Phased DOT co DOT uk

If a friend of yours informed you that he had just bought a Russian bride from a mail order catalogue, you'd probably be quite disgusted. "That's nice," you'd reply, whilst secretly wondering how on earth he could decide to spend the rest of his life with a woman he had never met, flesh that had not been pressed and a character that had only been described within marketing literature. Figuratively speaking, I bought a Russian bride last week.

I wrestled my credit card from my wallet and paid for a bike that I had never ridden, a bike that I'd only ever read about, a bike possessed by nobody I know, a bike made of titanium. An Airborne Lancaster. It would be easy to claim that I have become a victim of marketing hype; however, that would only be partly true. I've been overcome by something much worse than that, I've been egged on. An innocent question posted upon an internet forumled to recommendations, followed by a pointer to a specific bike shop along with a name and a phone number. Out of courtesy I made the phone call. "Of course we could ship it to your locality, Mr Barter." A well baited bike-shop hook snatches another innocent fish from the pond.

I'm committed now and it's time to tell my wife. Six months previously I spent a month's wages upon the latest full-suspension technology and now I have to justify another bike. Like a child in the Headmaster's office I begin my preamble. I paint a picture of the hardworking husband and father diligently slaving away for the good of his family and needing "that" outlet to keep himself sane. I don't know why I bother; Helen gives me that "You've bought another bike" look and gently smiles at me. She cuts me short. "You've worked hard enough, it's your money, and it's not as if it won't be used," she muses. I'm elevated from wayward schoolboy to lottery winner in an instant, new bike AND attractive understanding wife ? best check the lottery numbers as well. For the next two days I'm playing a game of "1-2-3 in!" with my telephone. I daren't stray too far from it just in case the voice on the other end has news of my shiny new baby. Every other call is treated with impatience or disdain, I cut friends and family off short, I précis complex work issues, anything to clear the line for the bike shop. In true bike-shop fashion the call never comes.

I swear they do this for entertainment. I can picture them all sat their hugging their mugs of Tetley and looking at my new frame. "He'll be wondering if it's in yet; shall we call him?" the apprentice queries. Silence, followed by giggling from the mechanics. "What's so funny ?" the apprentice asks nervously. The head mechanic stands, rubs a greasy finger down his trousers and turns to face the apprentice direct, a wry grin slowly growing across his face. "You have a lot to learn sonny, but picture this scene in your mind. That bloke wants this bike, he wants it bad, he's started chewing his nails over that bike and he's even cleared a little space in his shed for it; he's sat at home now waiting for us to call, he won't leave the phone, he's tied to it, it's his toilet during a bout of dysentery, all that guy wants is for us to phone, and every minute that we don't he becomes a little more insane. His wife has started to worry a bit, she thinks he's having an affair.

So, young man, are we going to phone him, or shall we push him that little bit further? Shall we see just what sort of state we can get him worked up into?" He sits down satisfied that he has passed on an important bike-shop commandment to the junior. "Thou shalt not ring the punter when the goods come in, they'll call, and it'll save us the ten pence." Finally, my bough breaks and I call them; of course it's in, and before the handset hits the cradle I'm in the car and up the road, shirt hanging out but credit card firmly grasped in hand. And at the counter we meet. A gorgeous piece of titanium floats across towards me as I meet my Russian bride for the first time. Subtle curves accentuate her rear end, my fingers trace the CNC'd makeup on the heat tube and her shiny body is delicately encased in colour co-ordinated decals. The shop assistant could have charged my card for five times the value of the frame and I wouldn't have noticed.

My Russian bride is love at first sight. I'm sure there are better quality, lighter, more attractive shinier frames than mine but I immediately know that this is the right one for me. It is small, light and simple. It screams at me to build it up, this frame wants me on top of it, it wants to get down and dirty, it wants me to fall off every now and then and it will say "sorry," scoop me back up and carry on; it wasn't made for a hanger, it was made for ruts, roots, rocks, ridges and, most importantly, it was made to be ridden. The next few days were the most testing of my cycling career, as in order to do the frame justice I had to learn a completely new skill, patience. All of my other bikes were assembled by bike shops, using middle-of-the-range components specified by my naivety rather than informed choice. However, I was determined to get it right. I wanted a light bike, one that looked good but could take a fall. It had to have discs, it had to be low maintenance and it was to be the first bike I'd ever owned with something "pimpy" hanging from it.

