Moustache Xroad Weekend FS Dual EQ review

A bit less poetic than previous ranting and ravings, because this thing ain’t poetry in motion.

Opening:

"Without the electrics, this bike is an absolute pig to ride."

That's the truth I kept coming back to, no matter how plush the ride or sleek the display.

A Bicycle First, or Not at All

I hold what some might call a controversial stance: a bicycle should function well as a bicycle, first and foremost. Any electrics added should assist the rider—not cover for poor design. If a bike can't be ridden efficiently under human power alone, then it's not a bicycle in the traditional sense. It's something else.

This bike? Sure, it has pedals. But it demands electric assistance just to feel rideable. Turn off the power and it's like dragging a parachute—not just the 30kg weight, but active resistance to every pedal stroke. Even on flat roads, the bike fights you.

Here's the thing: weight alone isn't the problem. My Rivendell A Homer Hilsen, loaded to the same 30kg for touring, is a fine to ride. That bike flexes with my pedal stroke, planes with the load, actually performs better weighted than empty. I've done 300km Audax rides on it, taken it over gravel and sealed roads for 150km days fully laden. Never once thought of it as a pig.

The Moustache? My legs—legs that have powered through 75+ rides over 200km—can barely get this thing moving unassisted. The frame doesn't work with you; it works against you. It's not built to be pedalled. It's built to be powered.

So let's stop pretending this is a bicycle and judge it for what it really is: an electric vehicle that happens to have pedals. Once I accepted that, everything made more sense. It's essentially a motorcycle where pedal pressure replaces throttle twist - you're requesting power, not creating it. I’m just expecting bicycle physics and getting motorcycle dynamics with a different control interface. The hydraulic brakes aren't overkill—they're essential for controlling 30kg of momentum hurtling down a hill. The suspension isn't excessive—it's compensating for the fact you're not picking lines carefully at human speeds. The integrated everything makes sense when you're commuting.

With power on—specifically in Tour mode or above—this machine transforms completely. That dead weight becomes stable momentum. The rigid frame that punished human effort becomes a rock-solid platform for electric torque. Hills flatten. Headwinds become irrelevant. Load up the panniers and it doesn't even notice.

Handling, Brakes, and Confidence on Mixed Terrain

Let's talk about how it rides with the power on—because that's the only way it makes sense.

First, the brakes: hydraulic discs. I've historically seen them as overkill on a regular bicycle. Rim brakes are fine for most riding. But on a 30kg electric vehicle doing 45km/h downhill with a tailwind? You need hydraulics. One finger on the lever and you can scrub speed without drama. They're quiet, they don't fade, and most importantly, they give you confidence that you can actually stop this beast. No wondering if you've got enough hand strength after two hours of riding. Just squeeze and slow.

The tyres are 66mm wide 650b monsters that grip like they're personally offended by the idea of sliding. You'll run out of nerve before you run out of traction. On sealed roads they rail corners. Off-road they float over the loose stuff.

I found myself trying to ride it like my road bike or Ducati- expecting quick turn-in from subtle inputs. But this thing's geometry is built for stability, not agility. With these wide tyres and what feels like acres of trail, it's stable to the point of stubbornness. You need deliberate bar input to get it turning, but once you've committed, it tracks beautifully.

The suspension surprised me. Front and rear with actual adjustments—sag, rebound, compression damping. My adventure motorcycle has less adjustment. Set it up properly and it's brilliant. Semi-lock it for road work and the floatiness disappears. Open it up for trails, switch to eMTB mode, and suddenly you're monster-trucking over stuff that would have you picking lines carefully on a normal bike.

But the real test came when I loaded the panniers. Most bikes get twitchy with weight on the back. You feel it wagging, following its own line through corners. Not this thing. Add 10kg of crap and it rides exactly the same. That stiff frame that makes it miserable to pedal? Turns out it's perfect for load carrying. No flex, no drama, just point and shoot stability.

Display, Security, and Smarts

The display itself is another tell - proper bicycles don't need dashboards. Your legs and lungs know the effort, your body knows the distance. But here I am checking battery percentage, assist levels, and power output like I'm monitoring engine parameters.

