Although I was very satisfied with my doctor and physiotherapist, my impatience with inactivity was developing faster than my recovery. For this reason I felt it was time to try something else so, upon the recommendation of Victoria (more about her in future blog entries), I went to see a chiropractor.
We humans often alter our beliefs as required. Life long atheists have been known to get religion shortly before they die. In the same way, having categorised chiropractors with homeopaths and witch doctors, two weeks of incapacity was sufficient to turn me into a devout, new-age hippy, eager to renew my energy grid with crystals or something: anything, actually.
Chanting my new mantra and having driven for two stints of ten minutes separated by a road side stretch, I found myself in Rob the chiropractor's office. He tapped my knees and tendons with a rubbery hammer thing and got me to bend about a bit. I was very impressed with his ability to remain calm in the face of the relentless "Christmas music" that reverberated about the room. By the end of the 45 minute consultation I felt able to ask Rob the critical question, which also happened to be my mantra): "Can I go cycling now, please?" His reply was immediate, matter of fact and confident: "Don't see why not." This was a delicious shock.
Less than 24 hours later, on a crisp, blue, freezing morning, I was ready for my first ride on the Mark 1. Faithful in the finest level of detail to the 1970s task at hand, I had picked the perfect winter cycling clothes: Adidas Rekord trainers, Lee Cooper black corduroy jeans (22 inch flares), a camel polo neck jumper, Levi's brown corduroy jacket, Ray-Ban Aviators and a reindeer bobble hat. Oh, and black woolly gloves. After over two weeks of being almost completely sedentary, my thighs were flaccid stringy things. I felt like that returning Russian cosmonaut who had been at zero gravity for so long he had to be lifted out of his craft like a sack of bones. I dreaded even the slightest incline, particularly as I'd never ridden the Mark 1 up a hill or indeed anywhere, except round to the shops.
From the first pedal stroke on the Chopper, I could tell straight away that riding a racing bike would be ill advised. I could only ride without pain if I sat bolt upright and pushed back into the crook of the banana seat. If I did that, however, I could certainly pedal with enough force to make some kind of ride possible.
If the Mark 2 is difficult to handle up a hill, which it is, the Mark 1 is more difficult than that. The Mark 1's rear stays go straight down to the back axle rather than to a position a few inches in front of it (as per the Mark 2, 3 and 4). Sat back on the seat, my centre of gravity was behind the rear wheel axle. This lethal feature meant that any acceleration sent the front wheel up off the ground and was a major reason that the Mark 1 was taken off the market in 1972 and the safer Mark 2 launched. My position on the seat meant that every time I pedalled over a speed bump, the front wheel bounced up into the air and I had to lean forward to push it back down on to the road and regain control. To make things even more interesting, the front wheel's hub was practically destroyed and it was possible to wobble the rim sideways about 1/4 of an inch (that's about 0.007 Euro-metres). This extra authentic feature added further instability to the ride and, also, an engaging intermittent click and crunch when in motion. The Chopper had come fitted with knobbly tyres. and spare, proper, "red-line" Chopper tyres but I had decided to leave the knobbly ones on for the winter or until they wore out. I hoped they would be a bit less puncture prone. More importantly, I knew they would provide significantly more rolling resistance than the proper tyres and would, therefore, be better for training. Before I got on the bike I noticed the tyres were a bit soft. I resolved to leave them like that for this first ride: the more resistance, the better.
As I set off along Deanfield Road, the bike felt heavy, unstable, unresponsive, unpredictable and, at anything exceeding walking speed, the partially inflated knobbly tyres made quite a din. Unperturbed, I headed out along the country lanes from Henley towards Stoke Row.
When I reached the foot of the climb up to the Cherry Tree pub, I wondered if I would be able to get to the top. The Chopper is a child's bike, obviously, and has short crank arms only 5 1/2 inches (that's 140 Euro-litres) long. This makes climbing particularly tricky if you have the legs of a grown up because it feels as though you are pedalling in uncomfortably small circles and has the effect of stiffening the gear. As I rolled along the valley floor I reached down to the T bar gear lever on the centre console and set the controls to Sturmey Archer 1: "Ventoux". I started the climb and my back seemed to have eased a bit. I could lean forward just enough to keep the front wheel down, most of the time. The climb is through a wood and I had a couple of flashbacks to the forest on the lower slopes of Ventoux which helped my rhythm.
Having reached the top, I was filled with optimism and set my ambitions on Benson, a 15 mile ride. I knew it would mean another 15 mile ride home but I felt able to do it. My reason was that if I was injury free on a racing bike it would be little more than a warm up and, as long as my back was properly handled, riding the Chopper would mean only that the trip would take a bit longer.
