most recent purchase.


Emerica 'the Situation' shoes are Kevin 'Spanky' Long's pro-model gutties. They are a suede/canvas mid-top with a vulcanised sole and very clean lines - no stitching on the suede toe-cap. And they were just $65 (on offer from an online shop).

The shoes are produced by Emerica. I used to pronounce this 'Ee-merica' but I now understand that it is 'eh-merica'. Think a New Yorker - the kind of New Yorker who pronounces 'coffee' as 'cwaffee' and bangs taxi bonnets while shouting 'I'm walking here!" Imagine that guy saying saying 'America' - that is the pronunciation you wish to achieve. The company was not established by patriotic Americans who like taking E.

the shoes after 1 week

just 3 lace holes, you casual bastards. the toe cap is a bit ripply now

It says 'KSL' down the heel.

They're very light, and run a touch small and narrow. My perfect size is a Supra 8; these 8s are a bit smaller than that, and tight around my toes. I need to wear them laced loose or they pinch at the sides. They're nice to wear without socks, probably because there's not a lot of stitching to chafe your feet. They wore in quickly while skating, and the sole is nice and grippy. The unstitched single-piece toecap makes them excellent to slip in and out of the toe-clips on my bike .

In conclusion, I like them.

Four Wheels In The Ditch

I generally like my work, but there are occasions when spending 37.5 hours a week with TV news can feel like drowning in a dark pond of depressing world affairs into which political animals dump septic bullshit. You try to get out, but a heavy foot holds your head under. Above you, a water-skiing squirrel disturbs the surface, but it is soon obscured by the murk of natural and man-made disasters, ignorance, poverty, and low-minded celebrities, pundits and sportspeople. Gah. This is why it's nice to get away, and where better to spend a weekend than Canberra, AKA Canberrrad, "home of the Australian Story."

Last weekend I went there to visit friends and attend a party. On Saturday, in an alternative universe, the optimal party-version of myself danced the funky charleston as a whooping crowd looked on, and then they all laughed at my stories. In this universe I was not so crass as to pull focus from the lovely people who were celebrating their imminent marriage.

I partied (left)

On previous visits to Canberra I had noticed some drainage ditches that looked very skateable, so on Sunday morning skipped breakfast at Tilly's (and an actual sighting of Peter Garrett devouring nourishment), borrowed Tobi's bike, strapped my board to my bag, and set out in search of the Spence Drains.

I followed a bike path beside a ditch in which a dispiriting trickle of water flowed.  I hoped the Spence ditch would be dry. Canberra is crosshatched by bike paths, and it's refreshing to ride on these after Sydney streets, but there's a feeling of desolation to the place. It's so empty and open, and the landscape is so managed. 





Further on, I found a wider section of drain with sketchy skater-built additions to existing structures . I stopped to skate, but the small stream in the ditch and some broken glass made a run-up difficult. I had no water and the heat was becoming a problem, so I didn't stay long.

sketchy concrete transition

storm drains at Lawson

I pushed on to Spence, making a lengthy diversion to the kind of liquor store normally seen through police cordon tape after an armed robbery, where I bought and consumed nature's finest Pepsi Cola before continuing through the midday heat haze. By the time I arrived at the drains I had rode about 16 kilometers. It was around 35 celsius. There was no shade. The ditch was dry, but the main skating area was covered by a layer of dirt that rendered the benches, quarterpipes and (amazing-looking) hip unskateable.

Spence quarterpipe, hip and dirt

Spence ditch, quarterpipe and dirt

 I'd never skated a drainage ditch before, but had wanted to ever since I saw the Wallows section from Animal Chin. I had visions of long fast downhill runs of multiple tricks and carving, with the possible accompaniment of a funky bongo jam. But the gradient at Spence is minimal, its surface too rough, and my wheels too small and hard to sustain speed. It had also become scorching and was without shade, and I barely had energy to hoist a boneless, which is the least this place deserved. I shot some video before I left, and I can't wait to come back with some bigger wheels and more energy:

WHEEE!

