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A roll out on the Raleigh Electric to start Saturday morning. It’s been almost six months since I last pressed the eco button on the absolute beast of a bike and let the Bosch motor work its wonders down below.

It’s been a little complicated; access to the Raleigh Electric has been tricky. I gave the bike something of a once over yesterday evening ahead of the ride to start the weekend. Much to my surprise the battery level of three bars from six months ago had been retained.

The first obstacle to overcome whilst leaving the house was a gig boat being towed right down our road. Saturday morning is the Rat Race for the local gigs.

It’s a very competitive course, which, as the name suggests, takes you around Rat Island and then back down to the Sailing Club. It was quite a sight seeing a full-on gig being towed past our house.

My first thoughts as I put my pedal down and worked in unison with the motor were Christ, this bike is built like a bloody tank. It’s so strong and almost inflexible. It does give you a false sense of security, thinking that you’re on par with motorists on the road. You’re never on par with motorists on the road.

There was a slight early autumnal chill to the air. I could have possibly done with my full on cycling gloves. Soon it will be farewell to the fingerless ones for the season.

It didn’t take long before I passed the first roadside pheasant. He was looking slightly squashed. I don’t think he’ll get to enjoy the weekend.

I then realised I’d got my route all wrong. I missed off the usual turning for the Bobby George Boner. This meant I ended up riding it in reverse. It was most discombobulating.

I passed one of the local ponds that is usually a decent stop off point for a selfie, not so right now. It’s still completely bone dry.

Another signifier for the changing season was the sad sight of no wicket being prepared at Great Bentley. This is normally a regular scene as I cycle past the cricket club. Instead there was a sign up for an Autumn Fair. What goes around comes around.

Having messed up and tackled the route in reverse, I then also had to head down Tenpenny Hill rather than climb it. I would rather climb, to be honest. It’s pretty hairy with motorists trying to take you up from behind.

I passed the first pumpkins of the season outside a house. They weren’t real ones, but some kind of ceramic shit ones placed on top of a couple of gate posts.

The Raleigh Electric held its own as well as pretty much most of the charge. Autumnal and winter days were meant for taking the Raleigh Electric out around the lanes.

Chapeau!

Coltrane at 100

via Richard Williams

Restore Britain: a party on the road to fascism

via Socialist Worker

Incoming new live Weller album

“Parliamentarians tend to be a self-serving bunch: getting the PLP to vote for an early election is tricky when so many of them are predicted to lose their seats. "

via Novara

The ride out on Thursday afternoon was all about testing some new cleats. I finally gave up on my patched up cycling shoes after more than a couple of years of applying cheapo cheapo superglue to the sole. Sometimes in life you just have to accept that even a tight arse penny pinching cyclist such as myself needs to think about an upgrade.

No worries. I had a reserve pair of cycling shoes stashed away specifically for this purpose. I had attached the cleats around six months or so ago, in what I was hoping would be the exact same specification as my old knackered cycling shoes.

It’s all about fine margins when it comes to attaching cleats. The slightest miscalculation, compared to what you’ve known previously, will disrupt your whole cycling style and position.

Look at you, you pro cycling PONCE.

I rolled out rather gingerly and got myself clipped in. I almost came a cropper as I had a very soft testing of the release mechanism in the new cleats.

Anyone who has ever tried cleats for the first time knows that it’s a rite of passage that you will fall off within the first few pedal strokes as you try and unstrap. Somehow I managed to avoid this on Thursday.

I rolled out a little further, practising the chicken feet dance routine. You have to twist your ankles very abruptly, around 45°, and the theory is that your cleats will pop out. Simple, this, right?

Soon I was out along the lanes. I’m always happy when I’m riding a bicycle, even with dickhead close-pass motorists coming up from behind.

The weather conditions seemed ideal. There were bright blue skies and it was sunny up above, but it wasn’t hot and there was a pleasant breeze to propel me along.

I reached Elmstead Market. They’re a funny lot over there. I noticed Christmas decorations, not on one but two separate houses. What the fuck is wrong with some people?

The ride was then pretty much uneventful. I headed out towards Lawford, touched on the boundaries of Manningtree, and then looped back to base. I got caught a little short in the final stretch and had to stop off to water some blackberries.

All that moisture might certainly help over the coming weeks. I also managed to clock the first roadside mushrooms starting to appear.

Let’s do autumn, Halloween, and Bonfire Night before we start thinking about bloody Christmas, right?

A.K.A. a Gilles Peterson wet dream. There’s plenty of funk here, perhaps too much funk. It almost takes over from what could be some otherwise interesting jazz-samba moments. The foreign language element possibly disguises what might be some mundane lyrics. Which sounds incredibly jingoistic, but for all I know they could be getting their groove on, singing about beastly and unspeakable acts. Sure it’s pleasant enough. I guess it would make more sense sitting on a sun terrace and enjoying a lager shandy, but I’m not really that kind of guy.

