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Old School Grand Master
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They do last quite well thats cos pig iron is pretty tough stuff
Dr S":28v6auzo said:About four years ago, myself and a few friends got together in Yorkshire for a weekend away. A spot of motorsport on the Saturday and a day around Dalby on the Sunday was the plan.
A few days prior, in casual conversation with a friend, I discovered he was a closet mountain biker and he said he would like to come along.
Over breakfast on the Saturday morning he enthused about his cycling. Rode to work a few days a week, a few evening rides and a full day on Sundays. Much more riding time than me then. He then spoke of his steed. 'its a proper mountain bike, full suspension and everything. Wasn't cheap- ££129 from Halfords!'
We soon gathered around the back of his vanfrom which he pulled a 40lb behemoth with steel triple clamp forks, a hidious frame with rusty rear shock and inoperative V brakes. Oh how we teased.
That night I fixed his brakes, adjusted the gears and lubes the chain before a quick spin around the car park. This thing was horrible. The 73 degree head angle and rubbish forks made riding around a field a scary experience and the sheer weight of this thing was something to turn you into a wasted wreck in minutes. A truely dreadful bike.
The next day, bright and breezy we headed into Dalby. You could see the other riders smirk as he rode up and down the car park helmetless whilst we fettled forks, filled camelbacks and loaded ourselves with tools and the like.
That was the last we saw of Paul all day. He was gone in a cloud of dust and squeeking pivots. Up, down, on the flat, through the berms, over the jumps, down the drop offs, everywhere.... He owned us. We were his bitches. Flat out everywhere. Made us look like pillocks. And everyone else for that matter.
He loved every minute of it.
Nothing broke. He had a great day out. He still rides it today.
Funny things those BSOs.
Carlos":8hzbpaxh said:I've been thinking about this recently - what makes a bike 'appear' quality?
I do believe pretty much anyone on this planet would pick out an XTR Zaskar (to use your example) as the quality bike over a £100 BSO just by looking at it.
But I can't work out why!
Is it just the shinyness of bits? The neatness of the way it's put together? Some knowledge of what parts are better than others (I think most people would 'know' than discs are better and more expensive than calipers)?
After browsing a few ebay auctions and listing sites recently, I can tell by a tiny tiny thumbnail what the quality of the bike is. I'm not sure whether that's years of experience telling me that or a natural instinct. I really couldn't tell you exactly what stands out that shouts 'crap' or 'quality', just that something does!
Dr S":37avfi4i said:About four years ago, myself and a few friends got together in Yorkshire for a weekend away. A spot of motorsport on the Saturday and a day around Dalby on the Sunday was the plan.
A few days prior, in casual conversation with a friend, I discovered he was a closet mountain biker and he said he would like to come along.
Over breakfast on the Saturday morning he enthused about his cycling. Rode to work a few days a week, a few evening rides and a full day on Sundays. Much more riding time than me then. He then spoke of his steed. 'its a proper mountain bike, full suspension and everything. Wasn't cheap- ££129 from Halfords!'
We soon gathered around the back of his vanfrom which he pulled a 40lb behemoth with steel triple clamp forks, a hidious frame with rusty rear shock and inoperative V brakes. Oh how we teased.
That night I fixed his brakes, adjusted the gears and lubes the chain before a quick spin around the car park. This thing was horrible. The 73 degree head angle and rubbish forks made riding around a field a scary experience and the sheer weight of this thing was something to turn you into a wasted wreck in minutes. A truely dreadful bike.
The next day, bright and breezy we headed into Dalby. You could see the other riders smirk as he rode up and down the car park helmetless whilst we fettled forks, filled camelbacks and loaded ourselves with tools and the like.
That was the last we saw of Paul all day. He was gone in a cloud of dust and squeeking pivots. Up, down, on the flat, through the berms, over the jumps, down the drop offs, everywhere.... He owned us. We were his bitches. Flat out everywhere. Made us look like pillocks. And everyone else for that matter.
He loved every minute of it.
Nothing broke. He had a great day out. He still rides it today.
Funny things those BSOs.