We have a shiny new RATHAD, size ‘M’ sitting all pretty in the FRAMEWORKS ready for your next luxurious build. You don’t need to wait 16 weeks for it nor will you even need pay full price!
Float yer boat? Read on…
the RATHAD/Ra.ad/ is our elegant and modern road racing frame; lightweight, aggressive and responsive.
The FEATURES
The features of this RATHAD are as follows:
*requiring a ZS44/28.6 upper headset and EC44/40 lower headset in SHIS speak.
**right hand actuates the rear brake.
The GEOMETRY
The geometry of this RATHAD is as follows:
Location | Dimension |
Seat Tube (c-t) | 53cm |
Seat Tube (c-c) | 48cm |
Top Tube (c-c) | 54.8cm |
Head Tube Angle | 72.5° |
Seat Tube Angle | 73.5° |
Chain Stay Length | 41cm |
Bottom Bracket Drop | 7cm |
Reach | 38.6cm |
Stack | 54.5cm |
Head Tube Length | 14cm |
Fork Length (axle to crown) | 37cm |
Fork Rake | 4.3cm |
We’ve two options for sale…
Option 1 – Frame only
We will would be looking for £900 (down from £1,500 – priced to sell) for the frame only.
Option 2 – Frame and fork including headset
As an alternative we would like to offer a full frame-set which would also include a Columbus Futura Disc Fork (RRP £375) and Hope Tech 2 & H Top and Bottom Headset Cups (RRP £80) for £1,300
Both options include free UK postage and packing. Please get in touch via frameworks@albannach.cc if you are at all interested. If you do not reside in the UK please get in touch and we can discuss international postage.
So… I just popped my peaks cherry, riding the 3 Peaks Cyclocross Race in Yorkshire for the first time. It was also the first ever race for my new Albannach Crois – more on this later.
I’ve been riding long enough to not get too carried away by the hype, but there is ALOT of hype around this race – everyone has an opinion, a story, a warning! The SR Albannach boys that have ridden it before go wide-eyed just chatting about it. Even my wife started to lose sleep worrying about me smashing my face off a hefty slab of Yorkshire rock. Basically I’m saying it’s kind of a big deal (within the niche world of ‘cross).
Really, how well you do comes down to two things – body and bike. I have a traditional shift in focus with events like this. I start off focused on the body, elaborate training plans, dusting off the turbo and even stretching occasionally… then, a couple of weeks later when I’ve binned all that, I focus on improving the bike. On this occasion building up a bike from scratch specifically for the event.
I’d been lusting after an Albannach ever since Jim rebadged an old frame with some cool typeface and a lion on it back in about 2010. He’s upped his game a bit since then, and with bespoke titanium frames going on sale to the public earlier this year I had to get in early so I had one before they went mainstream [sorry Jim, I hope this doesn’t happen]. A few changes in specification meant the frame didn’t land until early September but I had it built up in a few days and straight out into my local trails – it felt good – fast, responsive, confidence-inspiring… it also looked pretty fucking bad-ass.
With nothing but other people’s stories to go on for my build I went on hunches – I opted to regress to 2×11 gearing [is that old-school yet?] to avoid spinning out on the high-speed road sections. I stuck with my solid DT-Swiss R24’s, and WTB Cross Boss’s with 50+ PSI were compulsory thanks to Euan Lindsay’s diktat, though after a couple of high-speed wipe-outs in the muddy Pentland Hills I was beginning to worry about them.
On to the weekend, and a crew of seven (plus one dog) headed for the YSS Schoolhouse in Helwith Bridge. What this place lacks in pretty much everything else, it makes up for in location, literally on the startline. Four of us were riding (three for the first time), with two partners and one victim of the harsh entry-ballot stepping up to act as SRA rider support.
Anna and Jim were treating this as an extension of their honeymoon, and Jim was more concerned about whether their bunks were close enough to hold hands overnight than he was about completing his second 3 Peaks – he’d given up beating his previous effort thanks to a month of wedding madness and a supposed belly (note – he went on to smash his previous effort).
Neil had also had a few distractions, and whilst we all fussed about a few PSI in our bike tyres he had a rapidly deflating van tyre to deal with to even make it to Helwith Bridge. He’d also suffered a bang to the knee which limited his training, but thankfully also limited the number of chances he had to destroy his bike in the build-up (note – Neil wrecks bikes). Neil’s wife Lucy had brought their dog Yami and enough (ridiculously good) Rocky-Road to give us all diabetes.
Graham Co$&£*”(!)— as it’s now spelt, the dark horse of Albannach, took the brunt of the hostel proprietor’s anti-Scottish sentiment as he slaved away in the kitchen making our dinner (on top of two hours the night before getting those onions just right!). The man seemed genuinely surprised when “a bunch of tight Glaswegians” payed up the full £6 each. As a trained teacher, Graham knows better than most how to hide it when he has no clue and is terrified, so came across as quietly confident about the race despite the fact he was probably also shitting himself.
