I recently attempted the South Downs Way Randonnee – a mountain bike ride organised by the British Heart Foundation. It went rather badly. In the hope that you might learn from my failure, here is how and why I failed to complete the ride.

First failure

I think my first mistake was to start late. The first riders were leaving Winchester at 5:00 AM. I left at 6:45. Leaving earlier gives you a bigger window of daylight to complete the ride. Given that anything can happen out on the Downs, it’s wise to have the biggest window of opportunity possible.

To avoid my first failure: start any ride as soon as you possibly can.

Second failure

When I got a puncture after about 2 hours on the ride, I realised that carrying only one spare tube was a stupid idea. Having used my spare, I would have no way of dealing with a puncture. So I was probably one fifth of the way through the journey, with no puncture repair options.

To avoid my second failure: take plenty of spares. Is one tube enough?

Third failure

After repairing my puncture and having a minor fall, I noticed my cleat was a little bit loose. Not only had I failed to check that my clipless shoe cleats were tight before the ride, I wasn’t carrying any allen keys, so I had no way to tighten them mid-ride. By the time I found a cyclist with allen keys, one of the cleat bolts had sheared off, leaving me with a cleat that was only attached to my shoe at one point.

Then I discovered that I couldn’t remove my shoe from the pedal. So I was stuck to my right pedal. No problem, I thought, I’ll just keep on cycling until I find a rest stop!

This was a stupid idea because the South Downs Way was a mudbath, having been deluged with rain over the preceding week. So there were stretches of path that were uncycleable, and there were also plenty of gates and steps to clamber over. When faced with these, I had to unstrap my foot from my right shoe, and slip and slide my way through the mud with one shoe and one sock.

This was not the fun bike ride I had imagined.

To avoid my third failure: carry basic tools.

Fourth failure

Just when I thought having my shoe stuck to the pedal was fairly miserable, it came unstuck. I felt a moment of joy at having my shoe back, until I realised how little grip my cleatless shoe had on the pedal! So I had one good foot/pedal combo, the other was a free-floating ice-skating mess. While I could just about nudge the pedal with my cleatless shoe, I could not grip the pedal or use it for support or balance. So careering round the muddy bogs and steep hills of the Downs was additionally dangerous.

During all of this I was sustained by the belief that the first rest stop was manned by a mechanic, who I imagined sitting next to a box full of allen keys and cleat bolts. So I trundled on, slip-sliding my way cautiously along.

Sadly, it took me so much time to reach the rest stop that the mechanic had moved on to the next rest area. Hearing this, I was so deflated, so disappointed, so mud-covered, scratched and dejected that I realised I was beat. The next rest stop was 15 miles away. 15 miles of boggy, slimy, slidy Downs. And me, with only one pedal.

While I could have done it (perhaps), I was losing too much time. At the rate I was going I would never reach Devil’s Dyke (my destination) before dusk. So I abandoned the ride, and caught a train home.

To avoid my fourth failure: don’t rely on external support. Aim for complete self-sufficiency. If you hear yourself thinking, “I’m sure someone else will have one of those,” realise the risk and make your own plans.

Success?

Despite all the problems, I’m looking forward to trying it again next year. And finishing.

I’ve been a keen cyclist ever since I was a child. I started with a little red BMX, then went on to a GT Interceptor that I thrashed around the neighbourhood on – skidding the tyres to ribbons and slipping across frozen rivers (this was somewhere in Kansas), until it was stolen from outside Truesdell Middle School. Bastards.

We moved from Wichita to Uckfield, England. I remained bike-less for a while, borrowing my friend’s mum’s Raleigh Lizard mountain bike (thanks Birgit!) for occasional outings. Then, I rediscovered BMX, first with an old chrome Torker that I struggled to fit a Gyro to, then with a GT Performer.

Eventually age and practicality got the better of me, and I bought a Giant Rock SE (mountain bike). And we had such fun! We rode to work, through Buxted Park, over hills and across Ashdown Forest. I bunny-hopped up curbs and flew over mud humps. I completed the London to Brighton on her, in a relatively fast time (considering I was on a mountain bike). Then some git nicked her from outside our flat on Third Avenue, Hove.

Again, I remained bike-less for a while. Then, my thoughtful in-laws gave me a shiny pink mountain bike for my 30th. Although the bike developed some catastrophic faults, it rekindled my interest in cycling.

