Couch Watch

J.R reporting for blog duty. Bloody hell! A huge breakfast blow out. Was about to make a cup a tea and guess what? Nothing but a snivelling little dribble of milk left at the bottom of the carton. This could only mean one thing, haha, yeah, just another excuse to mount Marlon, my trusty stead and head to the local 7/11. Now I’ve said this before but I never head off on ANY journey without performing the necessary rites and adorning myself in the correct cycling kit. Needless to say I hurriedly put on my tracksuit. Doyle, my sacred wolfs pelt was quickly donned, Wolf’s Bane was clipped into position on the seat tube and incantations were thrice chanted at the suns fiery orb. My vision was somewhat blurred and I had to swerve suddenly almost ploughing straight into a parked car. After this near miss it was plain sailing. I drew up to the 7/11, dismounted Marlon and kicked his cycle stand down. I glanced through the window of the 7/11 and was pleased to see it fully stocked of milky goodness. But then something in the reflection of the window caught my eye, my first impression was of a kind of bone white skeletal looking frame with two haggard rubber tires attached. I looked away to the source of the reflection and saw this:

It was the poor sorry little mount that I had seen only weeks before abandoned by its master to the icy grips of a midwinter’ s blizzard. And there he was, the presumptuous little cycle lord himself Alasdair Couch sauntering down the road with a shopping bag in hand heading towards his sorry little beat up stead. I couldn’t believe it. I had finally got a glimpse of this allusive creature. He strode confidently towards his weak and abused mount. He seemed to notice someone looking at him and slowly turned his wicked crabby face in my direction. For a short instant our eyes met and he flashed an evil shrivelled smile at me.

A sudden bolt of fury struck me in an instant. My ears were ringing my eyes rolling as I tried to compose myself putting a hand on Marlon’s sturdy frame. My legs had turned to jelly and my insides where in knots. I felt myself tumble forward and I crumpled up wrenching into the sidewalk, “arrrrughhhhhh!” I couldn’t move. What the hell was wrong with me, the giant of cycling, the Warrior of the routes, Jason Randall lying pathetic and powerless on the sidewalk in a face full of vomit. I still had my wits my mind was commanding me to take Wolf’s Bane and cross the street to deliver justice to that fell scoundrel but I was paralysed.

I was so ashamed, The Kid would have spat on this contemptuous display in disgust. With all my energy I tried to raise my head and then I saw him, hovering over me.

Through rays of sunlight his spirit looked on.

“Jason, beware! The COW is not all that he seems, he’s not just some annoying little upstart bicycle hobbyist, preaching childish cycle nonsense on an internet blog, he is in possession of dark arts, he is in possession of something very monstrous and powerful. He has knowledge of an arcane school of black magic. Approach him with caution at all times. You must learn more about him before you can truly defeat him. You and Chester must bring back The Gang, you must once more find Pat Wigan, Brian Barry and Sandy Turnpike. Your leadership of the gang has slacked, there are new and dangerous forces on the cycle routes, they seek to destroy everything we hold dear. Do you hear me Jason? Do you understand? Do you fucking understand? And Jason remember… always pedal 100% and safety first.”

I nodded pathetically as a chunk of yesterday’s carrot soup slid down my chin. I could feel my senses returning as The Kid gently evaporated into the blue sky overhead. Instinctively I looked to where that horrible devil had dared smile at me only a moment before. He was gone. There was nothing there, it was if he had never been there at all.

At this point the owner of the 7/11 had come out, he was berating me in the local tongue about the mess I had made. An old lady stared on with disdain. The owner was holding a mop and bucket. Some local school girls were laughing even Marlon seemed to find the whole scene amusing.

After clearing up the mess it was made plain to me that I wouldn’t be welcome again in this particular 7/11 and so Marlon and I had to range further a field for that milky goodness.

Back at the lair I sat musing over a hot cup of tea. The gang must be brought back together and Alasdair Couch must pay. Dearly.

Who is Brian Barry?

"Who is Brian Barry?" I hear you ask, who is he indeed.

For a little summary on our good friend Brian clink on this and you can get to know the little man a little better.  Haha, sorry Bazza.