Finally there was Euan – a relative veteran of two previous finishes. Euan was my 3 Peaks oracle. I’d been consulting him every chance I got since getting in, and the weird place-names and phrases he came out with had slowly morphed into a tangible route map with clearly defined support stops and a plan. He took on a whole new persona the night before, organising the troops and collecting all our kit and bottles. A truly selfless act from Euan, with Neil bestowing him with a deserved #AlbannachMVP.
The race itself went a bit like this, total fucking chaos neutralised zone, walk up a hill, descend through a bog, road, massive set of steps up, UCI Downhill World Cup standard descent (FML), road, bumpy climb, another UCI Downhill World Cup standard descent (complete with walkers, dogs, stray kids, oh and competitors racing up the very same trail the opposite way), road, finish. That’s all you need to know. I always describe ‘cross to non-CX’ers as riding a mildly technical route on a bike totally unfit for purpose. This route is more than mildly technical.
After I finish an event like this I normally allow myself about 30 seconds to appreciate it, before moving on to what I could do next time to improve. It’s not an easy mindset, but I suppose it keeps me motivated. What would I do to my body? Run up steep hills, again and again and again. What would I do to my bike? Absolutely nothing – the bike was flawless. I rode quite cautiously the first two descents (priority number one was to finish), but on the final descent I let it go, and it lapped it up. Amazing. Subtle touches like the flattened horizontal top tube made carrying as pleasant as carrying can be, and the fact that you’re riding something unique, designed by a mate with each part hand-picked and built up in my garage made it all the better. And yes, Euan, those tyres were perfect.
All four team riders finished, which says as much about the invaluable support from Lucy, Anna and Euan as it does about the hard work by the riders. It was a proud day to be part of SR Albannach and I’ll be back next year [if I get in].
SR Albannach Results
Niall Shannon – 03:34:12
Neil Henderson – 03:56:49
Jim Cameron – 04:02:19
Graham Coubrough – 04:25:27
SCX5 #MULLORCACross is the kind of sport I love and I hate. I love the rush of endorphins immediately post race, I hate the sick feeling of nerves immediately pre race. I love it because it’s done in an hour, but I hate it because it still somehow manages to take all day (or all weekend in some cases). But the weekends race in Mull was an exception to this rule. I still can’t say I was jumping with excitement at the prospect of racing in the snow and ice, but a weekend away to beautiful Mull with a ripping crew of team members all together in a house and promise of pints at the pub afterwards certainly was appealing. My main motivations for racing my bike these days are social and a chance to cover as much ground and see as many sights as I can in a new country. This trip ticked those boxes perfectly.
Off early Friday afternoon with Graham “Reverse Parallel” Cross, the countryside gradually got whiter and whiter as we drove westward from Edinburgh. Scotland’s as cold as a witches tit in winter, but it is bloody glorious against a setting winter sun. We caught the early ferry and I was introduced to the Scottish specialty of a fish supper. It’s no pre-race pasta nutrition-wise, but it’s bloody delicious and quickly had us sorted before boarding the ferry to Mull.
Unfortunately all was dark by the time the ferry took off, so we put away a couple of beers and Crossy expertly navigated the icy roads to our accommodation. Again, bloody top notch location, with a view over Tobermory’s little bay lit by moonlight and christmas lights.
Race morning and the house is bustling with wheels, bikes, shoes and porridge. Neil “Derailleur Hanger” Henderson is doing a quick replacement of his rear mech courtesy of Niall “Nasty” Shannon’s spare rig. Thankfully most of the ice has subsided and we make our way over bright and early to catch the end of the youngsters race. They were covered in mud, it’s snowing and they’re getting right into it. Now I’m starting to get a little more gee’d up to race, this is looking good.
Now I’ve done my fair share of cross racing, all over the world; Australia, NZ, US, Belgium, Netherlands, France, Japan…even China, but this course pretty much topped them all for scenery. A bloody castle, surrounded by snow, with views over the ocean to epic cliffs and mountains in the distance, with twisty bunting turns, steep run ups and mud galore, it was unreal.
Well it was unreal, and also fucking cold. Once I’d had a good gander at the youngsters ripping it up, and the old fellas and ladies tearing round the course (Anna “Grins” Beck flying the flag for the ‘nachers, big smiles all the way round, great to see), it was time to get warm. Apart from a quick bike swap for Graeme, who motored to a fine 3rd place despite being under the weather (think you gave that to me you old codger ;-p), I was back in the car, staying warm and listening to tunes.
Me being me, before I knew it, I was already running late and didn’t even have my kit on. Trying not to stab myself with the safety pins due to incessant shaking from a combo of a monstrous americano and the nerves setting in, I threw everything on, jumped on the bike and rode up and down the start straight a few times to warm up. With most of the fastest guys opting not to make the trip, aside from DD, the race for the podium was wide open.
