Get your breeks on

Any man with an inquiring mind and frayed inner right pant leg will eventually come up against plus fours or breeks. These well-tailored, woollen, roughly three-quarter length trousers would seem to offer much in terms of comfort and undercarriage utility to the touring cyclist.

It was thus that a pair of Bavarian breeks was delivered unto my person. First impressions: these breeks are startlingly capacious in the seat. I'm not sure if this is because mine are too big or whether they are designed to be particularly low-slung. They feel hefty and warm. They're well-engineered, with an almost excessive number of belt loops. There would be little chance of equipment failure wearing these pants.

Are they really suited to the bicycle? Eminently so, it would seem, even if one would feel equally at ease while thus attired manipulating the controls of a zeppelin or Fokker Dr.1. They are that sort of pant.


I'll test them more thoroughly, with appropriately stripey socks, in forthcoming weeks.

A nice film

It's Your Ride from Cinecycle on Vimeo.

I like the bit with the birds.

Every cyclist needs a satchel

Recently I acquired one of The Cambridge Satchel Company's fine satchels -- just like the ones in the photo above. After placing my order with proprietor Julie Dean, who recommended vintage brown to match my Brooks saddle, I was delighted to receive a sturdy parcel wrapped in brown paper and string, with a handwritten tag! I don't use that exclamation mark lightly (in fact, I think it could be the first one on this blog*). Isn't it wonderful to receive a proper package -- or indeed a letter -- in the mail?

My new satchel has since performed admirably, whether holding my Holga or the weekend paper. Not only that, it has the comforting heft of A Thing Well-Made. I have a feeling it will provide years of satisfying use. I love the tiny little engraved bicycle riding along its lower edge.

Julie kindly agreed to let me interview her via email.

What would you put in your satchel (or batchel, for that matter) before a weekend bike ride?
I know what I wouldn't put in -- my phone! A lovely cycle ride with no interruptions, so a book, a bottle of wine and some string to tie around the top and let it chill in the river... two glasses, a corkscrew and a dog biscuit (my husband and Rupert the boxer must be catered for!). The children would be along too, so one of those foil frisbees that can be inflated -- they are great fun. There, perfect, now all we need is good weather....

What are the prerequisites of a good satchel?
The satchel is a design classic -- before starting The Cambridge Satchel Company I bought many satchels, claiming to be satchels but falling far from expectations. A real satchel must have the right proportions, you just know the real thing when you see it. The smell must take you straight back to the cloak room at school, there must be no fussiness, no frills. It must stand on its own with never a suggestion of having been run over (I have seen many a sorry looking flat satchel). It must be made in England.

Tell us about a satchel that’s played an important role in your life.
There have been two great satchels in my life -- the very first one made for The Cambridge Satchel Company, with the logo on the back... ah, to see my business become a reality. The second was a nifty little 11" red, requested by a customer in Scotland -- that was the one that opened my eyes to the potential of colour. Now we offer satchels in vintage brown, dark brown and black for those retro fans, red, navy and bubblegum pink for the trendsetters and soon to come, two new colours...

Can you tell us anything about your rumoured collaboration with Pashley?
It is true that discussions are afoot for the ultimate satchel to meet up with one of Britain's most well respected bicycle manufacturers. Any resulting bike friendly satchel will be beautiful, classic, well made and something to drool over -- just ask my boxer!

Special delivery: I had some assistance
opening the package

* Oh, I see I used one or two to announce the formulation of the Te Kuiti Cycle Club. Of which, more soon!

I'm ready for my closeup now

Well, kind of.


That front mudguard needs some adjustment.


A doff of the cap.

The Te Kuiti Cycle Club

I have drunk more than my fair share; I have drunk a great deal. Allow me, then, to inaugurate the Te Kuiti Cycle Club! Details will be duly unfolded, like the pockets of some mysterious, yet benevolent great-coated traveller. There will be a scholarship. There will be bike rides. There will be good will to all men and women. There will be a periodical newsletter. Googlify TK, if you h'ain't already.