Still, I'll admit the display does its job well. Beyond the basics (speed, distance, time), it shows a live comparison between your power output and what the motor is contributing. That last bit is oddly satisfying — watching your effort scale alongside the machine's, like a quiet co-pilot who actually pulls their weight. It'll even do turn-by-turn navigation if you've loaded a route. Just another reminder this is a vehicle, not a bicycle.

One feature I really appreciate: the display is removable. Take it off and the bike becomes inert. No display, no power. No power, no assist. Which means if you roll up to a café, pop off the display and toss it in your pocket, the worst anyone can do is try to steal a 30kg deadweight. And frankly, if someone does try to ride away on it, you can just fast-walk after them, clip them behind the ear, and say: “Knock it off. Get off my bike, you idiot.”

Simple, elegant deterrence — and one less app-based gimmick to worry about…

…but, of course, there is an app — because there's always an app. You can sync with Strava or Komoot through your phone, customise power delivery, and dig into ride stats later. The ride details can even auto-upload to these ecosystems, taking the whole "open the app and sync" step out of the equation. Which is exactly how it should be — these systems are meant to get out of your way, not become another burden in your day.

Here's where it gets properly infuriating though: want to customise your ride modes beyond the factory presets? That'll be extra. Bosch locks custom modes behind a paywall in their app. You've already dropped serious money on this machine, but if you want to tweak the power delivery curve to match your riding style, time to get the credit card out again. It's like buying a car and having to pay extra to adjust your seat position. The feature is already there in the hardware—they're just holding it hostage.

Assist Modes — From Pig to Turbo

The bike offers multiple assist modes, and I'll be honest about what each one actually means:

• OFF – No assist. Pure pig mode. I've covered this.

• ECO – Marginally better than OFF. Like putting lipstick on said pig. The motor adds just enough to remind you it exists, but not enough to make the bike rideable. Skip it.

• TOUR – This is where the machine wakes up. Push hard and it rewards you with more power than you're putting in. Ease off and it backs off too. That feedback loop actually feels earned—you're still working, but the work makes sense. This is my daily mode.

• TOUR+ and SPORT – Listed in the manual but missing on my bike.

• eMTB – The trail weapon. Power delivery smooths out, adapts to terrain changes, and serves up torque without demanding much from your legs. Point it at a hill and it just goes. On dirt, this mode is a heap of fun.

• TURBO – Maximum assist, minimum effort. Save it for showing off to mates or that one brutal hill on the way home.

There's also Push Assist—a walking-pace mode for moving the bike when you're off it. Handy if you're navigating ramps or tight spaces with the motor off. Remember, this thing is 30kg.

Each mode has its place, but Tour is the sweet spot. It gives back what you put in, just more of it. That's what good assist should do—amplify your effort, not replace it entirely.

Battery, Range & Bosch Ecosystem (Real-World Observations)

This bike runs a dual battery system with 1,125 Wh total capacity. But capacity means nothing—what matters is how far it actually goes.

I tracked every commute: 17km each way, net 100m elevation loss in the morning, gaining it all back in the afternoon. The round trip consistently used between 13% and 20% of battery, but the pattern revealed something interesting.

Morning rides were efficient—dropping elevation with fresh legs, the bike sipped power at around 3% per 10km. But the afternoon return told a different story. Same distance, now climbing that 100m back home with the accumulated fatigue from dealing with a day of managing too many things—consumption jumped to 7% per 10km. That's not just the elevation talking. That's fatigue showing up in the data.

Here's another quirk: starting with a full battery, the round trip might use 13-14%. Do the same commute starting at 60% charge? Now it's pulling 18-20%. Lower voltage means the system works harder for the same result. The range estimator knows this—at 100% it promises 280km, but at 50% remaining it's already backpedalling, showing maybe 120km left. The first half of your battery definitely goes further than the second. Perhaps one day these battery management systems will show us State of Energy instead.

I tested Turbo mode exactly once. 43km, 47% battery gone. That's 11% per 10km, with the range estimate dropping to 91km.

The system charges intelligently—alternating between batteries during use, sequential charging to 80%, then parallel to full. No battery anxiety, no manual switching, it works.