Due to missing a few rounds, I found myself on the third row, but once the gun went, made sure I held my nerve and attempted not to let the race get away from me too early in the race. I’m a massive wuss when it comes to race starts, it’s never been my forte, I’d much rather hang back with the possibility of pulling a Steve Bradbury (watch it, it’s amazing) and come through unscathed. Thanks largely to a nice wide start and a smaller field, I didn’t find myself too far back in the race once things settled down. The field was a sea of Unicrois with Leo “Pommy” Plaster, Neil, Eoghan “Fastest legs in the West” Maguire, Jim “El Capitan” Cameron and even Crossy backing up for another serving of lactic. Before long, things settle down and we have a group of five, with DD further ahead as expected. Niall, John “Groundskeeper Willie” Mackenzie and myself have had some ripping battles this season, and here we were battling again for podium spots. Five becomes four, and four becomes three, as Niall slips back, but never quite out of sight (or is it just that Rachel “Up the duff” Shannon dishes out the most vocal heckles that he always seems right behind you? Team effort). Huw Oliver has some strange handlebars, but don’t let that fool you, the bloke rips through mud with ease, turns with skill and would regain any advantage John or I could put into him on the straights by seemingly taking the elevator up the Rhododendron runup. We all traded blows at the front, but no one could get away and I knew my magic legs would only last so long (10 days in Bogota at 2800m seemed to make up for a lack of training this season, take note, it’s a pretty sweet way to cheat your way to form), but I had faith in Groundskeeper Willie’s ability to get the job done, be that for 2nd or 3rd. Sure enough, a lack of blood to the brain meant a slow crash on a corner and they were away. Never mind, consolidate the position and enjoy the last two laps. Looking ahead on the final lap, it looked like Huw had cracked John, but coming through the pits John was running! It’s never the way to find yourself on the podium, but that’s cross….it’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m not gonna be the one wearing bacon pants. Dig deep, pass John jumping on a new bike (poor old Shazza had a busy day in the pits!) and cross the line in 3rd. John 4th, Niall 5th and Eoghan in 8th. A bloody great day’s racing, the organisers didn’t muck about when it came to presso’s “3rd Lewis, 2nd Huw, 1st Davie, alright, well done lads, here you go, thanks and goodbye”. It was much appreciated as we were all ready to get clean and warm.
Plenty of pints were put away at the pub that night, and I saw a stag and quite possibly an otter on the way home. Probably the equivalent of seeing a kangaroo back home (nothing special), but still a novelty for this convict. It’s been an awesome season, I’ve had a ball. Time to get fat and not ride for a few months cos I’m afraid of icy roads.
*I have actually never referred to any of these people by these nicknames, if any one of them sticks it’ll be a job well done.
Full results from Cross at the Castle
Albannach x #TCRNo5In just a few days time I will be on my way out to Belgium to start this years Transcontinental Race, #TCRNo5 and my second attempt at the race (see how I got on last time here).
The race starts in Geraardsbergen, Belgium and finishes this year in Meteora, Greece. There are no stages, there are no rest days, the first rider to Meteora ‘wins’. My 3,916km route to the four checkpoints is taking me through Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Italy, back into Austria, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria Serbia, Macedonia and finally Greece. I’ve no intentions of winning it, I know fine well what the winners of this race put themselves through to get to the finish in around 8-9 days, I’m in it for the adventure, the challenge, to redeem my previous failed attempt of #TCRNo3 and to just simply reach the finishers party in time, almost 15 days later. This will involve me riding at least 279km per day on average, I’m aiming for 300km days. I like to think that I can break my days up into 100km blocks; 4 hour 100km blocks with an hours rest in between for food and recovery. Three of those blocks per day then allows for a 9 hour recovery in-between days. I know this is a little too theoretical and doesn’t take into account terrain, weather conditions but this is about as organised a schedule as I’m going to manage.
As this is an un-supported, un-routed race, where I will need to carry all of my clothing and equipment, while aiming to ride 300km per day, I’ve tried to really cut down to the bare essentials. Even now I still feel like I’m taking too much but I’m pretty stoked on this year’s #customeverything setup. I’ll be taking the new TORRAGAR out with me designed specifically with this kind of monster randonnée riding in mind so I thought before I depart for the continent I’d put together a wee post about my randonnée-race setup.
The BIKE
The LUGGAGE
Aside from the TORRAGAR itself, my luggage setup, designed and made with my pal Graham (@couby_wan) is probably my proudest achievement. I really needed to get away from the large saddle bag setup that I had the last time around. It could take plenty but the bag swings around with every pedal stroke and you always, always need something at the absolute bottom of the bag. This time around I’ve opted for a few more, smaller bags spread about the TORRAGAR. All bags are black, ‘waterproof’ and reflective.
The #coubyxalba footlong is a development of our #coubyxalba roll n’ black saddle rolls, big enough to fit in all the tools and spares I think I will need for the trip. It also comes with a wee daisy chain on top, just beyond the saddle for attaching the SPOT tracker.
The TOOLS
Under the top tube is a perfectly sized, custom built frame bag that will carry my spare on-the-bike clothing; spare bibs, socks, rain jacket, gilet, arm warmers and glove system. Leg warmers will go in with the rest of the sleeping gear as I don’t think these will really ever be used for riding.
The ON-BIKE CLOTHING
Up top of the top tube I have a #coubyxalba tt bag for all my electronics. The Sinewave Revolution will be attached to the stem so that devices can be easily wired up to the USB converter. I’ll have a pair of 5200mAh battery packs, Exposure Trace and TraceR lights, bluetooth earphones (all of these can be charged by the Jaybird X3 charger), iPhone 7, Garmin 810. I’ll also have USB to EURO plug for cafe stops.