I picked the long descent from Nuffield to the crossing on the Wallingford Road. Although narrow, the lane is pretty straight so, ordinarily, it's possible to descend safely as fast as you like. I was wary of doing this on the Chopper, however, because of its famous front wheel wobble. Another reason the bike was withdrawn from sale was that above a certain speed, asthmatic jogging pace for example, the bike's front wheel would oscillate out of control, throw the rider off the seat and ram his or her genitals on to the steel T bar gear selector. The fact that my Mark 1 had a wobbly front wheel all the time meant that although I was reluctant to ride up steep hills, I was even less keen to ride down them. There was ice on the road side too, which made me consider riding home but, fortune favours the brave, so lots of dead people have said. I took a deep breath, clunked the T bar into Sturmey Archer 3: "Warp factor 9" and pedalled off into the sun soaked Oxfordshire abyss.
Luckily for me, the Chopper's soft, knobbly tyres offered so much rolling resistance and turned so much potential energy into a loud whirring noise, my speed was barely above that of an asthmatic jog. I had to pedal to add excitement. Benson arrived surprisingly quickly and I stopped at Guy's for coffee, mince pies and world rectifying.
A couple of hours later, with the future of our species on Earth secure, I decided to ride home via Ewelme. Having got back on the bike after the break, it seemed that the Mark 1's longer, thinner and less padded seat had been designed specifically to grind into those bones in your arse. Given the pleasant ride out to Benson, things were surprisingly uncomfortable but after about ten minutes, numbness came to the rescue just in time for Swyncombe Hill.
The latter was a sterner test than the climb into Stoke Row. Unlike the Mark 2, which has a handlebar welded to the stem in a forward position, the bars on the Mark 1 can be tilted back as far as you like. Of course, the temptation is to set them right back in order to maximise that Easy Rider look. Doing so, however, makes the bike even harder to handle up an incline and may result in the back of a careless rider's head smacking on to the road behind upon the first pedal stroke: another reason for the withdrawal of the Mark 1.
Worried about how securely the handlebars were fixed, I began the climb to Swyncombe church trying to minimise the effort exerted through my arms. Unlike Streatley Hill, up which I'd ridden the Mark 2, Swyncombe Hill was not steep enough to worry about ripping the bars and stem out of the headset and braining myself. That said, it was certainly steep enough to worry about the bars slipping back, falling over backwards and braining myself. Unfortunately the silly little pedal circles caused by the short cranks and my forward position on the banana seat meant I couldn't extend my legs properly. I had to use my arms for leverage and I held the bars about half way down to the stem to try to stop the front wheel skipping about. It was all getting a bit out of hand and just when I thought I might give up, a bloke on a carbon racing bike whirred past with the comment "Classic, mate!", which spurred me on. Once at the top, with the deepening orange sun lowering over the Chilterns, I dropped down from Maidensgrove through the silhouetted trees to Stonor Park. From there, I spun along the winding valley road to the Fairmile and then home.
My arse arrived home about 20 minutes later.
We humans often alter our beliefs as required. Life long atheists have been known to get religion shortly before they die. In the same way, having categorised chiropractors with homeopaths and witch doctors, two weeks of incapacity was sufficient to turn me into a devout, new-age hippy, eager to renew my energy grid with crystals or something: anything, actually.
Chanting my new mantra and having driven for two stints of ten minutes separated by a road side stretch, I found myself in Rob the chiropractor's office. He tapped my knees and tendons with a rubbery hammer thing and got me to bend about a bit. I was very impressed with his ability to remain calm in the face of the relentless "Christmas music" that reverberated about the room. By the end of the 45 minute consultation I felt able to ask Rob the critical question, which also happened to be my mantra): "Can I go cycling now, please?" His reply was immediate, matter of fact and confident: "Don't see why not." This was a delicious shock.
Less than 24 hours later, on a crisp, blue, freezing morning, I was ready for my first ride on the Mark 1. Faithful in the finest level of detail to the 1970s task at hand, I had picked the perfect winter cycling clothes: Adidas Rekord trainers, Lee Cooper black corduroy jeans (22 inch flares), a camel polo neck jumper, Levi's brown corduroy jacket, Ray-Ban Aviators and a reindeer bobble hat. Oh, and black woolly gloves. After over two weeks of being almost completely sedentary, my thighs were flaccid stringy things. I felt like that returning Russian cosmonaut who had been at zero gravity for so long he had to be lifted out of his craft like a sack of bones. I dreaded even the slightest incline, particularly as I'd never ridden the Mark 1 up a hill or indeed anywhere, except round to the shops.
From the first pedal stroke on the Chopper, I could tell straight away that riding a racing bike would be ill advised. I could only ride without pain if I sat bolt upright and pushed back into the crook of the banana seat. If I did that, however, I could certainly pedal with enough force to make some kind of ride possible.