So, in my next post I'm going to tell you how Chester and I bumped into another cycling legend.  This man hails from the wild and inhospitable mountains of Wales.  This man has become a part of cycling folklore.  He's left his mark on all the routes in more ways than one, he's seen sights that others can only experience through a cocktail of drugs,  he's laid out picnic spreads that would shame 5 star michelin chefs, he's repaired a punctured tyre at just under 30 seconds, he's  rode up mountains in 21st gear, he's done things with bicycle pumps that would make Graham Norton blush.   This man, this monster of the mountains, this Welsh warlock of cogs and chains, this dynamo of Dyfed, this man is none other than Brian Barry.

Check this spot for the story of how our cycle paths crossed.

Poll: how much does www.couchonwheels.com suck?

I want to share this here because it needs sharing.

Poll: how much does www.couchonwheels.com suck?

RIP The Kid - Part 1

Jason Randall reporting for blog duty.  Now a few posts back I gave you some instruction about the list, about the greats that have made it and also about some of the sorry excuses for cyclists who haven’t.

You’ll probably recall a certain Kid Williams right?  And if you have anything to do with cycling you’ll know exactly who I’m talking about.  I want to go back now, way back, back to a time before I had learnt the wolf’s way, before I donned the sacred pelt of Doyle and before I wielded Wolfs Bane.  This was the era of the Kid, Kid Williams, the original leader of our cycling gang.


It was back in ’78, Chester and I had been in Korea for just a few months, we were throwing back shots of a powerful energy drink called Bacchus D in a famous herbal medicine joint on the Itaewon stretch of Seoul.    We were feeling pumped and primed and just about ready to hit the road when all of a sudden there was a loud bang, in a instant the entrance door of the joint whipped open knocking one bystander unconscious and almost simultaneously a black and orange clad warrior straddling a classic Truimph racing bicycle flew into the herbal bar at an electrifying speed, it seemed certain he would careen into the bar but in another instant he pulled the bicycle into a skidding motion and stopped just in time.  We were all breathless, Chester was shaking, my heart was pounding. Who was this maniac? He’d certainly caught all of the patron’s attention, least of all Chester and myself.   He was out of this world.   He was wearing pale coloured snakeskin boots, tight black leather pants, a black leather motorcycle jacket with a cowboy tassel fringe, over the top of the jacket he wore a high visibility reflective orange bib and his pièce de résistance, a British infantry helmet from WWII.  This guy was a mind blast, Chester and I were awe struck.  As he leaned his bicycle against the bar both Chester and I saw a threatening looking cudgel swinging from his belt.  All eyes were on him as his spoke to the bartender.

“Give me a flagon of yer finest Baccus” he rasped in a thick East midlands accent.  


A flock of blonde hair brushed his shoulders from under his helmet, his eyes shone a piercing blue, his faced looked hard and weather-beaten.
 

By now there was blood streaming out of the ears of the poor gentleman that had been knocked to the floor just a moment earlier but that didn’t seem to matter.  We were transfixed, I asked,

“Who are you?”

He took a big swig of Baccus, slammed down the flagon and swung his gaze at Chester and I.

“I’m the Kid… Kid Williams”.

“w w w.. where are your from” Chester stammered.

“Huh, where am I my from?  I’m from the home of the great outlaw Robin Hood, from the home of the great football mastermind Brian Clough and the home of the great Olympic cycling virtuoso Larry Tarbuck.  I’m from the City once famed for it’s lace-making, I’m from the City famed for the world’s first Football Club, I’m from the city known the world over as the great champion of the bicycle industry.”

Nottingham …. Nottingham.  We were awe struck.  Was the Kid for real?  Nottingham.. the Mecca of cycling, the most sacred place on Earth for cyclists of all colors and creeds.  

By this point we could feel some hostility brewing from the locals in the bar, there was some commotion around the man who had previously been knocked to the floor by the Kid’s dramatic entrance.  An old lady kneeling at his side was screaming in the local tongue, she was clawing at her hair as tears streamed down her face.   Some unsavory looking characters smashed some bottles and wielded them like knives as they hurled insults threw their Baccus stained teeth.

The Kid, with a customary instinct for safety shouted,

“lets get the fuck out of here!”