The ELECTRONICS
Upfront hanging off the handlebars is the #coubyxalba monster sporran. This has been designed specifically to fit to a maximum width to allow full use of the drops and maximum height wise to ensure it wasn’t interfering with the front light, as much cyclindrical volume as possible, it’s perfect for the sleeping kit. Just infront of that hanging off of the tt bars i’ll have the #coubyxalba burger bag, filled to the gunnels with…cheeseburgers.
The SLEEPING GEAR
Unfortunately the Niner RDO Gravel Fork does not come with a front fork crown mounting bolt so I designed a u-shaped mount to allow my Supernova E3 to be bolted from the rear of the fork. Luckily my pal Paul (@fairbairnfabrications) has a milling machine and carved a couple of these guys from solid blocks of aluminium. Similarly there wasn’t an available solution for mounting the rear Supernova E3 Taillight to the rear of the bike. Ideally this would come off of one of the rear rack mount bolts on the frame. Step forward another pal, Ande Murdoch (@mechanical_vandal) for simple wee solution to perfectly mount the light according to the frame geometry.
The LIGHTING
And lastly and least interestingly here’s the list of potions i’ll also be taking, these will just be snuck away into all the nooks and crannies of the bags across my setup.
The PHARMACEUTICALS & NUTRITION
Well there you have it, fingers crossed this gets me to Meteora in time for my wee mini break in Greece with the lass.
If you want to ‘dot watch’ you can see how we all get on via the tracker. My number is the same as my TCRNo.3 number, 144. My pal and team mate Eachann Gillies is also racing this year, follow him too, number 190.
Also i’ll be using a few hashtags to collate my images from this race the official #TCRno5cap144 as my personal Transcontinental hashtag and one that I will reinstate from TCRNo3, #SRAxTCR.
HWFG
#makegravelgreatagainLet’s not mince about here, we all know why we’re putting on a cross-gravel epic today, it’s Forrest Whittaker’s birthday, and he loves a roam about on the vitamin G*.
To honour the Last King of Scotland I’ve cooked up a route of around 100km of the tracks and trails around Loch Ard and Achray Forests in a sort of figure of eight with Aberfoyle at the centre.
The #makegravelgreatagain loop can be downloaded to GPX or TCX here and it is mandatory to have the route with you one way or the other.
You’re never that far from Aberfoyle so if you’re not used to the rigours of gravel riding then you can always head back to the toon for an early shandy or perhaps take a shortcut to catch the group up later on in the ride.
All welcome. 32mm + recommended (Land Cruisers, Nanos, MSO X’Plor type tyres). Do not turn up on your road bike and get all diva-like when you realise it’s 100km of gravel. In some sections there are big chuckies that will make a riot of your 23mm tyres. I imagine there will be a wide range of abilities so naturally I think different groups will form along the route.
This is not a race nor a sportive, it’s an open, social, free ride. It’s unsupported and you are responsible for your equipment and more importantly, yourself. You join us at your own risk and you are expected to ride in a safe, considerate manner, both to other road users and other riders, so don’t be a dick. There are some spicy sections so if you’re not totally confident on this kind of terrain take it easy and enjoy the scenery.
We’ll be leaving from the Aberfoyle Car Park (location below) at around 10:30am on Saturday the 15th of July. See you then!
*plus I can’t justify spending £150 to cross over to the Isla del Weej, enter an hour long race, grab a burger and gin and camp out (for free).
the Transcontinental Race – Part 2In the time I’ve spent thinking about writing part two, the founder of the Transcontinental Race, Mike Hall, was killed by a car whilst racing the Indian Pacific Wheel Race in Australia. I met Mike only briefly at the end of my Transcontinental, but he left a lasting impression in my mind, as well as the physical toll his imagination had taken on my legs. I remember him talking about how worried he had been in the race the year previous when the competitors had to ride a long stretch of road to Istanbul that was very dangerous, how he was sat next to his phone, dreading a phone call saying that someone had been hurt. Thankfully no one was, but his care for everyone who rides shone through. In the time since his death what’s been clear is that this care shone back at him tenfold. The cycling community around the world has united in mourning Mike. There have been hashtags used to connect places, people, bikes, rides, vistas and more that celebrate Mike’s spirit. These hashtags have connected us in the way the roads we ride connect the places we go. A vascular network, like the veins and capillaries we cycle so hard to create and strengthen. A celebration of the very air we breathe, we ride a bike to demand more of it, ride up mountains to gasp it in. Mike embodied to me all of this and more. Recently I’ve had the recurring idea that a bike on a road is like a bow on a string, making the world music. That makes Mike one of the most prolific musicians I’ve heard.
Rest in peace Mike.
