The Ol' Crank

Gone, done, outta here… the longest, most drawn-out mechanical job in the history of recreational cycling has written its final chapter…

There was – as you’d expect – a bit more faffing to do, as my outboard bottom bracket tool didn’t fit the unusually recessed slots on the Campag bb. Big props to Kegs at Avanti Wollongong for helping me here.

The whole sorry saga again raises the spectre of online v local retail, though; faced with a $260 bill to buy the two Park tools required locally (via the Avanti online store, since you’re asking), a quick net search resulted in both products being delivered to my door in less than a week for less than the cost of one of the tools; $117, to be exact. I’m a dad of three with a two-wheel habit to feed – I just can’t give away $143 to make the local industry feel better. And I hate that. I like the local industry.

My guilt at buying offshore was slightly assuaged, though, by the treatment I received at a prominent roadie store in Sydney’s south, though, whose proprietor asked me point-blank whether the frame had been “stolen”, then charged me $20 for cutting a centimetre off the fork’s steerer. Sucks to be you, bud…

So, if you need a slightly used set of Campag Centaur carbon cranks… and stay tuned for the build of the Bianchi. My deadline is end of September.

My mate Nige left a message on the home phone the other day. That’s a bit unusual in itself – I mean, who leaves messages on answering machines in 2012? “Orright, mate? You, me, Canberra this weekend. Wot ya reckon?” his Cockney twang boomed out of the earpiece. He’s a newly converted roadie who’ll give anything a go once, even if it involves landing upside down in a row of shrubs (a story for another day).

Now you’d reckon the choice should be an easy one. A quick road trip down to the ACT in good company, a few turns around Kowen Forest’s oh-so twisty goodness, a slap-up feed at Kingsleys and home again in time for the workaday grind. But my first thought wasn’t ‘yes’. It was ‘no’. And that’s a worry.

Since my most recent misadventures in Tathra, I can sum up my riding experience in two words; I haven’t. The roadie has sat silently in the shed for more than a month (closer to two, actually), after I blew the left shifter’s internals into sub-atomic matter (pictured below) – apparently you need a 6700-spec front derailleur to go with your new fancy-pants gear-swapper – while the only mountain bikes I’ve ridden have been for another freelance gig I’ve picked up.

To put it simply, I’m in the midst of Winter Malaise.

I’m eating for three, I’m avoiding the gym like I owe it drug money and cracking the code to lycra up again is proving elusive. And I’m starting to wonder whether I shouldn’t just surrender and willingly give over to it every July.

Think about it for a sec. There’s nothing wrong with taking a break – in fact, beating oneself up constantly about not doing intervals/not climbing Mt Kiera twice a day/not eating low-fat, low-GI soybean cakes just makes things tougher for yourself mentally, and really, that’s the only battle you need to win. So set it as a goal in the yearly calendar. July is hot chocolate and waffle month! July is dirty bike month! July is lazy Sunday lunch month! July is backyard renovation month!

Bit of a pity I’m down to do the Three Ring Circus, then…

That’ll be $200, please!

Been a bit busy and neglectful of the poor lil’ blog.

To quickly update – had the most unusual experience last weekend of wanting to do a 50km race and not being able to, as opposed to my usual status of having entered a 50km race and not being in any shape to want to do it.

The event was the Tathra Enduro on the deep south coast of NSW, and the problem was my guts. More succinctly, it what wasn’t in my guts, because I’d spent the previous 36 hours to race start uncontrollably emptying them any way they saw fit.

It wasn’t like I was doing anything – just five articles for three separate publications. And some video for an iPad add-on. Nothing much, then. Thank the relevant deity for the go-get-em attitude of my photographer mate Mark Watson (check his rather average works out here), who busted out the Nikon point-n-shoot, found a couple of riders and hit the bush. Look out for our work in AMB, the Open Road and something called South Coast Style, an arty boutique mag that really should be looking for better writers if they’re coming down to my level…

But yeah, the race. I was actually really disappointed, verging on upset, that I couldn’t do it. The road stuff is helping no end, my cake-free diet is paying dividends and the Blur had copped a dose of Fox RLC 15mm lovin’ in the week leading up to the race. The weekend, though, was cursed from the get-go. Max had been blowing chunks on the Wednesday, Mel was chucking her guts up as I was driving away, and I knew. I just knew, I was next…

A bunch of other weird crap happened, too – no phone reception, my trusty Canon G12 shat itself, as did the rear XT brake on the Blur – working perfectly well at the Mont two weeks prior – and then the driving lessons in the porcelain bus. The best thing I did was this photo on the way home, and even that isn’t that good…