If the Mark 2 is difficult to handle up a hill, which it is, the Mark 1 is more difficult than that. The Mark 1's rear stays go straight down to the back axle rather than to a position a few inches in front of it (as per the Mark 2, 3 and 4). Sat back on the seat, my centre of gravity was behind the rear wheel axle. This lethal feature meant that any acceleration sent the front wheel up off the ground and was a major reason that the Mark 1 was taken off the market in 1972 and the safer Mark 2 launched. My position on the seat meant that every time I pedalled over a speed bump, the front wheel bounced up into the air and I had to lean forward to push it back down on to the road and regain control. To make things even more interesting, the front wheel's hub was practically destroyed and it was possible to wobble the rim sideways about 1/4 of an inch (that's about 0.007 Euro-metres). This extra authentic feature added further instability to the ride and, also, an engaging intermittent click and crunch when in motion. The Chopper had come fitted with knobbly tyres. and spare, proper, "red-line" Chopper tyres but I had decided to leave the knobbly ones on for the winter or until they wore out. I hoped they would be a bit less puncture prone. More importantly, I knew they would provide significantly more rolling resistance than the proper tyres and would, therefore, be better for training. Before I got on the bike I noticed the tyres were a bit soft. I resolved to leave them like that for this first ride: the more resistance, the better.
As I set off along Deanfield Road, the bike felt heavy, unstable, unresponsive, unpredictable and, at anything exceeding walking speed, the partially inflated knobbly tyres made quite a din. Unperturbed, I headed out along the country lanes from Henley towards Stoke Row.
Having reached the top, I was filled with optimism and set my ambitions on Benson, a 15 mile ride. I knew it would mean another 15 mile ride home but I felt able to do it. My reason was that if I was injury free on a racing bike it would be little more than a warm up and, as long as my back was properly handled, riding the Chopper would mean only that the trip would take a bit longer.
I picked the long descent from Nuffield to the crossing on the Wallingford Road. Although narrow, the lane is pretty straight so, ordinarily, it's possible to descend safely as fast as you like. I was wary of doing this on the Chopper, however, because of its famous front wheel wobble. Another reason the bike was withdrawn from sale was that above a certain speed, asthmatic jogging pace for example, the bike's front wheel would oscillate out of control, throw the rider off the seat and ram his or her genitals on to the steel T bar gear selector. The fact that my Mark 1 had a wobbly front wheel all the time meant that although I was reluctant to ride up steep hills, I was even less keen to ride down them. There was ice on the road side too, which made me consider riding home but, fortune favours the brave, so lots of dead people have said. I took a deep breath, clunked the T bar into Sturmey Archer 3: "Warp factor 9" and pedalled off into the sun soaked Oxfordshire abyss.
Luckily for me, the Chopper's soft, knobbly tyres offered so much rolling resistance and turned so much potential energy into a loud whirring noise, my speed was barely above that of an asthmatic jog. I had to pedal to add excitement. Benson arrived surprisingly quickly and I stopped at Guy's for coffee, mince pies and world rectifying.
A couple of hours later, with the future of our species on Earth secure, I decided to ride home via Ewelme. Having got back on the bike after the break, it seemed that the Mark 1's longer, thinner and less padded seat had been designed specifically to grind into those bones in your arse. Given the pleasant ride out to Benson, things were surprisingly uncomfortable but after about ten minutes, numbness came to the rescue just in time for Swyncombe Hill.
The latter was a sterner test than the climb into Stoke Row. Unlike the Mark 2, which has a handlebar welded to the stem in a forward position, the bars on the Mark 1 can be tilted back as far as you like. Of course, the temptation is to set them right back in order to maximise that Easy Rider look. Doing so, however, makes the bike even harder to handle up an incline and may result in the back of a careless rider's head smacking on to the road behind upon the first pedal stroke: another reason for the withdrawal of the Mark 1.
Worried about how securely the handlebars were fixed, I began the climb to Swyncombe church trying to minimise the effort exerted through my arms. Unlike Streatley Hill, up which I'd ridden the Mark 2, Swyncombe Hill was not steep enough to worry about ripping the bars and stem out of the headset and braining myself. That said, it was certainly steep enough to worry about the bars slipping back, falling over backwards and braining myself. Unfortunately the silly little pedal circles caused by the short cranks and my forward position on the banana seat meant I couldn't extend my legs properly. I had to use my arms for leverage and I held the bars about half way down to the stem to try to stop the front wheel skipping about. It was all getting a bit out of hand and just when I thought I might give up, a bloke on a carbon racing bike whirred past with the comment "Classic, mate!", which spurred me on. Once at the top, with the deepening orange sun lowering over the Chilterns, I dropped down from Maidensgrove through the silhouetted trees to Stonor Park. From there, I spun along the winding valley road to the Fairmile and then home.
My arse arrived home about 20 minutes later.
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