Day 8
I was born aged 30 years old in a slightly run down Croatian coastal resort called Senj, under the neon sign of Hotel Libra. I stepped out into a sunny but windy morning dressed in filthy lycra, determined. Something had clicked overnight. I’d like to say some old randonneur had come to me in a dream, but I was so tired by this point my sleep had become a black hole from which I tore myself free, confused about where I was, with the nauseating pressure to get moving. But this morning was slightly different. I was born. Stopping in Senj at 6pm and choosing not to continue had played on my mind, it was the second time during the race I had taken a much shorter day than I should have. I went to sleep feeling guilty. I awoke feeling enlightened – just stop fucking stopping!
Did Einstein feel similar in part one when he created relativity, two moving frames moving relative to each other are fucking different, Albert! Maybe. But that metaphor has been ridden into the Balkan dust. This is part two, and I need new images.
It really felt simple though. Just don’t stop. Or stop, just not for very long. I repeated this like a mantra at the buffet breakfast bar. I got the bike out of the cleaner’s cupboard and I was ready to go, a 700m climb out of town. The zip burst on my frame bag as I was packing up, so I stuck what I needed in my saddle bag and threw the broken one away. I’ll feel the cost of that later. I started out of town and realised my light was no longer working. I had been charging it all night but it wasn’t doing anything, still full of water from the Italian tsunami I surfed, I threw it away. I’ll feel the cost of that later too.
Up the climb and I’m feeling light. I pass a couple of other riders and say hello, but keep on at my own pace, the climb’s gradients are gentle and I’m grateful. I’m rising out of the town and the switchbacks afford me views over Senj and it’s pink bay, that pink again. For the next two days, all the way to checkpoint four, I don’t so much move through the environment as it moves through me. The interior of Croatia I find absolutely beautiful.
As a side story, you remember Forrest Gump when he “just felt like running” and there are those scenes where he’s running through America, those long flat roads and flat landscapes like rambling sentences punctuated with rocks, not mountains, just big rocks. The earth, tired from making itself, put down its tools and said, that’s enough. Or a story more to the side, when I was a little kid and the furthest point you can see is the horizon and that’s where I want to go but my conversation with the curvature of the earth is never ending but never boring. Croatia was all these things. The road was gently rolling and I had a slight tailwind. I’ve probably only experienced majesty two or three times in my life but the Krka National Park was majestic. Everything is green, sand, pink and blue. I hardly pass a car all day, or see any other riders. I feel completely alone and it’s bliss. I said the landscape was like a sentence and it’s content became more complex when I started to see burned out tanks and buildings that had been shot up. Self-awareness washed over me and I realised I’m right in the heart of the Balkans, I grew up watching the news of the Balkan wars and had never really considered it in real life. This is the first time I’ve been through a recent war zone and history was palpable. That only added to the intensity. I realise I’m at a bit of altitude when I’m faced with road snaking down and down to the horizon, where there are lakes and it starts to take the shape of a massive valley. I must have descended for about an hour, I feel like I don’t turn a pedal once which adds to the feeling that everything is moving through me. I’m experiencing something very important. Everything is tangible and the horizon is open and approachable. The environment is burning itself onto the back of my eyelids, an experience i’ll return to again and again in quiet moments. I’ll have it with me always, like my name. I’m going to share this when it’s finished.
The day continues like that.
Pink sky returns and pulls gently down on my eyelids. I’ll bivvy tonight and with almost 300km done I see the soft grass of a churchyard with seven evergreen trees to watch over me. The village is called Sinj. Senj to Sinj sounds good. I fall asleep to the sound of crickets and a gentle breeze.
Day 9
I wake up about three hours later, pack my things and continue. Breakfast is once again on my mind, eyes hungry and open. I don’t speak any other languages but I always felt familiar in France, Switzerland and Italy, knowing a bit of vocabulary and what to look out for. Croatia is new though, and I know nothing of the vocabulary. I’m cycling down a hill and I see a couple of people sitting outside of a building with some bread. The sign says pekara. Heaven.
I only have euros, forgetting to take out some Croatian money but I’ve learned that every person is their own bureau de change, perfectly happy to do a deal for you. Everything looks amazing and there are these long sausage roll type things with cheese in them that the kind pekara woman cuts like a rope. I’ll have some of that. Or a lot of that, eating a bunch and sticking more into my pockets. I climb out of Imotski and towards the Bosnian border. I hope to be in Montenegro and the fourth checkpoint by the end of the day. The temperature is roasting, taps aff they say in Scotland. I climb a bit more. I thought all the climbing was done after Italy but that was a mistake. I swoop down into Mostar and almost crash into in ice-cream stand at the bottom, convenient. I put my bike down to enjoy my magnum and realise that my bivvy bag has fallen from bike. I was descending for about half an hour so it could have fallen off anywhere, I cycle back up the hill for about 2 minutes but it’s too hot and too hard and too much so I decide it’s a goner. It’s going to be warm from now on in so I tell myself so it’s ok to not have it anymore. I’ll feel the cost later. My new mantra gently reminds me to not stop for long. I’ve got a 25km climb towards the border with Montenegro at the absolute hottest part of the day, joy. I meet a couple of riders who’ve stopped for a juice at the start of the climb and we try and laugh the heat off. It works for about two minutes. The climb isn’t steep, just an enormous drag. My cycling computer is reading 45 degrees centigrade. I know that’s probably fiction or a fault but it doesn’t help. It’s hot but like all things, some time passes and the climb ends. I’ve routed via an unofficial border crossing into Montenegro and I know that a section of it is off-road, but I’m not sure how off the road it is, and the not knowing makes me anxious. The fear of shredding my tyres on the sharp stones of Bosnia, being stranded in the middle of nowhere, is making me feel anxious. My psychology turns to meteorology and the thunder rolls in the sky but also in me, but I keep pedalling. A flash of lightning makes the landscape glitch and it starts to rain. This could be trouble, but on the 2nd day of my rebirth the rain fades out and everything calms down and the pink returns.