Real-world translation: In Tour mode with my commute profile, expect 150-200km range. Less if you're tired, fighting weather. More if you're fresh and conditions are perfect. The display's range estimate is optimistic when full, pessimistic when depleted, and probably most honest somewhere around 70% charge.

I haven't tested proper range anxiety yet. But I already know any long ride means staying around 20kph average - push past the 25kph assist cutoff and you're dragging that parachute again. Eight hours at forced moderate pace on this thing? I’d rather just cruise on the Rivendell where I can go whatever speed feels right.

Use Case and Integration — A Commuter’s Tank

This isn’t a cyclist’s bike. It’s a commuter’s tool. And to be fair, it’s built for that role. Full fenders, integrated lights, a sturdy rear rack — it’s specced for the real world.

But even practical details can miss the mark. The front guard doesn’t extend low enough to actually protect the frame or the battery from gunk. That’s poor design, especially when the battery is a key visual and structural component. You’re left with road grime splashing up onto what should be a protected zone.

Then there’s the front light. On mine, it was mounted pointing directly through the brake and gear cables — casting a lovely criss-cross of shadows at night. I fixed it, but I shouldn’t have had to.

And let’s talk build. Some screws were over-torqued when I received the bike, including one with a rounded hex socket and another with cross threading. That’s not a minor quibble. On a bike at this price point, you expect better attention to detail.

So yes — it’s a commuter’s tank. Tough, capable, ready to ride rain or shine. But don’t confuse “integrated” with “refined.” Not all the integration has been thought through.

Closing Thoughts

This bike isn’t perfect. It’s heavy, stiff, and completely reliant on its motor to be enjoyable. But it’s also solid, planted, and remarkably capable when used within its intended purpose. With power on and bags loaded, it eats up commutes and weekend gravel rides alike. It doesn’t pretend to be a high-performance machine, and once you stop expecting it to behave like one, it actually makes a lot of sense.

I came into this review expecting to critique a lot — and I have. But I’ve also come to respect what it is.

That’ll do, pig.

Becoming Late

Sometimes, we become who others need us to be.
Quietly. Gradually.
Without malice, without conscious choice.

We shape ourselves to fit the room we were handed.
To avoid conflict. To be easier to love.
To be dependable, useful, unshakeable.

And it works — for a while.

You play the role.
You carry the weight.
You get good at meeting expectations that were never clearly spoken.

And then one day, the question arrives quietly:

Is it too late for me to be me?

Not the version others imagined.
Not the role you’ve played so well.
Just… you. Unperformed. Unedited.

And maybe — just maybe — asking the question is the start.
The moment the projection flickers, and something real begins to form underneath.
Not through rebellion. Just… honesty.

To stop waiting for validation.
To stop bending first.
To stop apologising for taking up space.

It might be late.
But it's still becoming.

Beyond Comfortable

Thermocline

There’s a point in every journey where the water changes.

I was swimming in a lagoon at Coffs Harbour when I was younger. The edge was warm—almost piss warm, if I'm honest. Comfortable enough that you could forget you were in water at all. Just another medium to move through.

But as I ventured further out, something changed.

There was a layer where the water went from warm to ice cold in the space of a hand's width. No gradient. No warning. Just that sudden wall between comfort and something else. The water darkened too, as if the cold had a colour. I panicked, went under, struggled to keep my head up.

Someone on the shore saw me, jumped in, and pulled me out. I don't recall thanking them properly—too embarrassed, too rattled by what had just happened. I just walked away, carrying that feeling with me.

That line — between comfort and collapse — has shown up again and again. In work. In rides. In writing. In life.

I think about that moment now, decades later, when projects shift from manageable to overwhelming in the space of a meeting. When expectations outpace resources. When what seemed like a straightforward task suddenly reveals hidden complications. No prototype, no safety margin, no time.

There's that same moment of disorientation, that same instinct to panic. Complexity, fragility, risk. You're not drowning, not yet.

The work becomes colder the deeper you go.

Flow breaks. Panic creeps in. That’s when the tools matter — not just code or solder, but clarity, breathing room, self-trust. That’s when you need someone on the shoreline. Or to be that someone.

I often swim out further than expected — in work, in creativity, in what I take on. I scan the lagoon. I try to see the risk. I push the edge, toy with it, sometimes drift a little too far. Then I swim back. Mostly.