Forthcoming posts that have nothing whatsoever to do with the above: breeks, wool, and something else I can't quite recall.

And how.

One was on a walkie talkie, yelling something

Late last year I saddled up on the literary equivalent of the Surly Long Haul Trucker --Nanowrimo, a greasy-haired, month-long attempt to write a novel of 50,000 words. That's about 1,670 words a day. My so-called novel is a pinwheeling shambles although I did somehow make the 50,000 limit. Anyway, I've always wanted to see a really good bike chase in a novel or a film. Like in the next James Bond movie, say. Wouldn't it be beyond cool if 007 forcibly requisitioned a single-speed from an indignant cycle courier and thrashed through the streets of New York or London whilst being hotly pursued? There could be a little ironic scene where he attempts to balance track-style at the lights, considering his options as his pursuers come tearing through the traffic, then tips over and sprawls in an undignified heap.

In the absence of such a scene I thought I'd lever one into my story. So here it is, in all its first-draft, late-night, stream-of-conscious over-written shabbiness. Our hero, Ray, is attempting to escape from a triumvirate of murderous agents, two astride bicycles (carbon fibre, of course -- Ray rides steel), the third behind the wheel of a car:

His legs pumped. He felt the seat firm under his buttocks, the bike responsive as he flexed his body, grunting. It had been awhile since he'd put it under this sort of pressure, he thought mildly. Whump, car came past him like a punch, heading the other way, its tyres pawing at the ground as the driver yanked the wheel to turn, trying to clip him. Ray leaned jauntily into the corner. A sudden jolting jerk as the pedal gouged the tarmac, the bike hobbled, flipping up out of the turn. He stood up then, bearing down on the pedals. Over the hump, mudguards clattering. Glaring like a hawk at a car alongside, peering for the driver, snatching a glimpse of the indicator, tensing to veer out of the way if the car turned. His legs paused, the road flurrying, the car kept on. He squeezed the brakes, cut across behind it then, right knee outflung to make a triangle, carving the road tight, heading for the park. Behind him, a long tearing slew of tyres. He took the footpath then, pulling the bike up between his legs to waft over the gutter. A sharp shout, half-articulated obscenities, people braced for impact and swearing at the same time. He kept on. Tore a look over his shoulder. They were right there, black legs windmilling, banking out wide, coming up on him. He flung out his arm. One was on a walkie-talkie, yelling something. The car bumped along behind them over the park, ludicrous somehow. Hell of a mess to the grass. He cut right, whipped by branches. A car braked, windscreen white with light. He careered off the side of it, pushing off like a swimmer, panting hard now, guts in his throat. He was going to vomit if this didn't end soon. No time to change gears. The chain lashed his ankle. Threw all of himself, every molecule of himself into the cranks, up on the pedals, lunging down. He heard them caroom off the vehicle too. Outraged shouts. They were heading down a narrow cobbled lane. He lashed right. Stairs, cantilevering down to a lower street. Hold on. A man leapt out of the way. The bike clashing down. This couldn't be good for it, he thought. But I do treat my equipment rough. That's what it's there for. He had no truck with people who mollycoddled the things they bought. Use them hard, use them well, he always said. This was what he was thinking as he cracked down the stairs, straightened up, briefly genuflecting over the handlebars as he sought speed. His legs were on fire, dipped in acid. An elongated clash of metal told him his pursuers were coming down the steps behind him. Cymbal crash as one went down, yelling in pain. A puff of brick on the wall ahead. They were shooting. Something plucked at his shoulder. He turned down an alley.

Dead end.

The car collided with his bike, he felt it going under him like a bull that had been knifed by a matador, the knees buckling and shaking, then down. It happened very slowly, it seemed to him. The bike was being taken away from him, it was being eaten up. His chin struck the tarmac. Ooof, he said. He heard his bike grinding itself into the tarmac. It was under the car wheels now. Everything came to a rest.

In the silence he lay face down on the tarmac with his arms on either side of his head.

Don't worry, Ray rides again.