The gravel isn’t so bad but there are some really steep parts my tyres can’t grip so I have to push a couple of sections. I think how hard everything is when I hear the sound of an engine behind me, and I kid you not, it’s a taxi! An old estate with enough space at the back to accommodate my bike too! I contemplate thumbing it – the Titwood bar please! – but that would be fiction, and this is a non-fictional account of cycling across Europe, so what I actually do is stare at it mouth agape as it passes by, and the driver does exactly the same to me. The two riders I met on the climb out of Mostar catch up with me as the gravel turns back into tarmac and we tell ourselves that surely it must be a victory parade to the finish now, it can’t get more precarious than that.
It’s dark when I arrive in Pluzine Montenegro, checkpoint four. I’ve made good time and arrived at a reasonable time for dinner. The two other riders I was with aren’t behind me anymore, we got split on the descent and I wonder what’s wrong. They come in about half an hour after me, one of them crashed on the descent and thinks he’ll have to scratch from the race now. It’s always precarious. (It turns out he didn’t need to scratch, he just rested for a day and ploughed on, we shook hands in Turkey). Steak and chips and bread and cheese and coke and blueberries and jazz and a poster of Jeremy Corbyn and smoke wood and the smell of night and grass and other riders and sweat and bookshelves and 1000km to go is what Pluzine is like. In the morning I’ll realise I’m in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, all greens and lakes and gorges. But in the dark it’s the Zvono guesthouse which is really hip. The owner has long hair and a moustache and I ask him about the Jeremy Corbyn poster and he says he’s a great guy. I ordered a steak the size of a plate with chips in a bowl next to it and multiple slices of bread and took a room in someone’s flat they were renting out for 10 euros.
Like I already said, I woke up realising I’m at the bottom of a beautiful green gorge, rode back to Zvono for some breakfast – eggs and ham. Green gorge eggs and ham. I order a pot of coffee and sit with some other riders who arrived in the night, I also meet Anna who is co-organiser of the race, and Mike’s partner. Sometimes I think I’m a quiet type but if you put me next to a bunch of people I’ll talk shite with the best of them. She listens generously and it recharges my batteries, she also gives me batteries for my GPS tracker. I’m chatting freely and we’re all laughing, talking about our various misfortunes, which aren’t really misfortunes just hiccups cause we’ve eaten our fortune too fast, because what’s more fortunate than being able to ride your bike across Europe? After the race I would check social media and realise that there was quite a bit of coverage, the directors cars covering the race with photographers and videographers. Obviously not everything can be covered and the photos that have been taken are brilliant, the superhuman effort of those at the front of the race being caught perfectly. But what maybe doesn’t get shown is the effort of let’s say the “middle pack”. The riders who are battling against time to make it to checkpoints before they close, which keeps them on track for making the finishers party in Cannakale. A lot of people start with the ambition of just making the finisher’s party, it’s ambitious which is an understatement given the distance covered but it doesn’t feel as gung ho as saying you want to finish in the top twenty. Everybody needs a purpose and the feeling that a door is closing slowly on you is a good one, you want to be on the right side of it when’s closed. I would see people suffering this urgency all through the race, people like me. There are also the people who do miss checkpoints and who don’t make the finisher’s party and their stories are beautiful and bonkers too. Anyway, we recharge our technology with plugs our bodies with food and coffee and our minds with stories. I tell a story about day three.
Day 3
It’s 5:30am and I’ve just woken up in someone’s garden with a curious cat sniffing me. Bivvying isn’t as warm as I thought and I should have packed a sleeping bag as well, I’ll think about that for the rest of the race. But I’ve had a solid four hours sleep and I get my gear together and get on the road. I’ve got a snickers bar as a memento of the previous day and I guzzle it down gratefully. I’ve really enjoyed cycling in France and I had also been enjoying riding at night under the stars. I had never done this before and it was a bonus. The circle of light you’re casting on the road isn’t bright enough to spoil the view and I feel like a fisherman circa 300BC, navigating with the cosmos. I spoil this illusion by pulling out my phone to check the time when I hit a bump and drop it. I had been riding quiet roads and hadn’t seen a car for hours when lo and behold the headlights of Bahamut himself comes rearing round a corner. NOOO!!!! He flies by me and I scramble around trying to find my phone. Rightly so, the car has driven straight over it, and the screen is smashed to smithereens. I’d love to just chuck it in a bush but I do actually really need it for map checks and information so I’ll have to sort it out. It’s 2am though, so I decide to stress about it in daylight. In the meantime there’s a wall and a tree between which I sleep, in the morning I’ll realise it’s a garden.