And just like that Chester and I flew out of the place in a panic, we hadn’t stopped to think how the Kid would get out having taken the liberty of cycling into the joint instead of going in on foot like ordinary folk.  He would need to get himself back out of there with his ride intact.  As Chester and I hurriedly mounted our steeds we could see a big crowd gathered around the entrance of the Baccus sink, the commotion that had been ignited inside had conflagrated into a full-scale riot.  A fire could be seen burning through one of the windows, the air was rife with screams and the sound of smashing glass, suddenly a gunshot went off and once more the door swung open,

“yaaaaaaarrrrr, ‘ave it, take that, yaaaaaaarrr! Fuckin ‘ave it”

The Kid was firmly back in the saddle raining blows from his cudgel in a frenzy that drove the rioters back.  He had gone utterly berserk, within seconds he broke free from the rabble and drew up to our position.

“They gave me a good pasting but I got out, now listen to me!” he shouted.

“We going to pedal one hundred percent, one hundred FUCKING percent have you got me? Have you fucking got me?”

We didn’t need to reply we were peddling like Larry Tarbuck on meth.  After a few hours our pace slackened, we were a long way out of the city.  It hadn’t been all plain sailing, a car had almost slammed into the Kid but miraculously swerved at the last minute.   Later the Kid gave the signal for us to take a break.  

It was at this moment that we learnt about the two golden rules that the Kid lived his life by. He dismounted his cycle and ordered us to do the same. 

“You learnt one thing today didn’t you?  DIDN’T YOU?”  He shouted

“You pedaled one hundred percent and now your still alive”

“That’s the first rule you must always adhere to when on the road, do you understand?”

Chester and I both nodded.

He then clutched violently at his orange reflective bib and roared.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS, Huh?  Do you know?  It’s a high visibility reflective orange bib”. 

“That car would have taken us all out if it wasn’t for this bit of kit”.

He paused for breath.  Recomposed himself and took a deep breath. 

“AND YOU SEE THIS?” He roared once more.

He was pointing at a dent in his WWII helmet.

“Without this I would be dead, one of those brigands took a shot at me”.

“SAFETY FIRST, SAFETY FUCKING FIRST!” He bellowed.

What a man, what a rider, a true thoroughbred, a dare devil our idol. 

Over the coming months more tales of the late Kid Williams will be published but for now I want to leave it here and I want YOU to remember:

Always pedal 100% and safety first.  

That was a mantra that Chester and I learned the hard way, the Kid hardest of all.


Some of the Kid's cycling kit below.

A Scene of Outrage

Jason Randall reporting for blog duty. So my good compadre Chester has been hard at work over at Pester Chester. If you don’t already know about the incident in Mongolia then it’s time to get over at Chester’s and read this little puppy.

Chester tells the story of certain unfortunate wolf that got too close for comfort and had to pay the price in blood. Since that day there are two items that I never fail to leave behind before setting out on any cycling journey and I MEAN any journey. The first is Doyle, that’s what I named the wolf pelt that I took from the brave wolf that dared to threaten Chester and I. Before I mount my saddle I face the sun and stare intensely into its fiery depths, thrice I chant an incantation taught to me by an old shaman in Mongolia and then slowly I don Doyle my sacred wolf pelt. The second is Wolf’s Bane, the flaming log that I used to bludgeon Doyle to death, it’s not it’s only name, Chester has on more than one occasion referred to it as the Randallizer. Now, a lot of moronic cyclists these days like to attach multiple bottle holders to their bike frames. I will show you an example here:

You can see one and two.

Now real men, hardy men, hardy men of the road, real thoroughbred cyclists only need one, placed in the classic position upon the lower bar of the bicycle. Thats how Chester and I not to mention Pat Wigan, Brian Barry and the late Kid Williams all set out on our forays into the wilderness. Sandy had a different set up but she had her reasons and excuses. Instead of a second bottle holder, attached to the back part of my frame below the saddle I keep Wolf’s Bane. It’s always close at hand for any emergency situation that requires it.