The workhorse

This is my ride, a Surly Long Haul Trucker:


It has a Rohloff speedhub, Brooks saddle, Tubus cargo rack (nabbed off my Dawes Galaxy), Albatross handlebars and Schwalbe Marathon tyres.

I'll take some more pictures when it stops raining.

Tell her: Paris

As planned, I set out on my Shakespearean sojourn on Sunday, provisions and Holga medium format camera (incl. fish-eye lens) in my handlebar bag. A grey, still, dusty day. Empty streets. Here is a map of my planned itinerary (you may have to click 'view larger map' to see my actual route):



View Larger Map

The first stop on my tour, Gray's Inn, was bounded by an impregnable fence. I took a photo of the CCTV cameras and continued onwards. I stopped at Star Yard, a narrow-shouldered alley off Chancery Lane, to consult my notes. As I propped against the wall alongside my bike, a small party of people emerged from a low doorway. The procession moved silently past me before disappearing into an adjoining passageway beneath a fringe of spikes. An intermediary door lay ajar for a moment before someone quietly closed it from within.

I got on my bike and continued down the alleyway, emerging onto Fleet Street. Beneath my wheels, a river. The doors to Middle Temple Lane were closed. I coasted past, then turned down a small side entrance which took me unexpectedly into the shady interior.

Here it was startlingly silent, the city a distant haze of sound. I bore right onto Bell Lane. Middle Temple Hall rose before me, the Thames flowing just beyond. I carried my bike down a long flight of stairs, past a small man smoking a pipe at its foot, then sheepishly carried it back up again upon discovering that the gates were locked. I looked through a fence at a little cell of greenery bordered by carefully ordered flower gardens.

Re-mounting, I jounced down a precipitous cobbled street, past a toll-gate, and up and along to Ireland Yard and Playhouse Yard. For several minutes I went up and down the pathways, retracing my wheels.

In the midst of these circumlocutions I became aware of a man hovering behind me, shifting in and out of my peripheral vision. I glanced back. He was astride a black British Brompton, the well-known folding bike. I was uncertain how long he'd been there.

Assuming he wanted to pass, I pulled to one side, but he drew silently back. Experimentally I veered left -- he followed smartly. We continued in formation through the quiet, narrow streets.

I was considering engaging my silent pursuer in conversation when he suddenly accelerated and shot past me, then abruptly turned down a side street. I passed in time to see him step through a doorway, the bike folded neatly beneath his arm, and close the door.

I stopped at the next turning to take a photograph. As I focussed I happened to look up into the face of a woman observing me through a window. She was standing wordlessly with a telephone pressed to her ear. Above us at an oblique angle I could see the lower-half of a man seated at his desk, his bare ankle jiggling.

Around a corner was another bedroom-sized garden. It was locked, too.

Ireland Yard, Playhouse Yard: nothing here now but place names. But what did I expect to find? I wondered to myself.

I stopped at a pub, my bike locked to a rail. I listened to a group of complaining builders. 'If she asks about the room, I'll just say: Paris,' said one of them, cryptically.

I continued, crossing the Thames via the structurally dubious Millennium Bridge. The Tate Modern's giant finger loomed. I merely skirted the simulacrum Globe. I wanted to find the Rose Theatre. Closed. I saw some drawings of roses on a building and stopped to take a photograph.

A door opened further up the street and a man appeared. He said something. Then: 'Excuse me! Oh… you're taking a photo.' He promptly withdrew and closed the door.

I continued onwards to the site of the original Globe. Again, a fence prevented access, but I could make out the bricked outline of the circular foundations in the carpark.

I proceeded to Southwark Cathedral, then back across the Thames.

I became lost in Dalston. Coffee in Columbia Flower Market.

A brief detour through Haggerston Park, re-orienting myself with the help of my A-Z.

Eventually I found a plaque on Curtain Road, Shoreditch, designating the site of the Theatre, now occupied by the offices of a real estate conglomerate.

I noted both bar-end plugs had fallen out of my handelbars during the course of my journey.

Nothing really remained but the shape of the streets, and the rivers.

Homewards.