The snickers bar glows in my stomach and I have to take a two hour detour to a larger town with a shopping centre. I’m not even sure if it will have somewhere that can fix my phone but I have to take a chance.
I just sat down nine months later with a glass of white wine after eating some pasta Mhari made, it’s 9:18 in the evening here in Glasgow and I’m listening to Bill Evans’ “Peace Piece”. I used the word have in the last two sentences I wrote about three days ago and upon re-reading I don’t think I had to do anything. I’m now in a comfortable chair and the evening sky coming through the window is covered in lilac clouds but that pink is round the edges. I can hear Mhari in the living room talking to Poppy, our dog we got three months after I finished the Transcontinental. The only thing I have to be is grateful. This is a deviation, just like the two hours to fix my phone was, but I have to get into the writing mood somehow. It’s confusing for me, so why shouldn’t it be for you too?
After two hours riding I arrive in Chalon-sur-saone, first things first however. McDonalds. I’ve learned the hierarchy of the race which is move, eat, everything else. I carry a McChicken sandwich in my stomach over to the shopping centre and the mobile phone shop is just a little hut in the middle, you know those little stalls you get that will do your nails or make you a balloon. One of those. After the bakers this morning… oh shit, I just checked back and I haven’t even mentioned the point of this narrative twist, the bakers! After I woke up in the garden I ate the snickers and I cycle on for about an hour when I reach a village. Coming through, it was about 6am, the sound of the baker raising the shutters on her boulangerie bäcker panattiere pekarna pekara furre пекара φούρνος fırın echoed out. Perfect. Pardon madame je parle un petit peut Francaise. She smiles. Great, this doesn’t normally pan out like this. I feel French. Je prend ca, and I point. Ca, ca, ca, ca, ca, ca, ca.
A total feast of warm pastry.
I sit down on the pavement and smile to myself for a successful interaction in French. I feel human and ordinary and full.
Back to chalon-sur-saone and I’m out of my depth getting my phone fixed, I can only point at it and shrug my shoulders. Luckily she knows exactly what to do. Vous etes angel, I say. She smiles and fixes it in half an hour, then I cycle off toward Switzerland, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and into Montenegro where I’ll be sitting recounting this story to my fellow tired racers over a coffee at the bottom of the next 2000m climb we’ve got to do.
Midnight on the devil’s beef tub.Eachann, Chris, Niall, Jim, Ricky set off on riding Ride to the Sun last Saturday night. With Eachann and Jim off to the Transcontinental at the end of July and with the troops enamour for randonneuring we thought, let’s bloody ride down to Carlisle and double the ride distance. 100mi to Carlisle and then another 100mi back up to Edinburgh some excellent training with pals to share the pain. With Euan and Tom the Tory joining in Carlisle we had a strong wee peloton rolling north out of Englandshire through the Borderlands to the capital. Mr Egan recounts…
Hundreds of blinking red fireflies form a line we follow into the dark, silhouetted landscape. It’s the week of the solstice so the sun doesn’t set so much as hides below the horizon for a couple of hours. Leaving it’s green luminescence low in sky the way a child learning to play hide and seek leaves a toe out behind a door. I learned in school that the green is caused by the absorption of light in the atmosphere, red orange yellow green blue indigo violet. What you see is determined by angles. I know you’re there. A child will learn that because they can’t see you does not mean you can’t see them. I know you’re there. The sun hides, it leaves the heat of the day on my skin, etched sharp lines on my arms and legs and face and neck, a cycling tan, a burn. A burn. At midnight it’s father’s day. I knew the seasons changed by the skin on my dad’s back. He comes home one day, usually in April, with his whole back red as the mono-blocking he lays in rich peoples’ driveways. Red then brown, that’s order. That’s wrong though, what was order is now a burn. Maybe other things that I think are order are not in fact so. There are lots of questions in the dark. There is no brown if there is no red. It’s a burn.
I think about after sun lotion, how I should not be surprised discovering that being out after the sun is soothing on my skin. Everything speaks to absence and presence and before and after, the sun’s temporary absence creating a soothing presence. I think about presence and absence and hot and cold and I think about balance and fighting. What does any of this have to do with cycling? The blinking red fireflies are the rear lights of hundreds of cyclists, away up the road in the dark. Why am I on the Devils Beef Tub at midnight? I’m cycling up it, taking part in the Ride to the Sun, a 100 mile night time ride from Carlisle to the sunrise on Cramond beach in Edinburgh. We left Glasgow at 11am this morning, choosing to ride the 100 miles to Carlisle, as a warm up for the event. Warm up it was, the sun turning my skin red. 5 and a half moving hours later we arrived in Carlisle well done. Burgers eaten all around we head off towards Edinburgh. Cyclists all over the road, some riders are cooperating into pelotons, making the air easier to cut through, sharing the effort. It’s only about 9pm just now and the sun is low and blinding in the sky, everything is golden.