⭐ ⭐

Three hours of gospel songs is pushing it even a little too much for me, with my open ears and inquisitiveness to explore and enjoy new types of music. Praise the Lord etc. She’s got a bloody good pair of lungs on her. I guess that’s the deal with gospel: the song’s secondary, it’s the delivery where it counts. Bloody hell this girl can sing, but not for three hours, mind. The start of playing the cricket was approaching. I bailed after around 45 minutes.

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I’ve probably cycled the Abberton Reservoir route more times in the past month or so than is usual for this time of year. The main reason that I’ve still only really got access to my road bike. Abberton is a perfect route for this. It has the added bonus of allowing me to stop off towards the end for a brief swim and a freshen up in the spa.

Chapeau!

Wednesday was no different. We always seem to experience something of a run of barmy late Indian summers around the Estuary Wilds this time of year. These are now not freakish, but they have become the norm. If we’re approaching October then it must mean that it’s still 25° or so outside. The aim is to get these rides in on the road bike whilst I still can.

The route remained the same but with ever changing observations in the fields around me. The land has been freshly ploughed. There was a rather invigorating scent of soil rising from down below as I cycled along the lane corridors. It looks a little dry this year, mind.

It was all going so well until I reached the final run in towards Colchester and the gym. My cycling shoes finally gave up on me after years of patching them up. It’s no big deal. It’s just that the hardened sole has been bolted on with various cheapo cheapo superglue solutions every couple of months or so. I think they have finally reached the end of the road.

Also pretty shitty was the hellish approach towards the Hythe. There’s a series of temporary traffic lights on this final stretch. There were some pretty piss poor tailbacks, which I felt obliged to respect rather than queue jump.

I think the lesson to learn here is to always stick to the lanes, try and find an escape route that involves avoiding as many dickhead motorists as possible, and just get out there and ride.

Oh - and perhaps finally make the switch to the new pair of cycling shoes I’ve had stashed away for a few years.

Tide and time were in our favour for the WivGigs Wednesday midweek social. There was no scrambling around for a 6 am launch, or flapping about later in the day to try and make the most of the fading Estuary Wilds rays. The Tide and Time Gods granted us a very genteel launch time of 9:15 am.

No surprises for a midweek row in that there was absolutely bugger all any other traffic out on the water. Everything seemed gorgeously green. The leaves on the trees along the seawall were hanging on to their late summer hue. This was reflected down on the water in front of us.

We did spot the tall lone plastic picker dude out along White House Beach. Respect, fella. He was doing his daily duty of walking around and picking up any old crap that dickheads had discarded.

It looked as though the migrating birds were having something of a weather check. Various flocks of Gawd knows what were circling around us, possibly planning their next expedition back for the winter months.

Not so the cormorants who were still perched proud on the poles within the water.

We headed downstream and then back towards the Sailing Club. There was something of an aborted attempt at landing, but our cox had other plans in mind, with a little further stretch down to Windy Corner in Rowhedge.

We were treated to the most spectacular flypast from around a dozen or so Canada geese who were flying with perfect synchronicity over our heads.

A decent midweeker.

I struggled with this album. I only know it through The Grey Album. The rhymes are familiar but the beats aren’t. No disrespect but The Beatles provide far better backing for Jay-Z than some of the beats on offer here. It’s all very sharp, almost computer perfect. I think that’s why I like The Grey Album so much. The Beatles fray around the edges of Jay-Z’s delivery, creating something a lot more relaxed, yet still real.

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This started off strong with some traditional blues. In particular the backing, with the bass and drums, came through with some conviction. But then by track two we enter into blues-pop territory. You simply can’t water down this type of music. It needs to be raw. It needs to be reverberating against your inner soul. The Mustang Sally cover, in particular, dilutes the Buddy Guy myth. Disappointing.

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An interesting Monday table tennis social down at the Sailing Club. We rocked up and there was no one else there. Eight hours earlier and it was the exact same situation at the University squash court - an hour to ourselves with a table that is a dream to play on.

My first concern was being locked in overnight at the Sailing Club. There could be worse places to be abandoned. There’s a fully stocked bar down there.

There was some Sailing Club meeting taking place with some of the old boys down below us. I ventured down there just to let them know of our presence and to ask when they would be done so we wouldn’t be locked in.

I made an absolute dick of myself introducing myself, and then realising that I actually knew three of the old boys sitting around the table.

Let’s get back to the whiff waff, right?

We played on for 15 minutes or so. The light was fast fading. A very brave couple were launching a kayak under moonlight from the hard below us.

And then A turned up to rescue us. To be honest I can only take an hour or so of playing with my usual partner once a day. Two hours would have been excessive. A made it a friendly threesome.

We decided on reverting to the standard table tennis rules of playing to 11. The Monday social at the Sailing Club has had a tendency to stray towards 21. You have too much luxury there to climb back from any deficit. Play to 11 and it’s game on, full on, right from the start.

A ball change was needed. We were playing with our own 3-star ball. It was incredibly fast and light. We switched to one of the Sailing Club ball, which was a lot slower.

It was a fantastic session. We got to rotate, with only one player sitting out for 2 minutes or so. Some pretty sharp shots were played.