I wanted to have that one component that made fellow bikers point and ask "Is that a ? How do you find she rides ?" Curiously I'd never yet heard "Ohhh, is that a Deore front mech. on there, mate? I've been wanting one of those for ages," even though I've been out cycling for ??? years now. So, I patiently waited for my supply of components to trickle in. The Chris King Headset arrived, and went straight back as they'd sent me the wrong size. Forks, cranks, chainset and shifters were lifted from my existing bikes and buffed to military standards.

The new bike shop round the corner battled with their distributors to bring me bottom bracket, seatpost and saddle and finally pushed my credit card balance up to GDP levels by selling me Goodridge brake hoses (my "point-and-ask" component). Several days later I had all of the ingredients for my new bike recipe and locked myself within the garage to begin cooking. I could write another ten thousand words describing the building of the bike; however, it can be summarised in a few simple images:

• Blood dripping from a finger sliced by passing brake disc
• Teeth clenched, face grimaced as cable cutters fail to cleave
• The déjà vu of dropping the seatpost saddle-clamp components again and again
• Floor spattered with brake fluid that drips from handlebars and the amateur mechanic's nose
• Inserting the same combination of shims between the disc calliper and the mount that you had tried two hours previously, and the disc rotating freely without rub
• The desperate search for the bolt/washer/nut/spring/clip, the resigned slump in a heap, the subsequent reuniting with said component that was on the bench all along
• Tools that aren't quite the right size, or are too old, or are completely inappropriate
• The stress of bottom bracket insertion ...

All of these happened to me and more. Finally the bike was finished, but if I'm honest I was close to hating it. In a bike shop half a mile away a group of mechanics began to giggle again. To make matters worse I finished it at 11.29 pm and my lights weren't charged. I sulked in front of the TV with a bottle of wine. Morning came and with it a new enthusiasm for my new bike. The day's work disappeared in a childish haze of excitement and at 3 pm I could take it no more. Trails were dry, the sun had made an appearance and it was time to demand my conjugal rights from my new bride. I rushed myself into lycra, shouted an incomprehensible farewell to my family and dashed off down the road towards the Ridgeway.

First impressions were not good. The bike felt slower than its aluminium predecessor. I was convinced that I should be going faster than this and a nagging feeling of regret started to seep forward in my mind. I came to the first road hill, changed down and gave it some thigh muscle. Then the bike started to respond and I began to understand it. It wanted "welly", it needed a good kick. The titanium frame was not going to coast me down the road, it was going to make me work for my speed, but if I put in the effort it would respond. The bike and I were starting to understand each other. After a few miles I crested the hills, and the bike and I stared down the first bridleway of the ride. It felt like the bike was daring me to attack the track faster and harder than I'd ever tried before, and so I did.

The two of us flew over a mile and a half of dry, straight, bumpy singletrack. I provided the forward force and balance and the bike responded with speed, traction and compensation for all of the poor lines I decided to follow. It didn't take me long to appreciate the suppleness of the frame, which forgives a cyclist straying onto poor ground and flows with bumps rather than bucking like an agitated pony. I'd ridden that bridleway wordlessly hundreds of times; today I stopped and addressed my bike ... "You little minx." Roads and tracks were quickly eaten by the ride as I steered us towards our first off- road ascent. The bike gobbled up the chalky gully and spat me out at the top of it; breathlessly I threw the bike round the corner and powered on towards the Ridgeway.

This bike didn't want to stop and nor did I. A section of "multiple choice" singletrack found us negotiating deep ruts. The bike held the line I told it to, it took its orders and obeyed them to the letter. We gained more speed and I'm sure that the bike sensed the long technical downhill was ahead; it was trying to get there as quickly as it could. And so on to the rocky, rooty descent. A tight singletrack descent, losing a large amount of height in a small amount of distance. Normally I approach it with trepidation and respect; however the bike stuck two fingers in the air and threw us down the track as if Ti Nirvana existed at the bottom.

I'd found my perfect trail companion. We held hands all of the way back and hugged tightly as we descended for the final time, the sunset chasing us home. I gently parked her in the garage and returned to my armchair, quietly contemplating my new purchase. This bike comes with a subliminal cycling cox, who shouts at me to go faster, harder tighter. A cox who demands excitement and won't settle for getting from A to B without a grimace, smile, whoop, shout or expletive. I gambled on my Russian bride and I won. I'm convinced that we'll be happy together for many years and she's an attractive young filly, so I doubt I'll find my eyes straying. Like all marriages, I'm sure we'll have our ups and downs; in fact being a mountain biker I sincerely hope we have many of them.

(c)Dave Barter October 2003

Airborne published this article here