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First Night Nerves by Piers Barber

So the clocks have gone back and it's dark at five o'clock. I've just spent a severely foot and mouth shortened summer's riding getting moderately fit and now I'm down to just weekends. I've got an obscene amount of money sitting in my garage in the form of bikes not being ridden enough. And it's Monday. Saturday's a long way away! It's the fifth of November, and I'm at home holding a sixteen week old daughter while Big Sister and Mum go to see fireworks. The wind's really got up and the rain is lashing the front of the house. Sod it! I'll go out anyway. Big Sister and Mum return from the fireworks by eight o'clock, and I'm changed and ready. Ready for what I don't know - this is my very first night ride. "You're mad!" she says. I suspect she's right. The wind is howling now, but it's not too cold. I could have ridden in my lunch hour before the rain arrived on this rather hurried westerly. But then I'd have only ridden for an hour. I decided I'd rather get out for two hours in the dark instead. The instructions for my new lights say I can go for two hours with everything burning brightly.

I have a quiver of rides of various duration. I don't know how long they are, but I know how long they take. "I'm going onto Black Moor and White Moor" I shout up the stairs in my shoes still muddy from last time. "How bright are your lights?" "Dunno - I'll shine them at you from outside - I'll be a bit over an hour". I've bottled out and picked the ride I would have done at lunch, in the dry, in the light. It really is very wet and windy out there.

Camelbak on, red LEDs flashing away on it, head torch packed just in case. Right! I go outside, lift the bike up and dazzle Big Sister and Mum as they watch incredulously from the first floor window.

I'm not a bike commuter, as I work from home, and I haven't ridden in the dark for ages. The huge cone of yellow light from my flood lamp twitches from left to right and back again. Am I really this wobbly? It seems so. I climb up the track that I've got so well acquainted with this summer. I'm out of the saddle and don't feel so bad about the yellow patch that flits from side to side as I gain height. Strangely, the darkness has flattened this hill. Is it the monstrous tail wind that's done it? Or am I riding slower and less aggressively because it's dark? Or is it because I can't see the top to worry about how far it is? I'm up above the village now and zip wind-assisted along a stretch of tarmac before turning onto open moorland. Black Moor has never looked so black!

I'm on the flood lamp and a spot beam too now. I find myself taking lines that I'd never usually take. These lines would be too easy in daylight. In the dark, I'm going at half the speed and my concentration is total. I get to a collapsed wall that I usually enjoy riding through clean. I dab a foot and utter an expletive. These lights aren't enough. I want to be pressing harder on the pedals, but I daren't. I should have gone for the better lights! Why did I penny pinch?

I'm back on the road again - drop back to just the flood. The head wind is fierce and I grovel and grind my way into it. I reach the point where Mum and Big Sister had been to the fireworks earlier in the evening. Only there's an obstacle I've never come across on a bike before. The pub car park has a huge bonfire with sparks and embers blowing across the road. But no one's around. I'm going to have to ride through this. "If my jacket gets a hole in it then I'm going into the pub to complain" I say to myself. I'm still in a bad mood for skimping on the bike lights.

There's a lull in the wind and I dash through the dancing sparks head-down. In the light of the pub sign my jacket appears unscathed. Being piss wet through had probably helped. I climb again steeply on tarmac. This has been flattened by the darkness too, and soon I'm on my favorite track on my favorite moor and White Moor has never looked so black!

Again I take lines that I haven't touched in daylight, but this is great. I take a dodgy line on an awkward step down - "We're not at home to Mr. Pinch-Flat" I say to myself, but Mr. Marzocchi helps me out. This is great! There's nothing wrong with these lights at all! This is my most familiar ride with all new lines, and rocks I've never seen before. I ride up a rocky step sequence, a rusty orange color in the yellow light. No dabs this time and I'm really chuffed with myself now and push on happily through hub deep puddles.

I pick up a path along a large stone Victorian drain where deep muddy ruts throw me off balance. I'd been worried about this section. Worried that I'd be drawn like a magnet to the edge of the drain and then do what I always do and somehow turn the front wheel sideways and go over the bars. I don't even notice the drain - it just remains a black thing on a black background, and its magnetic properties seem to have blown away. The cross braces of a galvanized gate glint up ahead, yet another familiar object seen completely anew.

All too soon and I'm on the road, but cut off it for the final descent to my house. The same way I end all my rides. This time I take my line as always. I think the bike's stuck on a rail on this one. I swoop down through the friendly bends, with the lights wobbling like mad on the rough track. I wonder if the neighbors think it's me as I clatter past, a twinkle in the dark and a twinkle in my eye.

I'll be doing that again.