I was a wee boy (on the right) and so was my brother Adam

When I was a wee boy I liked to slide on icy puddles. I knew the best places where water would sit in shallow depressions on the pavement, and on nippy mornings I'd groom the icy puddles, tamping down and smoothing a layer of frost with the soles of my shoes to improve the slidiness of the ice. I liked to learn different tricks, which were essentially stances in which I would slide. There was a head-on slide, a backwards slide, a side-on slide, and there was "the wee mannie" - a slide performed in a crouching position. When I did a slide I would say "wheee," which expressed the way I felt about it.

A Recreation of A Wee Mannie Slide

My obsession with skidding on ice progressed to the point where I snuck out the house with buckets of water one cold winter evening, and splashed these onto the pavement at the foot of the cul-de-sac we lived in, where a downhill footpath terminated in a small flight of 3 steps. This was a precursor to the self-absorption at the expense of personal and public safety that I would later indulge with skateboarding. The following morning I returned to skid along the ice and  leap over the steps at its termination. Wheee! I knew it was hazardous, but I took the risk in favour of that wheee. I'm glad no-one was hurt.

A Skuda Skateboard

I would soon buy a plastic skateboard from a primary school jumble sale. It had the word 'SKUDA' embossed in its top, and a sticker that said 'The Shaggy D.A.' on the bottom. This soon came to replace icy puddles as the source of the wheees. I learned to ride the skateboard down the short length of our driveway, and then I learned some tricks. I also learned to internalise the wheee.

SK8 $HOPZ

There weren’t many skateboard shops in Scotland when I started skating, and they were located far from city centres so were hard to reach. I would pore over the product pages of skateboard magazines and work myself into a covetous frenzy before the rare occasions I got to visit a shop. The nearest was Clan Skates 2 in Dundee, a poky wee place with such little stock that I had to compromise on whatever deck I had formed a fixation upon in a skateboard magazine. But I had no frame of reference, it was the only skate shop that I knew, and I loved it in there. I love skateboards. I love skate shoes. I love skate videos, and there was usually one of those screening on a little portable TV in the shop. I retain this obsession with skateboard products and skateboard shops, and I still can't pass one by.

There is a new shop right next to Waterloo Skate Park, which is the main place that I skate in Sydney. But this is all I've ever seen of the place:

This isn't photoshopped. It is actually called that.

First, the name: BOYZ SK8N. It could be the title of a gay porn movie. It sounds as if it was named by a pathetic old pederast as part of a seedy plan to get his mitts on little skater kids, but whose only point of contact with skateboarding is that Avril Lavigne song. It makes no commercial sense for it implies exclusivity to males, inasmuch as it implies anything, being nonsensical pseudo-textspeak mishmash of such insulting stupidity that I hope for its speedy and catastrophic failure.

All I have ever seen of this shop is closed shutters. It hasn't been open any time I've been there, and I go to the adjacent skatepark two or three times a week. It’s common to find a lackadaisical or inept approach to business among skateboard shops; lost and bungled mail orders, badly stocked shops, shops opening late, and shops staffed either by non-skaters who don't know their product, or by skaters who are hostile to everyone but their immediate friends. 

It isn't difficult to run a skate shop - skateboarding is a thriving scene with a covetable cultural cachet for non-skaters (everyone wears skate shoes and clothing these days) - and although there will be many pressures upon a small business of this kind, I have seen dozens of skate shops fail over my years skating, and I've seen those with rudimentary competence flourish. Like most skaters, I harbour ambitions of somehow making a living from skateboarding and I have toyed with the idea of opening a skate shop, so I don’t blame skaters for giving it a go. But we’re not entitled to make a living out of skating in this way unless we have the requisite skills to make a retail business work, and for that shop put something back into skating. BOYZ SK8N does the opposite – it’s an embarrassment.