We arrive in Moffat where the chip shop stays open late for the event, the queue is enormous however and I still have a lot of brioche and Nutella with banana left, miles and miles of research has confirmed for me that it’s the perfect on bike fuel. I’ve also got a party size bag of Haribo for emergencies. We sit on the kerb in the village, the pub is bustling and full of punters on a Saturday night out. Some nights out are different than others but they’re also kind of the same, we’ll have different kinds of hangover tomorrow. We joke, we laugh, we yawn and breathe and decide to set off up the Devil’s Beef Tub.
The Devil’s Beef Tub. Good isn’t it? Hundreds of years ago reivers, also known as devils in the area hid their plunder up here, loons, lads, but not lunatics Wikipedia tells me. Here is a dramatic hollow between 4 adjacent hills, which looks like a tub for curing beef, hence the name. That’s a definition for daylight however, it’s approaching midnight and it’s just the blinking red line of a climb into the sky. A different dictionary for darkness. Chris is burst, having not done much riding recently but his sense of humour about it is a tailwind. Jim has the shadow of the transcontinental creeping up on him and he’s figuring it out. Niall is taking strong turns on the front and dealing with his own burns, they’ll blister tomorrow. Euan got the train down and is fresh and strong sitting on the front, ease up! Piano, piano! The loons, the lads, the devils.
We’re passing other riders, other people, people dressed as fairies, a gimp mask, someone’s rear mech rips off they’ll be stranded, front lights, red lights, sweat, someone’s got no top on, taps aff, Haribo ,breathing, leg warmers, arm warmers, midges, o’ the midges, the midges, the devils, the midges, the devils, midges, the red lights flashing, blinking, the green sky luminescing, legs turning gently, softly, tempo, piano, cadence faster, slower, ease up! Off the back! The top!
The top.
The world opens up downwards before us and we wrap up warm as we can against the post sun chill, the dark. 40 miles to go. See you soon, sunrise.
photies by Euan Lindsay
TORRAGARSince returning from the Transcontinental Race in 2015 this bicycle has been on my mind. In racing solitude I critiqued every corner of my Albannach RATHAD, though a fine weapon for the road, it’s not totally ideal for the rigours of ultra randonneuring. I wanted to create a comfortable, adaptable rando bicycle but at the same time I wanted it to enable me to ride and explore where my Albannach dCROIS, being a pure, no bottle cage mounts race machine, couldn’t. It’s not all out ‘cross and it’s not your traditional randonneur, it’s more of a radge rando*, step forward the TORRAGAR.
The frame
The frame shape is based heavily on the CROIS/dCROIS geometry allowing for slightly more stack to promote comfort with a slightly less horizontal top tube. By raising the top tube you maximise the potential for frame bag + bottle space within the frame however you also reduce the size (potentially remove entirely) of seat bag possibilities. Therefore it needs to be balanced between traditional and compact.
In terms of the build, the tube sections used were identical to the CROIS and RATHAD builds. a tapered head tube (to house a 1 1/8″ to 1 1/2″ tapered fork steerer), 44.5mm Ø DT, 34.9mm Ø TT & ST and a PF30 bottom bracket shell.
The chain and seat stays have increased in length slightly to accomodate fashionably large tyres. The TORRAGAR can fit up to a 50mm wide tyre in the rear on a 622mm Ø rim (or 700c x 50mm) or if you’re so inclined a 54mm wide tyre on a 584mm Ø rim (27.5″ x 2.125″ / 650b x 54mm). The drive side chainstay has also been shaped to allow either up to a 53t-39t double crankset or a 46t single crankset.
As is the Albannach standard now, routing to the deraillers and rear brake caliper are internally ducted with the rear derailler via the TT > SS, rear brake via the DT > CS and front derailler via the DT.
For the rear brake mount I’ve adopted flat mount standard, not only is this standard lighter than post mount, component manufacturers are leaning towards ending post mount caliper production therefore the frame is future proofed (for now…).
As with the Albannach BEINN I’ve included a 142mm x 12mm rear through axle to lock the wheel in place. The biggest advantage for me of this system over 135mm quick release is the guaranteed caliper – rotor position mitigating pad rub.
And finally I’ve included mounting potential for three bottle cages, rear pannier racks and fenders.
All of the above makes the TORRAGAR an incredibly versatile machine. Summer lanes, winter roads, ‘cross parcours, forestry tracks, rough ribinoù, mountain trails, abandoned pavé, whatever your flavour the TORRAGAR has it covered.
The build
In order to document the TORRAGAR in as many of it’s guises as possible the builds went something like this –
1 x 11 – 700c setup
1 x 11 – 650b setup
2 x 11 setup
A special thanks to my boy Euan Lindsay (i : @euanlindsay), painter at Shand Cycles who safety ninja’d up my Niner RDO.
Hunners more photos of my prototype TORRAGAR available in this gallery.
The name
TORRAGAR /tɔRagər/ pronounced torrah-gir – in English, traveller.
The geometry
For those interested this is a ’52’ TORRAGAR. Details on the geometry can be seen in the table below.
*radge ~ anyone or anything that has gone beyond the bounds of regular behaviours.