Around This Time by Joe Sommers

...is when the planning begins. Late fall and early winter is the season to concentrate on exclusive mileage on my fixed gear bicycle. Rides that last only an hour on relatively flat terrain when time is at a premium or all day epic adventures where the only limit is the money in my jersey pocket and the availability of a convenience store are all a part of the magic "one thousand" miles. One thousand early season miles on my primitive steed to begin preparation for the entire focus of the year..."The Nightmare Tour".

The Nightmare is a brutal single day endurance/charity cycling event through the unending hills and low mountains on the perimeter of Lancaster Co. Pa. 177 miles...13,000 feet of vertical climbing...the sort of pain and suffering never sought even in the most hideous of personal injury cases. Anything can and usually does happen during the Nightmare. One hundred degree heat with humidity...the dreaded bonk...head hung low dying on the side of the road wondering where I'll find the will to carry on...Help me please...Mommy...where are you? Ahh! Swamp Church Road...half a mile of 17-19% grade at mile 117. Get to the top of this monster and you realize there are still 60 miles to ride.

In other years there have been thunderstorms and horrific downpours the likes of which inspired Noah and his sons to build the Ark. Six inches of muddy water flushing across the road. Yummy...a wet chamois and a nice raw ass to boot.

Why then bother to punish myself with such a gruesome feat? Masochism? Hardly. I'm riding in memory of a young man who was taken far too early from this life. His mothers tears as I cross the finish line each year let me know that my effort is appreciated.

Many have started this ride, many won't finish. This year I've committed myself to complete the tour on a single speed bike...I feel like I need a challenge...

Nightmare Musings by Joe Sommers

Make no mistake, The Nightmare is not your friend. It is a many-headed monster, lying in wait, seeking to topple the poorly prepared rider; it grudgingly acknowledges those who "conquer" it with an invitation to return next year. In the best of years, the Beast has "only" itself to offer heroic challengers. In the worst of times it joins in an unholy alliance on the side of most disagreeable weather known to man. As our would be Ulysses sets off on this uncertain odyssey, roads are transformed into endlessly humped dragons spewing forth melted asphalt and often flooded with rivers of muck. Along these corridors of despair and bleak existence stand defiant outposts of possibility. Oases of hope. The brave crews of the rest stops willing to sacrifice personal comfort and well being for the sake of these virtuous combatants. Tireless souls providing sustenance and the occasional comforting hug for bone-tired travelers too weary to dismount their mechanical steeds. When finally this quest has been achieved, a rainbow sighted after the terrible storm, our modern day heroes can cast aside their fears and worries for another year and bask in the warm glow of admiration from the worthy causes that their sacrifice and suffering has benefited.

Preparation and focus will allow you to slay this dragon. Skimp on the mileage, sleep in late and never prepare for the physical and mental torture that most assuredly waits and your Nightmare Tour will be similar to bringing a knife to a gun fight.

Jockstock by Simon Bateson

In the beginning, there was Outstock. Then came Overcast. Then, only slightly delayed by Foot and Mouth disease, was Jockstock. This is the history of UK singlespeed festivals, and as well as one gear bikes, they all offered lots of personality, much frivolity and the chance to ride in a new place. Oh, and beer, of course.

Jockstock was originally scheduled for March, but the outbreak of Foot and Mouth disease meant that the ‘slightly delayed’ Scottish singlespeed gathering was put off until a chilly November. The organisers, Dr Jon, Chris, and Martin, aka the Telly Savalas Players, promised ‘beers, tears from the climbs and primal gibbering from the descents’. That was good enough for me, so ignoring the snow reports that were already coming in, I bribed my girlfriend with the promise of a Christmas shopping trip to Scotland, and was all set for the UK’s third Singlespeed festival.

A cancelled flight meant that I missed the night in the pub that kicked off Jockstock and arrived in Peebles on the Saturday morning. I got started putting the bike together, joining the others fettling their bikes in the carpark behind the Green Tree pub. Everyone was chilled out and friendly, and surprisingly no one looked hungover from the night before. The weapons of choice ranged from old school rigs like a Singulated Fat Chance, to US exotica like a Spot and a Curtlo (ed note: Spot is made by the canucks.), with a Surley and battered Claude Butler with filed dropouts somewhere in the middle. Bike setup was pretty varied as well, some ran rigid, some went for suspension, some had flat bars, others went for risers, but all were united by their use of only one gear.

We set off late, as is usual for these things, and headed out to the trails at Glentress. The trees had lovely warm autumnal colours, and the leaves crunched under our wheels as we started on the fireroad climb into the forest. We stopped halfway up to admire the view and to wait for the less fit or hungover riders. This laid-back approach characterised the whole ride, a true singlespeed attitude.