Now where do I begin with the next thing that bothers me about this image? Who would disrespect their mount like you see in the picture, just look at the neglect. This bicycle is a picture of abuse and dereliction. Left out in the bitter cold of a raging blizzard, snow covering it’s naked limbs. I know, I know, your probably bubbling up with rage right now, I can tell you that my hands are shaking and It’s not easy hitting the right keys but by Christ I’ll compose myself because this entry needs to be published. What kind of deranged numbskull would do this to their ride? The thing is shaking, it’s pleading for help. What kind of lame brain half wit would do this? Well guess who, none other than the feebleminded COW who dares to preach cycling knowledge from the obscurity of cyber space. COW are you listening to me? Get this poor disheveled thing into a garage, a house, an apartment any kind of shelter damn it! Don’t stand there taking pictures of it knucklehead. And if by chance, by some divine intervention Chester George and Jason Randall were able to cycle down into this scene of outrage you would quickly feel the wrath and fury of Wolfs Bane, raining multiple blows upon your cowardly body until you begged for mercy. And if we felt merciful Chester would have on hand his trusty branding iron which, after a good heating, would sear the words “You’ve been Randallized” on your left buttock.

I will leave it there because I’m angry, I’m upset and I’m disturbed.

Go Pester Chester for gods sakes!

Jason Randall reporting for duty!  I'm back and have to say I'm all shook up, ahuhu. Haha.  I've just had the pleasure of reading my good friend Chester George's blog. This guy IS one of the cycling greats, as you must know from my earlier post.


The blog is here in all its chrome glory. Check it out and make sure you take part in the poll that Chester's put up.  COW (that's counch on wheels) is being taking to task by the true cycling masters of Korea and you might say the world.  


There's a long hard road ahead, handle bars to be handled, pedals to be pushed, saddles to be seated, sights to be seen, secret wonders to be discovered, picnics to had and calfs to be slaughtered.   As Kid Williams used to say "I've got a theory that if you pedal 100 percent all of the time, somehow things will work out in the end” - K.Williams.  It didn’t quite work out for Kiddo but it did 99% of the time and that’s pretty damn good.

I'll leave it there.

A Call to Action

Jason Randall reporting for blog duty.  Haha.  I’m a bit new to this blogging lark and I have to say I’m more of an action man than a man of letters but sometimes you just have to get the keyboard out and start typing.

Probably your thinking Who is Jason Randall…?  Right?  That’s a question that many have asked but they’ve never received an answer. Until now.

Actually if you want to know a bit more about me you can go to the Who is Jason Randall?  section on this blog.  I’m basically just a bicycle maniac, as you will see.

Well now, why a call to action?  I’ve been a big part of the bicycle scene in Korea for over 30 years, I’m at it’s heart, it’s life force, its bel esprit.  I’ve cycled all the routes, seen all the sites and have had the pleasure of knowing some of the cycling greats that have graced the back roads of Korea:

Pat Wigan

Brian Barry

Sandy Turnpike

Kid Williams (R.I.P)

and lets not forget my good buddy Chester George

“wow” You’re probably thinking, I know, I know.  All the greats.  But there’s a name missing isn’t there, you’re thinking “Where is Jason Randall?  Why isn’t he on the list?”, well, you be the judge.  Haha.

Now, back to business, you might also be thinking that there should be another name on that list, he’s been causing a bit of a stir recently in the biking world, making a bit of a name for himself on all the routes, you know who I’m talking about don’t you.  Couch on Wheels.

He’s got a lot of gall, a lot of nerve maybe even a lot of spunk.  He’s pulled off some big rides, seen some pretty big sites but you’ve got to do it consistently and you’ve got to put in the years, I’m talking decades here.  Thats when you start to get close to the list, maybe even find the list let alone get on it.

“What is this bicycle maniac on about?  he’s off his rocker”  Thats what your thinking, haha, well you know what they say about the fine line between insanity and genius, that’s a line I’ve been riding on for decades, I’ve done skids on it and wheelies as well.  But no I’ve never gone too far into the realm of madness, I’ve held my nerve and that’s how I found the list.

Now I feel like I’m starting to ramble a bit and it’s surpising me its shaking me up because I’m a man of action not words.  I just had to answer the call to action and set the record straight about the cycling greats, who they are and who they are most certainly not.  I hope to add some pics and show you some of the secrets of the cycling scene in Korea in the coming months.  And if you’re lucky I may even tell you more about the list.