I had to buy a new helmet, because my old one broke when I was going round the corner near Heaton Park Road (actually, the junction at Heaton Hall Road and Wandsworth Road) and did a huge swerve to avoid some numpty riding a downhill bike. I mounted the pavement and ended up gently crashing to the floor in a tangle of skinned elbows and bouncing craniums.

Whilst I was fine physically, it would have been nice if the idling taxi driver parked nearby could have checked on me, as I lay on the pavement looking dazed. It would have been even nicer if my fellow cyclist, who I swerved to avoid, had done a little more than turn his head to check on me. But I don’t expect any signs of intelligence from taxi drivers or people who ride downhill bikes in city areas.

My new helmet is manly, huge enough to fit my bonce, and comes in lovely 1980′s colours. It’s difficult to not buy a new helmet when you prang yourself and find a bad-ass crack down the back of your old helmet, and I’d like to thank the manager of my local Edinburgh cycles for taking the time out to help me find a helmet accomadating enough for my cranium. Because, in all modesty, my head is fecking massive.

Being offically ‘old’ this year, it’s my ambition to ride the route know as the coast to coast before I become thirty. As part of that ambition, myself, Alan, and Brian did a training ride today along some of the excellent cyclepaths in the area. We were riding into the strong headwinds on the entire trip out, giving us an average speed of about 10mph, and at one point one of those old gnarly cyclists with legs like granite sped past us.

(I think we got pwned, but Brian says it’s something to look forward to – being old gnarly cyclists, that is, not being pwned)

On the way back we stopped off for a beer and burger combo at a Lloyds sports bar on Newcastle’s Quayside. Although it was only midday, already there was a hen party wearing masks at the bar. I felt a little self-conscious in my cycling gear, but mainly knackered.

I was one my way to do a day’s training at Isis Arts, a local organisation dedicated to doing new media things, and I frankly didn’t have the best time that day as my knee hurt and I was very hungover. So, in order to make myself feel better I brought myself a set of thermal baselayer clothes.

It’s winter, and it’s the North. Despite the fact that it’s been very mild, people here persist in the idea that living ‘oop north’ means that they are the same as the primitive tribesmen who first came to England by walking overland from France, way back before there was an English Channel. Sadly, this is not the case, because if it was there would be some Helly Hansen tops around in my size.

I ended up going to a less-than-reputable shop in the city centre, where I got a new baselayer t-shirt and a pair of longjohns. I tried the small longjohns on first, and was pretty chuffed when I found out that they hardly fit over my giant calves – yay cycling! So I got medium sizes and took my purchases home. However, when I got back I found that the top – which I had expected to be pretty much the same as my old one – was some ultra-fancy deal. It turns out that both the things I got were in the wrong boxes, and I’d brought a much more expensive top.

If you have bumpy tires, like regular ones that mountain bikes come with, you get more grip. However, I didn’t need grip – I needed speed. However, the penalty of having a complete lack of grip on my wheels is that rainy days become challenging to ride in. On the first time I took my shiny new Schwalbe “Marathon Slicks” out in the rain, I ended up coming off and sliding on my side for about five metres, bike stuck between my legs.

(I still have a pair of jeans with the imprint of what was in my wallet that day, but not the corresponding bruise.)

Today I woke up and I felt itching for a ride. I’ve been chewing slowly through some quite unpleasant work, and I really wanted to vent. However, the weather forecast for today was, in a word, shitty. I’m fed up of fearing for my life in downpours – visions of my back wheel sliding out from underneath me – so I got some new tires.

It’s a bit blurry, but this picture shows the difference between the two treads; on the left, the Schwalbe Marathon Slick. Slick being the operative word – although they share a name with the classic Marathon, they are basically bald tyres with kevlar inside. Fast! But deadly in this season, owing to rainfall.

On the right, my new Nimbus Armadillo tyres – I’ve been fitting the regular non-Armadillo tyres to my friends bikes, so I’ve had a chance to ride this style a little bit, and I was impressed by it’s grippyness. Is grippyness a word?

I had heard that putting the new tires on can often be an arse. Thankfully, my old tires were pretty loose by now, and I’d had plenty of practice getting them on and off.

I must also say that my choice of tyres was swayed by the red sidewalls. I know that I could have got the classic Schwalbe Marathon, that every cyclist in Berlin seemed to ride on when I visited during the summer, but I miss having different coloured sidewalls. They seem so retro! So, the distinct colouring of the Nimbus Armadillo’s made an impact on me.

Okay, so it won’t last, but it’s pretty enough for now. Also, most of the reviews state how puncture-resistant these tyres are, which would be nice. I feel like I’ve spent a lot of money on inner tubes over the past year of riding, thanks to the local youth.

Tomorrow it’s forecast for more horrible weather. If you are about in the Gateshead area, along the river, keep an eye out for a cyclist that keeps trying to stare at his own wheels.