The Piglet

Last weekend I became the proud builder of a mountain bike. Six months it took. I owned one before, a long time ago, during my second year at university. It was only mine for two weeks before it got stolen. I'd parked it carelessly, in a rush to get my end away with the girlfriend of the time. A Kona Lava Dome, with odd sized wheels. Probably just as well. Probably a fair exchange.

Now, I'm really a road cyclist, with excursions into cyclocross. Last year's Marin Roughride made me think though. Is a modified road bike the best way to go cross country? Why is everyone else on an MTB? Why do I put up with skinny tyres and an inability to brake? Why do they point and throw stones at me? That last Roughride, in the freezing rain of a Welsh June morning, sliding backwards down the muddy campsite, I had an epiphany. I was decided. I would build my own MTB. 

I'd have nowhere to put it, but I had been scoping my recently retired father-in-law's garage, engineering-expertise, and comprehensive collection of tools. Job done. In minutes months, the job was done, and the bike was complete.