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Had another great ride. Had a chat to Tim at the pub, I was the guy who lives in Streatham. Love that bike, it's so clean looking.
On the ride to Ipswich I ran into a vintage car rally.
Some very cool rides. Then spent about 15 minutes chatting to a couple about my bike rather than their car!Had another great ride, not sure if this is my 9th or 10th DD. Thanks to all the organisers, but there were some fucking knobbers on road bikes weaving in and out of the packs at stupid speeds on the Epping road.
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@AlexB - I am planning on riding back to Ipswich too.PM me - what time are you aiming to leave for Ipswich? Have you already got train tickets etc?
I'll be taking the 2:43 from Ipswich, so leaving the beach at midday or thereabouts. If you want to take the train, then you need a bike reservation, although to be honest last year they were really well organised for us and less fussy about the bike reservations.
Happy to rid with you if you want company.
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26-06-2013, 115 Station Road, Hampton.
Guessing this is the place to post, please correct me if I'm wrong.
Riding with a friend when a parked minivan managed to open the driver door in between us. Collected me and spilled me across the both lanes of traffic. Luckily evening so road was empty.
Happened near 115 Station Road Hampton. Got great assistance from the near-by fish and chip shop (Marini's?). The guy initially said "I just opened the door you came out of nowhere" to which I replied "You opened the door without looking". As the people came out from the shop he did take responsibility and even apologised.
Result: me - torn ligaments left ankle; laceration left hand; bruising all over; bike front wheel, crank, frame, brakes (cables, covers, bar tape). Getting it seen to over the weekend so I can post more details.
The man did provide his details and I have filled out a police report.
I will write more details pending how he deals with bike repair costs.
Any advice and/or suggestions appreciated.
When I had my little incident this week I called the Police to come directly. The operator wanted to know if I was injured, but I simply said that although there were no injuries I wanted the Police to attend because the driver was refusing to provide his details and I was concerned that he would drive off.
In your case I would definitely have called the Police to attend. First of all because you were injured and secondly to ensure that the details collected were correct and to get the Police to take relevant statements from you, the driver and any witnesses.
With a direct Police report you will find it much easier to deal with Police and you will have a better chance of a more robust response to the Police report.My interpretation is that the 101 number is really for incidents that are not ongoing, i.e. to report theft from railings or something similar
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I had an incident recently where a driver out of nowhere overtook me yelling and hit the brakes directly in front of me, resulting in me hitting him, but luckily only with enough force to lift my back wheel up slightly.
As I pulled over to the pavement to examine my bike he hops out of his car, yelling and screaming runs over to me, grabs my bicycle out of my hands and throws it across the pavement.
His friend hops out of the car and holds him back from attacking me, and when the driver finally calms down he looks at his rear bumper, claims it's damaged and begins to get aggressive again.
At this point I'm completely intimidated and tell him that I just want to do the right thing, and agree, against my will, to £20 damages (£40 for his bumper minus £20 for damage to my bike).
It's all quite ridiculous anyway since he caused the accident and then assaulted me, but I give him my contact details as I have no cash on me.
Instead of dropping it, yesterday he contacts me, having Googled to find my email address, and claims £300 damage to his bumper.Firstly, what is wrong with people ... all this happened in front of children in the back seat of the car, is this how you teach children to behave?
Secondly, is there any way to make this all go away. I don't want damages, I just want this cock to drop it.If this is genuinely what happened, then stick to your guns and take him to court. It sounds like a variant on the insurance scam of cranking the brakes on when in front of another driver and then claiming whiplash injuries etc. Scary business though.
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I called the police twice and they said on both occasions as it didn't happen on a road or a cycle path that links to a road it wasn't a matter for them and couldn't be taken any further. They said I had to go to small claims, and could report it to the Royal London Parks. But when i called the Royal London Parks they said they would just pass it on to the police and couldn't do anything themselves. Small claims said I couldn't do anything about it not knowing his identity. When i asked about CCTV to the police they said for me (with a broken back) to go and see if there is one myself!
This has made me very aware of the short comings when it comes to cyclist vs cyclist accidents and how its very easy for someone to not have to be accountable for their actions.This is clearly just another case of the Police being too lazy to investigate incidents. You can bet that if a cyclist bowled over some crumbly old duchess in Hyde Park then the Police and papers would be all over it. Cases have been investigated in the past because there was a collision between a cyclist and a roller blader in Hyde Park years ago that resulted in the cyclist's death and there are numerous accounts in the press of accidents between cyclists and dogs. In many of these cases the Police spokesmen refer to charges that could be applied.
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Thanks. Bill for the damage is in from Brixton cycles: £190!
Ouch.Mind you, fair play to them, they're rebuilding the wheel rather than replacing it entirely and since it's a Solidlight, they're sending it out for repair rather than replacing it with something like the equivalent B&M which would be a round £150 on its own. I predict that he'll go mental when he sees the cost.