After a bit more climbing, we hit the singletrack. At this point, I should admit that I‘ve never ridden a purpose-built trail before, so I had no idea what to expect. Construction of the Glentress trails started back in January 2000, and they were designed from the start to have a long lifespan and be rideable in all weathers. The first one to be finished was the Red Route, with steps, jumps, and berms and other technical trickery built into the trail. This alone took 8 months, £30,000, and 1200 tonnes of crushed rock to build. The Black Route was constructed next, with an emphasis on using natural trail features. Our ride would mix the best sections from both.

Blasting along the tight, grey ribbon of singletrack that unravelled in front of us, it was clear that these trails had been built well. In November, mud can make many British trails almost unrideable, but here, the crushed stone base was fast, grippy, and dry, encouraging you to carry as much speed as possible and take full advantage of the perfectly placed little jumps and bermed corners. A short sharp rise in the trail caught me out, and as my momentum dropped, I unclipped and got clear of the trail to let the next rider through. He too started to stall, but a push was enough to get him over the top and onwards, and he yelled out thanks over his shoulder as he disappeared up the trail.

We stopped to regroup at the end of this section, and judging by the big grins all around, the others had enjoyed it as much as I had. The next section was more of the same, only better…rockier, steeper, and even more fun. After that, the trail started spiralling upwards, with tight switchback turns presenting another type of challenge, until finally, we broke through the treeline, and collapsed onto the soft heather at the hilltop. The radio mast at the summit of the hill was now in sight, and we reached it via a deceptively flat looking drag that had us all pushing the last few metres to the top.

After a food break, we carried on down the other side. Now, the whole ride was great, but this short, sweet section was one of my favourites: tight, snakey singletrack, with well bermed corners that just encouraged you to carve it up. It linked into a fast, straight section, dotted with drop offs and tabletops, before dropping back down into the forest via an almost vertical slope that had at least one of us sliding down on his back with his bike slithering after him. This part of the trail was steeper and looser than before, and it hooked up with a fireroad about halfway up the hillside.

It was starting to get dark now, so we pressed on, plunging back into the forest, peering into the half darkness to try to make out the trail, whilst tyres struggled for grip on a slippery mixture of mud, roots, and decaying vegetation. We shot out at the end into the Red Squirrel car park, where Jon, Chris, and Martin had thoughtfully left their car with a case of Jacobite ale inside. What can I say - the perfect end to a top ride.

Thanks to Pete for building the trails, thanks to Jon, Chris, and Marty for taking us round them.

Rat Bike by Russ Mead

If single speeding is about outlawing then a "rat bike" would be just as valid as an SS specific frame with SS specific non-dished wheels and Ti seat posts. So here is a can beat the shit out of it, ride it anywhere bike.

The frame, well it is the coolest part. A mid 80’s vintage double butted steel frame from Marin. Paint original. The rear brake: a long forgotten U brake. I know they were supposed to be bad, but this brake could crush a full can of Fosters with the top on. It will skid the wheel anywhere, anytime.

Rear wheel, not a Surly, Spot or anything SS like. It is a steel rim with a Sun Tour cluster. I left it intact. Not for any other reason than why bother to take it apart? What is another quarter of a pound when you’re running a steel rimed wheel?

The break levers, well..., they kind of match. Big honking motorcycle style levers that could pry open a drawbridge. Quarter pound weight penalty per lever.

Ratio, 2 to 1. Perfect. Drop outs: pure horizontal. Geometry, ride it every day sweet.

The chain to lock it up is a galvanized anchor chain. I live in a Seattle and got it from the commercial fishing store.

Ok now the good part. I gave the bike away. Yep. Not mine anymore. You see there is a homeless shelter in my neighborhood. These poor dudes don’t have the money for bus fare. They have no tools. And so they can only look for work as close as they can walk. There is not much work in a 2-mile radius from the shelter, but if you extend that to 4 miles, the area goes way up (A Pie times radius squared kind of thing.)

So I make these rigs up and give them away. Can’t break 'em, dependable transportation. No index shifting. No skinny bike tubes. I have three of them finished now. Cost, about 25 bucks in odd parts if you can find an abandoned rig to start with.

So if you love single speeding put one of these bad ass urban transports together and give it away. You get big time Mojo points if you do.

Oh, they are pretty cool to ride for a week or two before wheeling it down to the shelter. If you ride it you better leave the lycra at home. Rat bikes and cycling jerseys are just plain bad Juju. While you’re at it, drop someone up a hill with their new bouncy bob 47 speed that they just picked up at the local bike super store. Good Karma before you find a new home for your ride.