I never properly thanked the person who pulled me from that lagoon. Sometimes I wonder if that's part of the engineering mindset—we become the ones who jump in for others, who rescue projects, systems, teams—without waiting for acknowledgment.

I walked away from that lagoon changed, even if I didn't talk about it. The experience stayed, informing choices I didn't realise I was making. Maybe that's happening again now—this time with more awareness, more clarity. Maybe this time I'm both participant and witness, feeling the change and observing it simultaneously.

The thermocline teaches us that boundaries we can't see can still be absolute. That comfort can vanish in a handspan. Knowing the physics doesn't change the shock to your system.

But it also teaches us something else: that we survive the crossing. That we adapt to new temperatures. That even in the darkest water, there are those who notice when we're struggling, who leap in without hesitation.

Every engineer, every artist, every human worth their weight has felt the thermocline. You think you’re in control, until you’re not. But you don’t build strength in the warm shallows.

And maybe next time, I'll remember to say thank you.

The Siren's Soil

𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 — 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙚

Nothing moved.
The land breathed.
And for a time, that was enough.

Link to story

Reflection

In moments of reflection, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s real and what’s imagined. Perception twists the truth, leaving us questioning what’s possible. But the core remains unshaken. The way forward lies in trusting the reality behind the distortion, not in waiting for the surface to clear.
Our perception, like a reflection, may distort—but the essence, what has been and what is, remains.

"The photograph does not necessarily say what is no longer, but only and for certain what has been."
Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida.

Uncertain

The way forward is often through small, deliberate steps up an uncertain path.

Movement and Transition

Movement is not always forward. Sometimes it’s the recognition of stillness that spurs progress. The transition is not just about where we go—it's about how we change along the way.
In The Photographer’s Eye, Steiglitz reminds us that photography captures both time and space, and within that frame, transition is constant.
Yet as Sun Tzu said in The Art of War, ‘The wise warrior avoids battle’—sometimes, in stillness, we make the most significant strides.

Confusion and Clarity

In the blur of the every day, where details stack upon details, it becomes harder to see the whole.
As Berger said, 'The way we see things is affected by what we know or what we believe.'
In confusion, even the most delicate forms can feel like walls. Robert Adams, in Why People Photograph, speaks of the photographer's role in revealing clarity, but perhaps, in this moment, clarity is elusive.
Sometimes seeing less is the key to knowing more.

Barriers and Boundaries.

We often see barriers where there are none, and yet the structures we build—both literal and imagined—keep us confined.
What keeps us from moving forward?
In Another Way of Telling, Berger reminds us that every image is a way of seeing—and perhaps the barriers we see shape how we move through the world. The lines we follow, the objects we ignore—each choice is a step toward the walls we either break or leave untouched.

A Quiet Prayer to Light

Each morning, my good friend @myinstantimages finds solace in the interplay of light and colour. It's a quiet prayer.

BMW R65

I gave the old German bike an Italian tune-up in the country, cleaning out the accumulated city km it's been doing.
Taking on a fix up project, so many things need attention. Faulty headlight wiring, bulbs not working, faulty odo, gear lever which is so sloppy it must be missing a bearing, worn and broken plastics.
And I'll learn a thing or two.

Mondia E-bike Battery

E-bikes are quite popular, becoming more so in a world that needs to find another way of getting around.  It is no secret that roads are getting more congested and air more polluted, freeing up space on roads for those in trades and drive as part of their profession benefits everyone.

Here at MI we get requests to repack many different types of battery packs and not a week goes by that we don’t get a request to repack an e-bike pack.

Fitting quality Li-Ion cells into peculiar shaped e-bike battery enclosures can often be a challenge, many are originally fitted with Lithium Polymer type cells of custom shapes and sizes. We simply cannot stock all capacities and shapes in polymer. So we do our best and dive into the challenge fitting excellent quality Panasonic cells.

Sometimes we simply cannot replace the cells in a pack; this could be because we cannot arrange the cells we use in a way that will maximise the capacity in the enclosure. Other times we find that the protection circuits required to keep Li-Ion cells in their safe operating parameters is faulty, inadequate, or not even installed!