So I scoured Gumtree and found a Mongoose Rockadile. And what fun we’ve had! Together we’ve explored the South Downs, whizzed through city traffic and travelled to countless meetings.  But all this city riding has made me yearn for more speed, less friction and something sleeker.

Update: some bastard stole the Mongoose.

The Raleigh Record Sprint

So I wanted a road/racing bike, but they’re not cheap. And having never ridden a racing bike, I was reluctant to spend £500 on something I might not like. So I scoured eBay, looking for a clean old racing bike.

It’s not easy to find a reasonably-priced classic racing bike at the moment, because there is a trend for converting these old bikes into fixed-wheel rides. So the prices are higher than they should be.

Anyway, eventually I found her: a 1986 Raleigh Record Sprint, in pristine condition. She’s spent most of the past 23 years in a loft, protected from decay by a coat of grease.

When I collected the bike, the original owner was clearly sad to see her go. He actually said, “bye bike,” and watched us walk up the stairs to the train platform.

Fatherhood has made me regress – all I can think about is providing.

I’m the hunter-gatherer. I’m driven to provide, able to think of little else. And I used to be so enlightened.

The press seem to be going through a phase of moral panic. For some reason, ever since Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand left rude messages on a celebrity’s answering machine, the media has frolicked in a bath of controversy – neck-deep in shock, horror and outrage.

Somehow, at some point, ‘newspapers’ like the Sun, the News of the World and the Daily Mail decided it was their job to defend Britain’s moral standards. The bizarre thing is that these newspapers are purveyors of celebrity skin and page three girls.

So on the one hand they say “Oh my God someone has said a rude word!”.

And on the other hand they say “Oh my God look at her cleavage!” – accompanied by ten large colour photographs of the cleavage that we should be outraged about. It’s hilarious. I must thank these tabloids for bringing to my attention so many things to be outraged about. Without them, I would be unraged.

Outrage:

• News of the World Outrage
• Daily Mail Outrage
• Outrage outrage!

“Why are so many people so remarkably, consistently stupid?”

• Why do stupid people thrive?
• Why is stupidity rewarded?
• Will the world end, not in a superheated toxic slush, but in a random act of stupidity?

What is your favourite act of stupidity in 2008?

“In the animal kingdom, they call it presenting”

- so sang the Beastie Boys.

They’re referring to this kind of thing:

“A female initiates mating by presenting her swollen rump to the male. But ‘presenting’ can also be used as a submissive gesture and is observed in males as well.”

Unfortunately the Beastie Boys have ruined the word ‘presenting’ for me. Now, whenever someone says ‘presenting’ all I see is a baboon with their bum in the air.

I used to work at a company where sales people would visit big retailers and show them ranges of products. They would say “I’m presenting to Somerfield” – and I would picture something slightly criminal.

This doesn’t really matter – I’m just hoping that I can plant this evil seed in someone else’s mind. Ha! Now you have it. Please pass it on.

Picture courtesy of Tambako

On a recent trip to Paris, I was touched by this scene of tenderness and cooperation:

A hoary, malodorous hobo bumbled into an upmarket perfumery in St Germaine. A haughty sales assistant marched toward him- presumably to turf him out.

But rather than nudging the homeless man out the door, the lady plucked a perfume from the immaculate glass shelves and liberally doused him with scent. The homeless man stood quite still, smiling serenely, enjoying the attention, the intimacy, the tendresse.

Adequately refreshed, he thanked the girl and left.

The lovely thing about this moment was the inferred routine – this man, possibly the best-smelling tramp in Europe, was clearly a regular.

(Picture courtesy of Pedro Simoes)

I keep seeing articles like this which all suggest that having children adds to the stress we’re putting on the planet. So if a couple has more than two children they can officially be blamed for destroying the planet (not really).

I’ve often wondered about people who go to great lengths to lessen their carbon footprint and joked privately that anyone genuinely interested in reducing their liability should kill themselves.

But seriously…I do take environmental concerns seriously. I cycle, recycle, and I don’t eat lots of meat… so I do my bit (or at least a bit of my bit). I put my foot down at suicide though. I can just imagine the council suicide scheme… twice weekly collections for civically-minded citizens who help the eco-system by eradicating themselves. They could put special bins at the end of each road. Use the corpses for compost. Corpsepost?