Dylan Thomas ignores the dullness of childhood in ‘Fern Hill’ painting a picture of long, hazy days that adulthood can’t ruin, but Howard’s all grown up and can’t ignore that he’s got bills to pay and that Pedal and Spoke is his job. Selling brake pads and tubes wasn’t ever going to pay his wage, let along Ferg’ and Lawrence’s. Three summers in and he’s proud to be an ‘official dealer’ for Fox, Troy Lee, 5:10, SRAM and Santa Cruz. There’s no denying that times have been tough, especially being a one room shop in the internet age, but the connection with Santa Cruz and the weekend long demo’ days have nailed down Pedal and Spoke’s reputation for spec’ing, building and maintaining custom Santa Cruz builds more securely than a North Shore skinny. Howard says ‘spec’ing a bike over a beer in the pub with a customer is easily the best part of the job because I get to build my dream bike with their money. Often I’ll know of a new bit that’s coming out or if Santa Cruz are about to announce something so I can make sure customers get the latest and best stuff if that’s what they’re after. When they ask me what I ride I nod to my 29lb carbon Nomad and offer them a ride: after they come back they usually call their bank and/or partner before spending the next three hours giggling in front of my computer’. The demo days, organised for Pedal and Spoke by Ben Waters of the Santa Cruz importers Jungle Products, have helped to make Santa Cruz one of the most popular brands in the Surrey Hills. I’m curious about why Howard chose to throw everything in with the So. Cal. brand and he tells me that like the decision to open the shop in the first place it came from ambushing people with a clip–board in the car park, local shop and pub and asking them what they wanted. This sums up Howard’s outlook on why he’s doing this. He tells me that a lot of his time is spent providing what people need, not what they want. ‘If we had a shop motto’ says Howard, ‘it’d be ‘keeping your ride alive’ because we do a roaring trade in stuff that can keep a five grand carbon rocket–ship sidelined: powerlinks, a seat–clamp bolt or riding shoes’. I choke on the remainder of my pint. ‘Seriously! I’ve got a box of old clipless shoes and beat–up 5.10s because every week someone will turn up with a perfect bike wearing their socks.’ No doubt forgotten in the haste to head for the hills, I add.

The car park’s emptying out now and the late, late summer sun is burying itself into the side of Pitch Hill. In the pub beer garden gloved hands reach for merino and raggers huddle around GoPros as if for warmth, because whilst the riding’s over it’s not that easy to call it a day. As I pack away my notebook and speculate on how many more dusty days the Hills have got left in them a troupe of XC whippets roll past and assault Howard’s palm with a machine–gun quick succession of high–fives. He’s then nearly run over by a grinning bloke manualling a Nickel. ‘I sold him that too, bastard’, he offers through a grin, and with that starts to shut up shop. It perfectly sums up what Howard’s done in helping unite the scene here. Twenty minutes later I’m packed up and pointing the nose of my car home. As I pass the shop, Howard’s chatting to someone and I roll down my window to tell him I’ll be back soon. ‘It really is this good here isn’t it? he asks, as if there’s some doubt. ‘It’s Fern Hill’ I say before watching his frown break into its familiar smile.