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Had a bit of a crap ride in to work today. There was a big Volvo C90 stopped partway into the road at the junction of Hambalt Road and Abbeville Road. He'd pulled out, not seen a car coming and then stopped. I pulled up behind him intending to go straight on, when he reversed into me without warning. Despite me shouting he clearly had no idea what he'd done. I got off the bike and went to his door to show him my bike wedged in place under the back of his car and he was adamant it was my fault for being in his blind spot.
Our discussion went on for a few minutes with him claiming it was my fault because he couldn't see me and refusing to give me his details. So I phoned the Police. They turned up, first words out of the Policeman's mouth was "Oh, this is clearly his fault.."
Front wheel, mudguard, dynamo front light, all fucked.
I now have his details, so hopefully all will be resolved amicably. He dropped me a phone message to apologise earlier, so let's hope this works out OK.
Sucks to be on the train in weather like this though. -
I arrived at the junction well after this happened. There were blue tents up and a cement truck (not a mixer, the tanker type) stopped halfway into the junction. Blue tents were up and fire brigade were in attendance. Loads of Police and the junction closed off fully.
It looked like a classic cyclist down incident, but the Policeman I spoke to at the bottom of the hill said he thought it was a pedestrian, so I'm really not sure. Until we see a confirmed report I'd keep an open mind. -
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No, blue 29er by Redline, the BMX people. Have a look...
https://www.dropbox.com/s/dgm4hxwn5vtz3w1/2012-07-01%2006.36.49.jpg
I added that 1 to the sign last year. Can't believe it's still there!
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Same as 2011 then?Yep, obv. Sible Hedingham was an oasis of light and soup.51.5 miles in for those with simple computers. Felt sorry for the bloke last year who asked when the feed stop was coming up.. 10 miles past it.
That might have been me! We were stopped by the roadside and asked some passing riders. It was no problem though as we had a stove and food with us, so stopped in one of those amazing bus shelters, set up and had a good brew going on as the sun rose.
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If you're not going to carry much I would nOt worry too much about which is idea.
Grab the content you want to carry, see how big it look, and pick up any saddlebag your LBS carry.
I did a review comparing the Barley and the Nelson over on YACF might be useful: http://yacf.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=22961.0
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Found the story I was looking for:
Speed Is Life
Never underestimate the importance of an instrument cross-check
By Brian Shul
As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is “How fast would that SR-71 fly?” I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It’s an interesting question, given the aircraft’s proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35 miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual “high” speed that he saw at some point on some mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order. Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen.So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “What was the slowest you ever flew in the Blackbird?” This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following.
I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England, with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 flypast. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we proceeded to find the small airfield.
Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from the 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field—yet, there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field.
Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the flypast. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us, but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point, we weren’t really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was), the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass.Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 flypast he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the planform of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach.
As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there—we hadn’t spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did.A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s Club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 flypast that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed.
Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested stories. It’s ironic that people are interested in how slow the world’s fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it’s always a good idea to keep that cross-check up...and keep your Mach up, too.
Source: http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message949632/pg1
Brian Shul spent 20 years as an Air Force fighter pilot, and now is a popular keynote speaker. Shot down in Vietnam, he spent one year in a burn ward. His comeback story culminated with flying the SR-71, which he detailed inSled Driver. Brian also is known for his nature photography, which is on display at Gallery One in California. -
"There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane—intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.
Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done—in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it—the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request.
"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out"
I went to a talk by this pilot when I was in the US a couple of years back. He told this story then, but the best one is when they buzzed the boy scouts below the tower in a full banking turn by accident. Is that story in the same source as the one above?
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I have a pair of MTB race shoes, about size 9 up for grabs.
They were my commuting shoes, so they are well and truly battered.
Cane Creek (Aldi's in-house brand), 3 velcro straps, pretty much identical to the DHB M1 but without the heel cup and in red and black.
http://www.wiggle.co.uk/dhb-m1-mtb-shoes/They'd be ideal to hack about for anyone who wants to chop shoes around.
If you need picks, I'd be happy to supply.
You'd need to be prepared to pick up in South Ken though. -
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Tulse Hill
Brixton St Matthews
Elephant/Lambeth/Blackfriars Road
Parliament Sq
Camden Town
Tottenham Ct Road/gower street/CentrepointGod there's loads!
On a smaller scale, South Kensington has been extensively remodelled. What was effectively a small-scale gyratory has been returned to two way working.
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Don't you dare! I want to tour with a different kettle of fish like this;
You could carry a Carradice Camper Longflap at the back. They're massive and because they sit very close to the rear of the bike, they won't wag about. They easy to get into as well, so sorting through gear is pretty straighforward. You get a pair of decent sized side pockets as well.
You're right though, out of stock everywhere obvious. I'd give Carradice a ring if you're interested.
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I believe I might have an SSC rear mech and a spare slightly crash scratched one in the loft. I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks, but if you want me to go look in the loft when I get back PM me.