In cases like this we have to inform the customer that unfortunately we cannot help them.

But what if we could offer an e-bike battery that has quality cells and a battery management system that will keep the cells inside safe and enjoy a long service life.

That’s what we have with the Mondia range of batteries; both 24V and 36V batteries are now available. All batteries use Panasonic cells which we choose to use for most of our repacks of batteries in all industries and design into our OEM packs.

The battery protection circuit used in these deserves a special mention. The chipset used for battery protection is from Texas Instruments, the undisputed leaders in battery protection devices and battery capacity measurement.

Most e-bike batteries on the market use voltage level measurement for indicating the state of charge of a battery, this is an inaccurate method for measuring the remaining charge in a battery. Depending upon how much load is on a battery, the voltage will dip and rise causing any readings to be false, very rough at best.

The Mondia battery uses a method called coulomb counting, essentially, it reads the power going into and out of a battery and adds it up over time. Simply put, this means there is no charge level reading that moves up and down depending upon voltage levels while riding. All readings are of actual charge in the battery; this allows the LEDs on the battery and the optional digital display to accurately show the percentage remaining in the battery.

E-bikes come with various mounting methods for batteries, this creates a problem when offering an e-bike battery replacement solution. To cover this issue Mondia have designed two mounting kits that allow you retrofit the new battery to an existing e-bike. There is one for mounting to a flat plate, another for mounting the battery to a seat tube.

The mounting options also opens up the field of modifying a standard bike to an e-bike using one of the several kits available on the market.

The Mondia battery can be fitted to practically any bike, and because we take our testing seriously at MI, we modified a stock standard Cell X-1 into an e-bike using the Bafang 250W mid drive kit and the Mondia 36V 9.0Ah e-bike kit. The modification from bike to e-bike was done in one lazy afternoon, so quick I forgot to take photos of the transformation. The battery mounting did not require any bike specific tools, retrofitting an e-bike to use the Mondia battery is an easy task.

The Mondia 24V and 36V e-bike battery and mounting kit, a highly recommended way of getting your e-bike fitted with a top quality battery that will have you back on your bike in no time.

Balcombe Heights and SoFoBoMo

There was no time.
No time to zone in, to tone gently. No time to sit with an image, to wonder where it might lead. The usual rituals—fussing with layout, lingering in edits, pausing to feel rather than press forward—they were absent. Each decision became binary: make it, move on.

Work commitments pushed the shooting window late into the month. I hit week three and realized I wasn’t halfway. That quiet voice—you’re not going to finish—grew louder. The final week became a chase, not a conversation. I wasn’t seeing. I was hunting. And hunting kills the joy of being in place.

I had to shake it off.

The guillotine arrived in week three. So did the trimmer. Paper decisions were still hovering, unmade. The layout came together in the final days. Editing? Far too rushed. Lessons landed hard and fast. But they landed. And that makes the entire exercise—messy, flawed, beautiful—worth it.

Next time won’t be easier. But it will be clearer. I’ll have a thing in my hands, something to point to when someone asks, “So, what do you photograph?”

This month of images has been one of the most rewarding I’ve had.

Without SoFoBoMo, none of these photographs would exist. Some will fade. But a few—maybe only a few—will stay with me for years.

This project is dedicated to Ben Lifson, who helped me learn how to see.

---

I chose a subject close to home. Out of necessity, yes, but also intuition. Balcombe Heights—a five-minute ride away. Sixteen hectares of buildings from another era, built in 1922 as a school and now quietly reinhabited. Community radio, pottery, early childhood services, Horticultural Services, autism support, toy libraries, SES. Each space now shaped by new hands and new purposes.

The bones of the buildings remain consistent—symmetry in their design, repetition in their materials—but the details reveal the passage of time. One window draped in delicate curtain fabric. Another secured behind wire mesh. A door layered with decades of paint. Another patched in galvanized steel. The plumbing is a map of need: different fixes, different plumbers, different years.

None of it planned. All of it lived.

And maybe that’s the point. These weren’t buildings that resisted change. They absorbed it. Quietly, practically. That’s what made them worth photographing. Not because they were beautiful, but because they were becoming.

Just like this project.